Journeymage

Book Six Of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © March, 2015

Dedication

To my father, Irving Leslie Mancour,

Who always kept me on the trail.

Also to Clyde Thompson, Larry Strickland, Clarence Hilliard

Bill Kirby, and the venerable Mr. Elsworth

For their guidance and inspiration.

The Spellmonger Series

Spellmonger

Warmage

The Spellmonger’s Wedding: An Anthology

The Spellmonger’s Honeymoon: A Novella

Magelord

Knights Magi

High Mage

Journeymage

Enchanter (forthcoming)

The Spellmonger Cadet Series

Hawkmaiden

Hawklady (forthcoming)

Table Of Contents

Part One:  “Byddwch yn Barod!”

Chapter One: Occasions Of State

Chapter Two: The Orphan Duke

Chapter Three: Planning and Plotting

Chapter Four: Scouting The Penumbra

Chapter Five: Logistics & Supply

Chapter Six: Bransei Mountain

Chapter Seven: Preparing My Staff

Chapter Eight: The Grain of Pors

Part Two:  “Gwnewch Eich Gorau!”

Chapter Nine: The March Begins

Chapter Ten: The Redwoods Of Bransei

Chapter Eleven: Otter’s Point

Chapter Twelve: A Quick Trip Home

Chapter Thirteen: Rognar Tower

Chapter Fourteen: Mask

Chapter Fifteen: The Legacy of Pors

Chapter Sixteen: An Audience With The King

Part Three:“Gweithredoedd Da”

Chapter Seventeen: Midsummer

Chapter Eighteen: The Wilderlands Refugees

Chapter Nineteen: The March To Tudry

Chapter Twenty: The Origins Of The Kasari

Chapter Twenty-One: A Summons To Wilderhall

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Orphans Of Vorone

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Crystal Snowflake

Chapter Twenty-Four: Recovery

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Frontier Of Castal

Chapter Twenty-Six: The End Of The Trail

Part One:  “Byddwch yn Barod!”

Chapter One

Occasions Of State

The novelty of state occasions had worn off.

Call it an axiom of power, but the first really large state ceremony you attend, like the first time you have sex, fills you with awe at the grandeur and pageantry.  You are so impressed by the spectacle – which are designed to impress – and the importance of the occasion that you are blind to the bored-looking people in the fancy robes standing around the head of the ceremony.  You naturally feel that they are as invested in the importance of the occasion as you are, if not much more so, as they are important and this is an important occasion.

Truth is, most of them are bored as hell.  Having been one of the important people in fancy robes standing on the dais, if the particular occasion did not directly concern your interests I can assure you that despite the sublime smile I learned to plaster on my face, I was there merely to be important, in my fancy clothes, and lend my importance to that of the ceremony.  I could have sent a stand-in and no one in the audience would have had the slightest idea.

This particular occasion had little to do with me or my interest: the marriage of the young prince to his beautiful, but utterly vapid Remeran bride.

The Great Hall of the royal castle was packed, sweaty bodies in silken robes as far as the eye could see.  The High Priestess of Trygg was droning on about the sanctity of marriage to the smart-looking young couple in the majestic light of the great stained glass window overhead, and I was bored near to tears.

Thankfully, I wasn’t resigned to hearing a husband’s sacred duties to his wife under the auspices of the Holy Mother spelled out yet-again, as I was lucky enough to be a mage, and magi have spells to avoid that sort of thing.  I used one to reach out mind-to-mind to Lady Pentandra, who was only six rows away from the stage, packed in with a bunch of barons and abbots.  I could barely see her from where I was, but with magic I could speak to her across the crowded room as easily as whispering in her ear.  It wasn’t just idle chatter.  Something had caught my otherwise-useless attention.

Penny, who is that?

Min, there are a thousand people in this hall.  You’re going to have to be more specific.

Sorry.  Third row back, on the left.  Young man, about fifteen, black hair, blue velvet tunic.  He’s standing next to that old priest.  He looks familiar.  He keeps glaring at the groom, looking sad and angry.

Oh.  That’s . . . Min, you don’t know?

I’ve been . . . no, I don’t know.

Min, that’s Anguin.  Heir to what’s left of Alshar.

Duke Lenguin’s son?  I thought his name was ‘Enguin’.

That’s your funny Riverlands’ accent hearing the funny Alshari accent incorrectly.  And they’re kind of touchy about how you pronounce it.  Enguin was actually his great-grandfather.  A bit of a tyrant.  They called him the Black Duke, for all the seven years he reigned.  One reason why they probably named him Anguin was to keep him from being associated with the ancestor who had half of his family killed.  Particularly considering he’s missing most of his family himself.  They call him the Orphan Duke, now.

Oh.  No wonder he looks bitter.

That was an understatement.

Three years ago, when the lad was just a boy, he had been raised in the lap of luxury as sole male heir to one of the great political dynasties that ruled the Five Duchies.  Then war had broken out against the goblins in the farthest reaches of his lands, and his father had been assassinated (“died as a result of wounds suffered in battle” was the official explanation) by his brother-in-law, his mother had been assassinated in her palace by agents of his aunt, and his duchy was wracked by rebellion in the wealthy south.  Worse – for him – was the fact that his aunt and uncle had then taken him virtual prisoner “for his own safety” before crowning themselves king and queen of their combined realm.

Since those eventful days, he had been living in exile in a well-appointed monastic estate somewhere in Castal where he had been kept as a hostage or a political piece or both.

Luckily for him, his aunt, Queen Grendine, wasn’t more bloodthirsty than she had to be.  The tacit understanding was that as soon as her son was safely wed, and an heir to the heir was firmly implanted in his bride’s tummy, Queen Grendine would see the danger of him stirring up rebellion – or worse, his being used by the lords already in rebellion as a puppet – as largely passed.  As long as he remained her loyal puppet, he would be free to return to what was left of loyal Alshar.

That wasn’t much.  While the Alshari Wilderlands are expansive, they’re also very lightly populated.  What people were there were mostly either prisoners, soldiers or refugees, as that was where the stagnant front line against the nonhuman gurvani had settled: the occupied and contested Penumbralands now took up a goodly portion of northern and western Alshar.

The seat of the Duchy’s power lay in its strong mercantile southlands, a stretch of coastline and coastal valleys that had been the basis of Alshari economic strength and political power for centuries.  In fact the Alshari Wilderlands were barely accounted part of the realm, in terms of relative importance to the south.  That entire region had refused to accept the Duke of Castal as their king, and the counties there had thrown out King Rard’s representatives . . . some without their heads.

That didn’t leave much of Alshar left for the Orphan Duke.  Once his political importance declined, after this wedding, he was heir to a couple of baronies of rugged farmland, a whole lot of timber, and tens of thousands of starving refugees.

I’d be pissed, too.

So who is that priest who keeps whispering to him?

That’s Landfather Amus.  High Priest of Huin, and traditional chaplain to the Alshari Ducal family.  He joined the lad in exile, when he could.  He’s very devoted to the Ducal house, but he’s personally devoted to Anguin and his sisters.  Why?

Just trying to see who the players are at court.  Like you advised me.

He’s hardly a player.  He’s a piece.  And one that’s about to become useless.

To the royal family, perhaps.  But not necessarily to us.

Min, after this ceremony he’s going to inherit a broken duchy in deepest turmoil.  One with no tax revenue for the last three years, no infrastructure, and no resources outside of trees and rocks.  He’s absolutely screwed.  I pity him, but he’s in no position to be a help to us.

I was thinking perhaps we could be of help to him.

I could hear her mental groan.  Min, why?  Don’t we have enough on our table as it is?

Pen, when you have too many problems the path of wisdom dictates that you use them to solve each other.  I’m going to have to meet with Their Majesties after this party and explain why I appropriated a goodly portion of the Kingdom’s magical assets and embarked on a private mission with no immediate value to the security of the Kingdom.

Min!  You defeated a hundred thousand goblins that would have terrorized all of the west!

I know that, and that’s how I’ll explain it to them, but we both know how that will go.  Even Count Salgo is getting chewed out for his role in this.  There are those who want to see him booted from the cabinet and replaced with a more docile warlord.

I’m sure you’ll muddle through, and so will Salgo.  You managed to arrange for the Prince Heir to lead a victorious battle over our foes and secure his position as a great leader of men.

I tried my best not to let my true feelings be seen on my face.  People were watching.

Prince Tavard had, indeed, led an army against our foes and gloriously fought them until they pressed for terms on the battlefield.  The fact that they were already in retreat, that they were reserves, and that they were by far the smallest army fighting against the kingdom that day were conveniently left out of the popular accounts.  The Prince had saved the Kingdom.  He was a most puissant and valiant knight.  He would make a noble, wise and just monarch, when he eventually came to the throne.  The minstrels said so.

I didn’t like the arrogant, narcissistic little prick.  The fact that he looked far more like his murdering bitch of a mother than his insanely ambitious father may have had something to do with it.  He wasn’t stupid, but he did have a far too high opinion of himself.  Marrying the beautiful daughter of one of the leading Remeran mercantile trading houses (the Remeran nobility don’t have the same disdain for mere commerce that the Castali and Alshari have – most Remeran great houses had substantial commercial interests) certainly didn’t slow down his ego.  Princess Arduina was already showing signs of the new heir in her belly.

I don’t foresee rosy relations between the Arcane Orders and the current regime, I answered, diplomatically.  Remeran commercial interests are waxing in importance at court.  The fortunes of heroic warmagi are in decline, now that the war is at a standstill.

We have a treaty, she reminded me.

We have a treaty, I repeated, sardonically.

That had become a kind of code between the High Magi – at least the ones in the inner circle of the Arcane Orders.  The fact was, the “treaty” that the Prince Heir forced on the goblins and their human confederates at sword point extracted no real concessions, it wasn’t enforceable, and it in no way would keep the goblin hordes from pursuing war with humanity – and every High Mage knew it.  It was a hollow treaty that had put the goblins at an advantage.  Now they weren’t mere invaders, they were a political entity with representation at court.  They stuck a crown on a goblin and pretended like he was a real king.  There was even talk of an embassy.

We had a treaty.

That wouldn’t stop the genocidal hordes or their dark master.  We could play diplomacy all we liked, but the ruthless ambition of the undead goblin who really ruled the gurvani was to see every human on Callidore wiped out.  Waving a treaty under his unseeing eyes wasn’t going to deter him.

It did, however, bring a lot of security to a troubled kingdom, and I couldn’t argue against the utility of that.  We had battled the goblins to a standstill.  And thanks to a massive effort, some unlikely allies, and some really classy magic we had eliminated the largest portion of their great army.  Though it was a hollow victory, compared to the cost, it had been a dramatic setback for the goblins.  Losing his finest troops in one stroke had seriously curtailed Shereul’s war plans, and we could – perhaps – take advantage of that to rebuild our own strength.

If the King wanted to pretend this was peacetime, I was willing to play along with that.  For now.

But it wasn’t peacetime, it was merely another portion of the game.  As badly as I wanted to see the threat of the gurvani abated, I was a good enough strategist to understand that when the game gives you a gift of time, you capitalize on it with everything you’ve got.

That would also inevitably put me at odds with the royal family.  King Rard and Queen Grendine were still stitching together the institutions of a kingdom and consolidating their power.  That’s what this ridiculous occasion was really about: establishing their rule in the minds of everyone.  The greater nobility, the lesser nobility, the clergy, the mercantile interests, and of course the commoners upon whom everything depended.  With their affairs in such a precarious state, they would not look favorably on a Spellmonger mucking around with politics and such.

So I needed allies.  I had a few, already, within the kingdom.  Magelords had begun to prosper, now that magi could legally own lands and titles.  I’d done my best to cultivate loyalty among them, as well as the rank-and-file common magi.  But that was a minor power bloc, at best, in the political landscape of the former Five Duchies.

Beyond that I had a few mercenary allies, Count Salgo (whose fortunes were declining at court with the treaty) and some regional allies back home in Sevendor.  The Arcane Orders had been of use to the royal house, but now that we weren’t needed any more we were destined to become a problem, as Penny had explained to me over and over again.  Our best bet was to lay low, practice our arts quietly, and wait until conditions were more favorable.  Allow our own institutions to mature, as she said, not make trouble for larger powers.  That’s what the game dictated.

I was content with that, for now.  I really did have my hands full.  But I also had started to develop a sensitivity to political matters – not a bad thing in a landed baron – and I knew that in this game developing allies when you are in a position of strength could pay serious dividends down the river.  The Royal House was just the Ducal house of Castal, the heart of the new kingdom of Castalshar.  If Rard was developing allies amongst the Remerans, then the Alshari made a logical counterpoint.

Yes, they were weak, disorganized, and fractured.  But that looked like an opportunity, to me.

Pen, I want you to do something, I decided.  I want you to get to know the Alshari Duke.

Get to know him?  Seduce him? she asked, curious.

No!  Well, not if you can help it.

Good!

That gave me pause.  The relief in her mental “voice” was significant.  The day that Penny turned down an opportunity to add a seated duke to her list of sexual conquests was the day that there was something seriously wrong with Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks.

And there was something wrong with Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks.  Despite the fact that she was the leading authority on sex magic (a highly controversial and obscure topic, even among magi) and a confirmed libertine, Pentandra was in love.  My cool, calculating friend who had prided herself on her explorations of her chosen topic had fallen as hard as an adolescent schoolgirl.  No mere duke, however young and promising, was tempting her libidinous nature.

The poor bastard’s name was Arborn.  He was the Captain of the Kasari Rangers, a Wilderland culture that was as rustic as Pentandra’s Remeran forebears were decadently sophisticated.  I couldn’t fault her choice – during last year’s war, Arborn had proven himself an adept leader of men, and his thousand-strong force of Kasari Rangers had been instrumental in how the battle had unfolded.  They had followed me deep into enemy territory, into the heart of the dark evil that infected the far-off Mindens, and they had fought valiantly – Arborn most courageously of them all.

He was the kind of man that makes every man in the room wants to aspire to be.  Arborn was the kind of man who is utterly competent at everything he does, always in control, always acting with absolute certainty.  It was disconcerting, sometimes, to see how effortlessly he adapted to any situation.  He was a ferocious warrior, but he did not make war for a living.  He was a masterful leader who had no ambitions of power.

Unencumbered by title or lands, he nonetheless commanded universal respect among his own people.  Unfortunately, in Pentandra’s world that made him a pauper . . . which was one reason why Penny was so damn smitten with him.  Money meant nothing to him.  He wanted no lands to rule.  He had no use for meaningless titles.  His status derived from his complete competence alone.  He was a real man in a world full of base pretenders – myself included – and in the face of that kind of raw masculinity Pentandra’s pretensions to sophistication went into the creek.  She wanted Arborn bad.

The problem was that according to Arborn’s unique culture, he couldn’t even consider her as a mate until she undertook a series of obscure rites deep in the Castali Wilderlands.  While Pentandra was intrigued from a professional standpoint, she was also hesitant about the idea.

But her reaction to the prospect of seducing a young, potentially powerful duke told me volumes.  Penny was attracted to Arborn beyond reasonable limits.  This had to be love.

Just . . . make an overture.  Get to know him.  Let him know that there are those sympathetic to his situation.  Don’t promise anything, but let him know someone is paying attention.

But . . . why are we paying attention?  I can think of thirty people in this room it would be more productive for us to cultivate.  The Remerans.  The Wenshari.  The Gilmoran barons.  The Coastlord counts.  The merchant guildmasters.  The bureaucrats.  The high priests and abbesses and assorted clergy infesting the place.  Gods, Min, of everyone in the room, you think Anguin of Alshar the Orphan Duke is a wise move?

It’s a seemingly inconsequential move that may have strategic value in the future.  Call it intuition.

If you say so, Min, she said, doubtfully, after a long pause.  I think we’d be better off cultivating the gurvani ambassador, but . . .

If we’re losing favor in court right now, then courting the trading houses is just going to make us look desperate.  And we’re not.  We’re actually in a pretty strong position.  We don’t need to be under Rard’s eye.  And the Order has a lot of dealings in his duchy.

Min, he hasn’t set foot in his duchy in three years.

Exactly, I countered.  No one has paid that poor lad the slightest bit of attention, unless it’s to measure his throat for a dagger.  No one really cares that he’s the rightful heir to a broken duchy.

So – again - why do we care?

We care because we might need a duke someday.  Anguin’s father was an idiot, but he wasn’t evil.  He just got in his sister’s way.  I’ve heard the boy is intelligent.  Someday he’s going to consider claiming his throne.  When he does, I’d like him to be well-disposed to us.  Besides, if we’re going to march a couple of thousand Kasari children through his duchy, he might want to know about it.

That was a subject nearer and dearer to her heart, and one far more likely to convince her than mere political expediency.

A few months earlier, in the middle of the Gilmoran Campaign, the kingdom made a deal (through one of its high ministers, myself: Baron Minalan of Sevendor, called the Spellmonger) with the best rangers in the kingdom to come and scout and fight against the gurvani.  In exchange for paying a basic rate for their services, part of the deal was that I find a way to transport a few thousand Kasari children from the far edge of a warzone to the safety of their main refuges, several hundred miles to the east.

It seemed an impossible task; the Kasari strongholds in the northern reaches of Alshar were on the other side of the Penumbra.  Between their homes and safety were several thousands of gurvani.  They were fighting a continuous border war with the goblins nearest their lands, keeping the tribal gurvani who had settled the hills after their conquest from moving any further north.

The Kasari of Bransei, as the remote settlement was known, were unwilling to yield their sacred groves to the goblins any more than they had been willing to yield to the Narasi Wilderlords who’d tried to claim them, two generations before.  But they didn’t want their children to grow up in a war zone, not when there was safe refuge available.

So as part of the deal I’d brokered, the Arcane Orders – me, in particular – had pledged to escort the bulk of the Kasari children to their main homelands in northern Castal.  Kasar was the heart of the Kasari people, and they had plenty of room in their wilderness encampments for a few thousand of their kindred.

All I had to do know was figure out how exactly to do that.

It was a challenging problem.  The Kasari are renowned for their competency and even their children can fight.  But dragging two thousand children across a warzone was bound to attract the wrong sort of attention from the gurvani.

The goblins – which is what the common folk usually call the gurvani, the short hairy nocturnal nonhumans more politely called Mountain Folk or casadalain (in Middle Perwyneese) and more rudely “scrugs” – had invaded and occupied a goodly portion of the northwestern Alshari Wilderlands, which they considered their ancestral homelands.  Their newly-claimed territory ranged for hundreds of miles out from the magically-defined circle of perpetual twilight known as the Umbra, the center of which lived (metaphorically speaking) their undead leader, Shereul the Dead God.

To the gurvani’s elite priesthood, humanity was mere fodder for the sacrificial rock that fed their vile overlord magical power, and then fodder for the hordes of gurvani warriors in the Penumbra.  The priests had cultivated a taste for human flesh in their minions.  That made prisoners taken in the war especially important.

So marching two thousand potential human sacrifices close to the heart of the occupation zone was going to be risky, under the best of circumstances.  Securing permission from the nominal overlord of the region was just the ostensible first step in the process.   But an important one, because the gurvani weren’t my only concern.  There was the issue of human politics to consider.

Bransei Mountain is in the broken duchy of Alshar.  Kasar is in the very-intact duchy of Castal, to the east.  And while the king had officially given his blessing to resettling the hundreds of thousands of poor Wilderlands refugees who had fled the invasion in more secure areas of the kingdom, the Duke of Castal – his son and heir – had been pursuing an unofficial policy of turning common refugees away at his frontier.

Compounding that challenge was the cultural bias against the Kasari my people had.

The Kasari are not, racially or culturally, Narasi.  They lived in the remote forests of the Wilderlands long before either the Imperial settlers of the Magocracy or their barbarian Narasi conquerors.  They had been there as long as the most ancient trees, according to legends.  They had vigorously defended their groves against the Wenshari, first, and then the Magocracy, and then again against the Narasi lords who saw the forest as a source of revenue and the Kasari as pesky insurgents.

The Kasari resisted forcefully every attempt to conquer them, and eventually even the Narasi lords gave up trying.  Once the Kasari established their relative independence, agreeing to token tribute and nominal cooperation with their ostensible overlords, things in the Wilderlands settled down.  But the Narasi common folk generally had a poor opinion of the drably-dressed Kasari wanderers, who they saw as little more than shiftless vagabonds, wandering rope merchants who refused to till or serve.

An army of vagabonds, however youthful, was bound to stir up some ill feelings along the way.  Especially once we reached the Castali frontier.  If we reached the Castali frontier.

The good thing about the entire enterprise, however, was that it kept Pentandra completely invested in the idea for a while.  Since this was so important to Captain Arborn, it was important to her.  She was trying to impress him with her assistance.  Pentandra was willing to do anything that would help the Kasari quest because it furthered her own quest to become the handsome ranger’s bride.

If it helps the evacuation, I suppose I could speak to the Orphan Duke, she told me, as I suspected she would.  I’ll go and see him this evening.  Something tells me he’s not going to want to wait around the reception too long.

I stared at the arrogant little prick who was destined to rule us, someday, as he promised to faithfully cherish the life force of his bride, or some ornate crap like that.  He looked like he was the center of the universe.  His vapid little bride, Ishi bless her pretty little heart, was staring at him adoringly.

No, I don’t think Duke Anguin is going to appreciate his cousin’s success, tonight.  Speak with him, set up an audience.  I have to meet with the Royal Court Wizard directly after the ceremony, anyway, so I’ll miss the first part of the reception.

Master Hartarian?  Why?

Because Mavone contacted me this morning, mind-to-mind.  He got word from one of his contacts in Merwyn.  The remnants of the Censorate of Magic have congressed and reformed, under the auspices of the Duke of Merwyn.  There weren’t a lot of details, yet, but it looks like he’s giving them the backing they need to prosecute an extended war against the Arcane Orders.

Oh . . . Min . . . Pentandra sighed, sadly.  I did hope they would all just go away.

That’s what happens when you institutionalize fanaticism, I observed.  When the purpose is gone, you have a bunch of fanatics wandering around with nothing to do.  Merwyn gave them something to do.  All I know for now is that he has authorized their exclusive use of witchstones in his duchy, given them complete control of magic, and they’ve changed their livery.

Their livery?

Their cloaks are now red and white checks, not black and white checks.

That sounds ominous.  And what witchstones?

That’s what I need to speak with Hartarian about.  Since he’s the former Censor General, he should know exactly how many the Censorate had confiscated in their armories.  Mavone wasn’t able to figure out more than “a few.”

I don’t like the sound of that, Min.

Either will good King Rard, hopefully.  Because I’m going to use this new development as leverage, if I need to.  Having his greatest foreign rival suddenly accumulate a magical corps of fanatics isn’t going to bode well for future international relations.  His only counter to it is a much stronger magical corps on his side.

Well, we’re stronger, admitted Pentandra, worriedly.  But, Min . . . they’re Censorate warmagi.

I know.  That means that they will be well-disciplined, well-funded, and absolutely ruthless.  Whereas we’re undisciplined, haphazardly funded, and completely focused on the Penumbra.  But this means we’re going to have to spare some attention to events in the East, eventually.  I’ll know just how soon “eventually” is after I speak to Hartarian.

Which is a convenient excuse to skip the post-ceremony blessings, she complained.  You know I’ll have to be there in your stead, if you’re otherwise occupied.

I thought celebration of nuptials at the highest levels of society would be an intriguing opportunity for observation for an established sex magic researcher such as you, I joked.

Hmmph!  It would be one thing if they were going to rut in the middle of the feast like peasants – the bride is comely and young and the groom is pleasant enough to look at, as long as he doesn’t open his mouth.  I’d anticipate a lusty performance.  But royal propriety demands the ceremonial defloration occur in the chamber.  Despite the fact that the entire court knows he’s been doing her regularly since they first met in Remere and she has a baby in her belly already.  So I get to stand around and sip wine and listen to a bunch of priestesses chant until some flunky waves a fake bloody sheet around and we all cheer.  Yes, what a fortunate opportunity for expanding my research!

I stifled a laugh – I was still supposed to be smiling serenely and paying attention to the new princess pledging her undying love and devotion to her husband.  But the sound in Penny’s mental voice told me all I needed to know.

Aww, Pen, it’s been awhile for you . . . hasn’t it?

My social life is none of your concern! she snapped.  Then a moment later she continued, in a more gentle tone.  And yes, it has been awhile.  Almost six months, actually.

I’m afraid my eyes bulged more than was appropriate – during the bride’s declaration that she “had known no man’s touch, loved no man’s heart, and was free from wickedness,” which was unfortunate timing.  A couple of monks looked at me and made disapproving faces.

Six months?  Ishi’s . . . oh, Pen, why?  You have a dozen hunky lads running around your estate.  I figured you’d be exercising twice a day, thrice on festival days.

That was the plan, she admitted.  And I would never tell anyone else this, and will find a fiendishly clever way to punish you if it ever got out, but . . . since I met Arborn, my muscular servants just don’t . . .

Kindle your hearth?  Float your barge?  Get your bread baked?  Put the curl in your slippers?

Min . . . I have a witchstone, she reminded me.  I’m not above laying waste to the entire room if I get grouchy.

She said it in a joking manner that told me she wasn’t really joking.

But no, my servants aren’t even a sufficient distraction.  I gave up on them, as nice a bunch of lads as they are.  I just can’t look at another man without comparing him unfavorably to Arborn.

I understand, Pen, I said, reassuringly.

No, you really don’t, she shot back.  It’s not your fault.  You are a man.  You don’t understand how women love.  You only have a vague idea of how men love.  I do, from an academic level.  I understand what’s going on with me in ways you just cannot fathom.  That’s what makes it worse: for all of my studies in sex magic and human mating, to discover that I am just as subject to the capricious whims of Ishi’s damnable blessings as any empty-headed peasant slut is humiliating, in a way.  But I am, and I have to contend with that.  And what comes after.

That’s . . . that’s terrible, Penny!

Right now, I’m in a period of emotional isolation, constantly comparing every man I meet to the ideal Arborn represents.  Even you.  Yet every comparison increases the desire I feel for him.  And I intuitively resent any woman enjoying the fulfillment of a sexual relationship, right now.  That is strongly coloring my perspective.

That’s a humbling admission, Penny, I replied, thoughtfully.  That can’t be easy for you.

It isn’t.  It’s only because you’re you, and I trust you, and you know me, and we’re in the intimate privacy of our own heads that I can ever even admit this to myself, but . . . Min, I feel like the most accomplished magical physician in the world watching himself waste away from a disease, knowing in gruesome detail what is happening to his body every moment he descends toward his ultimate demise.

Gosh, Penny.  You make love sound so . . . romantic.

Love is about the least romantic thing around, she snapped again.  It’s horribly messy, complicated, and compromising.  And it’s utterly uncontrollable.  We paint it with legend and romance and myth and elevate the idealized realization of it to divine levels, because otherwise the pain and misery of it would eclipse the rare glimpses of joy.  We’d slit each others’ throats in horror in the middle of the night, and never have children.  Romance protects the heart and the species.  But it’s a hollow mockery, a necessary deception we all agree upon to fool each other into continuing to do it.

Perhaps your academic study has skewed your perspective, I answered gently.  Also, you really, really need to get laid.

You think?

Chapter Two

The Orphan Duke

I didn’t have a lot of time or energy to devote to the Kasari march for a while, as I was deeply involved in that most sinister of institutions, royal court politics.  My own position was uniquely secure, of course, thanks to my witchsphere – the apple-sized perfect sphere of irionite that followed me around like a faithful hound most places.  I was the Head of the Arcane Orders, a member of the royal court by default, until I decided not to be or until someone was powerful enough to take my sphere away from me.

There were a lot of changes going on as the nascent royal court evolved.  Ministers initially appointed for their symbolic value or strategic importance were quietly replaced with more career-minded bureaucrats.  In most cases that wasn’t a big issue – who cares who the Minister for Maritime Trade is?  Or the Royal Architect?  Or the Minister of Tolls, Tariffs, and Tribute?

Come to find out, a lot of people cared – people in my profession.  Between sorting out who was incoming and who was outgoing, meeting them and hearing their various policy positions, and pretending I was actually interested, I had a lot to do.

And that didn’t even cover my unofficial but more important reason for my presence at court.  I had to defend my actions in Gilmora in front of Their Majesties, in private session.

That could have gone better.

The end-result of our four-hour long meeting at His Majesty’s hunting lodge, a sprawling manor ten miles from the capital where he intended to build his new palace, was that I was to stop all of this silly antagonistic talk about pressing the war with the gurvani, with whom we now had a treaty Their Majesties did not want to imperil.

Instead, I was instructed with the force of a royal decree, I was to merely focus my magical efforts exclusively on shoring up the defenses – both magical and mundane – around the Penumbra to prevent any more unpleasantness from disrupting the kingdom’s commerce.

My appropriation of a goodly portion of the former 2nd Royal Commando was lightly glossed over – the remnant of men who had taken the king’s coin and then been routed on the field was of little consequence, in hindsight.  The loyal First Royal Commando was now transitioning to become the new Royal Guard, while the less-savory 3rd Commando had been demobilized.  They were now reforming themselves as a mercenary unit under an elected leader and entertaining bids for employment.

Leading the bulk of the kingdom’s magical corps away from their duty to protect the kingdom was a more serious matter, in Their Majesties opinion.

When I countered that the result of the sudden, surprise redeployment had been the destruction of a massively superior force at little cost to the kingdom, they were somewhat mollified.

It was a spirited debate.

I was sent away with the strong admonition to continue my good and dutiful service to the crown only and exclusively in a defensive manner, it was emphasized.  I could not argue that military attention to the region wasn’t needed – it was, desperately.  But it seemed a minor issue, compared to the incipient fanatical goblin state evolving on our borders, under the auspices of a puppet goblin king. While our opinions differed, they were resolute.

Finally, I agreed.  I would shore up the Penumbra’s defenses, and that was it.

They even threw money at me for it, five thousand ounces of gold, for the purpose of erecting a series of modest towers and outposts along the northeastern section of the Penumbra.

That was a victory, of sorts.  That entire region was depopulated and the few Wilderlords there were busy fighting for their lives on a daily basis.  We all agreed that an organized, permanent presence in the region was essential – you couldn’t have an “Iron Band around the neck of the goblins” unless the band went all the way around.

The pele towers I envisioned were designed to act more as watchtowers than military fortifications.  They would be strengthened by magic and would be able to withstand a light assault or even a siege, but they were less fortresses and more outposts.   Pele towers usually consisted of the sparest of enclosures for defense, usually an uncrenellated wall around a few elevated acres, with a single tower or keep inside.  In some places an additional hall was added for comfort.

It’s a very basic, unsophisticated fortification, the kind popular in poor or marginal areas.  It was as basic a structure that you could get away with calling a “castle” without people snickering.  The tower gave you enough elevation to see someone coming and shoot over the walls, and the walls were thick enough to keep out bandits or raiders, but not much else.  Compared to the traditional motte-and-bailey fortress traditionally popular in the Wilderlands, these were lightweight defenses.

Small enough to build for around a thousand ounces of gold each, say.  That sounds like a lot, but I had to spread it around in several different directions . . . and it wasn’t going to be nearly enough, I was pretty certain.  Not in that remote location.  But it was one of the few things I could get Rard and Grendine to agree with me on, and I could use that commission as a pretext to do a lot of other stuff I wanted without mentioning it to anyone in particular.  And it was going to be expensive.  I was going to have to raise more, from somewhere, I was pretty certain.  But it was a start.

Despite the acrimony of the audience, they essentially gave me everything I wanted them to, while thinking that they chastised me and put me in my place.  It was a brutal exercise in the politics of power at the highest levels.  Threats and compliments were exchanged in profusion.  We parted with certain understandings.  It was all a little surreal.  But I came out smiling to myself.  I had all the mandate I needed.

Soon after that uncomfortable meeting, Pentandra contacted me about her assignment.

His Grace, Duke Anguin III of Alshar is willing to grant you an audience, she dutifully reported, mind-to-mind, when we had the mutual opportunity to speak.  Actually, this kid Anguin is willing to talk to you.  The distinction is important.  He knows, intellectually, that he’s the sovereign duke of a sizable realm, but he hasn’t been let out of sight of his bodyguards for three years, so it hasn’t really sunk in.

But he’ll talk to us?

He’ll talk to you, she emphasized.  Largely on the recommendation of Master Thinradel.  The former Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar had not gotten along well with the young duke’s sires, but apparently the lad trusted the man’s opinion . . . possibly because he hadn’t gotten along with his father.  The Alshari court had been notoriously full of obsequious courtiers – it made the Castali court seem businesslike by comparison.

I arranged to visit with him quietly the next evening.  He was staying in a small but well-appointed monastic estate a few miles outside of town, one of the many who supplemented their bounty by renting out their hall to important nobles.  Pentandra and I went by ourselves, dressed in plain robes that could easily be mistaken for clerical garb, ecclesiastic hoods over our faces.  No doubt we were followed – the kingdom’s spies were everywhere – but we tried not to attract undue attention anyway.

We were escorted into a small hall within the bounds of the monastery and up to a wooden tower room.  There the young duke sat in a chair by the fire, the old priest near his shoulder.

“Your Grace,” I said, bowing low.  “I knew and admired your father,” I said, as graciously as I could.  “It was my honor to be knighted by him the night he died.”

“So I hear,” the young duke said, without preliminaries.  “I hear a lot of things about you, Spellmonger.”

“As do I, your Grace.  Not a few of them are untrue.”

“So what business does the mighty Spellmonger have with me?” he asked, with a bit of disinterest in his voice.

“I wish to be of service to you, Sire,” I began.  His eyes immediately shot to me.

“When people tell me that,” he said, slowly, “it usually means they want to use me, somehow.”

“Oh, I do, Your Grace,” I assured him.  “I want to use you to restore northern Alshar.  Or, at least, a bit of it.”

“You’re ready to take the fight to the Dead God, then?” he asked, his voice rising just a bit higher than he’d intended.

“Not yet, Your Grace,” I admitted, sadly, as Penny and I were offered seats by the initiates who doubled as servants here.  “In fact, it may be we never face Sheruel directly, not in our lifetimes.  But . . . while I cannot deliver all of your lands, I might be able to preserve some of your people.  And in the process bring some security and stability to your lands outside of the Penumbra.”

“My lands,” he snorted, bitterly.  “My people.  Lands I haven’t been given.  People I’ve never seen.  My lord Spellmonger, perhaps you have yet to notice, but I am no longer at liberty to travel to the lands to rule over these people.  I am a duke in name, only,” he said, with resignation.  “You can thank my aunt, my uncle and my idiotic cousins for that.”

“What if your freedom could be arranged?” I offered.  I knew already that Queen Grendine was about to allow the boy to return home or anywhere else except the rebellious portions of Alshar.  She expected him to elect to remain in Castabriel, ruling his broken lands from afar by proxy, living off his stipend amid the noble whores and scheming aristocrats of the capital city.

“You could get me out of this . . . you could return me home?”

“In time,” I agreed.  “For now, I could put you at liberty.  That I would do regardless.  But it occurs to me, Your Grace,” I said, borrowing one of my castellan’s favorite expressions, “that if one wishes to be treated as a sitting duke, then one should endeavor to act as a sitting . . . and independent-minded . . . duke.”

That got the lad’s – and his priestly mentor’s attention.

“Would the Magelord wish to expound upon this proposal?” asked Landfather Amus in a deep voice.

“The Kasari, Your Grace,” I nodded.  “Though they barely claim your authority over them, nonetheless they are the most populous and best-organized humans left in the Wilderlands.

“So?  The Kasari are not loyal.  It is well-known.   I’ve heard it from my late father’s own lips for years.”

“The Kasari are not loyal to the ducal house,” I corrected.  “That does not mean that they know no loyalty.  On the contrary, they are highly loyal – to those who are themselves loyal to the Kasari.  A great many of them in the far northern groves wish to send their children out of harm’s way so that they can help fight this war.  This they will do with your leave or without it.”

“So why bother asking for permission?  Or granting it, for that matter?”

“Because if the Kasari are moved with your blessing and by your command,” I suggested, “and they know that their welfare is your desire, then you have earned such honor as to begin to command their loyalty.  Perhaps, Sire, the Kasari have never been particularly loyal to the Alshari ducal house because the Alshari ducal house has rarely been concerned with the welfare of the Kasari.”

He paused and considered, looking to the priest for guidance.  Then he looked back at me.  “Perhaps you are correct.  Still, will the Kasari fight for me?  Help me retake my lands?”

“Unlikely, Your Grace; yet having their allegiance could prove very important, someday.  So by giving us leave and blessing to lead them thus, as legitimate subjects of your realm worthy of your protection, you are legitimizing your reign over them.  More importantly, the Kasari will feel loyal to you, personally.  And while they may not be able to re-take your lost lands, they are nearly the only organized human resistance remaining north of the Penumbra.  You will not re-conquer those provinces without their aid.”

“You speak of conquest, when I don’t even have my own sword,” Anguin complained, bitterly but philosophically, the words of someone who has accepted their exile with stoic resentment.  “Nor castles, armies, or knights of my own.”

“On the contrary, your Grace,” Pentandra pointed out, “you are the heir to an impressive estate in addition to your title and position.  I had my clerks research into it, and you have inherited dozens of estates and domains, in Alshar, here in Castal, and even in Remere, on your mother’s side.  You have the right to call upon any of them for military service, if you so require.”

“Yet would the respond to that call?” he challenged.  “I have been kept in seclusion from my own people since my parents died.  My father always said it required more than mere obligation to summon a man to war.  It required personal loyalty, a loyalty I have been prohibited by circumstance from developing.  I was not squired to the household of a high noble, and allowed to cultivate friends and allies who would in turn come to my banners.  I was surrounded by monks and scrolls and books, with a few lessons in swordplay and horsemanship.”

“Yet you are a seated duke, your Grace,” reminded Father Amus.  “Rard made certain of that before he had you agree to that damnable vote that put the Broken Crown on his head.”

“King Rard,” I said, emphasizing the title quickly and forcefully.  “Always, Father.  Even in your thoughts and prayers.  That fact alone is why the duke is alive today.  Any hint of disloyalty to that thought could prove deadly . . . or disastrous.

“But you are correct: he is a seated duke, granted his full rights at his majority and investiture.  Therefore there should be no legal impediment to him assuming his authority over his own realm.  This permission to lead the Kasari children out of danger establishes that precedent in a way that your . . . political opponents will not see as threatening.  Say, if you started asking all of your nobles how many armed men they might send to your banner.”

“That is a fair point,” conceded Anguin.  I could tell that thinking in such terms was a novelty for the young nobleman.  But he had already mastered the courtier’s art of understanding the dangers of the game.  “If I am duke enough to allow this evacuation, then I am duke enough to reclaim my legacy,” he understood.  “And this manner of exerting my sovereignty, in a far-off region of the realm, will be of little concern to those who look elsewhere for foes.”

“The treachery of your enemies is well-known, Sire,” agreed Father Amus.  “I agree with the counsel.  Such a small exercise in your authority is unlikely to raise the interest or the ire of those who watch you.  It can be explained as a humanitarian gesture, a token of your benevolence and a gesture of gratitude to the gods for their favor.  But it does establish your right to do as you please within your own realm . . . even if you, yourself, are not permitted to go there.”

“Yet,” I reminded.  “Nor is Alshar prepared for your return, your Grace.  Coming home prematurely, and without adequate regard for those whose interests are based on your absence, invites treachery from different directions.  As fast as you are growing into the role, you are not yet ready to administer to your duchy properly.  That requires an army, a court, a judiciary, things that rebellion and . . . interregnum have swept away in Alshar.”

“But the time will come,” Anguin said, setting his jaw defiantly.  There was a smoldering look in his eyes – passion, mostly.  Some of that passion was hatred toward his “benefactors”, but there was a lot more to the lad than mere vengeance.

Here was an intelligent young man well-educated and prepared to rule, yet whose native enthusiasm for that task had been frustrated by his unfortunate exile.  Anguin wanted desperately to do something, I realized.  Anything.  Anything that made him matter.  I honed in on that desire like a scheming courtier.

“The Kasari have none to stand and protect them, your Grace.  They are use to fending for themselves, but the challenge they face is daunting.  Yet they have maintained their control over their lands though they are on the very threshold of shadow.  They have withstood the invasion where your father’s Wilderlords and professional knights were swept away.  As allies, the Kasari may lack for prestige in the halls of the powerful, but in the wilderness of your realm their mastery is unmatched.  Grant them your permission, your protection, and your provision and you will extend a hand to a folk unused to such displays.”

“The wizard speaks with wisdom,” the priest chuckled.  “And in favor to your interests, your Grace.  Yet while I applaud your concern for Duke Anguin’s legacy, Spellmonger, we have become wary of those who seem to selfishly serve the duke yet conceal their own purposes.  What would you have of his Grace in return for this permission?”

“Influence,” Pentandra said, instantly.  “We understand that the House of Terine is at a low point, at the moment.  When, gods willing, the fortunes of your Grace wax, we wish to have the access and understanding of your Grace in our affairs.  A strong House of Terine would be a boon to the Arcane Orders in the current climate.  We feel strongly enough about that to invest our aid in the effort to strengthen your position.  Even at the risk of our own favor at the royal court.”

“Yet at the moment I am still a near prisoner,” Anguin said, moodily.  “The ducal regalia and essential records were taken from Vorone by Rar— King Rard after my mother’s funeral.  They had to send to Wilderhall for the coronet and seal for my investiture and the coronation.  It’s all still there, locked away.  For ‘safe keeping’.”

“The ducal seal is the ducal seal because the duke makes it so,” Father Amus observed.  “The coronet is more important, of course, but—”

“In my experience, your Grace, it is not the funny hat who makes the man a leader,” I said, as sagely as I could pull off.  “It is the man who leads who makes the funny hat a symbol worthy following.  Be the duke of Alshar,” I said, “and people will just naturally start treating you as the Duke of Alshar.”

The young man regarded me carefully for several long moments.

“What do you need from me?” he asked, simply.

We had our sponsor.

*                            *                            *

Following our quiet meeting with the Orphan Duke we returned to the capital and stayed busy.  There was a lot to do.

There was some Order business, some Baronial business, and some domain-level business for Sevendor that all required my attention while I was in Castabriel.  Alya and I got into a fight and made-up.  We went to a few balls and had a wonderful time learning how to dance like nobles.

We watched Tyndal come in third in his first jousting tournament.  I bought dozens of books and had dozens more copied from the Order’s growing library, to feed my collection back in Sevendor.  I learned the intricacies of horse racing at the low cost of a few hundred ounces of silver.  There was shopping.  Oh, gods, there was shopping.

We spent a week at Fairoaks, Penny’s local estate, and plotted and planned a few things of immediate concern.  Now that we had our patron, we could figure out the basic requirements of a march like this.  In a lot of ways, of course, it would be like marching an army.  In a lot of ways it would be nothing like marching an army.  The needs of full-grown men whose mission was violence were different than the needs of roughly two-thousand adolescents.  We talked about all the necessities, discussed the route, looked at some old maps of the region.

Then Arborn showed up, and everything stopped.  Everything around Penny, at least.  She went from ruthlessly efficient bureaucrat to lovesick village girl the moment she saw him.  Kasari custom prevented more than a formal greeting, but Penny embraced him anyway.  Clearly the man enjoyed it, but he was also uncomfortable at the display of affection.

But Arborn had come for more than passionately platonic hugs.  He had a mission.

“I need a mage, Spellmonger,” he said, managing to be casual and formal all at once.  “There is an outpost of the Kasari, long-abandoned, but a site of great respect and awe.  It was among the very first settlements in these lands.  For centuries it was a shrine of great importance and reverence among my people.”

“Then why did you abandon it?”

“Dark times,” he said, shaking his head.  “The shrine was dedicated to watch over the groves, and that it did.  But there are things in that land older than the trees, older than the Kasari.  Evil things.  As beautiful as the land was, and as important as the shrine was, eventually it was given up due to the effect of the darkness in the land.  Many of the details are lost, but occasionally the bravest among our folk will travel there to visit the shrine.  I’ve made the trip myself, in my youth.  Mae sgowtiaid yn dibynadwy.  The idol there is said to come from beyond the Void, itself.”

That got my attention.

Buried under the tangled web of revenge and genocide the Dead God and his minions used to rationalize their war against us humani was some story lost to the depths of history.  My recent discussions with the Tree Folk, the Alka Alon, the nearly-immortal nonhumans who had originally crafted the gurvani as a cheap nocturnal labor force, had convinced me that there was a lot our ostensible allies in this war knew about those times than they were willing to let on.

Humanity, it is known among the wise, did not originate on Callidore.  We came forth from the Void, on the horizon, voyaging to Callidore from the stars.  Indeed, the first descriptions of us among the Alka Alon called us the Star People.  That was a long time ago, and our once-great civilization is long gone.  The Early Magocracy had been the high-water mark, until the tragic sinking of the island-nation of Perwyn by the last of the Early Archmagi.  Once we ruled the skies and were accounted among the great races of this world.  When Perwyn sank, we began our long decline.  We lost the skies, when the cradle of our civilization was swallowed by the sea, leaving but a few colonies on the continent to carry on.

Since then we’ve devolved into feuding barbarians barely scratching a living in the soil, with only the vaguest idea of our past greatness based on our most ancient writings and a few impressive artifacts.  Or at least that’s what the Alka Alon seem to think.  Me, I’m generally pretty happy with things, except for all of the goblins.

But I couldn’t deny that we had lost most of the civilization that had managed to bring us to this world.  What the disaster of Perwyn didn’t wipe out,  and wasn’t destroyed in the scramble for the scraps after the Inundation, my ancestors’ mounted armies galloped over.  The Narasi invasion of the Later Magocracy effectively ended humanity’s pretense of advanced civilization on Callidore.

Most of the records of the ancient times were stored in Merwyn and Vore, who had borne the brunt of my ancestors’ barbaric rage.  There were remnants in outposts and temples and the older cities in Merwyn and Remere, but little of importance.  Almost nothing to tell us of who we once were.

So if there was a chance to get some kind of look at the very earliest days of our settlement on this world, I was interested.  How could an ancient shrine from the earliest days of humanity not be interesting?  It got even more interesting when he told me where the shrine was located.  The heart of the Land of Scars.

We’d crossed a great stretch of that remote and tortured landscape not six months ago, as we had pursued Shereul’s armies up a magically frozen Poros river into the foothills of the Mindens.  It was a wild, twisted country, with sudden hills and steep defiles, ravines and rocky wastelands, breathtaking waterfalls and dense, deep forests.

While technically part of western Alshar, nearest the grand peaks of the Minden range, human settlements there were sparse, at best, and rarely very far from gentler landscapes.  The land had always been considered the desperate men and dangerous predators.  Since the place was now crawling with goblins, hobgoblins, trolls, and worse minions of Shereul who had survived the flood, its reputation had only gotten worse.  That was why the Kasari wanted to retrieve the idol.  The shrine was just too dangerous to be visited any longer, now that it was crawling with goblins.

The Land of Scars was notorious for being the haunt of beasts and savage tribes, bandits and desperate men, rebels, ghosts, and mysterious disappearances.  Legends about the place abounded.  Haunted forests, inescapable bogs, the taint of evil lingering in spots . . . and somewhere within its tortured vastness was the legendary home of Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens.  And the place of his immortal entombment.

Arborn explained the details of the task: a company of Kasari scouts would return to the ancient shrine overland, avoiding danger whenever possible and keeping out of Shereul’s notice, and bring back the idol and any other important artifacts before it was overrun.  The magi were needed because the idol was large and secured by the ancients in ways that befuddled the wisest of the Kasari.  It was decided that magic was involved, therefore magi would be needed to secure it.

It sounded like the exciting adventure of a lifetime, and I was willing to help.  Hells, I was willing to go myself – if I didn’t have a beautiful wife, two young children, and a Barony to run, I might have considered the jaunt myself.  But that was irresponsible and impractical, and I knew it.  As tempting as it sounded, I had to pass this dangerous opportunity on to those who would appreciate it best.  If I was a younger man, and unattached, perhaps.  Luckily, I had a couple of young, unattached, adventure-prone magi around who were suddenly without a war to fight.

“I’ll loan you a couple of my apprentices,” I decided.   “The older two.”

“Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal?” Arborn asked, a little skeptically.

“They’re smarter than they look,” I promised.  “It’s going to take at least a month or two to prepare for this march, and they’re going to be instrumental in seeing it succeed.  That means that they’ll be working closely with the Kasari.  I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if we made certain they got to know your people before they’re put in that position.  I can spare them at the moment, they’re competent High Magi and warriors, and between the two of them they have half a dram of common sense.”

“They fought well, at the lake,” Arborn nodded, though Pentandra looked concerned.

“Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal are quite young,” she pointed out, shaking her head.  That earned an unexpected laugh from Arborn.

“Young?  My dear, they will be the most senior of the company!  This quest has been sanctioned by our elders, but it has been assigned to those who have attained proper rank.  Only those who have sworn the oaths of dedication of their lives to the Kasari way will be participating, with a few stars of lower rank among them for support.  These are candidates who are seeking the raptor’s rank.  The highest attainment among my people . . . but it must be made before a man reaches twenty summers.”

“Why?” asked Alya.

Arborn shrugged.  “That’s the custom.  It is how it has always been.”  It might as well have been natural law, as far as he was concerned.  I didn’t feel hopeful about Penny’s chances of seducing the proud barbarian.

“Tyndal and Rondal will be senior?” chuckled Alya, sipping wine like an aristocrat.  “The quest is doomed!”

“Don’t say that!  They’ve commanded men in battle, and in camp before,” I reminded her.  “They even went and founded their own chivalric order while I wasn’t looking.  They are smart, resourceful, and more talented and learned in magic than they let on – perhaps more than they themselves realize.  No, this is the perfect challenge for my two apprentices.  They’ve proven themselves as students, warriors, nobles, and leaders of men.  Let us see how they account themselves as wizards.”

“You place a lot of stock in their abilities,” Penny said, doubtfully.

“I place a lot of stock in their resourcefulness,” I countered.  “And their unwillingness to fail in the sight of the other.  Such rivalries have a place.”

“When they don’t lead to bloodshed,” Pentandra said, sourly.  “But they do seem to land on their feet most of the time,” she admitted.

“l will have them sent to your camp,” I proposed.  Captain Arborn’s men had largely returned to their homelands, but a remnant a few hundred strong lingered in Gilmora, in a ruined abbey they’d claimed as their encampment.  “Shall they bring anything in particular?”

“Courage,” he said, darkly.  “I’ve walked those lands myself.  In much better days they were tortuous to cross and dangerous.  At night the winds and the mists conspire to mislead you.  Strange voices will lure you to step over a cliff, or fall down a sinkhole, or run off into the night seeking those who have died.  There are grottoes and caverns that wind under the earth for miles.  Rivers that cannot be crossed.  Barbarian tribes of cannibals, wild Mountain Folk no less savage for lacking Shereul’s taint, bandit hideouts, ancient tombs, the shades of the dead, ferocious predators, fell beasts from ages past . . .”

“It sounds perfect!” I said, smiling.  “Just the kind of excursion my lads need to toughen them up for the march.  They’ll be delighted at the opportunity.”

They weren’t.  At all.  In fact, they protested mightily that they’d earned a reward for their valiant service in the battle on the frozen lake.  All of their fellow warmagi were going off to their estates or touring the resort cities of the south, or living riotously in the capital off of their newfound wealth.  They were enjoying the company of many, many ladies of the city, and had likely formed attachments that could prove distracting to a professional man.

All the more reason to insist.  They were reluctant, but they understood their role.  They left for Gilmora within a week, about the same time Alya and I were headed back to Sevendor.  When I’d arrived at Castabriel I’d been upset over our treaty.  Now I had a better perspective on our position.

More importantly, I had the rudiments of a plan.

Chapter Three

Planning and Plotting

I didn’t get another chance to focus on the march until after we got back to Sevendor and settled in.  I spent a couple of days catching up on some business, mostly local issues for the domain, and then a day handling the baronial business.  As usual Sire Cei and his assistant, Sir Festaran, had everything well in hand.

Want to know the best way to run a feudal barony?  Hire people who know what they’re doing and then leave them alone.

But before a week had passed I returned to the problem organizing the evacuation of the Kasari children.  I started by summoning a few folks to my tower workshop, to discuss the basic requirements for such an endeavor.  Included in that first meeting were Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, Lady Lenodara the Hawkmaiden (my youngest apprentice), Lady Ithalia the Alka, Master Guri the Stonesinger, Lorcus the Rogue, Sir Festaran of Hosly, Master Olmeg the Green, Master Banamor the Spellwarden, my court wizard Dranus, and Gareth The Highly Efficient Deputy Spellwarden.

Gareth’s inclusion in the party might raise some eyebrows, I suppose, but the fact of the matter was that the failed warmage and trained thaumaturge had become a kind of genius when it came to logistics.

He had helped run three magical fairs, and contended with the stray magi who haunted Sevendor Town, while simultaneously running the details of Master Banamor’s commercial empire.  He also served as a marketwarden when needed, and had become a key figure in the logistics of the domain.  He might be a mediocre mage (he was the only mage present who did not have a witchstone) but his attention to detail was magnificent.

Once wine was poured and pipes were lit. I got started.

“As many of you know, as part of our agreement to secure the help of a thousand Kasari rangers in the last battle, we agreed—”

“AHEM!” coughed my court wizard, loudly.

“—I agreed to oversee the escort of roughly two thousand Kasari children from their groves at Bransei Mountain, hugging the northern edge of the Penumbra in north western Alshar, all the way around the Pearwoods and the southwestern Kuline spur, and up to the Castali Wilderlands to Kasar, proper.”

“Wasn’t that a stupid thing to promise?” asked Master Guri.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.  But I made the promise, and I plan on fulfilling it . . . with the help of my loyal staff and a few hundred others.  I’ve been thinking about this for months, now.  It can be done.  If we prepare rigorously and execute flawlessly.”

“So it was a stupid thing to promise,” grunted Master Guri.

“Perhaps.  But if it was, I’m about to compound that stupidity.  To serve my own purposes.”  I looked around at each of them.  It was time to convince them, as enthusiastically as possible, that I had a plan.

“Let me tell you about what we’re going to be doing, this summer,” I began, addressing my staff with the speech I’d practiced in my head.  “This is going to be a different kind of adventure, from what I ordinarily do,” I explained.  “I’m not attacking anyone.  I’m not defending anyplace.  I’m not leading an army, I’m leading a mass of non-combatants through a war-zone.  Our enemies won’t be the goblins or the hobgoblins, it will be the terrain, time, and distance.

“To a certain extent we can contend with these challenges with good organization and magic, which we will be using in plenty: for supply, for defense, and for support.  Just like moving an army, in a lot of ways.  But in a lot of ways it won’t be.  We do have an advantage, in that with the pocketstone enchantments, I should be able to transport a lot of supplies without recourse to wagons, packtrains, or supply depots.  The goal isn’t to fight, it’s to avoid fighting.  It isn’t to defeat the enemy, it’s to move as quickly as we can between rest points.  In fact, if we do get into a fight, I’ll count it as a personal failure.”

“And we do so while playing nursemaid to thousands of children?” Dara said, sourly.

“The Kasari aren’t like other kids,” Lorcas corrected.  “From what I understand they have discipline and a devotion to order that will aid the effort significantly.  They’re a strange lot, for tribals, but they’re reliable.”

“We’re going to need it,” I agreed. “While King Rard has expressly forbidden any active aggression against the gurvani – we apparently have a treaty – by giving me a commission to shore up the defenses of the Penumbra, to establish a more secure watch over the gurvani, he gave me all the royal permission I need to pull this off.  He even gave me gold to do so.  Since his attention to the matter is waning, as he prepares to build his new palace, he’s unlikely to give it more of a thought unless it becomes a problem.

“So I want to use this commission and this gold to do exactly as His Majesty has requested.  To that end, in addition to marching the Kasari through the Penumbra, we’re going to use the opportunity of the trek to help fortify the string of Iron Band outposts and garrisons. We’re there to build five or six small fortresses along the way.  Quickly.  We’re not there to defend them.  We find our spot, we set up camp, we build the most basic fortification we can get away with in the shortest amount of time possible, and we move on before our foes have a chance to organize an attack.

“A bunch of kids are going to do that?” asked Lorcus, skeptically. “That would be some mighty magic, even with the Kasari’s flair for organization.”

“I toured some of those Iron Band forts,” I reminded him.  “Most are pretty anemic, reoccupied towers or keeps with wooden palisades and not much else.  Why aren’t they better?  Well, because the defensive needs of the Wilderlords who built them revolved around keeping each other’s raiders out, not an army of goblins.  The men who hold them are brave, but they would be swept away in a concerted attack. What we will build will be stronger.

“One of the problems with building adequate fortifications is a lack of workers in the region,” I pointed out, beginning to pace in front of them as I explained my plan.  “The Wilderlands get less populated the more north you go, and around the northeastern edge of the Penumbra there are very few folk indeed.  Without deploying the garrison at Tudry, there is no larger concentration of humans that could be put to work in the area.  So any real attempts at fortifying would be slow, costly, and easy to interrupt.

“I want a couple of variations of these towers, designed to be built simply enough so that even an army of children can put it together, with some magic and some qualified supervision.  That is the secondary mission: building the pele towers across the northeast Penumbra.  That’s how I was able to ostensibly arrange permission for this, and we’ll have to have something to show for it.  And we’re going to need some specialized construction magic.  I’ve already spoken to Taren, Andalnam, and our other enchanters about our needs, and they’ve agreed to help on the project.

“This will give the Hesian Order the opportunity to show what magical engineering can really do.  After it’s built, each tower will be staffed with a mage of the Hesian Order and a small garrison, able to watch and screen the Penumbra.”

“You want to use kids?  As labor?  To build castles?” Master Guri asked, incredulously.   He was professionally outraged by the idea.

“Not true castles,” I amended.  “Even with magic, that would be challenging.  I’m considering building simple pele towers, like the warder lords used on the frontier of Gilmora and the Alshari Wilderlands: small but sturdy stone towers surrounded by a high wall, with perhaps a small gatehouse.  Nothing more elaborate than that, but it would allow the men manning those posts some basic protection and a place to keep their horses secure.  It would also be a visible permanent human presence at the edge of the Penumbra, clearly establishing our line of defense.”

“You can’t honestly expect a single tower house and a bloody wall to keep out the goblins?” snorted the Karshak stonesinger derisively.  And when a Karshak snorts through their giant nose, it’s meaningful.  “One built by children?”

“When it is designed by the preeminent stonesinger and master mason of the Karshak Alon, Master Guri, how could armies not break upon it like waves on a rock?” I asked, sweetly.

Guri grunted again, but then he had to consider his own frequently-touted greatness.

“Yeah,” he finally scowled, “I can design something defensible that even your bairns can assemble,” he reluctantly admitted.  I knew he would.  The master mason and stonesinger had forgotten more intriguing designs than most human masons would learn in one of our lifetimes.  I also knew that appealing to his vanity would work.  “I can even spare a crew to help.  We’ll add a clause to the contract.  Damned humani barbarians . . .” he mumbled through his great beard.

“But the goblins of the Penumbra are just part of the problem.  We’ll do what we can to keep the major bands pinned down and away from us, but the landscape is going to be against us, too.  The Alshari upcountry is rugged – as rugged as the Land of Scars.  In fact, if you go northeast of our route you get to some of the most impassable and tortured land I’ve ever seen.  For all practical purposes, Alshari political identity fades around there, but then so do most of the people.

“The Kasari are, unfortunately, seen as unsavory by many of the Wilderlords,” admitted Sire Cei.  “I, myself, have dismissed them as vagabonds and thieves in the past.”  He’d learned better, since.  On our campaign up the frozen Poros the Dragonslayer had gotten to know many of the “vagabonds” and had come to a better understanding of their culture.  And a higher respect, after he watched them fight at the frozen lake.  “What few Wilderlords are left in the region may object to such an army of Kasari, even of children, passing by their doorsteps.”

“If they do, they will do so in violation of their sworn oath to their duke,” I smiled.  “While I was at Castabriel, I had an audience with His Grace Anguin, the young Duke of Alshar, and he was good enough to give us his commission to transfer his subjects, in writing.  Any Wilderlord who doesn’t answer to the Duke’s command will be deemed a rebel.”

“And what is the little lad going to enforce that with?” Lorcas smirked.  “A ducal edict?  That will be terribly popular in a region where most lords can’t read!”

“They will be judged by the Duke’s appointed marshal,” I said, “and sentenced accordingly.  And that would be . . . me.  His Grace was also kind enough to renew the commission his father gave me before Timberwatch.  Any lord who doesn’t cooperate with the march is asking to get his manor sacked or confiscated or both.”

“Our proposed route will take us through the very northern reaches of Alshari controlled territory, and even that’s pretty nominal.  The few Wilderlords left around there have been under near constant attack for the last three years by the gurvani.  There’s no economic infrastructure left there to speak of.  What military strength was there was consumed in the first year, when the barons tried to respond to the invasion.

“The ones who remain are tough.  They’re used to ruling without oversight, most of them are illiterate and uncultured beyond the listfield, and they have very tenuous ideas about their responsibilities under the law.  We have as much to fear from them as we do the gurvani.  More, many of them bear a great antipathy for the Kasari, thanks to the years of bush warfare between the Kasari and the Wilderlords over their territory.  Marching a couple of thousand of them through is going to take some negotiation, some threats, and perhaps some action.

“The terrain remains treacherous and the countryside hostile until we get to about fifty miles from Tudry.  Once we reach Tudry, the worst of our journey will be behind us.  The roads are relatively safe and well-patrolled from there to the frontier, and from the frontier to Kasar they should be clear.

“But that doesn’t mean that our troubles are over.  A great number of Castali lords fear an invasion of Wilderlands refugees.  They have agitated strongly with the Duke of Castal – that’s Prince Tavard – to prohibit any mass movement across the border.”

“Didn’t the King decree that refugees could cross the border?” Dara asked.

“He did,” Dranus agreed, “But he is no longer the Duke of Castal.  Under the Royal Charter that created the kingdom, the dukes, not the king, have responsibility for enforcing those edicts.  If Tavard’s barons don’t want to let anyone cross, and he supports them, there is little that Rard can legally do about it.”

“There are exceptions,” reminded Lorcas.  “Supposedly high nobles, merchant houses, clergy, pilgrims, tax officials, inspectors, students or apprentices on their way to their vocations, soldiers on their way to or from deployment, prisoners, and those with other such regular business are permitted to traverse the ducal frontier, but in practice you had better have good business or your patents of nobility in order, or you aren’t getting across.  Of course a heavy purse will always grant one access,” he added.

“My purse isn’t that heavy,” I complained.  “We’ll find a way.  By magic or the will of the gods, we will.  I’m truly not as concerned with that part as I am getting everyone out of the highlands alive.  If we can make it to Tudry, I’ll consider the rest of the journey trivial.  Now, does anyone have any observations?”

“With High Magi, we can add additional enchantments to stabilize the foundations,” suggested my court wizard, Dranus, “and create a system of communication, akin to the Great Mirrors.”

That had been one of my (okay, Banamor helped) better ideas that was now causing waves all over the kingdom.  The chain of magical communication spells we’d set up under the Order’s auspices now allowed vital news and messages to be relayed from one end of the far-flung kingdom to the other.  Seven of the nine Mirrors were working, and merchants and nobles had started using them with frequency.

The key to their power was the sympathy stones, magical resources harvested in the hills fifty miles north of here.  Banamor and I had arranged for the local lord to harvest them as the by-product of a clothing dye that he was getting rich off of mining from his otherwise barren land.  Every few tons of dye-bearing clay resulted in a few magical sympathy stones, which Banamor harvested.  And business had been good.  While the demand for them made each sale a profit for me, I had enough in storage to place at least a few Mirrors along the Penumbra.

And it’s not like I needed the money.

“Exactly,” I nodded.  “Magic is going to be essential to this mission, and not just warmagic.  We’re going to need it for supply, too.  That’s where the pocketstones come in. There’s no way we can carry enough provisions by foot to make the entire journey, and even the Kasari would have a problem foraging for enough along the way to keep going.  Moving bulk foodstuffs overland through hostile territory is just asking for trouble.  And I hate to hire ten men-at-arms at four silver each to escort three silver worth of beans and corn a hundred miles.  We should, with the help of the pocketstones, be able to transport a lot of that magically instead.”

“If we moved a forty-ton barge, moving a few sacks of grain should be easy enough,” Sire Cei agreed.  He was technically a mage knight, but he was a sport; his powers were highly limited.  But he had been around magi for a few years, now, and he had an excellent layman’s grasp of magic’s limitations.  “But it occurs to me, Magelord, that a few company of horsemen would be able to aide in security, as well as in supply.  Can we not deploy the cavalry in this mission?”

“Spoken like a true knight,” chuckled Lorcas, wickedly. “I’ve worked in those Wilderland domains.  You need more than four feet of level ground to charge, and most of the so-called roads look like goat trails.  You can use a horse up there, but not for warfare. They use llamas, donkeys and chevrines, mostly, for pack animals.  They’re the only things that can stand on the bloody land and not fall off.”

He was a professional warmage, and a good one.  He respected the heavy cavalry that was the backbone of the kingdom’s military, but he recognized their limitations as well.  It was a popular opinion amongst the Magical Corps of the world that knights knew only two commands: charge valiantly and die nobly.  Any mercenary warmage with a few years of service had seen plenty of idiot nobility do both.

“Lorcas is right,” I agreed.  “Horses are going to be impractical until we get to the central Wilderlands, and even then supplying them with fodder and shoes and such will only add to the logistical problems and the security problems.”

“How are a few companies of knights going to add to the security problem?” asked Sire Cei, amused.

“Because we’re trying not to attract attention, and all those knights will do just that, without being able to help much in defense,” Lorcas pointed out.  “So what are we going to do about security?” he asked me.  “Warmagi?”

“Among other things,” I agreed.  “First, I’m anticipating a contingent of Kasari rangers to escort us, and that counts for a lot.  Further along the way we can enlist the aid of the Iron Band, the Megelini Order, and the troops at Tudry, if we need to.  But the fact is we’re going to be traveling through dangerous territory without those resources at hand through much of the journey.  So we’re going to use deception and camouflage, subterfuge and misdirection to steer our foes away from us long enough for us to pass.”

“Sneaky,” Lorcas nodded in approval.  “I like it!”

“That means intelligence of our enemies’ movements is going to be vital, so yes, we’ll be using warmagi a lot.  Including the Skyriders,” I said, glancing at Dara.  “With them flying cover, we should be able to see trouble coming even if it evades our scrying.  And they are getting better at combat.   Do you think they’re up to that, Dara?”

My young apprentice swallowed nervously.  She had personally overseen and trained the first generation of hawkriders, their steeds the transgenically-enchanted giant hawks that the Alka Alon had helped create.  There were a half-dozen of the birds, at least, and more being bred and transformed.  The skyriders were mostly young men and women, some with magical talent, and a few daredevil Tal Alon who Dara had recruited.  Dara led them on her own transgenically-enchanted falcon, Frightful, and they had proven instrumental in the recent war.  As had Dara herself.

“We’ll be ready,” she nodded.  “I’m sorting through new candidates now.  But if I have a few weeks, I think I can put all six hawks in the air.  Maybe seven.  And Frightful,” she added.

“A seven-bird squadron will be plenty, I think,” I nodded.  “It will be hard, but I think that it will aid us immeasurably to have that support.  The more we can see the goblins, the more we can avoid them.”

“There are worse things than goblins wandering through the Penumbra, now,” reminded Lorcas, who had been there recently on a mission for me.  “Nightsails, rippers, great goblins, hobgoblins, and plenty of wild beasties ready to devour a stray child.”

“Indeed.  Which is why not attracting undue attention is key.  We’ll be disguising our movements, and we’ll break up the march into blocks of a few hundred, to stay organized.  We’ll know a lot more about the specifics come late spring, when we start off, after the melt has passed and the rivers are crossable.  The Kasari are thoroughly scouting the entire route in preparation.  Captain Arborn is doing what he can to make this as smooth and easy a journey for his kinfolk as possible.  What he’s worried about is local resistance, once we get into Narasi territory.”

“What of the Alka Alon?” asked Dranus.  “Can we depend upon their assistance?”

“Good question.  Lady Ithalia, this is going to take a lot of logistical travel, even before we begin the march.  Can I count on you and your sisters to aid us with the Alkan Ways?”

The stunningly gorgeous woman with the pointy ears and the copper-colored hair bowed gracefully from the neck.

“Alas, the Alka Alon council has recalled all of us to contend with the influx of refugees from the Wilderlands and Anthatiel.  Thousands now fill our strongholds,” she explained.  “Most of our refuges in the region you call the Wilderlands were abandoned in the last few years as our kindred fled the Abomination’s minions.   Now we have thousands more from the City of Rainbows who need to be succored.

“You cannot help us at all?” I asked, dismayed.  I was counting on them.

“I wish I could pledge a contingent of Alka Alon warriors to accompany you, but every hand is needed to supply and protect our own people, until we get them settled in new homes.  And the council meets to debate the situation and concoct a plan.”

“Surely the mighty Alka Alon can spare a few warriors,” Lorcus said, clearly enjoying the feeling of superiority Ithalia’s admission gave him.

“As important as the Kasari evacuation is, it is a low priority for our kindreds,” she confessed.  “What folk we have who can be spared are searching the wilderness, seeking news of our lost kin.  Many Alkans of high importance are missing, it appears, and their fates are of great concern to us.

“That’s . . . unfortunate,” I said, my heart sinking.  I was really hoping the Tree Folk would be more help, after all we had done to try to help them.

“If it is some consolation, Magelord,” Lady Ithalia said, sweetly.  “We have been granted permission by the Council to instruct you in the use of the Waypoints.”

That was great news – and surprising.  “The Waypoints?  Your kin trust me that much?”

“Not particularly,” she said, candidly.  “But after much debate it was decided that you were unlikely to foul the Waypoints up too badly.”

I didn’t argue with that because I couldn’t – I graciously accepted her offer.  That would help things along significantly, too.  A great many things.  If I didn’t have to spend so much of my time plodding across the landscape or riding barges up and down rivers I could get a lot more accomplished.

“That brings us to the matter of supply,” I said.  “For this mission, I wish to appoint Gareth as the manciple.”

“Manciple?” asked Lady Itharia, curiously.

“Manciple?” asked Gareth, clearly not pleased with the appointment.

“The official in charge of procurement, usually for a temple, monastery, or academy,” explained my court wizard, Dranus.  “An admirable choice, Sire.”

“I could argue that,” groaned Gareth, expressively.  “You get to go tramping off into the Wilderlands on an adventure, and you want me to buy beans and bacon and flour?”

“And boots and blankets and a good many other things,” I said, apologetically.  “Supply issues are going to be crucial in this mission.  It is not an easy task, I admit.  Nor a glorious one.  But it is an absolutely essential one, and one I can only entrust to the one best able to see it fulfilled.”

Gareth gave me a sullen stare, and glanced briefly at Dara, who was studiously looking out the window.

“Fine,” he agreed, with a snort of disgust.  “Whatever you need me to do to help.”

I was sympathetic to the young man, but despite a few years in Sevendor, he was still no warmage.  While his scrawny body had filled out in our prosperous domain, his frame was still short and scant – not the kind of man you’d imagine wielding a mageblade.

But with a quill he was magnificent.  He was an adept bureaucrat and possessed a nimble and well-educated mind.  He had experience dealing with tradesmen and merchants.  And he was a competent and certified Imperial mage.  In the field he would be a handicap – behind the lines, feeding us as we went, he was a valued member of the team.  Perhaps not obviously heroic, but just because you want to be a hero doesn’t mean that you can be.  I figured it was best to not dwell on his disappointment and move on.

“To do this right we’re going to have to use a lot of very specialized magic,” I suggested.  “For the things I have in mind we’re going to need a few enchanters.  I’ll handle that element myself, selecting the ones I trust.  I want to do everything we need to without involving a lot of other people.”

“Why does it matter if we involve a lot of other people?” Dara asked innocently.

“Because there are many and diverse folk who would oppose such a disruptive transfer of so many people, my dear, for reasons of their own,” Banamor supplied.  “Particularly when they are the Kasari.  But I think Minalan’s saying that if our preparations are done quietly, and then the plan executed without their knowledge, by the time they realize what we’ve done, it will be too late.”

“That is the theme of the plan,” I agreed. “If we do this right, we can achieve a whole host of things at once that will be a boon to many and all.”

“Conversely, it could start a civil war in the new kingdom,” Lorcus said.

“That . . . is also a slight possibility,” I conceded.  “Which is why we’re moving very carefully and very quietly.  Tell no one about this who doesn’t have to know.  The last thing we need are people raising objections before we’ve even started.”

*                            *                            *

“I don’t like it,” Alya said, downstairs in our bedchamber later that night.  I had just explained the basics of my plan to her, and the results of my meeting, when she frowned and gave her verdict.

“Which part?”

“Where to begin?” she asked.  “A clandestine mission against the wishes of your duke and king?  The dangerous cross-country dash, dodging goblins the entire time?  Min, you’re used to armies and trained soldiers.  These are children,” she reminded me.  “You can’t just command them like mercenaries!”

“These are Kasari children,” I reminded her.  “Every one of them can read and write –something you can’t say about Sevendor.  They’ve been through their preliminary rites, from what Arborn told me, and they will be ready and equipped for the march.  Organized, even.  The Kasari are taking care of all that.”

“With rangers,” she pointed out.  “Big tough men with bows and swords . . . which will be ideal for protecting them, but what about keeping them going?”

I shrugged.  “Who would you recommend?”

“I’d recruit some of the clergy,” she decided.  “We’ve gotten a few pilgrims since that mysterious pillar of flame appeared in town on the site of Briga’s new temple.  A lot of them are monks and nuns of various orders.  See if our clergy can help quietly recruit the people we need to care for the children along the way.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I agreed.  “Wilderlands clergy would be better, perhaps.  More akin to the Kasari.”

“I think it matters not, just that there are some to shepherd those poor boys and girls, keep them warm, fed, healed and happy.”

“I’ll see what we can come up with.  Any other objections?”

“Not at the moment, but give me a little while,” she said, shrugging.  Then she regarded me more seriously.  “You’re just humoring me, aren’t you?”

“What?” I asked in surprise.

“You’re just asking my opinion to make me feel included, aren’t you?” she accused.

“Alya!  I’m doing no such thing!  I value your opinion more than most of my councilors!  I can trust you to give me your unvarnished perspective without worrying that you’re trying to get something out of me.  The list of people I can do that with is rather short these days.”

“I don’t mind you going, even though you just got back from a battle,” she said, after a moment’s consideration.  “It isn’t nearly as dangerous as the frozen lake . . . and the dragons.  Or even Boval Vale.”

“No, it won’t be,” I assured her.  “It’s going to be a pleasant walk through the country with a bunch of happy children . . . for seven hundred miles.”

“I’m just going to miss you . . . again.  Every time I think you’re back to stay for a while, something else comes up.”  She sighed, her hands on her hips.  “I suppose it could be worse.  At least this will be instructional.  Think of all of the vicarious paternal experience you’ll pick up,” she smiled, amusedly.  From the work out our boisterous boy Minalyan was giving her every day, I could see how she might think I needed it.

“I’m sure I’ll return a font of paternal wisdom,” I agreed, taking her into my arms.

“I’m sure you’ll return footsore and bitter about children in general,” she chuckled.  “But no battles,” she sighed as I embraced her.

“No big ones,” I agreed.  “Only the lightest, most gentlemanly of skirmishes.”

“And I’m supposed to rule Sevendor in your absence . . . again,” she added.

Ah.  So that’s where this was going.

“Is that a problem?” I asked, breaking my hug.

“Not as such,” she admitted, carefully.  “The yeomen and Sire Cei have everything working well, now.  When you’re gone, I barely have anything to do, aside from council meetings . . . and the occasional siege.”

“Ouch! One little siege . . .”

“The truth is, I get a little bored,” she admitted.  “I enjoy the company of the castle ladies – Lady Estret is terribly gracious about including me, if I wish to sip tea or wine and engage in gossip.  And there are always the children to look after.  And I have started to read a bit,” she added, shyly.  While my bride was literate, she was still not very confident in reading even simple Narasi.  I’d purchased three books I’d thought she’d like when we were in Castabriel.  It was gratifying that she was attempting them.  As one of them was a simple translation of Perwynese erotic poetry, I did have a vested interest in her success.

“Well . . . hold a festival or something,” I suggested.  “Find some worthy monk or nun who wants to build an orphanage and sponsor them.  Do something that will make you feel good,” I urged her.  “You are the Lady of Sevendor.  You should enjoy that.”

“Maybe,” she said, chewing her lip and thinking.  “I was also thinking . . . you know, I love how close we are to everyone, living here in the tower,” she said, slowly.  “And I know were going to move, eventually, into the new castle when it’s finished . . . but Master Guri says that will be years, yet.  Min, would it be permissible to consider building us a nicer hall, perhaps just across the yard, overlooking the wall?”

“A proper hall?  Undefended, you mean?”

“Unfortified,” she corrected, using proper military terminology.  “Just a simple manor house where we can have a little more comfort . . . and a little more privacy.”

“I don’t see why not,” I said, after giving it some thought.  “I do like being close to the Great Hall, here, but I suppose we’re also getting a little crowded, aren’t we?”

“Just a bit,” she admitted in a way that told me it was an understatement.  “Just tell me what part of the bailey I can build it on, and I’ll take care of the details.”

“It will have to be richly appointed, and comfortable,” I said, mockingly.  “I’ll have none of those austere rooms and stoic cells that you are so fond of.”

“As my lord commands,” she chuckled.  “Really?  I can build us a new hall?  It might be expensive . . .”

“I just got the annual reports of our sympathy stone sales from Banamor,” I pointed out.  “We can pay for it out of that, alone.  Just one thing . . . make sure there’s a tower on it.”

“A tower?  You want a refuge that close to the castle?”

“It can be decorative,” I conceded, “but I like to look out over the valley at night.  It helps me think.”

“I can do that,” she agreed.  “And you really don’t mind me building a new home while you’re gone?”

I shrugged again.  “Are you kidding?  That means I double my workshop space.  And I won’t be disturbed as often by crying babies.  How is that a bad thing?”

Chapter Four

Scouting The Penumbra

“The Ways of the Alka Alon are one of several methods one can magically travel long distances,” Lady Varen explained to me in the upper chamber of the tower they’d erected atop Matten’s Helm, called Lesgaethael in their language, a beautiful name for a beautiful place.  “They are by far the easiest way that we know of.  Long ago, the Alka noticed that what you would call arcane fissures in the structure of space on the curvature of this world could be breached . . .and unite for a moment.  When the proper songs to open them and then connect them were composed, it became relatively simple – with a little effort – to use these Ways to transport.”

“So the Waypoints are naturally occurring phenomenon?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Mostly,” she conceded.  “Consider instead that they are potentialities that occur naturally, and can be wakened and exploited by the right songs.”

“I’m no spellsinger,” I warned.  “I can barely carry a tune.”

Varen gave me a rare smile.  “Few mortals can manage the subtleties of our songspells – magical or musical.  But thanks to Onranion’s gift, you needn’t strain your voice,” she said, with light sarcasm.  I didn’t mind.  She was so beautiful she could have been insulting my mother and I would have been happy to listen.

Onranion, the reprobate old Alkan spellsinger who I’d helped rescue from a besieged treehouse in Alshar, had been grateful enough to augment my witchstone into the witchsphere I now bore.  He had also loaded it with Alkan songspells, a scandalous gift to a mere mortal.  I had attempted only a few of the strange magics, but I was wary of them.

“The Alka spells in the Witchsphere,” I said, nodding toward my faithful . . . rock.  I had it out, floating around, just because it’s really too big to wear comfortably most times.

“Yes,” Varen nodded.  “The sphere contains the spell to open and to connect the points. But those are useless to you unless you also know how to select a destination.  That is where the art of the Waypoints comes in.”

“So is there a map?” I asked.  “Some sort of list that I can refer to?”

“Sadly, no,” she said, shaking her head prettily.  “Our ability to recall makes such a thing unnecessary.  Once an Alka has been shown the Way, they remember it forever.  But when introducing someone to the Ways, usually the novice is guided until they can feel the Way themselves.  But in introducing a humani to the Ways, we have devised a way around your natural limitations.”

I felt kind of honored and insulted at the same time.

For the next two hours she taught me the essence of the special spell the Alka Alon had devised to allow me to use their magical portals.  Onranion had been involved, I could tell – don’t ask me how, but I detected a note of his signature magic in the spell.  They had kindly broken it down into a complex, masterful transliteration of symbolic Imperial magic.  As spells went, it was elegant, complicated, and sublimely well-prepared.  It figured that the Alka Alon could do Imperial magic better than humani.

When we were ready to try our first assay into the Ways, Varen chose Waypoints to places I’d been already, first.  Each Waypoint, I discovered, had a different arcane signature, an address, of sorts.  Once I was able to understand them that way, without all of the music getting in the way, then the process became relatively simple . . . if exhausting.

Transference itself wasn’t tiring.  But the opening of the Waypoint, and the mass of the object moved, required a fair amount of power, enough to wear your mind out quickly.  I couldn’t imagine an Imperially trained mage doing it without a witchstone, and not one of the little ones.  I thought back to the massive amount of mass we’d moved to Cambrian, and suddenly understood just how fatigued the Emissaries had been afterward.

Apart from the fascinating arcane aspects of the experience, the practical benefits were clear: I could move around the Kingdom without all of that tedium and expense of actually moving.  And I could, as Varen demonstrated, take a few passengers along the way.  More than three would be a strain, she cautioned, for a weak mind like mine.  I tried not to take that the wrong way.

She showed me several Waypoints I might find useful someday, including ones near to Castabriel, Wilderhall, Gilmora, Tudry, and a dozen other places that harbored them – some of them quite surprising.  The distance didn’t seem to affect how much power was involved, thankfully.  There were, apparently, some Waypoints where this was the case, for no reason she could explain.

Lady Varen showed me how to store each location in my Witchsphere for future reference, which was helpful.  But after a dozen trips around the Kingdom (and a few places beyond) I was exhausted.  Even warmagic spells to keep my fatigue at bay weren’t working, by the end of that day.  And my head was buzzing with the individual flavors of each site I visited when it wasn’t pounding from the headache I developed.  I stayed in bed for most of the next day and slept off my indulgence in wanderlust.

But a lot of things got simpler, after that.  I learned that the special Waystones that had been mined from my mountain each had their own special signature.  The Alka Alon used apophylite as a means of securing a Waypoint permanently.  I happened to have a whole collection of slightly-enchanted apophylite gems that could also reduce the local magical resistance to effectively nothing.

That made establishing new Waypoints for use relatively simple.  The eight stones I’d given the Alka Alon (three for the Emissaries, five to their Council) allowed the bearers to effectively transport themselves from anywhere.  It gave them a lot of power to help order their realm.

I, too, had that power now.  One of the magical gems in my warstaff, Blizzard, was a Waystone.  And when I wasn’t using Blizzard it was secreted away in an arcane pocket dimension tied to a ring on my right hand.  If I needed to transport myself, I summoned my staff, began the spell from the Witchsphere, and away I went.  I was getting good at this stuff.  I think.

I had a lot of enchanted apophylite, too.  Over the course of the next few days, after the Alka Alon had retreated to their conferences, I began by putting stones in places I thought they would be useful as I practiced using the Waypoints: at the top of Matten’s Helm, at the Diketower, at the tower in Brestal, and one in each of my client domains.  Just to be thorough, I had Dara ride one out to Chepstan Castle, and Banamor install one at my new house in Sendaria.

When did I get a house in Sendaria?  Sire Cei arranged that.  Among the possessions I’d inherited when I conquered Sire Gimbal’s rump barony had been a collection of halls and townhouses owned by him and his former vassals.  Sire Cei took one for his own use, with my permission, and sold two of them at a profit.  The finest he reserved for me and my household.  It was our permanent station on the busy riverport, staffed by a pair of servants against our arrival and use.  It had a stable, a massive fireplace, two well-appointed chambers, and a small hall.  Now I could get to it in two minutes, not two days.

It was quite an exciting feeling, plunging through the magosphere all alone.  But with practice it became another spell at my disposal – a powerful one.  And more importantly, one I could make excellent use of in preparation for the march.

*                            *                            *

While I was gallivanting around, learning Alkan magic, it wasn’t just to get out of real work.  I had people to visit.  I had things to arrange, if I wanted this trek to work well.  After I had rested up from my initial installations, I went further afield and began to quietly put together the pieces I needed to play this game.

Installing an apophylite stone at the Order’s tower in Castabriel gave me a much easier way to access the city, compared to the dingy cellar that was Castabriel’s original Waypoint.  While I was in the city, I went ahead and took care of some business.  I paid a visit to Master Hartarian, the Royal Court Wizard.

Hartarian and I had managed a good working relationship for the past year, after he stepped down as the Censor General for the new position.  Despite spending most of his life trying to restrict or kill errant magi, he had become just as adept at administering and regulating them on behalf of the kingdom.

He was more than happy to meet with me without an appointment – no one likes to keep the Spellmonger waiting – and he was glad of the break in packing.  While Their Majesties were planning on staying the summer in the capital, the Prince Heir and his new bride were planning on moving the ducal court to Wilderhall . . . and Hartarian was going along because of its proximity to Wenshar.

He was intrigued by what I had to tell him.  No, I didn’t mention the trek outright – too many of the Family lurking around court for that.  Besides, I didn’t want to implicate a man without his consent.

Instead I explained my summer affair as an attempt to magically shore up the defenses of the northeastern sector of the Penumbra, assisting the Iron Band and the Hesian Order in the construction of a few fortified outposts, using “local labor.”  And magic.  Lots of magic.

That’s when I heard about Isily.

“My niece is to be wed,” the former general told me, casually, while pouring wine.  I was so shocked I couldn’t think of anything to say – until what came next, as he handed me the cup.  I sipped, my head spinning at the unexpected news.  “To my predecessor, of all people.  You recall Master Dunselen?”

That time I choked on my wine.

“Dunselen?” I asked, skeptically.  “That overbearing, conceited—”

“New member of my family?” Hartarian smirked.  “Yes, that’s the one.  Apparently they met while on campaign in Gilmora, and he was quite taken with her.  I didn’t think the affections were returned, of course – who would? – but once she consulted with Her Highness, she accepted the proposal.  They are to be married at High Summer, Luin’s Day, if all goes as planned.

My mind was churning.  How could that . . . ?  Why would she . . . ?

But when Hartarian mentioned the princess, that pretty much answered everything.  Rardine and her mother, who were spending the summer husband-shopping in Remere, wanted more of a say in magical affairs – gods alone only knew why – and they weren’t content with merely one High Mage on the payroll.  By marrying off Isily to Dunselen, they got access to two.  And Isily became heir to the number of domains Dunselen had controlled, if he should happen to have an unfortunate accident.

That happens more than you know.  Particularly when you marry a beautiful and accomplished female assassin.  No doubt that old fool Dunselen had no idea of Isily’s peculiar hobby – or the presence of other members of the Family, the Kingdom’s intelligence agency – in his domain, but I had every suspicion that his castle was full of them.

On parchment, it wasn’t a bad marriage.  True, more than twenty years separated them by birth, but such marriages were common in a land where status and early demise ruled the mating patterns, as Pentandra would say.  She was young and beautiful, from a noble family but tainted by sorcery; he was old and rich, from a noble family but tainted by sorcery.  Magefolk often wed, even before Rard overturned the Bans.  If she included a decent-sized dowry, it would look like the beginnings of a happy family all the way around.

Of course, if my illegitimate daughter, borne by Isily, became involved, I would have to take notice.

Who was I kidding?  My former mistress and a potential enemy were getting married.  This had my notice.  If they involved the child, I would have to take action.

I stowed that news away behind a mask of calm.  Few knew of my liaison with Isily, and fewer still knew of its result.  I didn’t even officially know.  But I did know my daughter was being raised by loyal retainers in decent conditions in far Wenshar . . . the moment that changed, I would be forced to do something.

Beyond the child’s involvement, this did not bode well for me or the Order.

I was tempted to just take Dunselen’s stone on general principal, but the fact was that such an arbitrary use of power over a senior mage – even one as hidebound and academic as Dunselen – would be seen as dangerous precedent by other members of the Order, members whose loyalty I depended upon.  His tastes might be obscene, and his sense of delusion growing with his power, but he had not violated any particular mandate.  I had to tread carefully here.

Of course, while I was there in Hartarian’s office, I didn’t hesitate to add the apophylite stone I’d brought to part of the ornamental wood carving around the doorpost to his office, while he was fetching more wine.  This part of the palace was pretty run-down, anyway, and half of the decorative stones in the thing had fallen out.  Adding another one quickly and securing it with a cantrip was easy.  Then I had unimpeded access to the palace.

That evening I met with several senior members of the Arcane Orders who happened to be using the hall for lodging.  You could always find a dozen or so middle magi, and thrice that number of low magi, living in the cells or in the common hall of the old temple building.  I kept rates for Order members extremely reasonable to encourage just that.  A few had moved in more or less permanently, easily paying for their lodging by running the Mirror array or any of the other magical services the Order offered a few days a month.

But who I wanted wasn’t there – at least I didn’t see them when I unexpectedly showed up for dinner, that night.  I dined with the low magi, the footwizards and hedgewitches who had come to study at the Order’s halls.  Their fare was poorer than the upstairs magi, perhaps, but it was from among them that I needed help.

“I’m looking any footwizards from, or who have worked the upper reaches of Northern Alshar.”  I jingled my purse to indicate how I planned to reward them.

I happened to find a middle-aged man with a long beard and a battered fur-rimmed leather cap with a single point.  He introduced himself as Fondaras, The Sage of the Road, and yes he had worked the Wilderland circuit for thirty years, before it became too dangerous of late.

Fondaras was an unusual-looking man.  He was older than me by two decades, and the sun and wind had beaten his face into the color of an old saddle.  He wore a long traveling cloak over a short tunic and hose, like a city man, but his boots looked like they’d trod the length and breadth of the Wilderlands, perhaps for years before I was born.  He bore a maple staff, knotted at one end, that wasn’t nearly as powerful as it was pretty.

“So you have need of a footwizard?” he asked.  “What is the task?”

“I need to know everything you can tell me about the geography and the terrain up there,” I said, after taking his measure.  “Everything you can remember.”

“And this information is worth something for you?” he asked.  Footwizards were known for their mercenary nature, but that was usually a matter of pragmatic desperation as anything else.

“More than you think,” I shrugged.  “For you, it’s worth a couple of weeks in a comfortable billet, speaking to one of my scribes or apprentices as they take down your words.  Then there will be a healthy stipend, when your service is done.”

“And where might this hall be, Spellmonger?”

“My own, in Sevendor.  If you prove useful, there may be other tasks you can perform.  And if you are willing to accompany me, the reward goes up . . . considerably.  Does that sound like a job you can do?”

“It does,” he agreed.  “Mayhap I know more about that place than just about anyone alive.”

“Then pack your belongings and say your goodbyes.  We depart tonight.”

I took the time to go over to the Hall of Records and look up Fondaras.  The scroll with his name indicated that he was fifty-two-years old, had studied (so he claimed) under two different court magi before taking to the road over a “misunderstanding,” and he specialized in the kind of folk magic and practical spells peasants used.  He ranged from Isimbar to Vorone, and had a string of friendly contacts all throughout the Alshari Wilderlands.  Or at least he did before the goblins moved in.  Just the kind of tough, road-savvy wizard I needed.

He met me at my quarters and I transported us both through the Waypoint back to my tower in Sevendor.  Once he recovered from the journey (I felt like a veteran of the Ways, by now) he was escorted to the Great Hall, where he would stay until we found better accommodations.

That was starting to get hard.  With the construction going on in the mountain behind us, the number of new retainers who were starting to show up at the castle, and the folk with legitimate business my hall was crowded.

I could see why Alya wanted a separate hall, and I suppose I couldn’t argue with her reasoning.  Why live in a draughty tower when you can live in a snug and comfortable hall?  Our defensive needs were met, at the moment, and I didn’t fear sudden attack.  In fact, perhaps a second hall in the outer bailey for the use of guests would be helpful.  I reminded myself to get Sire Cei on that.

A few days later I again used the Ways and traveled to the Penumbra, surprising the daylights out of the head of the Iron Band order when I arrived at his headquarters.

The flinty old baron who commanded the Order was a decent military commander, and the castle he had appropriated for its use was in good repair and well-manned.  But there is a difference in troops who are well-paid for their risks and troops who are essentially conscripted or compelled to service.  The Iron Band’s men bent to their tasks with resignation, and the entire operation was a bit shabby.

But the commander was efficient at his job, too, from the wall of rotting goblin heads that stretched out in front of the gate.

It took an afternoon of displaying my credentials and convincing him I was, indeed, a Marshal of Alshar, before he would sit down and discuss his strategic situation.  But eventually he unrolled a large map of the region and showed me the ugly truth.

The Iron Band had most of its strength in the south of the Penumbra, between the goblins and the “safe” areas around Vorone.  That strength extended to Tudry, and west to a hulking shell keep known as the Anvil, at the base of the Mindens.  Five fortresses with around five hundred fighting men apiece, then Tudry and Megelin.  Farther north and west, their outposts shrunk in size.  As an “iron band around the neck of the Dead God,” the order wasn’t really living up to its charter.

When I proposed building a further spur of fortifications in that weak area, the baron got quite interested.  Since the peace treaty, a number of impoverished lords and mercenaries who were unfortunate at the gaming tables had enlisted, and while he appreciated the additional men, he was running out of convenient places to put them.  Extending the line of defense was certainly in his mandate.  And when I pointed out that I had a thousand ounces of gold from the Crown to pay for it, he was almost ecstatic.

That’s all I told him at the time.  I wanted him eager to help, not reluctant to piss off his boss, the new Kingdom Warlord.  And I was planning on building those forts, just not the way he thought.  I planted a Waystone in a nearby grove of cedars.  I had a feeling I’d be back.

My next stop was in Tudry, where I met with Astyral.  Of all of the magelords in the Penumbra, I felt I could trust him the most.  The Gilmoran mage had been assigned the post of governor of Tudry without asking for it, and for a man with a reputation for being an effete aristocrat, he had ruled this front-line military town with ruthless efficiency.  I think he did it for fun.

More importantly, he had gathered a permanent garrison of fifteen thousand men in Tudry, and had transformed the town into the cornerstone of the defense of the Penumbra.  He wasted no time in having me escorted into his private chambers, once again, and I told him my plan from start to finish.

“Brilliant, if it works,” he admitted.  “You accomplish several things at once.  I approve,” he said, with an expectant pause.

“However . . . ?” I prompted.  My old friend grinned.

“However . . . you’re going to attract attention of every scrug in the shadow,” he sighed.  “Since the defeat at the Poros, they’ve been keeping to themselves, and keeping outsiders out.  Whether it was the sting of being defeated by their own magic in the Mindens or the anguish of having to sign a treaty with that jackanapes who calls himself a prince, or some internal matters of their own, the gurvani have stayed quietly inside their region.  They haven’t even been protecting the Timber Road anymore.

“But that convinces me that if you drag a tasty lure, like a couple of thousand of Kasari youths, across their front gate, they’re going to take notice.”

“Not if their notice is elsewhere,” I pointed out.  “Say, in defense of a sudden offensive by the Tudrymen?”

Astyral pursed his lips and looked out the richly glassed window.  “It is nearing springtime.  The roads will firm up soon.  But I thought His Majesty had forbidden offensive operations against the gurvani?  Don’t we have a treaty?”

“So we do,” I conceded.  “But it doesn’t preclude defensive work.  How difficult would it be to stir up trouble enough to warrant your response?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Astyral admitted.  “Most of the lords east of here are loyal enough – they’re behind our lines and beholden to us for their defense.

“West of here, it’s a slightly different story.  The goblins have permitted some of the existing lords to maintain their holds in return for tribute.  Other estates have been granted to puppet human lords, mercenaries and Soulless who have proven their value and their loyalty to the big green marble.  They run them brutally, with imported Gilmoran peasants – slaves, let’s be honest.

“Then there are a scattering of human lords we can trust, still resisting their change in estate and defying the gurvani, and we’ve made an effort to send them aid when their neighbors get ugly.  In return they give us information and shelter when we’re within the Penumbra.  If one of those lords had a problem, then I could easily justify making enough of a venture out of the occasion to draw the attention of the gurvani.”

“I don’t want to endanger anyone,” I said, warily.  Astyral shrugged.

“I anticipated at least three or four such ventures this summer.  They’re inevitable.  The Penumbra might be seeded with traitors, spies, mercenaries, and turncloaks, but they run estates and trade with their neighbors.”

“What about the gurvani?”

“In truth, the gurvani in the Penumbra nearest us are the least dangerous.  Most of them are near feral, under control of local chieftains, bands of less than a thousand.  They only march for the Dead God when the priests make them. They won’t necessarily come to the aid of their humani allies, but they won’t leave a large armed force alone in the Penumbra.  And knocking a few of these dark estates off the list, or even renewing the management of those estates, would be a boon.  Men will die in that attempt.  That’s why they get paid as much as they do.”

“I can ease the pain with a thousand ounces of gold,” I pointed out.  “His Majesty has given me leave to secure the northeastern line of defense, and funds to do so.  I figure this counts as preventive security.”

“Then I see no objection.  I’ll have my captains begin scouting likely situations to exploit.  We’ve developed quite the spy network, believe it or not.  The Kasari have helped immeasurably, but we’ve also cultivated spies in just about every shadow estate now.  Including agents who will act upon our behalf.  Let me see what I can discover that can be put to best advantage.  Three weeks sound right?”

“Perfect,” I assured.  “But make sure you speak to Azar before you lay any concrete plans.  I’m headed to Megelin Castle, next.  I want a big hammer around to come rescue us if your distraction doesn’t work, and Azar’s is the next biggest, to yours.  Though he wields it wildly,” I admitted.

“I might argue that, now that Bendonal the Outlaw is back in charge.  I admire the man,” he admitted.  “For a man of common birth, he’s achieved a certain sense of class.”  That was a big admission from the aristocratic Gilmoran.  And a bit ironic, considering who he was speaking to.  I didn’t take it personally – Gilmorans are just like that.

“Some of us commoners manage to scrape the manure off our boots,” I agreed.  “Bendonal is a good mage.  Glad he was rescued.”

“It was he who rescued Megelin,” assured Astyral.  “Azar’s men were bold and brave enough, but they fought in ignorance and without discipline.  Typical heavy cavalry,” he added with scorn.  “But Bendonal brought order, reason, and discipline to the castle.  Now its power extends a hundred miles north, south, and east.  If you want a heavy hammer that can move quickly, the Megelini knights are it.”

Apparently both Azar and Bendonal agreed, too, because when I dined with them both the next night, in Azar’s tower chamber, they were both excited by the prospect. “We have a treaty” was not welcome news to the men who literally stood on the wall against the kingdom’s foes.  They had fretted about forced inactivity and garrison duty and – at least Azar – despaired at the lack of opportunity for really destructive warmagic.

The prospect of a meaningful, useful, sanctioned and paid for mission was ideal.  The Megelini Order was self-sustaining, thanks to the tribute the estates it protected paid, but in a war zone everything costs more.  Particularly the heavy horses the Megelini Knights depended upon.  A thousand gold bought a lot of hay and oats.

I returned home feeling better about the coming journey.  I had at least some security assured; a distraction for the big armies, and interdiction against any smaller forces who saw the children’s march as an invitation.

I convened a meeting of my marching staff, as I’d come to think of them, that I’d assembled for this task and shared my results.  The response was guardedly positive, once I’d finish explaining.

“. . . so our security is handled, our route protected as far as we can with the forces at our disposal, and thanks to Master Fondaras we are getting a clearer picture of the actual terrain we’ll be crossing.  The political side is handled, for now.  Where are we on supply?”

“I can procure plenty of provision, if I have access to wide enough markets,” answered Gareth promptly.  “Many things could be had in Sendaria, for instance.  But until I know the specifics, placing orders is going to be problematic.  It would help if I knew exactly how many, and exactly how long.  And, of course, just where to send it.”

“So it would,” I agreed.  “And I am taking steps in that direction.  Figure on two thousand mouths to feed, for now.  For . . . five months.”

Gareth whistled in appreciation.  “That’s a lot of biscuits!”

“You had better believe it.  And transportation is also my problem – and one of my next steps.  You just start securing the foodstuffs.  Spread it out a bit so that you don’t ruin any one market.  But figure about a pound of meat and a pound of grain per person per day, to start.  You can start stockpiling it here in Sevendor, for now.”

“And I assume I’m to pay for it out of an increase in my stipend?” he asked, dryly.

“I’m giving you a letter of credit for a thousand ounces of gold,” I told him, making his eyebrows shoot up.  “Spend it wisely.  Focus on basics, for now.  I’ll have more specific purchase orders for you when I return from meeting with the Kasari elders, next week.”

There were other reports – Master Guri had come up with a simple, yet defensible design for an easy-to-build (with magic and two thousand willing hands) pele towers that could be put just about anywhere.  Sire Cei had the domain and baronial business well-in-hand, with my wife’s help and that of his staff.  Banamor had made initial inquiries to some enchanters concerning small but useful artifacts for the journey; and Dara’s wing of skyriders had been practicing in the skies over Sevendor every day.

I had a quiet dinner with Alya that night – she seemed in particularly good spirits.

“I met with an architect today – a human that Master Guri admitted wasn’t entirely incompetent.”

“High praise,” I nodded, enjoying the wine.  I’d stopped at a shop in Castabriel and stocked up on a few bottles.

“He said that he can have both halls finished by summer,” she smiled.  “The upper hall will be in the inner bailey, on the other side of the yard from the castle.  It will look out over the wall, there.  Two stories, two full bays, enough room for us, our servants, and whatever visiting kin we have.”

“Sounds like just what we need,” I agreed.   “And you included a tower?”

“It’s our bedchamber,” she agreed.  “Three stories up, a kind of cupola room.  We can add an additional story if we want to,” she conceded.

“I think that will be fine,” I nodded.  “What about the guest hall?”

“The guest house is going to be more elaborate,” she continued, happily.  “It will be in the outer bailey but near to the curtain wall and gatehouse.  We looked over the site this morning.  It doesn’t have the view of our hall, but it will be pleasant enough.  Expansive. The hall itself will be eighty feet long, two stories the entire way, with three independent bays.  There will be nine chambers over all, with a stable and servants quarters attached.  And a separate kitchen from the castle.”

“Of course,” I agreed.  “I trust you to attend to all of the details.”

“I so enjoy it when you let me handle the important things,” she smiled, and kissed me.

Chapter Five

Logistics & Supply

I was surprised the next morning by two travel-weary apprentices.  Rondal and Tyndal had returned from their mission with the Kasari.  The two somber lads ate breakfast silently in the hall before I called them up to my workshop for a full report.

Rondal went first.  “We did what you asked, Master.  We accompanied the Kasari to their secret shrine in the Land of Scars.  It was rough going, too.  We dodged goblin patrols and bandits the entire way.  As per our instructions, we did not engage often, only when our lives were threatened.”

“But you made it to the shrine,” I prompted.

“Yes, Master,” Tyndal continued, a little guiltily.  “We were reluctant to follow the Kasari’s chosen path, but we learned quickly enough to trust their instincts in the wild.  Seven of the company we set out with did not return,” he added, sadly.  “They will be missed.”

That was a bit uncharacteristic.  “But you made it to the shrine,” I repeated.

“Yes, Master,” continued Rondal.  “We made it to the shrine.  But it wasn’t unoccupied.  Another force had beaten us to it, though for different purpose.”

“Gurvani?”

“No, Master.  Or not entirely, which was disturbing.  Brotherhood of the Rat.”

“What?”

“The Rat who caused all that trouble at Inarion?” Rondal continued, carefully, “the night Tyndal’s stone was taken?  Orill Pratt’s nephew?  He’s gotten a hold of a witchstone, somehow, and now he leads his own crew.  In alliance with the gurvani.  They captured a few of the Kasari, but they escaped, with some help from a renegade amongst the Rats.”

“What are pirates and crimelords doing skulking about the wilds of the Land of Scars?” I wondered aloud.  Unfortunately, the boys had the answer to that.

“They were searching for the Tomb of Korbal.  And, unfortunately, I – we – think they may have found it.”

I was on my feet, staring at them in disbelief.  “And you let them?”  I didn’t mean to say it so forcefully, but my emotions took over.  Korbal’s tomb was supposedly unfindable.  It wasn’t fair to blame the boys, it was just reflex.

“It wasn’t really in our power to stop them, Master,” Rondal said, sullenly.  “We had choices to make.  That bastard shadowmage is good,” he said, adding a few choice curses involving the private parts of deities.  “Not to mention the fact that that wasn’t our mission.  We took what initiative we could to mitigate the damage, but our priority was retrieving that idol.  Which we did.”

“And recovered valuable information about our ancestors,” added Tyndal, holding out a wrapped parcel.  “The idol itself was utterly resistant to magic.  Supposedly, it was forged before humans ever came to this world.  But the bolts used to secure it were made here, thankfully.  But once we removed it from its pedestal, we found a bunch of things inside.  We preserved them as carefully as we could.  There’s some . . . tekka in there, I think.”

“And some parchment,” added Rondal.  “Strange parchment.  In some dialect of Old High Perwynese.  I couldn’t read more than a few words out of it, unfortunately.”

“Fascinating.  I look forward to studying it. So, do the rumors of the Kasari’s origins check out?”

The lads looked at each other meaningfully.  Then Rondal spoke.

“Master, there is no doubt in our minds that the Kasari culture predates even the Early Magocracy.  That big bronze idol wasn’t the only thing there.  There were words and pictures engraved in that ruin that couldn’t have originated here.  They just couldn’t.  We copied down everything we could get to, but the damage was extensive.  But the Kasari . . . yes, Master.  They came with us from the stars.  And wherever we came from the Kasari have been watching over us, or something like that.  Humanity.”

“Then now is the time where we give them a little help with their efforts.  Rest up.  You have a couple of days before you’ll be needed again, but then we’re headed back into the field.  Tell me, has your opinion of the Kasari improved?”

“They are the most loyal and dependable men I have ever met,” Tyndal said, gravely.

“Never have I felt more a sense of brotherhood, not even in the Mysteries of Huin,” agreed Rondal with equal gravity.

I had no idea in all of Korbal’s hells what had happened on that mission, but it had changed my boys.  I wasn’t sure how, but the admission that Korbal the Demon Lord of the Mindens might be loosed again wasn’t it; nor was it meeting up with an old enemy in an unexpected place.  No, something else had happened out there, something they didn’t seem willing to speak of.

It was perplexing, but I respected their privacy.  They had accomplished the mission, and I had a pile of ancient artifacts I could sort through whenever I got the time.

That wasn’t now – that afternoon I used the Waypoints to transport me deep into Wenshar, where I looked up the group of magi who had taken control of the Censorate’s main commandary, there, when King Rard had abolished the order.  In particular, I wanted to speak to Taren.

Taren was a warmage but he was also an expert thaumaturge and a brilliant enchanter.  His tall, lanky frame and frizzle of hair made him appear boyish, and while it was true he was a few years younger than me that “boy” was a magical terror on the battlefield.  As a bonus he was adept at the arcane science of building magical devices, and he was one of the few that I trusted with the unique power of the pocketstones.

There were only three, after all, and I had loaned him the one with the least amount of power, for research and study.  And to make me things when I asked for them.

He was enjoying the challenge, and had set up a secure laboratory in Wenshar.  Technically the whole fortress was an installation of the Arcane Orders, and since he was working on Order business he had the run of the place.  It had been Taren who had enchanted the wands that had allowed us to take a bunch of barges up a river they had no place being . . . and dropping a forty-ton boulder onto a dragon’s head at a tactically significant moment.

I described what I needed to Taren, and he took to the challenge with enthusiasm.  He’d been doing a lot of interesting things with the pocketstone and had managed some amazing accomplishments . . . except be able to put living things in and get them out living again.

“I’ve tried chickens, to start,” he told me as we toured his lab.  “Plentiful and cheap.  I figured if I could store a live chicken, and bring it back, I could store something bigger.  What I got was a great way to painlessly kill a chicken.”

“Or a goblin,” I pointed out.

“There are far easier ways to kill a goblin,” he shrugged.  “The effort involved isn’t worth it, in this case.  I think if I can find a way to build in the capacities for life into the originating spell . . .”

“I’ll have some Alka Alon come by and consult with you on it, at some point,” I promised.  “But what about the other issue?”

“Transporting simple supplies?  That’s no problem,” he assured me.  “I can do essentially the same thing I did with the barge rods to a bunch of weirwood wands.  Food goes in one wand, it comes back out the other.  Simple,” he snorted.  “Just don’t send any horses that way.”

“So noted.  How soon can you have them ready?”

“A fortnight.  And that gives me plenty of time to work on a few other things I think might be helpful to you.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, let me play around with it.  If it works, great.  If not . . . well, I got you the wands.  No need to make myself look foolish for something that didn’t work.”

“I can appreciate that,” I decided.  “But also be thinking misdirection and concealment spells.  For a lot of children on the march.”

“I am,” he nodded.  “Indeed, there are things I’ve thought of that you need that you don’t even realize you need, yet.  For instance, do you have a medical corps?”

“A medical corps?  I suppose I do need one, don’t I?”

“Ever known that many children to be in one place and not have a few skinned knees?  These kids will be running from goblins much of the way.  There will be injuries.  You’re going to need some assistance.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Try one of the clerical orders.  A couple of priestesses or monks with each group should help keep the disease and injury to a minimum.  I can send medical supplies through the transport wands, too,” he added, smugly.

“Do it,” I ordered.  “Prepare whatever you think we’ll need.  And a fortnight should be plenty of time.  I’ll be back for it then.”

“Using the Alka Alon Ways?” he grinned, knowingly.

“It beats barge travel,” I shrugged.  “And gets things done a lot quicker.”

“I can’t wait to learn myself!” the young enchanter grinned.

My next stop was to act on Taren’s suggestion.  In fact, it was the last major stop I had to make before I actually met with the Kasari Elders.

I used the Ways to send me to Wilderhall, the summer capital of the Duchy of Castal.  I avoided all of the official palace crap and snuck in just like a common merchant.  I didn’t need to see anyone in the bureaucracy – I came to go to temple.

Wilderhall, because of its ducal associations, is the site of several major temples, abbeys, and religious orders.  Not only does the palace employ several types of clerics to keep the river of ducal paperwork going, but they are naturally attracted to the site because of the number of wealthy patrons there.  Wilderhall is a favorite place for the nobility of the Castali Wilderlands to retire to, and they spend more money on temples and priests the closer they get to the afterlife.

Thankfully, among the glorious spires and magnificent mansions that dotted the picturesque town was one of the largest temples to Briga, Narasi goddess of Fire (among a lot of other things) in Castal.

The Charvalene Abbey had been consecrated two generations ago as a main temple in the Wilderlands for Briga’s humble clergy.  Most of the Abbey’s revenues came from rich patrons, but the flame-colored robes of her priestesses were frequently seen visiting the sick, or delivering babies when a priestess of Trygg was unavailable.  There was a small orphanage for girls in the back, where the little acolytes were tutored in math and letters, needlework and the rites of Briga, before they either took holy orders or married.

The abbey was a simple two-story hall with an attached bell tower that doubled as a chimney for the Sacred Flame that perpetually burned on her altar.  When I opened the door, two red-cloaked initiates were tending the fire.

“May we offer you warmth?” came their friendly ritual greeting.

“Indeed,” I said, although it was warm enough outside now to go without a fire, even in Wilderhall.  “But what I’d really like to do is speak with your High Priestess.”

“Abbess Parsily is in conference at the moment with her senior sisters,” the other novice said.  “She cannot be disturbed, I’m afraid.”

“Even for a wealthy donor?” I asked, tossing a purse to the first girl.  She caught it automatically.  There were at least ten ounces of gold in it. And another ten of silver.

“I think I can whisper to her,” conceded the second novice.  “Please wait here by the fire.”

The first novice ran to get me wine.  I was a noble, and a donor, wine was the least they could do.  It was mulled and strongly spiced but well-suited to the nature of the goddess.  I sipped it, trying not to get spices in my teeth while I waited.

Soon enough a busty matron in a bright orange robe came forth, bowed respectfully, and dismissed her novices.

“What service can this humble abbey do for you, my lord?”

“I need a favor.  A big favor.  I need twenty or thirty medically-trained priestesses who can serve as medics for a long journey.  Through the Wilderlands.  Escorting a couple of thousand children.”

I watched her eyes get bigger and bigger.  “My . . . lord?”

“I’ve been informed that this is the largest convent school in the Wilderlands, for priestesses of Briga.”

“Well, yes, we do like to say so, but—”

“And I’m told you have a mission to succor the youth of the world, according to the dictates of your goddess, correct?”

“My lord, that is true, but we do so in—”

“So you are saying no?” I asked, point-blank.

“It would be exceedingly disruptive,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  Plying a wealthy patron was one thing, but this abbess was having her routine disrupted.

“Flamemother, would it be helpful if I was willing to subsidize their excursion?” I asked.  Certainly the clink of coin is holy in temples other than Ifnia’s, even if they don’t admit it.  But Parsily was stubborn.

“I don’t care if you paid for it all,” she snorted, “we can’t take thirty girls out of their classes like that.”

“It doesn’t have to be thirty, but that would be helpful,” I sighed.  “All right, I didn’t want to have to pull rank on you . . .”

She snorted derisively.  “Young man, I am the senior high priestess for this county!  You’d have to . . .”

She trailed off because I smiled and started saying a childhood prayer.  When I was done, there was a shimmer in the air, like heat over an oven, and suddenly a young, vibrant woman with long red hair stood there.  Glowing.  Kind of like a goddess.

“Flamemother Parsily, I’d like you to meet The Flame That Burneth Bright, Briga, Narasi goddess of fire, magic, poetry, magic, and a bunch of other stuff you might be familiar with.”

“Minalan,” said the goddess warningly, “I really hate it when you invoke me in front of other people like that!”

“Relax,” I shrugged.  “Parsily’s family.  Aren’t you, Flamemother?”

“G-goddess?” she whispered, her eyes opened wide with awe in the light of the fire.

The goddess rolled her eyes at me, but then turned to her priestess.  “Yes, Daughter of the Flame, it is I, the Bright One.  May you and this temple and all in the house receive my holy blessing,” she said, almost by rote.  The priestess fell to her knees in worship.

“See why I don’t do this?” Briga said to me, accusingly.  “You can’t get anything done with the clergy.  Give me an honest layman any day, someone with practical sense.  Now, what is it that you want, Spellmonger?”

“I need the assistance of your priesthood,” I said, skipping the formalities.  “I have around two thousand Kasari children to escort from Bransei Mountain to Kasar, around the Pearwoods and across the frontiers of two duchies, and I need a medical corps.  Your priestesses are competent at healing and can manage the journey.”  Not all clerical orders were so active.  Fat priests and sedentary nuns were the norm for most medically-associated orders.  The Briganti clergy, however, made a point of traveling to those who were ill – part of Briga’s heritage as a divine avenger.

“True,” she conceded, “but why would they?”

“Because their goddess commanded them?” I offered.  I figured that was obvious.

“Oh.  So that’s why I’m here.  So you can command me to command them.”  She didn’t sound amused about it.

“I’m not commanding you,” I pointed out, “I’m giving you the opportunity to command them.  This is a worthy cause and a great feat that I can pull off, with the help of your clergy.”

“What’s in it for me?” asked the goddess.  That was surprising.

“Uh . . . what do you want?”

She considered.  “If I help you with this, you make another god’s enneagram permanent.”

I considered.  “Within reason – I don’t want to make the Shipwrecker or Yantos permanent.”

“No, I’m open to the selection,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.  “But it’s getting a little boring re-introducing myself to deities I’ve met a hundred times before.  Some real continuity of experience would be lovely.”

“I’ll do it,” I agreed.  I’d planned on doing it anyway, quietly, the next time I ran into a god or goddess down at the taphouse.  “But I’ll need those priestesses, equipped for a journey of many months, with full medical kits.  I’ll pay for the whole thing, I just need their expertise.”

Briga sighed, and little tendrils of sweet-smelling smoke came out of her hair.  It was a lovely effect.

“All right, Minalan.  I’ll speak to these reverend sisters.  Where do they meet you?”

“Send them to Sevendor,” I suggested.  “I can take them through the Waypoints to where they will be needed.  Tell them to bring heavy boots and cloaks –we’re going to be doing a lot of walking.  And while they’re in Sevendor, they can make a pilgrimage to the Everfire you established there.”

“How’s that working out?” she asked, curiously.

“We’re building the temple around it.  Already getting a lot of pilgrims,” I nodded.  “Having some flameclad priestesses show up out of the blue to gaze at its impossible wonder and glory in your holiness wouldn’t hurt business.”

“No doubt,” she said, dryly.  “All right, I’ll take it from here.  I think you’ve done enough mischief in this temple.  Do you have any idea how much a divine visitation can muck up the order of things?”  I had a snappy answer at hand, but she sounded cross.  Light banter with a goddess of vengeance is one thing.  Actually pissing her off, I guessed, would be a poor idea.

“Thank you, Bright One,” I said, bowing respectfully.

“It had better be a big-ass temple,” she said, shaking her head.  I got out of there quick.  Alya looks like that, sometimes.

I know, calling in a divine favor like that seems reckless, for a mere thirty priestesses, but I also knew that once Briga was invested in the outcome of the journey, she couldn’t help but lend a hand if we got into trouble.

There was one other institution I visited while I was in Wilderhall.  It had the honor of hosting the headquarters of the Hesian Order of Warmagi, at least until better accommodations could be had for them.  As they were the warmagi in charge of supply and fortification for the war effort, that was a little ironic.

But Carmella – Magelord Carmella, now – had chosen Wilderhall for her temporary headquarters mostly because of its proximity to so many years of records and its central and secure location.  The Order of Hesia had rented a large townhouse near the bridge where it quietly administered the affairs of the Order.

Carmella was not a particularly likable woman, largely because she had almost no social perceptions.  Pentandra had made friends with her, of all people, largely because she found Carmella’s blunt social perspective refreshing.  I saw it as an unwillingness to put up with extraneous factors combined with a genuine lack of concern for what anyone else thought.  Carmella was cerebral and brutally honest, without the slightest bit of social pretension.  That combination is bound to get you snickered at during parties – even by fellow warmagi.

That did make her an ideal candidate as head of her order, however.  Unswayed and undistracted by rank or social position she had attacked the abstract problems of magical defense and organizing her order with efficiency and dedication.  When I presented my plan to her, she didn’t concern herself with the politics or the perils, she looked at it in terms of logistics and opportunities to increase the defenses around the Penumbra.

“I’ve been petitioning His Majesty to invest in that quarter, as bare as it is,” she warned me over brandy that night.  “A chain missing half its lengths serves no one.”

“Yet keeping that sparse region garrisoned would be expensive,” I pointed out.  “The army at Tudry, alone, costs a fortune.  But these pele towers I plan . . . well, if your people can help build them, I’d like to put them in charge.  Where manpower fails, magic may suffice.”

“I have the magi,” she agreed.  “But I could use more stones . . .” Carmella was cold and calculating, but she was also as opportunistic as anyone.

“You’ll get a new piece of irionite for each tower you man,” I agreed.  I had a gracious plenty, after all, and this was a worthy cause.  “Alkan irionite, too.  But we’ll keep the assignments quiet, if you don’t mind.  Just choose good people you can trust.  And who don’t mind sitting on their arses for months on end, staring at the scenery.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” she said, almost smiling.  “My folk would welcome the opportunity for quiet research.  But as for manpower . . . my order tends to specialize.  We don’t have the kind of support troops we’d need for that kind of prolonged deployment.”

“Which is why you’ll be sharing jurisdiction with the Iron Band, and local lords,” I offered.  “They’ll keep the towers provisioned, and station small garrisons there.  You’ll keep them magically defended and alert the rest if there are incursions.  They’ll be watchtowers, more than defensible positions.”

“That begs the question of what defensible position we’d have to retreat to,” she pointed out.  “Master, Tudry is a fine town, but it is too close to the Penumbra.  Megelin Castle is too, for all practical purposes.  I appreciate what we’ve been able to do with what we have, but our defensive posture in the region is poor.  This will help,” she acknowledged, “but it’s no answer.”

“What do you propose?” I asked, swirling around the brandy in the glass.

“We need a real citadel, at least a hundred miles back from the Penumbra.  Someplace that can act as a real staging area, supply depot, and hardened garrison.  Something safe from dragon attacks,” she added.

“Do you have a place in mind?  Or would we need to build from scratch?”  Building a major fortress was not cheap, easy, or quick.  Even with magic.  I was building one, trust me.  I know.

“I need to study the matter more,” she admitted.  “I can think of three or four sites that might do, off the top of my head.  Some already have castles on them – if you can call those moldy old Wilderlands shell keeps castles,” she added, disdainfully.  “But give me until the end of the summer, and I’ll find the right spot for the perfect defensive fortification.”

“And you think that would help?”

“I think it’s going to be essential, if the gurvani come at us in strength again.  Look at the thousands we lost in Gilmora, and along the timber road.  The whole of the Alshari Wilderlands is decimated.  There isn’t a single citadel that could withstand a concerted assault.  Especially one with magic and dragons involved.”

“I take your point,” I sighed.  “But it might be politically difficult to arrange.”  All I had to do was tell his Majesty that he had to build something on the scale of Relan Cor or Darkfaller out in the middle of nowhere where there weren’t any peasants to support it.

“I’m not interested in the politics,” she declared, unnecessarily.  “I’m concerned with the fact that Gilmora was just the beginning.  The Dead God isn’t just sitting inside his hole, cowering in fear of us.  He took out one of the greatest Alka Alon citadels in a well-planned, highly coordinated effort.  Every army we face from them gets better.  It gets bigger.  We can throw magic at them all day, but at the end of the day they’re still getting better.  And we’re not, particularly.  If we’re going to win this war, that’s how we have to do it.”

“I’ll take your position under advisement,” I promised.  “And I’ll see if I can’t work on the politics of the matter.  But . . . you can get me the warmagi?”

“If you can get me the stones . . . you bet your arse I can get you the warmagi.  I’ll get some teams put together.  And I want to look over those Karshak plans of yours, carefully.  The little guys are adept at stonework, but they’ll sacrifice practicality for aesthetics with the design.  A beautiful tower with no privies, for example.  If humans are to live in them, I need to see them.  I need to build them.”

“You’ll get the chance.  I’m thinking we’ll end up building anywhere from five to seven of them, along the way.  And when we’re done, we’ll have them installed with Mirrors, supply magic, defensive magic, signaling . . . we’ll make them essays in the art of modern magical defense.”

She looked pleased in a way I’d never seen before.  “And you think the gurvani are just going to let you calmly build them, without objection?”

“They won’t have time to object.  Using magic and brute labor, I think we can get them built faster than they’ll be able to respond.  Each one can serve as a base to support the others.  And we’ll be using a lot of misdirection and feints from other quarters to keep their attention elsewhere.  Our route will be well-chosen to avoid the obvious threats and seek the safest course.  In fact, I have people working on that even now,” I said, thinking of my new Alshari footwizard, Fondaras.  He had filled parchment after parchment with notes on the various strongholds and settlements he had traveled to in Alshar.  “If I have your support, that’s just about the last thing I need.”

“Just about?  What else?”

“I need to go see a man about some bread,” I smiled.

*                            *                            *

The nearest Alkan Waypoint to the village of Talry-on-Burine was forty miles away, downriver and in a six miles from the nearest real river port.  I ended up buying a horse from a free peasant family, and paid twice its worth for a saddle.  The old nag got me to the port, where I sold her to another family for a pittance, and then hopped on a barge I then magically propelled upriver when they weren’t looking.  I was able to get back home just before supper time.

It had been a long time since I’d been back – since my wedding, to be exact.  The old village looked a little smaller than it once had, but Dad’s two massive red ovens still loomed over the river like two giant breasts.  Only the third, smaller oven between them made the sight a little less titillating.

An apprentice I didn’t recognize was manning the shop front as the last of the day’s sales were made to tradesmen returning from their labors.  My brother-in-law Gorsa was the first to recognize me, and then I was covered in female relatives and tears of joy.

At last, after assuring everyone I and the rest of the family was alive and well, I finally sat down and managed to talk business with my father.

“Dad, I need bread,” I said.  “A lot of it.  The entire output from your ovens, daily, for four to five months.”

My father’s eyes bulged.

“That’s a lot of bread, Son,” he said, shaking his head.  “Are you feeding an army?”

“Of children,” I said.  Then I explained.  “I can pay you, of course.  Top rate.  And I already have someone arranging supply.  But this was the only place I could think of that could handle an order that big, so . . . why not keep the business in the family?”

“That’s a lot of business,” he said, shaking his head, still.  “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Nope,” I assured him.  “But it’s what I can do.  I need to feed these kids, and I can’t do it while we’re running.  If I can get you to bake the bread, then magically transport it to the field, then we cut down on supply issues dramatically.  That’s food we don’t carry, time we don’t spend preparing it, and it has all sorts of other advantages.  But this is kind of essential to making it work.  Otherwise we’re in the field for months longer than necessary, and every day of the journey becomes a risk.”

“I’ll help, of course,” my father agreed.  “I can put everyone on it.  But it will be expensive.  And disruptive to our other clients.  But . . . if you can pay for it, of course I want to help.”

I considered.  “Would it help if I could get the goddess of baking to stop by and bless your ovens?” I offered.  Surely I could impose on Briga to help out one of her own deacons.

My dad snorted.  “I think I can handle something like this without it,” he laughed.  Then he stopped and stared at me.  “Wait, you were serious?” he asked in disbelief.

I shrugged.  “You never know who’s going to owe you a favor in this business.”

Chapter Six

Bransei Mountain

Two weeks before the Equinox, I had nearly all of the important elements of my plan in place.

Essentially, I wanted to do several things at once before anyone noticed exactly what I was doing.  It helped that most of these things were also helpful to each other, even if the players did not always realize that.  I suppose I could have revealed everything to everyone all at once, but I’ve usually found that invoking someone’s self-interest, not their altruism, moves them to action more quickly.

The final few pieces of my preparation were dependent upon the Kasari.  I had done everything I could to make the way ready, but I had yet to meet with the elders of Bransei Mountain or the two thousand charges for whom I was taking responsibility.  It was not an easy site to get to, even by magical means.  Part of the problem was that the Alka Alon didn’t have any Waypoints convenient to the site.  It was remote, even for the Tree Folk, and the magosphere did not lend itself to a natural Waypoint anywhere nearby.

I was about to change that.

The closest Lady Ithalia could come was a Waypoint about seventy miles away in the desolate hills south of Bransei, deep in the Penumbra.   The problem was that those hills had been taken over by a broad confederation of tribal gurvani.

Unlike the goblins concentrated around the former towns of Ganz and Boval who served the dark priests of the Dead God as his loyal soldiery, the gurvani who had taken to the hills northeast of their sacred valley maintained a quasi-independence from Sheruel’s legions, even if they remained aligned.  They were feral gurvani adhering to their tribal culture, while Sheruel’s priests twisted the bulk of the gurvani into something better able to withstand human swords.

They were, in other words, rustic hicks and simpletons despised by the “advanced” goblins who had begun adopting many human affectations.  They still used the ancient warclubs, instead of iron swords;  they still fought in tribal warrior bands, not regulated military units; and they still practiced a religion that honored deities other than Sheruel.  They were the Dead God’s shock troops, his common stock to be bred and used as needed.  Otherwise they were left to their flinty hills and marginal valleys, where the only ones to bother them were the Kasari.

There were at least thirty thousand tribal gurvani in the region, and they were breeding like flies.  Thankfully they were spread out in a few hundred small camps or caverns, with some occupying the few human fortifications they’d overwhelmed in the invasion, and some beginning to build their own crude strongholds.  They tended to live as their ancestors did, in bands of one hundred to three, sometimes growing as large as a thousand.  And they fought with each other constantly.

Showing up in the middle of such chaos was inviting trouble, I suppose, but it was simply the only way to do it.  Lady Ithalia went through first, wearing her humani-sized form and her armor.  The hilltop on which the Waypoint exited was clear of goblins, she reported, and so she returned a moment later for Dara and Frightful.

This was Dara’s big day.  While she had been schooling her skyriders for weeks, preparing them for the journey, I needed Dara, herself, to complete this important task.  It was a lot to ask of a fourteen year old, but then Dara had proven she was no average fourteen year old.

When Ithalia brought her and her falcon through, Dara immediately transformed Frightful into her giant form: forty foot wingspan and a beak the size of battleaxe.  She quickly harnessed the bird for riding, then she got Frightful into the air bearing a package and a message from me.

It was an important mission in a lot of ways, and I knew she was nervous.  But Ithalia told me she launched herself into the unknown fearlessly, intent on completing it.

Dara flew the seventy miles over unknown enemy territory, almost a thousand miles away from her home.  Lady Ithalia guided her, using mountaintops for landmarks, and two hours after she arrived, Dara was settling her massive bird on top of the central peak of Bransei Mountain, the second largest settlement of Kasari.

As soon as she landed, as the unadvised Kasari were scrambling to contend with a forty-foot long raptor suddenly lighting on their mountain, she took a Waystone out of her pouch and buried it at a convenient clearing.  When she told me she’d done it, mind-to-mind, I activated the link and stepped through the Waypoint with my retainers.

The top of Bransei Mountain was misty and cool that morning, but achingly gorgeous.  The largest peak of a knot of mountains separate in form and nature from the nearby Mindens, Bransei Mountain possessed a wide plateau with a nearly concentric ring of ridges around it.  From the air, Dara told me, it almost looked like a lopsided rose, open on the south side.  While the central plateau was bald and rocky, with only a few meadows and scrubby groves adorning it, the ridges that fell from its crown like curly locks of hair were heavily forested and green with life.

At the base of the mountain was a long and slender sliver of silver lake, its shaded recesses covered in mists while its sunswept center shined up at us.  The lake reached out in five or six different directions, and I could see the distant dots on its shores where the Kasari had built their villages.  And south, beyond the lake and the hilltops , was a wide expanse of lower hills that were thickly covered in the tallest trees I’d ever seen.

I’d heard about them, of course – the fabled Alshari Redwoods.  Evergreens so tall and majestic that their tops swept the clouds.  Trees that reached two or even three hundred feet, and whose massive trunks provided a strong wood of deep red hue. It was said one tree could provide all the lumber for one ship.  But these trees were those most sacred to the nature-revering Kasari, and they protected every one of them from despoiling forces.

The variety grew in select places across northern Alshar, but nowhere did the redwoods grow larger or more robustly than the region around Bransei Mountain.  For seventy miles to the west, and a hundred- twenty miles to the northeast, the belt of trees so tall they blocked out the mountains behind them with their might sat above the flinty hills of the Wilderlands and mocked the Wilderlords who claimed them.  The great redwood forest was largely within Kasari sacred lands.  And the Kasari were very touchy about anyone even visiting the holy trees, much less cutting them down.

Those trees had been the ultimate lure for Narasi settlement in the region.  The theoretical mandate of the early Duchy of Alshar had extended from its well-defined original coastal boundaries to “all the reaches of the north, to the very last banner flown o’er top the last tower manned.”  The Alshari had used that measure to extend their holdings from the southeastern ports through the treacherous hill country into fertile Gilmora, and beyond.  In its most robust period, when neighboring Castal and Remere were locked in an eighty year trade war, Alshar had pushed its frontiers deep into the Riverlands and farther.

Even after it had lost control of most of the Gilmoran cotton country, when the Dukes of Castal decided they wanted it, the Alshari Dukes continued funding expeditions into the Wilderlands to further the ostensible size of the realm, even if they didn’t quite control it.

But they built crappy little towers all over the place and raised their banner to stake a legal claim to the territory.  Luring settlers there from the relatively easy life in the south or the Riverlands was hard – the deep and rugged territory was hard to farm and hard to clear, infested with wild tribes of men and goblins, ferocious beasts no one had ever seen before, and while there were a few rich iron deposits there, there really wasn’t much other reason to invest in settling the region after claiming it.

Until a young Duke of Alshar saw those magnificent giant redwoods.  Duke Targuin was a sealord, first and foremost, and he likely would have ignored the vast depopulated territories he nominally ruled, just as most of his predecessors had.  After the loss of Gilmora to Castal, the Alshari Wilderlands was a token tribute and a big space on the map.

Then the young Duke Targuin was forced by his regent to get out of the capital and away from the politics of commerce and enjoy himself in his more rustic estates.  Targuin hated the idea – he was a seaman by inclination, and wanted nothing more than to see his reign marking the rise of Alshari naval power.  While he hunted and hawked with the rustic Wilderlords, he was dreaming of caravels and frigates and warships of incredible scope.

When he saw the Alshari redwoods and realized what kind of ship could be built with the wood, Duke Targuin became infatuated with the idea of harvesting the entire forest to build a fleet of ships so magnificent as to rival the living navies of the Sea Folk.  He began issuing incentives for timbering and building the infrastructure required to move the vast lumber resource down to the coast to where it could be useful.  And he encouraged the landless lords searching for fresh estates to get him all of the redwoods they could.

The few redwoods south of the Kasari lands were harvested quickly enough, and the Duke’s mighty floating castle, the famous Scarlet Hart, had a keel 180 feet long made from a single great tree harvested a hundred miles northwest of Tudry.  His plans for a fleet of giant ships of the class depended upon similar trees, and his vassals cast their covetous eyes on the Bransei range, and the pristine redwood forests along its misty ridges.

The Kasari of Bransei Mountain were resolute in defying their nominal lords.  As the Alshari Wilderlords hacked their way toward the range through lesser forests, discovering new deposits of iron and a whole mess of gurvani who didn’t want to leave, the Kasari dug in.  The goblins were defeated and betrayed – funny story, that – but the Kasari fought the Wilderlords to a standstill in a bloody bush war.

Eventually, Tanguin died at sea aboard his flaming floating castle in the middle of his largest harbor.  His son, Arguin, was far more interested in putting down the rebellious coastlords who had sank half of his father’s expensive fleet, but the demand for the incredible trees in the mills to the south was always high.  Yet no redwood within Kasari territory had been felled without their leave since the arrival of the Wilderlords.  A tree that big can make a lot of arrows, and the Kasari didn’t need a lot.  Their stealthy rangers made every Wilderlord expedition of conquest into their territory an exercise in target practice.

So landing a giant falcon on top of their sacred peak – scattering the numerous smaller birds who made their home there, and inciting omens aplenty – caught the attention of the Kasari elders quickly.  I had only just escorted my party through the Waypoint when the first of their keen-eyed scouts had arrived.  He hailed our arrival by taking a covered position behind a rock and drawing an arrow to his cheek nearly as fast as an Alka Alon.  A second and a third appeared in seconds, and within thirty heartbeats as many Kasari archers had their bows trained on us.

I’d chosen my other two apprentices to finish out our party – and they surprised me.  Ordinarily I’d expect mageblades to be drawn or a warwand to be in hand, but neither of the lads reacted.  Instead they both slowly made a peculiar sign with their right hands.  While that didn’t cause the Kasari to lower their bows, it did cause them to relax, somewhat.  No one likes a jumpy archer.  I suppose the boys’ quest with the Kasari taught them a few things about their culture, after all.

“What are they doing?” asked Dara, trying to keep Frightful calm.  The bird looked around warily at the dozens of Kasari warriors.

“Not getting shot,” I pointed out.  “Just keep her from eating anyone, and I don’t think there will be a problem.”

I waited wearing a serene smile, and calmly holding a new staff I’d been puttering around with, the trek ahead of me in mind.  It had none of the gaudy ornamentation of my official regalia, nor did it reek of deadly elegance like Blizzard.  It was more simply contrived for less martial purpose, fashioned like a common footwizard’s staff.

But it wasn’t, of course – I was the Spellmonger, and I had a reputation to feed.  The six foot length of smoothed arcane ash was far in advance of the rods of the wizards of the roads.  Trailblazer, as I called it, was built with enchantments and features designed to ease our long passage to far Kasar.  It appeared utilitarian but there were some powerful spells upon it.

I’ll get into that a bit more later – at that point the artifact was barely halfway finished, and I’d brought it along because it wasn’t as asinine as my formal stick or as threatening as my warstaff.  I’d worn a travel-ready version of my regular clothes, a rich tunic of Sevendor green with a heavy leather jerkin over the top.  Stout boots and thick hose under that, and my warmest cloak (you’d be surprised how chilly barren mountaintops above the treeline can be).

I wore a dagger and some pouches, but no mageblade.  Oh, I’d also had a sturdy pointed hat of green, studded with the Snowflake of Sevendor, made for the occasion and cocked jauntily to one side.  Instead of the three-pointed design my trade allowed me, I’d kept the simple single point, though I added a wide brim for traveling.  My apprentices wore rich variations of their own customary garb, though Dara had quickly donned a woolen gown over her skyriding gear.  I had no idea where she had stowed it.

We waited there, at arrow point, for nearly fifteen minutes until someone of appropriate authority could be brought to speak to us.  During that time, not one fletching twitched.

Finally one of the junior elders – if that makes any sense – came forward.  An older man, his skin as dark as walnut and his brown wavy hair streaked with gray, walked nimbly up the slope to our perch, a staff of his own in his hand.

“I am Master Raslan,” he said, without bowing.  “I am the Watcher of the Northern Ways.  Tell us your names,” he said, calmly, without threat, “and your business upon this sacred mountain.”  He didn’t even blink at the sight of a giant falcon.

“I am Minalan the Spellmonger,” I offered, eschewing my titles of nobility.  The Kasari weren’t fond of lords in general, and likely wouldn’t find a Riverlord’s title any more impressive than a Wilderlord’s, so why bother?  “Last year the Kasari aided the Kingdom in our war against the gurvani.  For that great act of service, I have pledged to escort the youth of Bransei Mountain to far Kasar.  I am here to begin fulfilling that pledge.  Captain Arborn has knowledge of me,” I added.  I’m pretty sure I sounded calm.  That’s hard, when you’re a whisper away from a thirty-bow volley.

“Arborn has, indeed, spoken of his friend the Spellmonger,” Master Raslan, said, stroking his great beard.  “We were hopeful that you would not betray your sworn word, as the Narasi have often done.  It is good to know the sight of the greatest of our raptors has not dimmed, when it comes to seeing a friend.”

It took me a moment to realize that he was speaking of Arborn, not the giant falcon looming overhead.  The Kasari call their most accomplished warriors and rangers “raptors,” meaning they had completed the full complement of Kasari quests and skill achievements before their twentieth birthday to take their place as the elite.  Personally, I felt the greatest of raptors was standing behind me and eying Master Raslan like a fat goat, but I suppose they can call their warriors whatever they wish.

“These are my apprentices, who will be assisting me in this great task, members of my household and most closely trusted of my advisors: Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal, once of Boval Vale, and Lady Dara of Westwood, the Hawkmaiden.”  My apprentices each bowed in turn.  Actually, the boys turned the

Kasari’s strange sign into a kind of salute, while Dara just curtsied.

The move impressed Master Raslan, whose eyes picked them out.  “Tyndal and Rondal’s names are known to us,” he said, without emotion.  “You are all welcome as guests in the High Lodge, until such time as the council of masters will meet with you.”

I tried to stifle an audible sigh as thirty bows released their tension and their arrows disappeared into quivers.  Master Raslan approached, and regarded my two older apprentices carefully, before making the same strange salute.  The three dropped it together.  The Kasari elder seemed to nod, as if coming to some decision, but he said nothing.  He turned and led us down the path.

“Master?” Dara asked, a little anxiously, “what was that about?  And can I reduce Frightful in size?  I can handle a nervous bird, but it’s a little easier when she can’t accidently fly off with someone.”

“I have no idea,” I said, watching Tyndal and Rondal as they marched stiffly after Master Raslan.  “And yes, go ahead and bring her back to normal.  She’s cheaper to feed that way.”

The High Lodge was a small but incredibly well-built installation near the top of the wide, bald plateau.  Indeed it was in the highest buildable spot, from what I could see, looking down over the cascading valley and lake below, and over the tops of the redwoods in the distance.  It was a small square tower of local rock, three stories tall, and narrowing gently to a simple peaked roof.  The lower level of the tower was surrounded by smaller buildings of wood, each tended with great reverence and painted with great care in designs of woodland life.

“The High Lodge is where the elders of our council meet to discuss our most important affairs,” Master Raslan continued, once he had led us to the hall, where a fire was set within a massive stone fireplace in front of which chairs had been placed.  “Today you will meet with four of the five elders of the Branseai Kasari.  Myself; Arganant, the Master of the Range; Erenthen, the Master of Cubs; Walthden, the Master of Years; and Adana, Mistress of Health.  The other masters have conferred with us, and we know of their thoughts in this.  First, we must introduce you to our spirits,” he said, as casually as I he was offering us wine.

Then we spent twenty minutes introducing ourselves to the carved wooden effigies of various animal spirits that decorated the lodge.  I don’t know how serious Master Raslan took the cultic ceremony – probably no more than any officiating priest – but he did seem a little more comfortable with strangers in the most secure depths of the Kasari retreat than before.

The other masters filed in soon afterward, in no particular order and with no specific ceremony.  They just walked in, without attendants, and took a seat.

They all wore variations of the standard Kasari garb – sturdy hempcloth tunic and short trousers, dyed a mottled green and embroidered with their lineage or something on the front and shoulders, heavy boots, and that little neck cloth they all wore, fastened with a broach at the throat.  Some of them wore hats, brown or green wool felt, but they were utilitarian, not designed to designate any kind of special office or position.  As far as I knew, four middle-aged Kasari had just wandered in off the mountain to speak to us.

It was a surprisingly businesslike meeting.  After the Kasari elders had recited a prayer or something in their own strange language (distantly related to a dialect of Ancient Perwyneese, Pentandra had informed me, though they spoke Narasi and read and wrote in both languages well enough) they handed around a basket of nuts and dried fish – an odd but surprisingly pleasant dish – and cups of cool sassafras tea.

Master Erenthen began by removing a sheaf of parchment from a pouch and spreading it in his lap.

“Spellmonger, we have one thousand, nine hundred and seventy-one children enrolled on this journey,” he began, “twelve hundred and twenty one of them boys, all under thirteen years of age, and seven hundred and fifty girls, all under fourteen years.  There may be some additions or subtractions to the rolls as we get closer to the departure date.  You are prepared to escort that many of our kin?”

“If they are properly prepared and we have some order within the ranks,” I nodded.  “I have taken what steps I am able to guard the route, southward, once we leave the mountains.  And I have assembled an excellent company of magi and priestesses of Briga, to serve as escorts and protectors.  Captain Arborn assured me that the Kasari would be lending their assistance and guidance for the first leg of the journey.”

“We have five hundred rangers prepared to embark with you,” Arganant, Master of the Range, informed us.  While he bore no weapon, save a knife at his belt, his broach was silver, bearing a symbol of a bow and sword.  I took him to be in charge of the Kasari’s security.  To be honest, he looked more like a squint-eyed clerk than a leader of war – except for his profoundly self-assured attitude.  Master Argarant wasn’t in charge of the Kasari military strength because he was the greatest warrior, but because he knew what he was doing.

“They will escort most closely along the seventy miles through the edge of our frontiers,” he continued, walking over to a beautifully-made map of the region, carved unerringly into the wood of the paneling.  He sketched the first leg of the journey with his finger.  “We can move more quickly if we leave our country and travel at the edge of the Penumbra.  We have ranger stations all along that route guarding our borders that can support us, at need.  The greatest dangers will be from these four tribes: Bloodfoot, Handi, Fetid Claw, and Markarsh.  I think we can arrange raids to draw off most of their warriors while our kin depart.”

He readjusted to inspect the far end of the map.  “Once we reach Otter’s Point, at the bridge over the Osbury River, we come to the end of our lands.  From here the five hundred will continue with you until you reach the fords at Lamb’s Foot.  There, Spellmonger, four hundred of our rangers will turn back, and you will be beyond our reach.”

I remembered that section from my footwizard Fondaras’ map and description of the route.  Osbury Manor was a small holding that had once entertained the notion of cultivating large herds of the local breed of sheep for wool, being prized for its lightness and warmth in the markets of the south.  The lord there had been well on his way to developing the industry when the invasion happened and most of his sheep had been eaten.  Osbury was now deep within the Penumbra, and the tower, temple, and manor house that had once loomed over the Osbury River that gave the manor its name was likely long conquered, if not occupied.  I was glad the rangers would be going at least that far with us.

“As far as being prepared,” the Mistress of Health informed me, at which point every Kasari at the table said in unison, “byddwch yn barod!” before she continued, “our Quartermaster has provided each child with a complete kit for the journey.  A pack, boots, clothes, cloak, healing bag, knife, hatchet, flint, blanket roll, utensils, water skin, and accoutrements,” she listed off in rapid-fire order.

In our culture Mistress Adana may have been a great abbesses or high priestess.  She seemed as dry as a twig, with a bush of graying brown hair and a long, branch-like nose, but her owlish eyes were bright with energy.  “You said you had secured well-trained priestesses to serve as caregivers?”

“Of the Order of Briga,” I supplied, as I sipped my tea.  “Thirty, at least.”  Mistress Adana sniffed, as if she thought that was barely acceptable.

“I will, of course, inspect their equipment before they leave,” she warned me.  “Now, have you secured supplies?  The children can forage for a few days at a time, perhaps, but—”

“Foodstuffs are being secured even now by my men,” I assured her.  “Basic, but hearty and wholesome.  For as long as the journey takes,” I pledged.

“It should not take you more than two months,” Master Walthden, the aged Master of Years croaked.  I took him for a loremaster or historian, one of those old men so soaked in the teachings of the Kasari that when their bodies betrayed them to infirmity, they were elevated for their wisdom.  “Our folk have made the journey between the two reservations for centuries, and all routes are known.  This many, even through danger, should take no longer than that to come to sacred groves of Kasar.  If no calamity should befall,” he added, warningly.

“To help ensure against calamity,” I agreed, “and to help speed our journey the magefolk will be supplying a flight of giant birds, equipped with skyriders of my folk, to oversee the way.”

“Never has such a sight been seen on Bransei Mountain,” assured the historian.  “It was as if the great raptor spirits had come to visit us in person.  You have many such steeds?”

“Eight, my lord,” Dara answered, helpfully.  “In addition to Frightful.  But they’re hawks, mostly Great Minden eagles, the kind that reside in these very peaks.”

“There are no lords in Kasari lands, Dara of Westwood,” corrected the old sage.  “All Kasari are brothers.  All Kasari are sisters.  The spirit of the raptor is a powerful symbol to my people.  They will welcome the thought that it is protecting our kin on their journey.”

The preparation continued long beyond where a conference of Wilderlords would have taken it.  Every detail was thought out ahead of time, every consideration taken.  I sketched the route I’d chosen beyond the Osbury, south and farther east of the winding track that was called a road on the maps.  From Osbury, it was decided, the children would be separated out into smaller groups, and the space between the groups was lengthened.

There were a lot of reasons for that.  For one, having two thousand kids marching merrily along looks just like two thousand infantry marching sullenly along in the distance.  You just couldn’t disguise the dust plume that would arise from that number, much less the fires needed to keep them warm and fed at night.  Smaller groups would be easier to handle by the leaders, kick up less dust, attract less attention . . . and if one of them was attacked, the others could avoid the foes.

I was really hoping that wouldn’t be necessary.  But even the Kasari faced that possibility with pragmatic resolve.

Each group of three to four hundred would be organized into troops, I was told – the Kasari would take care of that.  More, they weren’t treating it as an evacuation of refugees, or even a rushed resettlement.  The children would be expected to continue their lessons in various subjects, from reading to tracking to needlework, while they marched.  I couldn’t imagine such a thing working – we were going to be pushing twenty miles a day, if I could help it – but the Kasari accepted it as a matter of course.

We’d keep the groups spread out, with a trail finding vanguard scouting ahead constantly and a rearguard to pick up stragglers or wounded – that would be the most heavily guarded troops, I was informed, where the very youngest children would be escorted.  I designated that my medical corps, as well, where the few pack animals and small carts we would bring would reside.  Once we made it down country to the lowlands of Osbury, I was hoping to secure at least a few horsemen to ride picket to our trek.  Giant raptors overhead were fearsome, certainly, but there was a lot of security in galloping horses and glittering lances.

“That brings us to weaponry,” nodded the Master of the Range.  “While many of our youth have been trained in simple archery, we would not have them feel responsible for their own safety, at their age.  We have decided to provide hunting bows and quivers to every First in a troop – and we will ensure that they will be evenly spread amongst the trek.   We expect them to be resourceful at that age, not hunters, and certainly not warriors.”

“We will take all pains to avoid combat,” I agreed.  “But I will have warmagi attached to every troop, to further ensure their safety and welfare.  High Magi, of my order, each trained to fight as well as cast magic.  And once we have descended to here,” I said, pointing on one of the smaller maps in the room, at a pass through the northern hills, “I will have men-at-arms from the military orders around the Penumbra shielding us from here to Tudry,” I pointed out.  “As long as we don’t encounter any dragons, we should be able to avoid any large groupings we can’t fight off.”

We continued discussing the trek until long after dark.  At sunset the Kasari stopped for a large meal – stuffed wild turkey with leeks from the lake and mushrooms from the forest – but afterwards we continued talking around the great fireplace until the full moon was high in the sky.

Finally, we had gone through almost everything we could think of.  Preparation is the Kasari watchword – “Byddwch yn barod!” –and they wanted no thoughtless mistakes.  They wanted every child who set out with us to find their way to their sacred groves in Kasar.

When we were done, and I was far, far too sober for the hour, I bid our hosts farewell and conjured us back to Sevendor by Waypoint.  As soon as my apprentices and I arrived, I called for wine.  I had a thirst that no sassafras tea could slake.

“How did it go?” Alya asked, as I finally slid into our bed – our warm, comfortable, safe, familiar bed – and collapsed.

“As well as I could have asked,” I groaned.  “Lunch at the top of a mountain in Alshar, threatened by thirty expert archers, in council all day with the most pleasant tribals, then back home in time for bed in the Riverlands.  Typical day for the Spellmonger.”

“You poor thing,” she cooed, mockingly.  “I had a meeting with the Sevendor Town Council and then had to settle a dispute between Southridge and what’s left of Genly over just who gets to mow where this year.  And then I met with the builder who’s designing the hall and discussed the plan.”

“Whatever you decide is fine,” I muttered darkly into my pillow.

“I wasn’t asking for your advice, my husband,” she dismissed.  “Merely wanted to inform you of my daunting day.  Are you sure you want to go off into the Wilderlands for two or three months, when you could be dealing with such weighty affairs at home?”

“I’ll be in contact with you by Mirror every day,” I pointed out, “and now that I can use the Waypoints, I can even duck back for a visit, if I need to.  It won’t be like going to battle.  More like an extended excursion.”

“I know, my husband,” she assured me.  “I don’t fear for you, the way I do when you leave in your armor.  But . . . I am not foolish enough to believe that this journey is without danger.  Both in the field, and if it succeeds.”

“I guess I haven’t hidden it that particularly well,” I admitted.  “But yes, if I don’t do this just right, the whole thing could blow up in my face like a futzed spell.  At worst, two thousand Kasari children die.  But succeeding brings its own problems.”

“I’m sure you will get them all there safely, Min,” she said. I desperately needed to hear that assurance right then.  “Nothing else matters much, as long as you could do that.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I sighed, settling back into my goose down pillow.  “I’m just taking two thousand kids on a hike.  Through a depopulated, war-torn, goblin-infested wasteland.  Counting on experimental and untested magic to feed them, a confederation of shaky allies to protect them, and a bunch of high-handed political maneuvering to keep anyone from noticing I’m doing it.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” she asked, playfully toying with my chest.

“Exactly,” I said, nodding, finishing my cup.

Chapter Seven

Preparing My Staff

Assembling my personal traveling company for the trek proved challenging

My magical household would be attending, of course, though I would be missing the three Alkan Emissaries.  I was taking along Sir Festaran as my aide.  The young knight excelled at every task he’d been charged with as deputy castellan, and his magical ability to estimate had come in fiendishly handy in the most unexpected ways.  Sire Cei spoke highly of him, and did not hesitate to turn over most of the mundane details of local business to him while he attended to baronial affairs.

Lorcas wasn’t coming, though he was used to a life of adventure and he was great at solving problems, as well as the fact that he was an adept warmage.  I needed him to be my trouble-shooter for baronial issues while I was gone, anything beyond the purely administrative that Sire Cei would handle.  Similarly Dranus was staying in Sevendor, with Banamor, Olmeg, and my other magical retainers.  I would feel more secure out in the Wilderlands if I knew things were well-watched at home.

I chose Tyndal to accompany the vanguard of the march, the Pathfinder troop.  The Kasari had agreed that this would be made up of a smaller troop of older, more experienced boys, as well as a few raptors as escorts.  I placed Rondal with the second troop, a larger group with better support equipment.

The third troop I thought of as my headquarters troop, as it was the one I would be traveling with most of the time.  As the central troop, it was larger yet, and had a full complement of rangers and scouts assigned to cover it.  Since I’d also be moving around a bit, I wanted more magical coverage.  It came from a very unexpected place.  Pentandra.

I’ll march with the Third Troop, she offered, mind-to-mind, as I discussed the details with her one night.  I was in my tower and she was in her manor’s solar, but we spoke as easily as if in the same room.  And with far less attention to propriety.

Uh, what?  You?  Or tact.

Yes, me! she shot back, testily.  I intend to go on this march with you, as your aide, she told me, confidently.  If I’m to undertake the Kasari Rites at the end of the summer, what better way to prove my worthiness to Arborn than by shepherding his brood across the countryside?

Uh, Penny?  Do you realize how long a trip this is going to be?  And it won’t be fun – at all.  This is not a romantic excursion, this is—

Min, I know very well what this is, and I’m no stranger to discomfort.  I don’t like it, I despise it, I avoid it at all reasonable cost, but I can handle it.  Do you not recall me humping through the Wilderland in the middle of an invasion with a rag-tag band of warmagi and a bunch of nervous mercenaries?  Ask our colleagues if I complained, she challenged.

I had no answer to that.  In fact, I knew a few of our close friends had been aghast at how easily Pentandra had endured the rough conditions without complaint on that intrepid journey – a woman who had no qualms about beating a servant girl over a dirty spoon.

What about your business at the Order? I asked, cautiously.

I do most of it mind-to-mind already, she said, casually.  My staff handles the day-to-day business, my subordinates deal with any problems.  They ask me if there are any emergencies.  It’s a cake job.  Don’t tell my boss.

If you don’t tell anyone I’ve mostly just been sending things to you . . . does this mean we’ve successfully established a bureaucracy?

Enough of one that it probably won’t fall apart while we’re in the field.  My protégé is managing well enough.  And we can always run back to civilization when we need to.  But count on me as your second in Troop Three.

Troop Four was the Construction Troop, for lack of a better term.  Carmella and the other Hesians would be traveling with that troop, eventually acquiring a pack train and even wagons as we quickly built our string of pele forts across the edge of the Penumbra.  While Carmella wasn’t the most adept at combat magic, the Hesians on the whole were able to handle themselves in a fight.

Finally, Troop Five was the Medical Troop, the rearguard.  It was the most heavily defended and the most vulnerable, but someone had to make sure the sick and injured were tended.  Lelwen of Tiers, a magical healer who had tended me at Megelin Castle, and to whom I had given a witchstone, had volunteered to lead the medical tent.  That was not adequate for defense, however, so I drafted a couple of local warmagi who weren’t doing anything more important.

Landrick of Honeyhall had been one of the first Censorate warmagi to drop his checkered cloak for life as a renegade High Mage, and after his good and loyal service at the Battle of Timberwatch he had been awarded title to the tidy little keep of Honeyhall, just outside the Penumbra.  He’d happily volunteered for service at both Cambria and up the Poros, earning more honor and not a little bit of gold.  But Magelord Landrick was bored.  When I extended the offer to get paid to scout the Penumbra around his holding, he didn’t hesitate.

I paired him with my latest warmage candidate, Ormar the Shroudmaker.  As dark and intimidating as his name was, however, he came by it honestly.  His family members were morticians and undertakers in Wenshar, and he had indeed sewn hundreds of shrouds before he had discovered his rajira.  He got drafted into the Magical Corps about the same time I did, and a warmage doesn’t let a great nickname like “the Shroudmaker” go idle, no matter how mediocre you are.

It turned out that Ormar wasn’t particularly impressive on the battlefield – he was a head shorter than I was, with a unkempt bush of coal-black hair surrounding the bushiest eyebrows I’ve seen outside of a Karshak.  Ormar was a decent general warmage, I’d found, and a good soldier.  He’d been a mercenary under contract back in Wenshar when Rard annexed it and threw the censors out, and he had worked with Taren the Enchanter for a few months until he could get a chance at a witchstone.  He’d narrowly missed out during last year’s battle simply because he’d been in southern Remere.

Ormar was a good guy, and I wanted to give him his stone, but I also wanted to exploit the free labor.  The trek would be a great time for him to acclimatize him to the stone, and pairing him with Landrick would let the more experienced warmage help the novice.

As far as his work, Ormar’s specialty was alchemical warmagic.  It was a bit exotic, but when you wanted alchemical fires or smokes or poisons, acids or caustic powders, Ormar was the kind of guy who could pour a couple of things together and give you just the right bit of nastiness.

He claimed that he could do far more with a witchstone, which I was skeptical of – alchemy doesn’t usually require a lot of power to perform.  But then it wasn’t my specialty, and I didn’t know enough about it to offer an opinion.  This was his chance to prove it.

I was cautious about leaving any troop with only one warmage, so I sprinkled a few others around as support.   Master Fondaras, the Alshari footwizard, I put in Tyndal’s troop, as he claimed he’d be good at speaking with any locals we encountered and explaining the situation.  With Rondal I paired Master Andalnam’s oldest daughter, Rael.

I’d raised Rael to High Mage status soon after I’d gifted her father with a stone.  The eldest of five daughters, all brimming with Talent, Rael was a plain-looking girl with her father’s fine features, but little of his reserve.  She had just passed her journeyman’s exam and been given her license to practice.  Ordinarily that would be a time in a young wizard’s life when they would be rudely thrust out of the security of their master’s home and embark on a life of adventure . . . desperately seeking a job.

Rael was lucky.  Her father had made a small fortune even before he’d been raised, by helping me develop the magic Mirrors that now united the kingdom.  She had been instrumental in that great commission, and she not only had a tidy sum tucked away, she was also now a High Mage in her own right.

But Rael was not content to sit at her father’s workbench anymore and dutifully enchant sympathy stones.  She wanted the life of adventure her journeyman’s certificate entitled her to.  She was considering setting up shop in Sevendor, which I did not discourage, but until she made that commitment, she wanted to explore.  When I casually mentioned the journey to her father, when he and his household visited Sevendor recently, she begged me to include her.  Rael wanted to examine the Alshari Wilderlands for the abundant magical treasures she’d read so much about.

She wasn’t a warmage, exactly, but she could use a warwand (she made some lovely ones) and she could fight.  I didn’t believe that until I saw a man at the Magical Fair put his hands somewhere he shouldn’t, and found himself flying across the taproom as a result.   I had no problem including her in Troop Two.  Rael could handle herself.

The second troop was the one I was least worried about – the Cook Troop, it became known as.  I needed a liaison for magical food supplies in the march, and I put her there.  Rael could serve as our support mage for the purpose, working with Gareth to ensure we all got fed.

Dara’s wing of giant raptors would be overflying us all, and would be dining with the Command troop, Troop Three.  We’d sprinkle the priestesses of Briga liberally among us, with a third of them in Troop Five, the Medical Troop.  I stared at the pieces of parchment I’d made notes on for days and had a sudden realization.

We were organized.

*                            *                            *

As the day neared for us to depart, the spring rains starting to fade in Sevendor and the spring floods reaching their crests in the Wilderlands, I looked to my own gear.  I was the Spellmonger.  I wanted the best.

I planned to walk every step of the way, so I had a new pair of boots commissioned from Castabriel’s leading bootmaker.  Then I had them enchanted by Master Andalnam to ensure extra comfort, fit, proof from water and puncture, and have the seams magically bound.  Just because I could, I added charms would, at a command, give me a burst of energy, reduce any pain in my feet, keep my step too light for a tracker to read, and warm my toes if they got cold.  The interior was lined with soft lamb’s wool, and I felt guilty at how good they felt on my feet.  Must have been the enchantments.

I had new cloaks made for my apprentices and myself.  Cut in the style of the Kasari cloaks, instead of the triangle design across the shoulders I had the Snowflake of Sevendor embroidered on our backs, and smaller on the collar.  Our cloaks were enchanted to keep us warm, dry, comfortable, and protected from stray brambles.  Spells supposed to keep them clean were also added, and when commanded they would help keep the wearer from being noticed.

The silver snowflake cloak pins I’d commissioned not only stayed fastened magically until commanded otherwise, they also allowed the wearer to see with Cat’s Eyes – in almost total darkness, without casting the spell yourself.  I figured that would come in handy in a place where a magelight would attract snipers and raiders.

I’d nearly completed my journey staff, Trailblazer.  I’d added some specialized runes and spells to its sturdy frame, thanks to my recent researches, and it was now a nearly perfect traveling tool.  With the liberal use of the pocketstone I’d turned my staff into a repository of preparedness.  I’d tried to emulate the Kasari mindset and prepare for any possible eventuality.  In Pathfinder I pushed the limits of the pocketstones to see just how many arcane congruencies I could load into one single object.

It turns out, quite a lot, if you figure out how to do it.  I had thirty different pockets of emergency gear I’d tried to anticipate needing, from an iron cauldron big enough for a bath and ropes to grappling hooks and a heavy woolsack I’d turned into an arsenal of magical components I would probably not need.  One held a small but essential traveling library of useful arcane books, as well as some blank parchment and a writing desk.  Another had a hogshead of good ale.  Another contained an expanse of sailcloth.

My crowning achievement had to be my pavilion, however.  Stashed within a prominent rune on Pathfinder was the pocket that produced a magnificent campaign pavilion.  The Karshak had kindly redesigned it so that it stood without the benefit of rope or peg – it wasn’t magic, they assured me, it was simple tension and classy design – but the result was a twenty-foot diameter canopy of Sevendor green that appeared, fully-assembled, when the proper mnemonic was given.

The green canvas was further enchanted, mostly through the auspices of the central magical tent pole, which was encrusted with snowstone, coral, magical gems, runes, sigils and other enchantments.  The central magical tent pole held nearly as many pockets within as Trailblazer did.

The tent would not leak or tear, fall down or collapse under any but the mightiest of storms – in theory.

The amenities were a delight.  A magelight appeared at the top of the canopy, illuminating all within as brightly as daylight.  Another enchantment warmed the interior, while another kept the air gently moving and fresh, sweeping smoke out of a hole in the peak without it accumulating.  While it was unnecessary for heating, an iron brazier near the center held a heatstone sufficient to boil water, when activated.  There was a teakettle situated atop it, because you never know when you’ll want tea.

I had a bed.  I want to be modest about it, because any decent soldier would be ashamed to sleep in such a thing in the field, much less build and enchant it.  But I’m not a soldier anymore, I’m a self-indulgent wizard with too much money and too many nights of his youth terrified out of his mind in the jungles of Farise, curled up in the mud and slapping at bugs.  I wanted the perfect field bed.

There would be no vermin in this bower.  A simply-constructed bed, large enough for three, with a visibly thin goose-down cotton tick . . . over-enchanted for blissful comfort.  The curtains around the bed repelled all insects, dampened distracting sounds and infested the place with a fresh, wholesome scent that encouraged slumber.  Thick pillows and layers of blankets promised a beatific sleep.  It took up a goodly portion of the space . . . but touch a rune, say the command, and the bed vanished until needed.

Similarly a sturdy trestle table could be produced.  Wide enough to contain a campaign map, it could seat six people around it.  Folding campaign chairs were also provided.  Another rune on the pole summoned a portable buttery with good settings of sturdy quality, spoons, knives, and cups.  Another rune conjured a chest bearing some prized liquors and smoking herbs I’d grown fond of.   Another made a broad, thick reed mat appear under most of the tent, with cushions and pillows around the edges enough to allow the place to be filled with lounging drunks.

But I hadn’t built the arcane monstrosity for my amusement, my curiosity, or my self-indulgence, although I’d see any of them as sufficient reason for the exercise.  This was my potential command headquarters in a time of crisis, and I’d prepared it as such.

A pocket on the pole could summon a sheaf of twenty spears, a dozen bows with a score of shafts for each, two chests with heavy armor, and a bundle of short swords.  Another pocket gave me access to what maps and histories of the region I’d been able to discover.  Another was filled with bandages and healing supplies, far more than I hoped I’d ever need.  One had a dozen iron shovels and a pick, another gave me a dozen axes.

But then there were my special arcane instruments.  The pavilion itself was constructed in such a way to lend itself to both concealment and scrying.  When properly instructed, it would be nearly impossible to see the thing unless you were a few feet from it.  And the scrying field you usually have to build before you begin working was inherent to the structure – you could quickly clairvoy the region a quarter mile from the tent.  That saved a lot of time.

Defensively, it was pretty much a tent.  But I managed to place spells on the ornate, free-standing wooden frame that faced the antechamber to keep scrying spells from penetrating within.  Indeed, virtually no noise could escape the bounds of the pavilion, keeping spies and eavesdroppers at bay.  And if I shut the thin wooden lattice and pulled the curtains – and said the right word – then you could walk past the entrance of the thing a hundred times and not realize it was there.  I stole that trick from the Alka Alon.

All in all it was the perfect castle-away-from-castle, but it had purpose.  I wasn’t planning on indulging myself the whole way, but I did want to have access to the thing if I needed it.  If the Kasari stress preparation for all things, then this was how the Spellmonger was prepared.

I was working on final touches to the extravagant enchantment when I was summoned by the attendant to the Mirror Chamber, where someone always kept watch.  This was the private Mirror Chamber in Sevendor Castle, not the official one down in Sevendor Town, in the Order’s tower.  This one was even more official, however, in that it connected directly with the Royal Family in Castabriel.  I threw on something more impressive than the spellmonger’s smock I’d been wearing before I appeared at the device.

I shouldn’t have bothered.  It wasn’t either of Their Majesties.  It was His Highness – otherwise known as my sworn overlord, the Duke of Castal.

“Your Highness,” I said, bowing and hoping my surprise had stayed hidden.

“Spellmonger!” laughed the Prince Heir.  “Ishi’s tits, this contraption actually works!”

“I do my best, Highness,” I said, without a trace of pride.  Really.  Not a trace. “What service can I do my lord today?”

“Spellmonger, I’ve heard a rumor that you’re trying to move a bunch of filthy Wilderland refugees into Castal,” he began with a sneer.  “Is that true?”

“Sire, I have been given a commission by the king, your father, to see to the defense of the Penumbralands,” I said, innocently, but a little irritated.  “He gave me himself five thousand ounces of gold from the treasury to hire men to build fortifications and man them.  I will be spending my summer seeing to that,” I said, truthfully.

“Are you certain?” the young heir asked, doubtfully.

“Your Highness, I speak nothing but the truth, by Trygg’s grace I swear.  I have business in the region.  Might I inquire as to wedded life?” I asked, politely.

“Don’t change the subject!” he snapped.  “I don’t trust wizards, Spellmonger,” he said, turning my adopted title into a sneer.  “I like the toys you make, but a wizard’s schemes have no place in a well-ordered court.”

“My liege, I assure you, I have so much in hand with my new barony and the defense of the realm that I have no time for idle schemes,” I said, with practiced gentleness.  Literally.   Pentandra  had repeatedly schooled me on controlling my tone and the words I chose, particularly when dealing with upper nobility.  I was almost good at it.

“Yet you employ that troublemaker, Dranus,” he pointed out with a stab of his finger.  “The man plots to take an entire county!”

“Magelord Dranus’ personal ambitions are known to me,” I said, with exaggerated care, “and while he serves me as my court wizard he has little time for plotting anything I don’t tell him to plot.  Indeed, if the man has free time to plot, he isn’t doing his job.  Magelord Dranus is right where his actions can be observed,” I pointed out.  “A situation your Mother,” I said, slightly emphasizing the word, “agreed to.”

Dranus’ case was hard.  As the disinherited son of the Count of northern Remere, the man had a legitimate claim to the title.  Only a hated half-brother stood in his way.  But Dranus was a patient man, and an insightful one – that’s how he got the appointment as Sevendor’s court wizard.  I actually favored his appointment to the title in a year or so, when the barons met, but I had proposed my hire of the man as a compromise, to keep the Prince Heir’s bloodthirsty mother from having him assassinated as a threat.

But I liked the man.  He had taken the opportunity to serve my court – and the undoubted status he would gain from the appointment – to heart, and had done an admirable job.  If he was secretly plotting anything, I wasn’t aware of it.  Dranus had managed to bring order and protocol to the messy mass of magic that was my barony.  If his skill at administration was any measure, I could see him making a fine Count.

But if the Prince detected my threat, either royal pride or personal entitlement kept him from acknowledging it.  “The point is, Spellmonger, I am wary of your schemes.  I hear rumors constantly of your doings, and rarely are they entirely . . . savory.”

“I would observe that a man of power and prestige often collects such sniping rumors like bedbugs in a country inn,” I replied.  “I still hear I am leading a peasant’s rebellion, off somewhere, which amuses my own peasants to no end.  Surely you can appreciate the wagging tongues of idle, my liege.  A wizard’s business is often subtle and frequently requires delicacy and discretion.  Please do not mistake my unwillingness to expose my . . . clients’ affairs.  Some of them might be quite close to you, and might not appreciate such attention.”

That was an old spellmonger’s trick – invoking the client’s ignorance.  I didn’t even need to supply any details – the very fact that I had secret business with secret clients about sensitive matters was enough to intrigue the dullest villein and caution them against rash action.  No one wants to get their boss in trouble.

It was only partially effective, but it did make him stop and think.  “Perhaps I am being hasty,” he admitted, reluctantly.  “People do . . . talk,” he said, letting me know he had been subject of a hurtful rumor himself.  I’m a good enough wizard to recognize an opening when I saw it.

“So they do, my liege.  I heard myself recently that your Highness planned to endow a monastery to pray for the souls of the all of the foes you intend to slay in battle, including goblins, that your new bride has fallen secretly in love with the Duke of Alshar and intends to cuckold you, and that you intend to appoint Magelord Dunselen the next governor of Farise, when you reach the throne.”  I had made up all three rumors on the spot, of course, but you can tell a lot about a man by the things he reacts to.

“My bride in love with . . . that wretch?” snorted the arrogant young prince.  “Anguin is a pathetic joke!  He mopes around in exile, eating the crumbs from the table of his betters – and my princess would never cast her eyes in his direction!” he snarled.

“Of course not, my liege,” I assured him with a chuckle.  “A woman is only tempted when her paramour can raise her up in the world – and what woman could ask for more than the Prince Heir?”  I could name a few dozen, but that wasn’t the point.  “Yet such rumors do get started.  It is usually best to ignore them, while quietly eliminating their source.”

“You would have me slay my cousin?” he asked.  From the look in his eye, I almost think he was asking for permission.

“Of course not, Sire!” I said.  “He is of a noble house akin to yours.  Such a thing would be unworthy of you and taken as a sign of weakness to your opponents.  And it could well tip some ambivalent barons into rebellion, leading to civil war.  Better to deal with it diplomatically.”

“How so?” he asked.  He was curious, but skeptical.  He didn’t like me, but he respected my power, and my reputation.  I didn’t particularly like Tavard, but we had to work together.  I was legally obligated to give him the benefit of my counsel, when asked, as his vassal.
“It is the start of the tournament season.  As the lad missed the usual opportunities for squirehood, perhaps it would be instructive and entertaining for him to get the chance to participate.  Give him armor and horse befitting his station and send him to tour the festivals in Gilmora, ostensibly on a mission to restore hope to that war-torn land.  The local barons will love you for the consideration, as it will be a sign of royal attention, and it will attract spectators.  The Duke will be far from the capital and your bride during this delicate time.”

“You think so?” he asked, considering the plan.  He wasn’t as fond of it as the idea of killing his cousin, but if I convinced him it would be humiliating enough – and serve his political purposes – the boy would jump at it, I figured.  I’d known plenty of pompous little pricks like him over the years, I knew what motivated them.  “I was just going to keep him in an abbey or something.  Or Father was.  But he annoys me.  The very idea that my princess would cast her eye toward that sad sack of melancholia!”

“Then give him a horse and armor,” I suggested.  “Let him try his hand at the listfield.  Let him break a few lances and learn the lessons of humility Huin grants those who do not fare well there.   Let him enjoy a few months of idle errantry, as befits his station . . . far from you and your bride, and the minds of the court. Send him forth with a retinue sufficient for his rank, including a spy or two, and a healthy enough purse to see him through the season.  Wasting away in Gilmora while you and the Princess dazzle the court in Wilderhall will ensure that there will be no more such disturbing rumors.”

“The tournament circuit, though,” he said, shaking his head.  “It seems too much like a reward.”

“The Orphan Duke has done nothing wrong,” I reminded him.  “He is a seated duke, as are you, your Highness.  Confining him without cause sets dangerous legal precedent.”

“That is true,” he admitted, stroking his bare chin.  Tavard’s square jaw had yet to sprout a healthy beard, so he’d set a fashion of clean-shaveness for the court, something for which the country’s barbers were grateful.  “I suppose there is no legal reason to hold him, now.  But to reward him . . .”

“By all accounts the Orphan Duke is no warrior, and seeing him test his lance against the professionals repeatedly and lose will win him little fame.  Worse,” I added, guessing what kind of man the Prince Heir was at heart, “what man can bear such defeat, an exile from exile, while his superiors excel?  If he fails spectacularly, he will be the brunt of minstrels’ jokes, not fodder for lurid gossip.”

“I like this plan, I think,” the Prince admitted, despite himself.  “It makes me appear magnanimous, while keeping that melancholy snot out of the eye of . . . everyone.”

Which was precisely what I wanted.

“I can only offer counsel, as any good vassal would, Highness,” I said.  “I understand you do not like me, and do not trust magi.  But that does not mean we cannot work together.  Your parents and I have managed some powerful accomplishments when we work together . . . and I don’t think it could be said that your Mother counts me among her friends.”

“No, she’s not fond of you!” he chortled.  “But she does say you give good counsel.  Very well.  I will be the gracious prince and send him on his way.  Perhaps he’ll be slain on the listfield . . . accidents happen.  But even if he prospers, no one will be watching.”

I made some polite excuse and ended the communication.  Then I called for wine.  I had to wash the taste out of my mouth.

Then I used another Mirror to contact the Orphan Duke.  I got his faithful priest instead, and told him the news . . . and how His Grace should respond to it.  Father Amus assured me Anguin would play his role, though he was still uncertain of the usefulness of it.

But I needed Anguin nearer to the frontier with his own land.  That could prove vital in the course of the march, as vital as it was to my long-term strategy of keeping the lad alive.  Living within striking distance and constant notice of the kingdom’s network of beautiful assassins  was just not in the interests of his survival.  He was better off spending a summer drinking, jousting, and enjoying himself before he was put to the greater task ahead of him.

As for that, it would have to wait.  I had to go one step at a time, and the next step was to begin this march.

Chapter Eight

The Grain of Pors

“These are the supply rods I crafted for you,” explained Taren, opening a case containing twenty sticks of weirwood I’d commissioned him to make as we took stock of our inventory.  We were on the site for the new hall Alya wanted us to live in.  She’d had me level it, with the help of an earth elemental, and prepare it for construction.  Since it was already cleared and flat, proximate to the gate and reasonably secure, I’d pressed it into service as my staging area for the journey.

I picked up one of the supply rods and examined it.  Physically, it was a three-foot long dull red stick, which (if you had the craft or lore to know, or were even somewhat psychically sensitive) were made of weirwood.  The lengths had been branded with elegant runes necessary (or at least convenient) for the transport spell, as well as being carved at the end with a numeral designation and a pebble of snowstone to aid the enchantment.

“Each rod has a corresponding one,” he explained.  “They have a cargo capacity of about a ton of nonliving mass, which is more than we should need.  Living things come through dead – believe me, I have a pile of chicken corpses to attest to that.  But as a safety measure I enchanted these to not be able to even admit anything living.  It also won’t take anything affixed – you can’t use it to transport a portion of cliffside, for instance, you have to break it off first.”

“Why?” I asked, innocently.

“Because it doesn’t,” he said, flatly.  “I’m still working on why.  It’s a complex problem with perspectives concerning mineralogy, earth magic, inherent cohesiveness, and a bunch of arcane crap that most people wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not most people,” I pointed out.

“Exactly,” he agreed.  “Which is why I won’t deliver a three-week master’s lecture on why it won’t work, and then hold a two week symposium on practical alternatives to the inherent limitations of the spell.  You have stuff to do,” he stated, simply.  Taren is usually a pretty easy-going guy, for a warmage, but when he does put his foot down there is no moving it.

“I do have stuff to do,” I agreed.  “Continue.”

“Each rod has a correspondent.  You keep one in the field, your manciple has the other.  When he loads it up with your supplies, he sends the mage on the other end a shout, mind-to-mind, and the other mage invokes the spell.  Poof, you have groceries.”

“I like it,” I smiled, thinking of all the supply issues this system eliminated.  “Why ten?  We have five troops.”

“And you’re building five towers,” he pointed out.  “I spoke to Carmella about it.  Those things are going to be isolated.  I’m assuming you are installing Waystones to each one?”  Taren had been one of the few wizards I’d let know about my new capabilities.  I’d told him all about my incredible journey across the land, and all I’d been able to accomplish.  To say he was envious was an understatement.

“Of course,” I agreed.  “It will help us be able to reinforce each tower, if we need to.”

“As I figured.  Well, now you can resupply them without having to worry about transporting a sack of grain and a bag of nails across three hundred miles of bad country.  I’m guessing that will help cut down on the expense of maintaining those towers.”

“And increase their security,” I agreed.  “From the drawings Master Guri has shown me, each one will be designed for future additions, if fortune should dictate.  But in the meantime they will have only a small space for stores.  They are designed as watchtowers, not fortresses to withstand a siege.  This pleases me,” I nodded.

“Then this will delight you,” he chuckled, pulling another box out of the pile he’d brought.  “This, my dear Minalan, is a globe of thaumaturgical glass I made out of some of that snowstone sand you sent me,” he said, opening the case.

There was a milky-white sphere of glass the size of a melon within, packed in silk.  “It’s about a sixty-forty mix between snowsand and Lukari’s Choice,” he said, mentioning one of the top-grade thaumaturgical glass varieties.  The Lukari Sandpits are famous (among enchanters and thaumaturges, not anyone else) for the strong grade of glass it produced.  It came in Choice, Standards, and Common.

“What does it do?” I asked, intrigued.

“At the basic level, it’s just a magelight,” he explained.  “But the snowsand allowed me to tamper with the basic spell while the sphere was molten, and enhance the enchantment . . . significantly.  This sphere can shine a light as bright as any magelight, but it doesn’t need a mage to do so.  It can change colors across the spectrum,” he went on, proudly, demonstrating how it worked by trailing his finger around its surface in different signs.  “It can send out a light that can be seen three or four miles away.  More, if you raise it.  Say, to the very top of one of those pele towers.”

“Beacon lights,” I nodded.  He was right.  I was delighted.  “If they can be seen from afar, they can tell everyone what the conditions are with a color code!”

“I’m way ahead of you, Min,” Taren grinned.  “It’s not a sympathy stone, but I have each of the spheres tuned into the same arcane vibration.  If you activate the right charm on one,” he said, making another sign on its surface, “all five will turn as red as blood in alarm.”

“Brilliant,” I sighed.  “I’m sure it could do with some refinement, but it’s a great start.  What else did you bring?”

“Just this,” he said, conspiratorially, taking a pouch from around his neck.  “I found it in the archives of the Censorate.  It should have been stored down in the catacombs, but the Censor who checked it in didn’t know what it was.”

“I’m looking at it and I don’t know what it is,” I admitted.  It was a small red and yellow mottled pebble, a little larger than a pea.

“It’s the Grain of Pars,” he said, almost in a whisper.  “And from what I can tell . . . it’s actually Ghost Rock.”

We stood there for a few moments in silence while I absorbed that information.

About a century before the Conquest, when the Late Magocracy was in full bloom, a mage from the province of Pors in what is now the Duchy of Vore came back from an expedition from the Thousand Valleys region of the Kulines with a rock he found in a river there.  The exact circumstances of how he found it, why he picked it up, and what it was about it that grabbed his attention are lost to history.  What Brangalan of Pors did with the stone, which became known as the Grain of Pors, is a case study on the corrupting nature of power.

Using his meager abilities (this was long after the Archmagi had confiscated most irionite) Brangalan managed to use the stone to invoke an earth elemental – no small achievement for an un-augmented mage.  Often it can take days to raise the power necessary to give form to an elemental enneagram that complex, and usually the mage who summoned it doesn’t have sufficient resources to sustain it long.  And the results are often quite disappointing.   Spending three days chanting and painstakingly building an enneagram from scratch could quite easily result in a brief shower of dirt, or some smug-feeling mud. But rarely anything else.

Until Brangalan the Earthmover began his researches in a remote estate in what is now southwestern Vore.  Pors.  The province was managed by a pragmatic magistrate who by all accounts was far too cozy with the barbarians from the steppes he was supposed to be protecting the Magocracy from (my ancestors, the Narasi).  He’d even hired some as tax collectors, and when they weren’t collecting taxes they skulked around and stole everything they could get their hands on.  Since they were the magistrate’s muscle, little was ever done about it.

One day when a band of them came to Pors and demanded Brangalan’s taxes, plus some ridiculous fees, the wizard had had enough.  He threw them out, but they vowed to be back.

During the night, however, Brangalan used the Grain to implant a powerful, complicated, sophisticated elemental enneagram in a clay form he’d prepared, from thaumaturgical clay (which is like thaumaturgical sand, but wetter and less sandy.  The magical artifact not only activated, but was possessed of far more cohesiveness and intelligence than normal earth elementals.  It reacted and responded much like a living thing would, where as a normal elemental would be dim-witted and unresponsive until sufficient will was applied.

The Clay Man of Pors met the thugs the next day and bested them.  The lone survivor returned to the magistrate to report not his own men’s failure, but the rebellion of Brangalan.  The magistrate sent a constable to investigate.  The man reported back that the wizard was unwilling to deal with Narasi scum like that, anymore, and if any more filthy barbarians sullied his garden again, they’d face even worse.

The Clay Man of Pors appears to have been some sort of breakthrough, the kind that one often rights off to legend or hyperbole.  That might be the case if many of Brangalan’s basic writings weren’t well known, including one referencing the famous beating, because for the next few years the mage built dozens of amazing devices, wonders of enchantment performing work or whimsy with equal enthusiasm.  Except they did not move with the jerky, mindless reaction of arcane compulsion, but manifested a remarkable ability to behave much as a living being would have.

The other reason we have to believe the veracity of the tales is that at least three of his creations survive to this day, in Vore, and for various reasons they still exhibit that behavior.  It has always mystified artifacers and enchanters who have tried to duplicate his success, even with irionite, but no one’s elemental creations or enneagramatic sophistications could match Brangalan’s marvels.

And his secret, so he’d said in the records, was the use of the Grain.  Of course, he never bothered to mention what it was, what he did, or how he used it.  But what one wizard can figure out, so can another.

Taren had identified the Grain, and then had researched it enough to determine that yes, it was Ghost Rock.  That was a kind of magical limestone of exceedingly rare occurrence.  It was highly sought after because when it formed as coral, at the bottom of an ocean in dark ages past, it had formed of a particular variety of coral that was highly sensitive to the magosphere.  During the process of transformation from coral to limestone, under pressure and heat, the many layers of dead coral acquired the ability to permanently capture magical enneagrams.

What’s an enneagram?  It’s the symbolic manifestation of your consciousness, your self-awareness.  The more sentient you are, the more complex it is.  For something like microbium or horseflies, it’s not terribly sophisticated.  For a higher mammal, it’s incredibly complex, and for something sapient like a human being, it’s unfathomably complex.  You can “build” simple elementals by using an enneagramatic template, stacking up specific basic symbols we’ve prove work, through trial and error, then finding enough of a germ of self-awareness within the realms of solid, liquid, gas, or plasma to harness the template to, to give it volition.

The problem is that naturally-occurring, inorganic sentience was usually fleeting.  Only earth elementals, the slow-moving, crystalline enneagrams, had any kind of ability to be sustained.  Without something to focus and direct it, not to mention empower it, entropy eventually broke down the enneagram’s cohesiveness until it was useless.

But what if the Earthmover’s elemental enneagram wasn’t a mere earth elemental, as we’d always assumed?  What if the enneagramatic pattern harnessed to the template something much, much more sophisticated?

A shard of Ghost Rock, from what we understood of it from what the Alka Alon had condescended to tell us, could contain thousands of enneagrams.

Of what?  Creatures long extinct before the humani came to Callidore.  The Ghost Rock formations at the foundations of the Lake City had been vast, the tiny flakes of true Ghost Rock embedded in tons of more or less ordinary gray and pink limestone.  Over ages, every entity that had come in contact with it, from the tiniest minnow to the greatest leviathan, had had its enneagram captured by the great Ghost Rock.  If the Grain had even a fraction of that capacity, then Brangalan the Earthmover had to have somehow been siphoning those enneagrams to power his creations.  They were likely vastly complex, and I’m sure if he screwed around with it long enough he would have figured out which of them would be best suited to what purpose.

“That,” I finally said, after five minutes of silence in which we both took out our pipes, “makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Taren said, nodding his shaggy head enthusiastically.  “This opens up a lot of intriguing thaumaturgic possibilities.”

“Living statues, wheels that turn because you tell them to, water elementals that water your crops for you – the possibilities are endless,” I sighed, happily.  “Design the perfect artifact for battle, enchant it, give it a really vicious enneagram, say of some long-lost predator . . . and you have the perfect creation to attack your foes.”

“Or build and enchant a living trap, one fueled with the mind of some ancient lurker, and never have to worry about your thaumaturgy going wonky!”

“And you can make it permanent, something the Earthmover never really managed.  I’ve seen one of his remaining creations.  It’s a barely-functioning shadow of what it must have been, but it still moves.”

“Building the vessel would be the tricky part,” I pointed out, puffing away while my mind raced.  “But you wouldn’t be limited to purely elemental forms, would you?”

“Brangalan was only familiar with the basic elemental templates,” he agreed.  “Dasagara’s iterations wouldn’t be published for another generation – Dasagara based some of his work on Brangalan’s writings, before he met with the Alka Alon.  Not to mention Gensenbo’s variations, a generation after that.  Those bore little resemblance to the basic templates.”

“You know who would have a lot of fun with this?”

“Lanse of Bune?  Master Cormoran?  Every decent enchanter in the world?” he asked, grinning, reading my thoughts.  “You could make just about anything, if you had enough power!  And a good enough control template!”

“You couldn’t store something that elegant in common matter,” I said, shaking my head.  “I mean, you can, but . . .”

“For efficiency, you’d have to use something at least as viscous as thaumaturgic glass,” he shrugged, waving his long stemmed pipe in the air excitedly.  “Or some sort of arcanely sensitive crystalline matrix.  But you wouldn’t have to make the whole thing out of it—”

“Components!” I snapped.  “Of course!  The enegrammatic control doesn’t have to be the same as the agent-of-action,” I reasoned, “merely thaumaturgically proximate!  A wad of glass in the hub of a magical wheel, for instance!”

“Or the crystal heart of a metal automaton!”

We both sighed at the same time, caught each other’s eye, and giggled guiltily.

“I miss talking shop,” I sighed.

“I can tell,” he smiled.

*                            *                            *

I didn’t know how the Grain of Pors would help us out with the march, exactly, and neither did Taren.  But we both agreed that it was just too splendidly useful not to take along.  I’d been playing around with enneagrams and elemental magic – I’d been the first mage in gods-knew-how-long to create an actual fire elemental – and I had some excellent resources to help me fill in the gaps of my education.

But not just then.  I was a little too busy, just before the start of the march, dealing with logistics.

The Supply Rods had been one essential part of it, but what most people don’t realize is that you can’t just magically produce a twenty pound slab of bacon or a basket of bread without it actually coming from somewhere.

In our case, “somewhere” was going to be Tudry, something which wasn’t exactly pleasing to the young mage, Gareth, the manciple for the march.

But Tudry made sense for two reasons.  We’d be depending upon baked bread, instead of taking the time and energy to bake it ourselves on the trail, so that baking had to get done, and my Dad’s shop was doing it.  I’d paid in advance to commission his entire product output for four months, and he’d be busy fulfilling that.

In addition, Tudry is actually a pretty fair spot to buy foodstuffs from.  It was just north of the fertile valley farms of the southern Riverlands, and produce, grain, and meat flowed upriver all winter long.  It was also near to the confluence of two other important rivers, and so a lot of barge traffic flowed in both ways.  That’s why my dad built those two huge ovens, to cater to the large orders of the bargemen.

So Gareth was lodging in Tudry, near my parent’s compound.  Dad had rented out the lot behind his yard and I’d paid to fence it, for security reasons, and add a shed to it, and that’s where we were doing the magic.  Gareth had placed orders that were flooding into Tudry already: flour, eggs, lard, bacon, beans, rice, peas, dried vegetables, roots, hams, fish, grain, and every other manner of foodstuff.  Five massive iron kettles had been hauled to the site, and ten cooks had been hired to work on everything outside of the bakery.

And Gareth had to oversee it all.

It was a shit job, I’ll admit it.  I would have hated it.  Gareth didn’t hate it, but it was very stressful.  I was gratified that he didn’t seem to be worried about what I thought about him, he was more concerned about feeding the kids.

I made it up to him, though.  I finally gave him a witchstone.  And not just any witchstone.  One of my Seven, the special warrior stones the Alka Alon had given me.  Laced with special songspells, not only did the tiny marble of irionite grant the lad incredible power, it could do things other, ordinary witchstones could not.

The seven I had were a set, and I granted them to only the most trusted of my vassals.  So far only Tyndal, Rondal, and Lorcus had measured up to my standards of loyalty and humanity.  All three of them were warmagi.

But Gareth was not, not really.  While he’d studied warmagic at the Academy, he was neither suited for it nor did he have the character for it.  Academically he’d started off in thaumaturgy, and then gotten drafted into the war, like Taren and I, just later, after it was too late for him to go.  He’d been sent to me as a warmagic candidate for a stone, and I’d failed him, through no fault of his character.

Since then he’d been kicking around Sevendor, helping us keep things going and running errands for Banamor.  He’d picked up a lot of stray magic, and hadn’t slunk away after I’d told him he couldn’t have a stone.  For two years he’d been patient, useful, and loyal, biding his time.  I like to reward that sort of thing.

More, he’d been loyal enough so that I know he had my interests in mind.  I could trust him.  If I sent him someplace to do something he didn’t like, he would go – not because he was my apprentice or my employee, but because he valued who I was and what I was doing with magic and Sevendor.  He liked being a part of that.

He might be rethinking that, now that he was a glorified mess cook – hence the stone.

The lad was overjoyed, of course, and I stayed with him for two days to help him acclimatize it, inspect his preparations, oversee the menus he and the cooks had developed, and, of course, visit with my parents, sisters, and many, many nieces and nephews.

We got the lot organized by ringing the round hut in the center with five separate firepits, set within rings of sandstone.  The embedded nature of the stone kept it from being transported away, allowing us some control over just what each supply rod would capture.  When the food was ready, the entire warm rock would be stacked with bread or whatever other sundries had been prepared, and whisked away all at once.  On the other side, when the meal was done the kettle and trash could be sent back through the rod to be reused.

Gareth was overjoyed by his new stone, but pledged to use it to increase efficiency of the operation.  He also voiced a desire to be going with us.  I tried to be diplomatic and told him his talents were of best use here.  I understood his desire, but sometimes you need someone to be the manciple so that you can look impressive, summoning huge pots of steaming food with a wave of your wand.

I’d added a Waystone directly to the kettle yard, as Gareth had taken to calling it so that I could get there in an emergency.  Preparation.  Gareth needn’t have worried, however.  My whole family knew this was important to me, important enough to pay them a premium to do it.  They wouldn’t let anything go amiss.

*                            *                            *

“You need to have a party,” Alya suggested, the night I finally took the Way home.  “All of your people are getting ready, they’re excited, they’re worried, they’re anxious . . . I think a party would be helpful.”

“You’ve been consorting with Remerans, haven’t you?” I accused, weakly, as we sipped wine on my rooftop.  “They can’t do anything without a party.”

“In this case, I think it would be wise, my husband,” she said.  Alya only called me that when she wanted something, and wanted to appeal to my husbandly wisdom, not my reason.  “You are asking a lot of people who don’t know each other to work together to do something dangerous in a strange country for months on end,” she pointed out.  “You can’t expect to just throw them all together like that and work well together.  Let them get to know each other, first.”

“By getting them drunk?”

“Is there a better way?” she snorted.  ”Let them all see who you are, who each other are, and what they can expect.  Like a pre-battle ritual, in the army.  You did those, didn’t you?”

Did vomiting profusely and crying like a baby count?  “Of course.  It’s not a bad idea.  The Great Hall?”

“Too formal,” she dismissed.  “I was thinking about using the main hall of the Order’s Spire, in town.  It’s pretty much completed, now, and it would be just the place for a hundred or so folks to get together and . . . slay a few kegs of beer.”

“And a sheep or two.  Yes, I suppose that would be a good place.  More intimate.  Though Lorcus will be crushed he missed it.”  Some business had come up that had required Lorcus to go on a mission for me, unrelated to the march.  I’d miss the warmage on the route, but he had recommended a few replacements.  What I had him doing was almost as important as the march, though.  But he would miss the party.  “And it would be a tangible show of support, if the Order sponsored it.  I can even get Penny to host it, and invite her favorite Kasari to attend.”

Alya looked troubled.  “Do you think she’s really serious about Arborn, Min?”

“You don’t think she loves him?”

“There’s no doubt she loves him,” she agreed.  “But love is a sticky thing.  It doesn’t always mean you’re serious.  Arborn isn’t a scholar or a lord, Min, he’s a ranger.  He spends months on end in the wilderness, away from home.  Pentandra is a mage, a powerful sorceress.  She doesn’t seem the type to take to the rustic life – even for love.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” I shrugged.  “If anyone deserves a good man, it’s Penny.  The problem is, the man she chose might just be too good.  The Kasari are a sexually conservative people, from what I understand.  There’s a good chance Arborn is still a virgin, depending upon his rites.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that the Kasari seem to take a simple but pragmatic approach to a subject that Penny has spent the last decade exploring in all of its gory detail and infinite sophistications.”

“It doesn’t seem like it would work out,” she agreed.  “I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“Penny will surprise you,” I promised.  “Really, I’ve known her for years, and the one thing I can say about her is that she will put aside any minor inconvenience if it serves her purpose.  And the more devoutly she believes in that purpose, and commits to it, the more she’s willing to endure.  If she really thinks she’s in love with Arborn she’d do this march over hot coals.”

“It’s not her commitment to her love that concerns me,” Alya admitted.  “Really, Min, I don’t think she’ll give up.  That’s the problem.  What if she does win Arborn’s favor, she goes through whatever sacred rites the Kasari have for her, she marries him . . . then what?”

“Don’t you think that’s getting ahead of ourselves?” I pointed out.  “She’s got all summer long to really screw up in front of him.  If she wants to be on this trek, she’s going to experience every nasty second of it . . . in front of her light-o’love.  Regardless of Penny’s commitment, she is going to be Penny, and I can see a hundred reasons why Arborn would decide to stay a bachelor.  And they wouldn’t even be Penny’s fault,” I added, defensively.

“I know, Min,” my wife sighed.  “I just hate to see her invest all of this into Arborn, only to get what she thinks she wants . . .”

“. . . and it’s not at all what she thinks it was?” I asked, nodding.  “Conversely, if she gives up she regrets not trying for the rest of her life.  Arborn is always going to be the one that got away, and no mortal man could ever match him.”

“I’m not certain any mortal man can match him,” she said, slyly.  “Have you seen those arms?”

“It’s not his arms I’m worried about.  Arborn is a canny fighter, a brilliant tactician, a wily hunter and an unmatched woodsman.  But I don’t know if he’s going to be able to keep up with Penny, intellectually.  I mean, with their interests being magic, sex, the wilderness, and being sneaky, what on earth will they have to talk about after the first few days?”

That led to all sorts of interesting and highly imaginative speculation on what magic, sex, woods, and stealth could produce, in the way of conversation, which got progressively raunchier.  Soon, so did we, and I forgot about the perils of Pentandra’s romantic life for a while and focused on my own.

I was pretty proud of that, actually.  Alya and I had been on very good terms, and even with the few scares we’d had from time to time we’d been careful to avoid purposefully hurting each other’s feelings, disrespecting each other, or taking each other for granted.

It was still hard, and our lovemaking that night came with the same bittersweet tang it has when I have headed off to war.  But it was different, this time, more mature.  This was not a desperate, life-affirming attempt at making a memory, this was a conscious expression of love, support, and security, and I think we both needed it to be that way.

It’s hard, being lord and lady, much less husband and wife, and when you add daddy and mommy on top of that, things get . . . complex.  We’d been fortunate, Alya and I, to never forget thus far the importance of also being man and woman, in the most essential manner possible.

This time I wasn’t marching to battle, I was going to preserve something.  There was danger, but danger wasn’t the point of the exercise.  What Alya told me, without a single word, was that she was proud of me, she respected what I was doing, and that our home would be safe and secure for me when I returned . . . which she fully expected me to.

It gave me enormous peace of mind.  It’s one of the reasons why I like being married.

Part Two:

“Gwnewch Eich Gorau!”

Chapter Nine

The March Begins

It was a hell of a party.

Lady Varen was kind enough to go through the Ways to fetch Penny and her luggage before she and the other Emissaries returned to counsel.  Pentandra wasted no time in setting up her household in the Order’s Spire in Sevendor and planning the function.  She delegated most of the task to Banamor, who didn’t have Gareth to delegate to anymore, so he had to do it himself.  That is, he had to get his other servants to do it for him.

The thirty priestesses of Briga arrived a few days before, and with Alya’s permission they encamped around the Everfire, and had been conducting some sacred rites in preparation.  They were a fine looking bunch of women, dressed in dark red robes of senior initiates, each hand-picked by the high priestess from all of the temples and abbeys in the Wilderlands.

They were excited, too – they knew about the divine nature of their appointment, and they saw its completion as a holy rite.  This was a great opportunity for their ecclesiastic careers, and beginning the journey with a pilgrimage to the Everfire of Sevendor, where a magnificent new temple to the Flame That Burneth Bright was being built was an auspicious way to begin.

The small crew of Karshak who would be working with us were led by the Assistant Scaffolding Foreman, or some other obscure title, a short (even for a Karshak) little fellow named Rumel.  Rumel and his crew were on a break from the main construction site, as the focus of the construction turned toward mining out the first deep shaft into the heart of the mountain and there wasn’t much need for scaffolding yet.  Since he and his crew would be magically transported to the sites of the pele towers and back, not accompanying us on our main journey, he didn’t mind helping out.

He was in charge of scaffolding but no one in the Lodge does just one job.  Rumel had experience at “temporary constructions” in stone – what he called the pele tower designs, when he saw them.  He wasn’t exactly a stonesinger but he had a knack for stone construction that even Guri grudgingly praised.  That was unusual, because he wasn’t precisely a Karshak.

It’s complicated, but the Karshak have four main clans.  There are also a few minor clans who are racially Karshak, but culturally . . . not so much.  While the Stone Folk clans had many things in common, some of the outlying clans were considered odd.  Some specialized in particular aspects of stone or minerals.  A few were decidedly Karshak, but preferred crafts more akin to the Iron Folk (who look just like the Karshak, except for coloring and culture).

The Lodge accepted a member based on their craft alone – any Karshak from any clan could apply.  But the minor clans still had issues with social acceptance amongst the larger clans.  In Rumel’s clan, for instance, the focus was on wood.  Wood carving, wood cutting, shaping wood in all sorts of interesting ways that literally horrified the Alka Alon.  While the Karshak certainly needed the talents of his clan, that didn’t stop them from looking down on the minor clans socially, even as they worked together.

It was a nuance I’d never picked up on, but then I hadn’t been inside the Lodge since before it had been ritually sealed.  I had no idea what went on in there.  All I knew was that Master Guri needed someone comfortable with building out in the open, away from real stone, and Rumel wanted to get away from the mass of Karshak back in Sevendor for a while.

He took with him five stout novices to the Lodge who had volunteered for the work.  They would be directing and overseeing construction of our towers.  They drank like fish, too, so we had to secure a tun of ale for the Karshak crew alone.

Carmella’s crew of nine arrived and mingled with their Karshak colleagues quite congenially, if quietly.  Arborn arrived with a dozen rangers – his organizational staff for the trek – rugged, sturdy men, all.  My warmagi arrived about the same time, with Tyndal towing a cask of brandy he’d won at some contest and wanted to share.

Dara and her Skyriders were there, looking nervous and uncomfortable.  There were seven of them, now, with Dara as their captain: five girls and young boys, and three Tal Alon she had recruited.  I’d never thought of a pudgy brown ball of fur to be a terror in the skies, but so far the Tal Alon had proven to be her most reliable riders, save for the other beastmaster girl.

They were a motley collection of misfits and sports, but Dara did a good job of recruiting them, training them, and leading them.  Tonight she had eschewed her usual sloppy fighting leathers or her woolen tunic and jerkin or an actual gown that made her actually look like a girl.  It was in green and yellow, the colors she had taken for her noble device, and it was lovely.  I wasn’t sure if she was trying to catch someone’s eye or just felt like dressing up, but she looked very pretty and very adult.

People continued to fill in the hall of the Order’s Spire for a while, but there were enough there for me to address everyone.  I tried to keep it short.

Heh.

It was a good party.  Banamor had secured a small band of minstrels for the evening, and the Sevendor Inn supplied the feast: a continuous buffet of delicacies we’d soon be missing on the road.  Ale flowed like the Ketta, and we all got to know each other.  There were blessings by the priestesses, solemn toasts by the Kasari, songs and stories from the warmagi and ribald jokes from the Karshak.  Everyone got drunk.  I even recall Gareth kissing one of the priestesses, at one point.

I went to bed near dawn, feeling much better about the entire affair.  It seems the one who needed a party most was me.  After I recovered sufficiently from my hangover, one last run through our checklist and we were ready to go by that afternoon.

For a hundred people, transport through the Waypoints would be difficult, but not impossible, for the three Emissaries.  With a bit of ceremony and production, we assembled in the inner bailey, gave everyone one last kiss goodbye, and then were transported to the top of a very, very cold mountain.

The Kasari were waiting for us, of course.  Six sturdy lads and six pretty maids, all in uniform (the female equivalent is also made of hempcloth and embroidered, a short tunic and skirt; but the color of the costume was lighter, perhaps more feminine, while still appearing rustic.  Instead of a neckcloth, the Kasari maids all wore sashes that seemed to indicate rank or perhaps just daring skill at needlework, and each wore a perky and utterly non-functional cap), an honor guard to guide us to the settlement, proper.

The Kasari seemed to be expecting a whole flock of falcons, or whatever a group of falcons is called, but Dara had brought only Frightful.  It was decided that the other birds would not be brought over from the mews in Sevendor and transformed until we were ready to go.

After welcoming us and warming us with hot tea, they led our party down the mountain, by larger and more frequent buildings as we descended.  At the bottom of the valley, set back away from the lake by a quarter mile and a few dozen feet in elevation, the main square of the Bransei settlement was packed with children.  I could see them from the top of the mountain, crowding the square below.  More, I could hear them.

When you imagine two thousand children, between the ages of eight and thirteen, you probably have no real conception about how loud that many kids can be.  Particularly if they are surrounded by crying parents and brothers and sisters who are worried about the long but necessary journey ahead of them.

That was a lot of noise.

We got a tantalizing look at the Kasari culture in cross-section, as we descended Bransei Mountain.  While the hall – and what may have been temple facilities – at the summit demonstrated a serenity and appreciation of nature’s abstract beauty, as we came down the winding trail we were exposed to various other elements of Kasari life.  From tiny little huts where herbs and roots, to isolated cottages which seemed to grow old, wizened Kasari on their stoops, to small halls tucked away in blind landings or hollows, each dedicated to a specific task . . . and clearly labeled, in Perwynese, just what that task was.

The halls seemed to be named, though the names were curious: Mawat Hall.  Muir Hall.  Baden Hall.  No names from the Narasi, that I could recognize, or anywhere else.  Perhaps they were from our distant past.  According to our guides, the Kasari had been inhabiting this region continuously for over seven hundred years.  What was more curious was the spelling of the name in the many ancient signs in Old Perwynese we saw.  Bransei was spelled “B R O W N S E A”.  Phonetically the same, but the characters were different.

The lake, I could see when we came to an overlook, and our hosts bade us stop, reflect, observe, and rest before we continued down, was the center of the Bransei Kasari’s culture.  There were seven or eight villages along its edges, and the lake itself served as a busy highway between the far-flung outposts.  Canoes and rowboats paddled quickly across the pristine blue surface.  Few were fishing, on this important day, but I could see a little island that seemed to be the center of that element of the lake’s economy, with dozens of boats and nets pulled up on shore.

And in the distance, the great redwoods stood as a living curtain against the rest of the world.

We finally made it to the end of the trail, spilling out past a few large stone halls and wooden lodges, until we came to the large cobbled square in front of the Bransei Great Hall.  And I could barely hear myself think, so many children had gathered there.

The children were generally well-behaved, all of them dressed in matching hempcloth tunics, trousers, and characteristic wool cloaks.  And they all seemed to have the equipment the Kasari had promised me they would.

Each one had a bag of oil-treated leather or waxed hempcloth cunningly attached to a light wooden frame, worn on their backs with shoulder straps.  The bags were sewn with a great variety of clever pockets and attachments, and no two seemed to be the same.  Attached to each one also was a bedroll, and at the side of many of the packs were attached quivers and unstrung bows.

Despite the seeming chaos, there was actually a lot of order to the mob.  Five tall banner poles, each with a distinctive flag (complete with Perwynese numerals) were at various points, gathering the folk assigned to each Troop.  Proctors of some sort were wandering through the crowd, parchment rolls in their hands, ensuring every child was placed in the right position.  An older boy in each troop was responsible for admitting each child, and checked them off a list they had been given.

It was amazing how well organized you could be when everyone could read.

We, myself and and the other magi assigned to the troops, were led to a massive hall, much larger than the High Hall, above us.  The Great Bransei Hall, which boasted a cavernous interior  was no less than three stories high, and was ringed inside with sturdy wooden galleries on each level.  It was impressive and ancient.

A Kasari youth – a pretty maid, though her teeth were unfortunate to look at – led us daintily through the crowd toward a special table near the fireplace.  The Master’s Table, she called it.  It was one huge section of giant redwood, at least thirty feet long, perfectly cut and brilliantly polished until you could see every gorgeous grain of wood.  The hostess seated us around its vastness, in a surprisingly comfortable wooden chair.

The Kasari Masters were starting to come in as I sat and surveyed the crowd.  The five I’d met were there and greeted me warmly, and more than a dozen more eventually found seats around the huge table.

Through some order I didn’t understand, hundreds of Kasari filed in and found their seats.  The volume of noise was more muted, in respect, I guessed, of the solemn occasion.  Even that ceased when the portly, heavily-bearded Master of the Council stood, and gave the Kasari’s sacred sign.

In seconds, the entire room was quiet, as everyone there returned the sign.  I’d say it was like magic, but it worked with far more ease and efficiency, in my professional opinion.

“Mae sgowtiaid yn addolgar. Today we welcome our new friend, Minalan the Spellmonger,” he began in a deep, resonant voice.  “In fulfillment of his agreement for our help in the south, last year, he has consented to escort our youth from our council lands here to the Kasar council lands, our most ancient.  Mae sgowtiaid yn dibynadwy.  Our thanks to our Narasi friend, who keeps his agreements.”

There was a brief shout of “Mae sgowtiaid yn dibynadwy!” that I assumed was directed at me and was intended to be admiration, thanks, or respect.  Hard to say, without knowing the Kasari language.  The Master of the Council went on.

“With the gurvani tribes returned to the hills they once were driven from, our southern frontier is no longer safe.  Our guard is strong, and few raiders come through our line, but with each passing month the danger grows greater.

“We could stand, at Bransei, until the seas came to claim our land,” he said, his voice filling the hall.  It took me a moment to realize how he was doing it, but then I realized that the entire place was built acoustically so that a voice spoken from that exact spot would be heard by most of the hall.  I did a few quick and subtle magical spells to check my theory, and was pleased to see I was correct.  That indicted a level of sophistication far beyond a simple arboreal tribe.  “Our fastness here is secure, and our blood is tied to this mountain.

“But it is not safe for our children, anymore.  Seven times since the invasion our youth have been beset by gurvani raiders.  Seven times we have held burial rites for our children.  We are strong, at Bransei, but without our most vulnerable to worry about, Bransei will become stronger.”

He turned and faced the mass of parents who had gathered, off to his left.  “It is customary, once a child has seen six summers and proved his vigor, to enroll him in our earliest rites.  The importance of this cannot be understated.  There they learn to aspire to excellence in all things, the fundamental tenant of our rites: Gwnewch eich gorau!”

“Gwnewch eich gorau!” came the thunderous response from every Kasari there.

“Yet a child cannot learn and train if he fears attack.  With our kin in Kasar, the mother council of Filmon, our children will get the chance to grow strong and learn our ways far from the gurvani threat.  Though it is painful for us to send them away, it is what is best for both them and the Kasari people.  We owe them our best,” he reminded the weeping parents there.

“Gwnewch eich gorau!”  they replied in unison again, although more muted.

“To our youth, who are fearful of leaving their homes and taking such a frightening and long journey, I tell you this: how I envy you the adventure ahead.  Not in many lifetimes has such a thing as this trek been attempted.  Mae sgowtiaid yn ddewr.

“ You will begin this journey as children, but you will end it as men and women, in many ways, advanced by experience ahead of those who learn through the rites.  To you comes the challenge of the greatest of tests, a trial no council could have arranged for you.  With your knowledge and training to inform you, your leaders to guide you, and your fellowship to sustain you, your ordeal will be transformative.  Mae sgowtiaid yn ddewr.  The Kasari are strong, and this journey is the quest the gods have tasked you with.  You are ready for it!”

The children didn’t just issue a rote response – they burst into a wildly enthusiastic outpouring of affirmation.  If there were any scared kids there, I certainly didn’t see them.

My eyes grew larger, despite myself, at the sheer volume and enthusiasm.  I had two of these at home, now.  Sure, they were cute . . . but was this maelstrom of frenetic energy to be my future?  And I had near two thousand of these to watch over for months?  It occurred to me that this journey would be transformative for more than just the kids.

Goblins I could conquer.  Dragons and dark lords I could survive.  But this . . . ?

The Master gave the sign again, and again like magic everyone was quiet in an instant.  I had to learn how he did that.  He continued.

“I encourage you to treat it as the adventure it is – but also realize that it is a very grave quest.  You must be prepared.  You must keep yourself physically strong.  You must keep yourself awake and aware.  And you must keep your feet on the path you know to be right.”

“To our new friends,” he continued, facing me, but addressing the knot of magi, priestesses, and attendants we’d brought through the Ways, “I give you our thanks.  We understand, perhaps more than you do, the danger you face and the magnitude of the task ahead.  The Wilderlands are no longer as peaceful as they were under the Narasi conquest, and many evil things that have lain quiet have awakened again.  Yet we would not attempt it, if we didn’t know it was possible – likely, even – that you would succeed.  Our relations with the Narasi have been . . . complicated.  We appreciate the assistance you have lent in negotiating our passage with the Wilderlords.”

I swallowed and smiled and nodded.  It was a work-in-progress, after all.  And I did have a piece of parchment signed by the exiled lord of this broken realm that technically gave me permission, at least to the border of Castal.  So . . .

“Tomorrow, at dawn, the troops will be mustered in Bransei Square.  There, after appropriate devotions, we will begin the journey, with final inspection, benediction, and goodbyes.  Three troops of rangers will accompany the march as far as Otter’s Point, the frontier of our lands.  Beyond that, the gods and a single troop of rangers will escort you.  The Spellmonger will be your leader, and I expect all to give him his due. Mae sgowtiaid yn ufudd.

“Tonight, we dine in fellowship, one last time, in this sacred hall.  Let us rest, relax, and enjoy ourselves with food, merriment, story and song, until we meet again around some other fire, in some other place. For now, let us eat. Mae sgowtiaid yn addolgar.

With that solemn blessing in their own language, the feast began, with hundreds of dishes being served to each table by a legion of maidens, many of whom were destined to join us on our journey.  They brought large cast-iron pots of various mixtures of meat and vegetables and laid them on the table with a spoon.  The Kasari ate from common dishes, serving themselves in their own personal bowls, knives and spoons.  Large earthenware jugs of cider, tea, and weak ale were also served, and every Kasari furnished their own cup or horn.

There was no precedence as to who ate first.  Everyone was extremely polite, and there was no fighting over anything.  People sat and ate and chatted casually, without the formality of Narasi table service.  I mean, I kept a fairly casual hall, but there was some order to it.  Here all the dishes were served at once, porridge, meat, vegetables, bread, dessert, and it was left to the diner to determine what and how much.  But as it turns out, I became quickly accustomed to the Kasari dining style.

Pentandra and Arborn were also seated at the long redwood table – no accident that they were sitting together.  Penny didn’t even have to bribe anyone, I found out.  The Kasari don’t take bribes.  She just asked if she could move, and got a smile and a nod.

“You think our chances of avoiding battle are good, Arborn?” I asked, after finishing an excellent duck stew by mopping it up with a fairly mediocre heel of bread.  “At first, I mean.”

“We should have no foes at hand for the first few days, while we are within our own frontiers,” he agreed, after a moment’s consideration.  “I’ve spoken to all the rangers who have returned from our outposts.  So far there appears to be little movement of gurvani in the southern hills.”

“I’m hoping we can slip by the tribals quietly,” agreed Pentandra, “even though of all of the potential enemies we might face, they seem to be the most easily driven-off.  Where I’m worried is once we get down into the Wilderlords’ territory, in the Penumbra, proper.  The gurvani there are far more disciplined, better armed, and better led.”

Since when did you become a tactician, Penny? I asked her, mind-to-mind.

I can read a dispatch, you know.  And I spoke with Terleman and the other warmagi who actually fight more than once a year about conditions along the way.

I let it go.  She was trying to impress her big manly man.  It was cute.

“I have contingencies for that,” I assured the table.  “Just get us through the forests, and to the roads, and I’ll take it from there.”  I hoped I sounded confident.

If I had doubts, they really set in after dinner, when the parents began speaking to me.

I spoke to well over a hundred Kasari parents that night, and I saw the grief on their faces over what they were doing.  In their position, I realized, I’d be similarly stricken.  They were essentially consigning the fate of their child to a complete stranger, a flashy-looking mage from the southlands who they didn’t know.  How would I act toward a strange wizard who wanted to take Minalyan and Almina away from me?

With equal solemnity I assured each and every one that I would do everything in my power to ensure their child would be safe.  I meant it, each and every time.

It was exhausting.

Finally, after the children had been dismissed to the square, where they were all bedding down for the night to test their new equipment and learn their assigned roles, the hall cleared out and the older Kasari were left.  Each of the various masters, and there were over two dozen, met and spoke with me, giving me advice about the wild, the countryside, the gurvani, and how to deal with that many children.  I tried to absorb it all, but I was starting to feel overwhelmed when one of those hostesses appeared and offered to show me to my lodging for the night.

I took her up on it.  We were rising before dawn, and the unbearable burden of responsibility for the lives of two thousand children was pressing down on me.

Could I do this?  Would I do this?  Leading troops into battle was one thing.  Fighting dragons, another.  But a mission where the goal wasn’t to meet the foe and triumph, but to avoid the foe and survive . . . could I manage that?

The portly Master of the Council must have discerned my anxiety despite my clever attempt to hide it under a confident smile.  He sought me out, later that evening, when we were both outside seeking the peace of a pipe.

“So are you nervous?” he asked me, as he puffed his pipe to life.

“I’m . . . excited,” I conceded.  “It’s a big day, tomorrow.”

“It’s all right to be nervous, Son,” he said in a comforting, paternal way.  “We understand how hard a task this is.  We appreciate your commitment to it.  But along the way, you’re going to find challenges you won’t believe you’ll be able to handle, situations that get out of control, even tragedy and calamity.  We Kasari know what can happen on the open road.”

“So do you have any advice for me?” I asked, not too proud to ask a man who clearly knew how to lead.

He thought for a moment and shrugged.  “Gwnewch eich gorau.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t learned much Kasari, yet,” I said.

“It’s the very first lesson we teach all of our children.  A guiding principal when you struggle with doubt and chaos.  Gwnewch eich gorau. It is all we expect of them.  ‘Do your best.’  Do your best, Spellmonger, and all else will fall into place.  That is all anyone can ask of any man.”

I fell asleep to the sound of the kids singing some song in Kasari out in the square.  They sounded cheerful and hopeful, and not at all like they were being lead to certain doom at the hands of a sinister wizard.  I tried to pin my hopes on that.

*                            *                            *

Rondal shook me awake the next morning.  He was already dressed and ready, an anxious look on his face as he bade me rise, dress, and prepare myself.  I splashed some water on my face, used the chamberpot, dressed, and ventured down the stairs to the square, where two thousand choruses of “Good Morning!” in Kasari pelted my ears.  I was just as happy that the Kasari don’t go in for brewing and distilling the way that other tribes in the region do.  Facing that many squealing voices with a hangover would have been problematic.

It took an hour for everyone to pack up, another hour to eat breakfast and prepare themselves.  By the time the sun had risen over the eastern ridges, all two thousand children had sorted themselves out into their various troops.

I took my place along with Pentandra in Troop Three, my pack on my back and my knees weak, feeling like I was in the army for the first time again.

Only . . .  Oh shit, I thought to myself, we’re really going to do this.

And I’m in charge.

Before I could find some magical way to escape, Arborn showed up near our banner-bearer (an earnest lad of twelve named Darmon), dressed for ranging.  From his leather trousers to his long Wilderlands bow of laminated hickory and yew, he was ready to fade into the foliage and deal silent death to anyone who got in our way.  That made me feel better.  I like the forest, but I like the nice, calm, tame woods of the Westwood more than the wild, dangerous depths of the Wilderlands.

“I just got the call from the first outpost, Spellmonger,” he reported.  “The way is clear, and they say to send the Pathfinders forward.  Once they make it to the outpost, they’ll continue on and we’ll send the second troop.”

“As soon as they’re ready, give the order,” I agreed.  “Last goodbyes, and if anyone has to pee, now is the time.”

He smiled and threw me a Kasari salute.  I was going to get used to that very quickly, I discovered.  The Kasari salute more than trained soldiers do, and use a variety of clever hand signals to communicate other things.  I looked forward to learning them.

The first troop yelled in joy when they heard the news.  They began singing a tune in Kasari and lined up in tight formation, four abreast, their packs and bows on their backs.  Tyndal grinned at me and confirmed the order, mind-to-mind, and then Arborn commanded the march.  Using the song as their cadence, the boys began moving.

I got called back to Troop Five to negotiate a dispute between Landrick and Ormar when the call for Troop Two to move out came.  This time I heard a horn (the Kasari preferred a small curved brass horn and had just as many unique action calls as they did hand signals), and Rondal checked with me before the troop began to move.  With a lot of cheering and waving they departed the square after their fellows.  I stopped by Troop Four to make certain that the Hesians didn’t have any last-minute concerns, and then I made it back to Troop Three just in time to get the word.  Troop One had made it to the second outpost, Troop Two had made it to the first.  It was our turn.

Troop Three’s ranger captain, a tall fellow named Gaios who was a veteran of the Poros Campaign, grinned at me as he hoisted his own over-sized pack on his back like it was nothing.  I returned the grin, but didn’t feel particularly enthusiastic about the long walk ahead.  I remember marching in the military.  I remember the Long March, down the coast of Farise and through its deadly jungles.  At least this time I wasn’t doing it in full armor, with people trying to kill me every step of the way.

It was just a pleasant little walk, I reasoned.  With around four hundred reasonably well-behaved adolescents.  I heard the march master give a certain call on the twisted brass horn, the banner bearer took up his pole, and suddenly we were marching.

Shouts and cries and mad waves all conspired to keep me from doing anything but focusing on the rank ahead of me.  Even though I was in charge, and toward the front, the Kasari had very specific ideas about how to march, so I was four ranks back.  My feet trod the cobbles of the square until we left through a simple wooden arch, and then the trail was well-beaten earth.

It was a lovely morning for a walk.  The village at the edge of the square was made up of row upon row of neat, well-constructed cottages, I saw, with stone foundations and rough log frames.  There was absolutely no attempt to distinguish one from the other, and at first I wondered how anyone knew where anything was, when every house looks more or less like every other one.  Then I passed by a cot closely enough to look, and realized that the resident’s name and rank were written neatly in Old Perwynese on each door.  Another advantage of a literate people, I concluded.

That wasn’t to say that the Kasari did not decorate.  Just about every cot had some carved animal or bird or fish on it, in homage to some totemic animal.  But the designs were subdued, part of the decoration, not idols to be worshipped.

Soon enough we had passed through the little townlands and into the forest, itself.  Even then we saw little huts and cots scattered throughout the woods, and the rangers took the time to explain which ones were springhouses, which were herb houses, and which were buildings of other utility.  The path wound through the forest naturally, but was lined on either side by stones.  In places where the land rose or fell, neat little steps had been cut into the grade, secured with staked logs to help your footing.

But beyond the trail, the wild of the forest was allowed to grow.

An hour into the trip, just after we reached the first outpost, I started to sweat.  Two hours, when we arrived at the second outpost, my feet were starting to cramp, and I was getting thirsty.  My shoulders were starting to ache.  I was starting to breathe hard.

I filled my water bottle, drained it into my thirsty mouth, and then refilled it from the cool, clear spring.  Then we plunged back onto the trail, already hearing the sounds of Troop Four off in the distance.

“This is fun,” Penny said, as she caught up to me.  She was sweating too, and her pack had to be half the size of mine.  I’m sure she’d made use of the pocketstone, too.  “But a little tiring.”

“It’s the pack,” I suggested.  “And the altitude.  Once we’re in thicker air, it will get better.”

“It’s good for my skin,” she said, trying to put a good face on the exertion.  “And my body.  Arborn says Kasari women are all strong women,” she said.  She had That Tone.  The Penny-is-talking-like-she’s-in-a-trance tone.  I remember it well, from the time she drafted me for a sustained experiment in Sex Magic that had lasted most of three days.  When Penny gets That Tone, no amount of clear reason will get her mind off of it.

“They certainly produce strong children,” I noted, nodding toward the rank of kids ahead of us.  All boys, they were chatting away gaily without a drop of sweat on them.  “They have at least twice as much in their packs as you do.”

“They also have the vigor of youth,” complained Penny.  “Damn them.”

We made the fourth outpost by noon, and took a break for lunch.  We didn’t have to use Gareth’s supplies yet, as the Kasari had stockpiled freshly made food for us for the first few days.  We ate sausages and biscuits and more cool, clear water.  I laid down on my back and heaved my chest, happy not to have my pack on for a few glorious moments.

And then we were moving again.

I was exhausting when we made it to the seventh outpost that night – a treehouse akin to the Alka Alon, but in a Kasari style.  Dinner was set for us there, with a hundred iron kettles of food ready when we finally arrived.  By then even the boys were tired, and the leaders of each unit had to quiet them down when they started complaining.

We bedded down around a few dozen fires in camps the Kasari rangers had prepared.  Instead of sleeping in one large group, however, I was introduced to my patrol.

Every Kasari had been assigned to a patrol to keep them organized.  There were generally ten children to a patrol, with each of them taking turns carrying an iron kettle, its lid, and an extra skin of water, as well as a kit of additional supplies that belonged to the patrol.  You ate with your patrol, marched with your patrol, and slept in the same camp as your patrol.  It was a lot like army organization, in some ways, without the burden of guard duty.  The rangers were doing that for us, for now.

Each adult was assigned to a patrol.  While they weren’t exactly servants, the children were the ones responsible for cooking and serving our food, then cleaning up, always submitting their work for our approval.  It was apparently a special honor to be in the Spellmonger’s Patrol, because I overheard one of my boys bragging about it to a patrol with a mere ranger.

I became intimately familiar with my patrol, over the course of the next few days.  Oin, Lari, Nazar, Tras, Caje, Arltin, Dom, Shan, Ven, and Vis.  Shan was the oldest, at fourteen, and Vis was the youngest, at eleven.  For the next several weeks, they were my near-constant companions, always willing to run errands, deliver messages, and listen to my stories.  A great group of boys, despite their individual idiosyncrasies.  Kasari boys are still boys, after all.

Penny was assigned to one of four all-girl patrols, which were kept toward the center of the group.  Not that they were helpless – I saw several who carried bows the same as the older boys.  But that was the Kasari Way, and this was a Kasari march.

And it was just beginning of the adventure.

Chapter Ten

The Redwoods Of Bransei

Waking up in a forest, the dew wet on your face, is always disconcerting.  Doing so surrounded by four hundred children was novel.

“Breakfast, Master,” little Vis said, bringing me a wooden bowl of porridge from the pot over the fire.  “The trekmaster has said we depart in twenty minutes.”

I thought I was the trek master, but the Kasari had an official title for the person who decides when it was time to get moving, and I was surprised that it wasn’t me.  It was a thirteen year old in Patrol One.  I hadn’t even been consulted.  I ate my porridge, and drank the strong tea Vis brought me a moment later, and the next thing I knew it was time for inspection, I had all ten of the boys lined up, and I hadn’t even peed yet.

I did the best I could, following the Kasari maxim.  I gulped my meal, looked over the boys’ costumes, though I could find nothing amiss, and then dismissed them to break down the camp, which they did in a remarkably short time.  By the time I had gotten back from a required trip into the underbrush, they were ready to go.

I hurriedly packed up my own gear, cursing myself silently for easy living and the soft beds of Sevendor.  I needed toughening, I decided.  I started to get angry with myself as I reflected on all of the comforts I’d surrounded myself with in the last few years.  Yes, I’d faced a dragon – a lot of dragons – and more than a couple of hordes of bloodthirsty goblins.  But those had been relatively brief moments of exertion in an otherwise sedentary life.  I rode horses, now.  Hells, I took the Alkan Ways, instead of crossing distances like normal people.  If I –

Minalan, what the hells have you done to me? moaned Penny’s mind into mine.  My entire body aches!  I got no sleep!  Those girls . . . those girls talked all . . . night . . . long!

I chuckled to myself and try to keep it out of my head.  I sympathize.  These boys are entirely too energetic.  Try not to kill anyone for irritating you too much.  Your light-o’-love probably wouldn’t like it.

He’d never find the body, she promised.

We were, indeed, ready to march in a surprisingly short time.  A call on the horn and we were forming up in ranks again, the banner-bearer at the head of the line.  I wasn’t even awake yet, and my legs were moving. My feet were pounding forward.  My legs were going up and down.

The forest was lovely and lush in the morning, the dim light barely filtering through the thick deciduous canopy.  These were big trees, larger than any in Sevendor’s small forests.  The underbrush was sparse, limited to clumps of holly and occasional meadows thick with shrubs; otherwise it was just tree after tree, as far as the eye could see, uphill and downhill.

There were birds and bugs and small mammals and lizards and things I couldn’t identify.  After an hour on the trail I started to get the feeling that we were in an endless forest.  I spent my time in contact mind-to-mind with the magi in the other troops.  The Pathfinders were plunging ahead, Tyndal enthusiastically relayed, and Arborn reported through him that the rangers had detected no activity along the frontier of the forest.  The folk of Carmella’s troop were complaining about the amount of extra equipment they had to carry, but that was the extent of the problems.

Then we crossed over a cataract and across a boulder field, and I saw the great redwoods for the first time.

The trees towered overhead, dwarfing the forest behind us.  They blotted out the sun, their canopies so high they harbored mists in tight little clumps, as if the trees were growing clouds as fruit.  It was amazing, akin to the wonder I’d felt at seeing the Alka Alon’s groves but . . . far more majestic.  It was as close as I’ve had to a divine experience since my daughter was born.  And that included meeting a goddess.

They were filled with birds, thousands of them in each tree.  We continued walking toward them, their trunks impossibly large and growing larger with each step.  When we breached the edge of the grove they stood taller than towers above us.  I gawked more than the children around me at the sight, and the patrol behind me gently urged me forward.

It was less like walking through a forest and more like walking in a land of impossibly tall towers.  The great redwood forest, I was told by one of the boys, stretched for miles ahead of us.  Only the Kasari had been permitted to walk here in many, many years.  I felt honored, and awed, by the great trees.  I did my best to ask dozens of questions, which the boys were only too happy to answer, and observe everything I could.

That evening we came to a narrow but deep river that cut through the valley from the north, turning into a bit of a waterfall and pooling before continuing on.  I knew from reports from Tyndal and Rondal that their troops had stopped for the night among the trees on the slope ahead.  The river looked like a good place to camp to me.

That, of course, inspired a lot of splashing and bathing as the children washed the dust and dirt from their faces.  I contacted Gareth to prepare to send us dinner, and I took off my boots before gratefully dangling them into the icy cold stream.  I almost regretted it . . . until the cold began to numb my sore, tired feet.  The spells had helped a lot, but we had done nearly forty miles in two days.  Even magic has its limits.

In a moment I had a guest.  Penny nearly flung down her boots and plunged her feet into the rippling water, an expression of pain and relief washing over her sweaty, dirty face.  Her hair was plaited into the same long braid all of the Kasari girls wore, with a kerchief tied under her chin.  She looked exhausted, sweaty, unkempt and absolutely adorable.

“How are you doing?” I asked, casually.

“I’m surviving,” she said, after a few too many moments of silence.  “I’m getting used to the pace, at least.  Good choice for a camp site.  The girls were thrilled.”

“No bathing,” I reminded her.  The trekmaster had very specific instructions on just where and when the children could bathe.  The Kasari had very wholesome but conservative ideas about sex, which I imagined was getting to Penny.

“I know,” she replied, glumly.  “I wasn’t thinking of bathing.  Oh, I could use a bath, no doubt.  But I like the river nearby.  It makes the trees seem less intimidating.”

“I don’t think anything could be less intimidating, in this forest.  How long must they have grown here?  Why did they grow so large?  Was there magic involved?”

“Not any direct magic, I think, though this has the feel of the Alka Alon,” she conceded.  “But this is natural, not supernatural.  Each tree is like a miniature forest of its own.  Like a coral reef on the land.  It’s amazing.  But intimidating.”

“I’ve never felt more insignificant in my life,” I agreed, “and that includes meeting a couple of dukes, a couple of dragons, and the Dead God.”

“You can see why the Kasari are anxious to protect them,” she nodded.  “They are sublime.  Worthy of protecting.  Perhaps that’s why our ancestors set the Kasari here in the first place, to protect the redwoods.  Just a theory,” she added.

We’d been playing this game since we’d started associating with the Kasari, me for strategic reasons, her for romantic ones.  But we were both fascinated by the Kasari claim to being among the first of humanity to settle Callidore.

There were enough oddities in their culture to merit suspicion of such a thing, we both agreed.  No other race we knew was completely literate, for example.  No other culture had seemingly abolished class based on wealth.  The fact that they used Old Perwynese, as well as their own language, certainly suggested it.  Perwyn was on the other side of the continent and half an ocean from Bransei, but all of the writing I’d seen used the ancient language.

But those trees convinced me more than anything, up to then.  If I were our ancestors, come to a new world, I would set a watch on their majesty and protect their groves.  I would make a race much like the Kasari, in other words, to protect something so sacred.

That night was the first major test of our supply rods, and they worked as we had anticipated.  After confirming with Gareth that it was ready and secured in the extra-dimensional space, I invoked the command word on a flat bit of rock near the river . . . and a moment later an entire cauldron of food, surrounded by thick loaves of the most excellent bread in the world (Dad’s), appeared out of nowhere.

There was a second of pause while the eyes of the Kasari children grew wide.  Then all hell broke loose as they cheered the magical feast.  It was a thick bean soup liberally supplied with chunks of smoked pork, onions, potatoes, and a lot of garlic.  Each patrol sent a member with the patrol’s cauldron and brought back a pot full.  It was delicious.  After two days of walking I devoured every morsel, soaking up the excess with a chunk of bread.

Thankfully, Gareth had included a jug of good, strong Riverlands ale for me.  I didn’t have the Kasari’s wholesome attitude toward alcohol.  Besides, it made the perfect complement to the soup.  I enjoyed draining my horn immensely, and belched onions, garlic, beer and beans while my feet enjoyed the luxury of not feeling like feet in the stream.  Penny and I talked until the stars came out, quietly passing a flask of pear brandy between us.  That night I slept a dreamless sleep inspired by weariness and encouraged by brandy.  The next morning I was loath to put my boots back on.

Toward noon on the third day I was afforded a rare opportunity.  We passed by a Kasari ranger post among the giant redwoods, and I got invited to go to the top and take in the view.  In a land with such massive trees, building a tower to watch over them was futile.  Instead, the Kasari pressed the trees themselves into service.

I almost declined, when I saw the rope ladder they lowered down to us.  That was a really long ladder, yet its length was a bare fraction of the tree it descended from.  I could see the head of the man who lowered the ladder peek over the side of a small platform that had been built into the side of the great tree.  The sudden sense of scale was dizzying, as I realized just how much further the tree extended beyond him.

Still, I couldn’t exactly say no to climbing the largest trees in the world.  How often do you get a chance like that?  I smiled and followed the ranger guide up the long rope ladder until my fingers stung almost as much as my feet hurt.  But finally I made it to the platform, Penny and Festaran behind me.

It was impressive.  We were more than four stories above the forest floor, about as tall as my tower, and I could see a surprisingly long way through the forest.  That’s when Penny tapped me on the shoulder.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked.

I didn’t know what she meant, until I saw the basket.  A well-constructed wooden basket, with three protruding beams that formed a tripod overhead, was sitting on the edge of the platform.

She sighed, walked around me, and got in.  There was room for four, if we scrunched in, and our ranger guide pushed in behind us before securing the entry with a rope.  He grinned and looked up.  So did I.  That’s when I saw the other rope, tied to the apex of the basket where the three beams came together.  It was a thick knot, the rope thick enough to support a bridge.  It extended up through the canopy above, until it disappeared among the boughs.

With a sickening realization, I understood what was happening. I even started to wonder just how they were planning on doing it, with that perfectly rational and analytical part of my mind, before the purely emotional part started to loudly object to the possibility.  That’s when the world suddenly fell out from my feet, and I was flying.

It was a splendidly rapid ascent, once my stomach caught up with me.  We traveled up the rope past layer after layer of forest, the giant redwood trunk next to us gradually growing smaller in width as we rose.  A burst of birds fled above us as we ascended, thousands of avian voices objecting to the interruption in their working day as he hurdled through their flocks.

Half way up we sped past the counterbalance, a giant log forty feet or more in length, plunging toward the ground suspended by the other end of the rope we were suspended from.  Suddenly that rope didn’t really look all that thick, anymore.

Our ascent slowed slightly, then much more abruptly, until we popped through a hole in the floor of the actual ranger’s lookout.  With trembling hands and a twisted stomach I gratefully took the hand of the smiling young ranger who helped me out of the basket.

We proved to be on a landing deck built onto the side of a great platform built directly onto the tree.  I looked around frantically, looking to ensure we were secure – a natural response that I’m not ashamed of.  What I saw made me feel better.  This hall in the sky wasn’t going anywhere.

The canopy of the mighty tree at this level was formed of two gigantic boughs that extended northwest and southwest of the tree’s trunk for over fifty feet.  A giant deadfall, a smaller dead branch fallen from above, had wedged itself across the two great boughs, locked in by a tangle of entwined branches.  The Kasari had made use of this natural formation by lashing the boughs together with some of that massive rope, and then covering the resulting triangle with a long, sturdy flooring of other branches – mere sticks and twigs, compared to the great branches they were bound to.

Instead of a roof supported by the platform, the Kasari had used an overhanging bough one could consider small only by comparison, and stretched a wide hempcloth tarpaulin over it, securing it with ropes to protect their outpost from rain and snow.

Inside the arboreal hall a cast iron stove in the shape of a large acorn allowed the rangers to cook and heat – the tree provided plenty of firewood in the form of deadfall.  I could see by the number of squirrel and racquiel pelts hanging from the hall that the watchers did not even have to leave their treetop nest to hunt.  Indeed, the entire canopy was thick with wildlife.

“Oh, Minalan, look!” Penny said, sucking her breath.  I turned around to see what she was looking at . . . and all of the redwood forest was spread out before me.

Thanks to the height of the tree we were in, relative to the ones lower down the slope of the mountain, we had a nearly unimpeded view of the land to the south beyond the edge of the forest, all the way to the gray hills on the horizon.  As watchtowers go, this one was extremely useful.  Even without magesight, you could clearly see the approach to the forest for miles.  With magesight, you could have spotted a single goblin.

The Kasari didn’t have magesight, but they did have spyglasses.  That was a pretty sophisticated device, for a bunch of tribals.  It turned out that basic optics are taught to the higher-ranked Kasari, who employed mirrors for signaling.  They also used flares, smoke, secret signs, bird calls, and other means of communicating.  But the most impressive was also one of the simplest.

This outpost was one of many along this line, it was explained, as I watched with fascination a ranger climb to a platform on the roof bough, bearing two banners, one in each hand.  I thought perhaps that they would signal with flags, as ships at sea do, but instead the man began to stand in a series of poses, the bright yellow banners extended at arms’ length in different positions.  The next tree outpost over had a man in a similar position watching the signals.

“So each position has a particular meaning?” I asked, intrigued.

“Each position is a particular letter,” Penny explained.  “The Kasari are all literate.  Each position represents one letter, so a simple sentence can be communicated from one tower to another.  The ranger who watches calls out the letters to a recorder, who writes them down on parchment.  But you can communicate an entire order that way, just like reading a letter.  Each station passes the message down the line to the next, until it reaches its destination.”

“That’s . . . amazing,” I nodded.  “And they do it all without magic.”

“Just literacy,” she shrugged.  “Do you see why I like this culture?”

“And Arborn does tend to epitomize it,” I agreed.  “But this . . . I can see all sorts of uses for this technique.  And it explains how the Bransei Kasari are always able to mobilize so quickly, for being so dispersed.”

The main Bransei settlement we had started from was the cultural and administrative center of the sacred groves, true, but according to our guides most of the Bransei Kasari lived in small communities or isolated settlements scattered throughout their lands.

But every time the Wilderlords attempted to steal into the forest after the great redwoods, expecting a little local resistance easily chased away by their knights, the Kasari would suddenly pour hundreds of cunning archers down on them far faster than the Alshari expected.  It had always been blamed on bad luck, poor leadership, or some tribal black magic.  But the Kasari flag code explained how they were able to get so many of their folk to arms so quickly – and quietly.

“I wonder how far off the ground we are,” I mused.

“Five hundred ninety one feet,” Sir Festaran replied, automatically, in a hoarse voice.  I’d almost forgotten the young knight was there, but his big ears and curly black hair were right behind me.

“Uh . . . that’s a lot,” I admitted.  I tried to remember if I’d ever been this high up without a mountain under me.  Nothing was coming to mind.  “I can see why this would be a strategically important site,” I nodded.  “You can see miles in each direction.”

“Four and three-quarter miles to the east, six and a third miles to the west,” Festaran agreed, his voice louder, but still a little shaky.  “Over eleven miles of observable territory.”

That was even more impressive.  With the flag-waving system, I could see how a few of these treehouses in strategic spots would be an ideal warning system.  And the Kasari had more than a few of them.  There were a dozen rangers stationed here, with another half-dozen out patrolling the frontier.

“What if there’s an incursion?” Penny asked our guide.  “A couple of trolls with axes and those big bronze shields they carry would be hard to defend against from up here,” she noted, glancing over the railing to the ground below.

“They’ve tried,” the man chuckled.  “Aye, as did the Narasi before them.  We used the same tactic.  There are caches of deadwood up here, mostly for firewood but also for defense.  The trolls who tried it last year got a couple of chords on their heads.  And we can descend the tree quickly, at need,” he continued, nodding toward a long coil of rope hanging from the far side of the roof bough.  “We can even go most of the way down and shoot at them from the air.  Believe me, this outpost is tougher than it looks.”

Coming down was just as impressive as going up.  When we had our feet on the dirt again, we couldn’t even see the outpost above us.  Except for the four hundred children gathered around the trunk, a passer-by would not have been able to tell the difference between the outpost tree and any of the dozens of others in sight.

Something else that was impressive was dinner: the cauldron transport spells worked splendidly, and the big iron kettle full of chicken stew and cornbread instantly filled the encampment at the base of the tree with a delicious smell, enticing enough to bring a few rangers down from the treetop to join us.  There was plenty, of course, and I sent the remainder back up with our guests for the on-duty rangers to enjoy.  A wave of the supply rod and the empty pot was returned to Talry.

That night we slept peacefully, and I placed only the most cursory of wards around our camp before checking in with Alya by Mirror, blowing kisses at the kids in the tiny bit of glass I could see them through, and going to sleep.  The next morning we got up at dawn and enjoyed another kettle of porridge before getting back on the trail.

That was a long day, because the next truly safe place for us to stop was another ranger outpost known as the Overlook, on the other side of the redwood forest. Seventeen miles southeast of where we woke up.  That’s a long hard hike through rough country, even with the trails the Kasari had developed over the centuries.

We only stopped for half an hour’s rest and luncheon at noon, then pushed on until a little after dark.  I had the various magi in each troop use magelights, even though they might attract some stray goblin attention, because I would rather get to a safe spot in enough time to avoid danger than blunder around in the darkness and stumble into it.

The Overlook, as we discovered the next morning, was a high cliff that – you guessed it – overlooked the first big valley to the east of the Kasari lands, proper.  Since the invasion the Narasi homesteads that had been there had been deserted, their residents fled, dead or enslaved.  The Overlook allowed the Kasari a bit of visible presence, warning both Narasi Wilderlords and gurvani warriors of their presence . . . and the danger of intruding over their borders.  A pyramid of rotting goblin heads at the bottom of the overlook gave testament to that.

The Overlook outpost itself was old, though not as ancient as the Bransei Mountain settlement.  A squat three-story stone building stood at the top of a rocky path narrow enough to be defended by a single man, if he knew what he was doing.  Plenty of convenient places to shoot from gave the trail that much more cover.  It wasn’t a castle, in any real sense, but it was a very defendable spot in a strategic location.  The Kasari had stationed almost a hundred rangers there in anticipation of our passing through, but normally there were at least fifty.

My patrol explained to me that the Overlook was one of the main ranger stations, commanded by one of the Masters, and the point from which most of the ranger missions and patrols on the eastern side of the lands began.  The little hall even had a stable . . . and a kennel.

I didn’t think much of that last – the Kasari absolutely love dogs, and hunt voraciously.  But when my troop woke up the next morning, still tired after the push we’d made the day before, it was to the sight of a dozen hounds bounding across the compound . . . leaping over several boys at a time as they did so.

That’s easy to do when you’re the size of a horse.

“The sled dogs!” Pentandra said, snapping her fingers.  “The ones we transgenically enchanted!”

“We really didn’t turn many of them back, after the battle,” I admitted, a little guiltily.  Not that the dogs were in any kind of pain or discomfort with their great size, but they ate tremendously.  “And the Kasari rangers did love them.  But how did they get so many?” I asked, shaking my head in wonder.

The Master of the outpost was only too happy to explain it to me, when he joined us for a magical breakfast.  Some of the rangers who had returned from the war in the south had brought back their giant canines, and some others had captured loose dogs in the wilderness.

As a result, I was told, at least a score of huge mutts were now pets of the Kasari, with most of them being kept here at Overlook.  They could be fed here with wild game, as opposed to eating the settlement’s stores.  Besides, the Master confided, their droppings had presented quite a problem in the main settlement.

So the council had instructed that almost all of the giant hounds were to be moved to Overlook.  The master indulgently showed the prize he’d had as a result: two of the giant bitches had given birth, and there were five puppies the size of full-grown sheep in the “kennel” that had once been a spare storeroom.

“And they’re right dab at patrolling, too,” the Master explained.  “Great guard dogs, beautiful noses.  They can sniff out a goblin sapper like a bone.  And when they fight . . . well, I’ll put one of the cifidlon up against those ciufurn, any day!” he chortled, revealing crooked teeth as he spoke the words in Kasari.

“Fell hounds,” he explained, when he saw my confusion.  “The tribals started using them to patrol, a few months ago.  But Rosie, there, that big bitch on the end, she tore out two throats and killed an entire patrol of scrugs.  Right good hunters, too,” he smiled, sighing.

I enjoyed playing with them for a few moments, and if you’ve never seen four hundred kids around a big fuzzy dog that towers over them, it’s adorable on a scale few mortals can appreciate.  The dogs were as happy as the kids were, and we wasted maybe an hour just frolicking before we finally set off.

Happily, two of the big mutts were coming with us at least as far as Otter’s Point.  Our ranger guide, Gaios, had adopted two of the giant canines for his own, and they listened to his commands attentively and obediently.  The two were called Alana and Bel by our ranger, and they quietly patrolled around us, in front of us, and behind us while we marched from the last of the great forest into the broken country beyond.

I felt better about that.  While traveling with animals other than horses is rarely efficient or expedient, having a pair of giant hounds around made me feel better about cross a stretch of gurvani Penumbra without more of an argument to make. .  Having the giant hounds around kept us all a bit cheerier, as they were always willing to chase each other or a stick or a rabbit for our mutual amusement

It was quite enjoyable time to walk, as sore as my feet were becoming.  Magic helped, but you can only do so much with it.

The country was changing as we walked east from the Overlook.  The great redwoods were behind us, still looming large on the western horizon, and the Kasari woodlands extended a ways east beyond them.

But the land was a lot more open, here, which meant open to goblins.  After Otter’s Point, we’d be losing the majority of our protection, too.  That was well and truly Narasi territory – or it was until the goblins had evicted them.  The Kasari would not linger there long.

That afternoon we saw the first goblin patrol in the distance.  The ranger captain flashed the Kasari sign, and suddenly every foot stopped.  At another sign, all four hundred kids knelt down and froze, with a lot more discipline that most mercenary outfits display.

There was danger ahead, and it was warranted.  One of our ranger escorts had spotted them on our southern flank, and had informed the captain, who crept forward to see himself.   I joined him, after silently asking Penny to prepare some defensive spells.

We were behind a clump of bushes and a rock as big as a wheelbarrow, but we could see them through the trees.  It was a foot patrol, at the edges of the hill country, perhaps five or six goblins we could see with magesight, and more likely in hiding.  They didn’t approach, but they did observe.

I was worried about that, for security reasons.  It was too much to hope for that we’d be able to escape notice entirely, but I was hoping the smaller groups we were traveling in wouldn’t be considered much of a threat.

“What sign do they bear?” asked our ranger, nervously biting his lip after I told him the news.  I was using magesight, examining the foe from a distance.  It took a little adjusting, but I finally caught sight of one, and the dark livery he wore.

“It’s . . . a red face, sort of,” I said.  “Gurvani heraldry isn’t my specialty.”

“Not tribal, then,” the ranger said, shaking his head.  “The red mask is the mark of the Harrikak.  They’re a tribe or household who has attached themselves to one of the renegades in the Penumbra.  Strange, we don’t usually see them this far north.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“All goblins are dangerous,” he snapped, quietly.  “But these more than most.  The Harrikak and their dark master have set up their own little domain, out there,” he said, nodding toward the Penumbra.  “They answer only to the high priesthood, from what I hear.  Every now and then he actually leads them in battle.  A warmage, ‘tis said.”

“Mask,” I named her.  “And he is a she, we’re pretty certain.  One of the renegades we’ve been tracking.  A rogue warmage who wears an obscuring cover over her face.   Are we in danger?” I asked, reframing my question.

“Nay,” the ranger admitted, chewing his lip nervously.  “But they’ve spotted us and they’re too far away for us to catch them.  If you were planning on secrecy for this march, that bird may have flown the tree,” he said, quietly.

“’Plan’ might be a strong term,” I ventured.  “But it would have been nice.  How far away to Mask’s keep?”

“Three, perhaps four days, in a straight ride across country,” he replied.  “More, if they go by foot.”

“Then we should be well away from here by then.  Hopefully they’ll just think it’s an internal Kasari matter.  By the time they reach their headquarters, we should be at Otter’s Point.  We’ll be safe there,” I assured him.

Mistakenly.

Chapter Eleven

Otter’s Point

Otter’s Point was where things started to get tricky.  We would lose the majority of our Kasari ranger escort, though they would still be in service to the march.  They were going back home the long way, screening us for any possible pursuers, once we left Otter’s Point.  Or Lotanz, as it was known on the Duchy of Alshar’s maps.

Lotanz, or Osbury Manor, as it was known best locally, was originally built as part of the Dukes of Alshar’s policy of securing the redwoods – and in the process, conquering the lands – of the wild upcountry.  And while the Kasari were tenacious in the defense of their sacred groves, once you were beyond their boundaries they did not interfere.

When a band of younger sons and petty lordlings from the South came here, with the support and mandate from the Duke to subdue the various wild tribes in the region, one of them chose Otter’s Point as his stronghold.  The Point was actually a large flat chunk of rock with a bit of topsoil in the middle, about a quarter mile long, that neatly split the Osbury River that rushed around it like a fat, lopsided boat.  The western end was a platform of rock over twelve feet above the flood stage, and river itself flattened out at the lower eastern end of the rock, creating a natural ford.

The rock was a favorite spot for river otters, and there were still plenty of them scurrying around the Point.  But the Alshari Wilderlords had added a motte and a three story square keep to the center of it, and then built a wall that turned the Point into a passable fortress.  For years the Wilderlords of Lotanz used it as a base to raid the Kasari, the gurvani, and other tribes in the region while overseeing their client smallholders.  While the Kasari had resisted, the others had been driven away or conquered, their descendants working as bondsmen or even villeins, in some traditional-minded domains.

Eventually the fortress became more of a proper manor, as the lands in the fertile little valley were farmed.  And then the goblin invasion came.  But unlike most of the other manor castles in the area, the Lord of Lotanz, Garway, defended his tiny castle on his worthless piece of rock as goblin patrols strolled by, just out of bowshot, unwilling to waste their time.  Most of the action in the initial invasion was south or west of here, or east, but remote Lotanz survived.

Ironically, it was the proximity of the Kasari that the keep had been built to conquer that had saved it.  The Kasari had been vigilant during that horrible time.  Any gurvan who came within their frontiers was shot, and in the few battles the gurvani attempted at the edge of the forests, they had been overwhelmed.  Even a goblin high priest has a hard time with spells with an arrow in his throat.  The Kasari’s fierceness had kept the bulk of the goblin armies at bay, leaving only the tribal folk to bother Garway at Osbury Manor.

The tribal gurvani were fierce and bent on revenge, but they were unsophisticated.  Without assistance their repeated strikes at the hated fortress on the edge of their conquest was unsuccessful.  Garway had held out, refusing active assistance from his Kasari neighbors and extracting severe pledges of labor from his terrified peasants.  With no more than twenty men, he protected his little slip of rock while most of the rest of the Wilderlands was swallowed under a sea of stinking black fur.

He had courage, I had to grant him that.  A wiser man would have fled.  But Garway was a Wilderlord, and he was tenacious.

He was also kind of an asshole.

I received the summons mid-morning, as we left the Kasari frontier and were stepping back into enemy territory.  We were making good time, the showers we saw on the horizon unlikely to affect us.  I was looking forward to lunch, soon.   That’s when I got Tyndal’s message, mind-to-mind.

Master, we have an issue, he said, simply.  Lord River Rat doesn’t want us to cross the river, much less camp here tonight.

That was a problem.  Our plan was to re-group at Otter’s Point, before we started south.  I didn’t want us to get too spread out, and we had planned several such gatherings at defensible points along our route.

Is he trying to charge you a toll?

No, he just flat-out refuses.  Says he’s the lord of this domain, and he isn’t about to let a bunch of barbarian urchins run rampant through his lands.

Does he, now? I asked, already not liking the man.  And what did you say to that?

That I would inform my master of his position and await instruction, my senior apprentice said, diplomatically.  Can I start storming the castle now?

No, wait for me, I decided.  Bide.  I’ll be there shortly.

I cut contact and then re-established it with Pentandra.  Penny, can you watch the kids for a while?  Tyndal has a problem ahead I need to go check out.

Gurvani? She asked, nervously.

Wilderlord, I corrected.  Sounds like a charmer, too.  I don’t think we’ll be in any danger.  I just need to be diplomatic about it.

You so excel at that, she replied, her mental voice dripping with sarcasm.

I’m a credit to my teacher, I agreed.

Ouch!  All right, you go.  We’ll keep . . . marching.  We’re good at marching.

I stifled a mental chuckle and then broke contact with her.  Explaining the situation to Sir Festaran and our ranger captain Gaios, they agreed to slow the pace and keep watch.  Gaios was particularly anxious.  Gurvani were easy to fight, but he did not trust Wilderlords, especially one with such a long history of hatred for the Kasari.  Gaios was a suspicious man, always thinking that there was danger around the next bend, an ambush behind every tree, treachery in every word.  I valued him for that.

It only took a few more minutes to step out of rank and use the Waypoint spell to travel three miles ahead.  I’d given each of the magi in the march a Waystone so that I could do this very thing.  With our trek spread out as much as it was, being able to move instantly between troops was a huge advantage over the way I’d commanded armies in the past.

In moments I was standing on the cool, shady bank of the river, Otter’s Point towering in front of me, overcoming the nausea I was getting used to.  The Kasari all stepped back a pace, upon my sudden appearance, but I ignored their wonder.  I had a job to do.

“What’s the situation?” I asked without preamble.

Tyndal was leaning against an elm tree, his arms crossed over his chest, a bemused expression on his face and a long blade of grass between his lips.

“Lord Mudfoot is patiently waiting for us to dispatch a messenger,” he answered, nodding to the squat square tower on the big slab of rock.  “But he remains stubbornly defiant to our desire to cross the river.  He has suggested that if we attempt to do so, his men will fire on us.”

“He’d fire on children?” I asked, skeptically.

“He’d fire on Kasari,” Arborn said, stepping out of the shadows.  I hadn’t even seen him standing there.  “Lord Garway’s antipathy toward our council has a long history.  His father was wounded in a skirmish at our frontier, and was lame to his dying day.  He has quietly warred with us even when his Narasi overlords have forbidden it.”

“He’s a big steaming pile of Wilderlord,” agreed Fondaras, the Alshari footwizard who had been so valuable in providing intelligence about the region.  “He had me imprisoned for a few days once, and threatened to summon the Censorate, when he caught me casting spells for his folk.  I had to bribe my way out, and I steered clear of Osbury Manor ever since.  He’s king of his little land without oversight.  He’s going to be a tough one to contend with, if he wants to fire on the Kasari.”

“Well, his overlord has forbidden it,” I agreed.  “What’s more, we have explicit permission.  Where is this Lord Mudfoot?”

“At the gatehouse, by the drawbridge,” Tyndal chuckled.  “He’s the one in the aptly-shaped mushroom helmet, with the dirty green surcoat.”

“All right.  You and Arborn.  And Fondaras,” I nodded and sighed.  Time to put on my noble face.

I tried to clean the road dust off of my face and shook out my cloak.  I nodded to my native mage, and he fell into step with Tyndal, behind me.  Arborn led me to the edge of the river, across from the raised drawbridge of Lotanz Castle.  There were three or four men standing on the parapet of the gatehouse over it, crossbows slung lazily over their shoulders.

“Hail the castle!” I called through cupped hands.  “I would speak to Lord Garway!”

There was a moment of conversation among them before a short man in a very phallic shaped helmet stepped to the wall, a crossbow held casually in his arm.  It was cocked.

“I am Lord Garway,” he called in a deep voice.  “Who are you, stranger?”

“Magelord Minalan the Spellmonger, Baron of Sevendor,” I answered promptly.  “I am on a mission for the realm.”

“Magelord, eh?  And a baron, at that?  What rubbish!  And I’d heard that the Duke of Castal thinks he’s a king, now,” the petty lordling called back.  “I’ll take no orders from a crown I’ve not sworn to!”

“Then take them from the coronet you have,” I demanded.  “I come on a mission for His Grace, Duke Anguin of Alshar.  Indeed, His Grace has named me a Marshal of Alshar.”

That got his attention.  Marshals were specially-appointed military offices, and every lord who swore ducal fealty was sworn to obey them as if the duke’s Warlord had commanded them, himself.  I had no idea if Alshar even had a warlord, currently, but the parchment in my pouch should be sufficient.

“And you have the credentials saying that?” he asked, skeptically.

“Sealed by His Grace’s own hand,” I assured him, patting the waxed leather case at my belt.  “Duke Anguin calls directs me to call upon all his loyal vassals for assistance.  Will you please lower the drawbridge so we can speak without shouting?”

“I can hear you fine from there,” the man snorted.  “Whatever parchment you have in your pocket, the Duke is a long way from Lotanz.  I don’t know you, and that raggedy band of outlaws at your back doesn’t help your case.”

“They are subjects of His Grace, as are you,” I reminded him.  “They are part of my mission.  I seek to lodge within the safety of your castle tonight, and then pass through to the south in a day or so.”

“Do you now?” the lordling laughed unpleasantly.  “I fancy you do!  The only shelter for twenty miles that doesn’t have a tribe of scrugs fornicating in it, and you want in!  Then you’ll want your rabble to eat every scrap in the place! And then hike merrily through my domain, stealing everything of value!” he snorted incredulously.

“Actually, I’m pretty much demanding that you lower the drawbridge, now,” I called back.  “As a loyal subject of the Duke, I command you in his name to open your gates and allow us entry.  Failure to comply will result in the harshest of penalties, including the potential forfeiture of your domain to the coronet.  This is your last opportunity to do so: Lord Garway of Lotanz, lower your drawbridge!”

The petty lord eyed me with mocking amusement.  “Oh, aye, I would, your magelordship, but the chain has jammed in the windlass and I cannot, alas.”

“Then I suppose I shall just have to find some other way in,” I shrugged.  That earned a cackle that the trio of guardsmen shared.

“Oh, you can try,” he said, shaking his penis-shaped helmet.  “But a thousand goblins have left their heads behind trying for the last three years.  The Point will yield to you no more than it did to them.”

“It was being held in defense against them,” I pointed out.  “I will not have that disadvantage.”

“You’re awfully trusting, then,” Garway clucked.  “But aye, if you can manage to open the bloody thing, we can stand there, drink wine, and talk all afternoon like the gentlemen we are!”

“What an excellent idea.  Tyndal . . .” I muttered to my apprentice.

“I’m two miles downriver of you, Master,” the lad assured me, using a Riverlands expression.  He closed his eyes for a second, looked back up . . . and a loud snapping of the chain inside the gatehouse sent the great redwood drawbridge crashing down over the river, blowing up a cloud of dust as it hit.  The men inside looked on speechless, their mouths open.  Behind the drawbridge a stout iron portcullis protected the interior of the castle.  I was hoping I wouldn’t have to destroy it.

“Oh, look,” I observed.  “Your drawbridge seems to be working again.  I shall join you in the middle of it.  I trust you’ll bring the wine, Lord Garway?”

I allowed the witchsphere to float free from the pouch I carried it in when I marched and it began to float behind me like a faithful hound.

“Nice touch, Master,” Tyndal murmured.

“Flashy,” Fondaras said, shaking his head in professional dismissal.

“It makes the point,” I shrugged.  “A seed of presentation is worth a bushel of performance.  Hopefully Garway is smart enough to realize I’m not to be trifled with.”

It took a few more minutes to convince them to raise the portcullis and speak to me, but once I assured them I had no intention waiting any longer, Garway grudgingly came out, his crossbow still in his hands.  He looked a little more anxious, now, but still arrogant.  I used the time wisely, taking the opportunity to call a friend, mind-to-mind, and arrange something.

“Nice trick,” he grunted. “But it doesn’t change anything.  And now you owe me for the chain!”

“I just prefer not to shout,” I said, diplomatically, to the arrogant little prick.  But I had to do this the right way, to be legal.  I hauled out my commission papers and presented them to Garway.  He touched the seal with his fingers, but he didn’t read it.  He didn’t know how.  “That’s my commission from the Duke, giving me permission to make use of any and all military facilities along my route in furtherance of my mission.  As a vassal of the Duke’s baron, I charge you to faithfully execute his orders or faces charges of rebellion.”

“And who is going to arrest me for a rebel?” he scoffed, laying his crossbow over his shoulder.

All right, Tyndal, back everyone out of bowshot, I sent him, mind-to-mind.  I didn’t even turn around to see if they were leaving.

“My lord, I am empowered with that very honor,” I assured him.  “If you refuse your duty and declare yourself a rebel, I am authorized to take any actions I deem necessary to arrest you and hold you for the duke’s justice.”

“And you really think you’re man enough to do that?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.  “Your friends don’t seem to think so.  They’re getting out of here, quick,” he said, chuckling.

“They just don’t want to be caught in the crossfire,” I explained to him, calmly.  “I’ll offer you one final chance to do your duty, Lord Garway.  Will you open your gate and comply, or do you rebel against your overlord?”

“I don’t see any godsdamned overlord here,” he sneered.  “My ancestors have held this land for two centuries, and I’ll not be ordered about by a footwizard with a parchment, and an army of children!”

I sighed.  “Then you rebel.  Very well,” I said, and called upon my witchsphere.  I took two sudden steps forward, and before he could get his arbalest off of his shoulder, I was touching him.  More importantly, I was including him in my spell.

In three heartbeats we re-appeared a hundred and fifty miles south, in the private chamber of Magelord Astyral of Tudry, and three husky warmagi.

“Lord Garway, I have the honor of arresting you in the name of Duke Anguin for rebellion and resisting the lawful order of a Marshal of Alshar in defense of the realm.  Magelord Astyral, do you witness this arrest?”

“Oh, I do,” Astyral said, entwining the stunned knight with a binding spell.  “Relieve him of his weapons and see him to a cell in the tower befitting his station,” Astyral ordered.  The guards did so, as Garway struggled against his bonds and uttered a string of vile curses.

“I do hope you have wine,” I said, as he was being dragged away.  “I’ve been on the trail for five or six days, and while the Kasari are adept at most arts, vinting isn’t one of them, to my knowledge.”

“I thought you might be thirsty,” Astyral smiled, leading me to a table.  A Gilmoran, he was always the consummate host – and delighted in the finer things in life.  “A bottle of a Remeran red I’ve become fond of,” he told me, as he poured each of us a cup.  “I found it in one of the abandoned noble’s halls and enjoy it so much I’ve ordered two barrels from the estate.”

“Just one cup,” I warned him.  “I have to get back.  I have a castle to conquer.”

*                            *                            *

I was gone less than an hour, and when I returned it was to a small dell a quarter mile from the tower.  The crowd of children and the rangers who protected them had doubled in size, as Troop Two had arrived while I was gone.  I explained to everyone where I’d gone and what I’d done to the former Lord of Lotanz.  Now all we had to do was convince the rest of the castle to surrender.

It actually wasn’t that difficult.  My disappearance had caused quite the stir among the castle’s inhabitants, and when I once again approached the broken drawbridge, there was a party of five waiting for us upon it.  The castellan, it seems, had been imposed upon by the rest of the garrison to comply.  Whatever had happened to their lord, they reasoned, they wanted no part of it.  The castellan surrendered his key to me without a fight . . . although I can’t promise his mates didn’t have a dagger or two at hand behind his back while he surrendered.

But Lotanz Castle was ours.  I ordered Tyndal back to lead the Kasari children into the small bailey for the night while I took stock of the lonely tower.

The castellan was Garway’s toady, an enforcer of unpopular edicts, but like most bullies as soon as he saw who had the power, he knuckled under as soon as his fortunes had changed.  Before I knew it he was being so obsequious that I made him go take inventory of the stores, just to be rid of him.

More helpful was a yeoman named Lind, who had apparently organized the plot to compel the castellan to lay down his arms to us.  He and his family had a freeholding six miles away, he explained when I asked, nominally under the dominion of Lotanz.

When the invasion began they had relocated to Osbury Manor, inside the bailey, in an orderly enough fashion to keep the family intact.  Most weren’t so lucky.  But his six sons and four sons-in-law, two grandsons and a half-dozen smallholders who looked to him had given him some measure of command in the small garrison.  They were stout lads, all.  Garway hadn’t liked it, but without Lind’s folk the castle would have been overrun long before.

Indeed, Lotanz was fairly crowded for a keep its size.  The bailey was already clustered with huts, some two stories high to accommodate the people.  Some were yeomen or smallholders like Lind.  Many more were refugees who had gotten into the castle before Lord Garway had closed the gates to all but a few.  All told there were almost three hundred people inside the three-acre bailey. Around seventy of them were orphans.

“There were more, once,” Lind confided to me in his harsh Alshari accent.  “But then one day a priest comes and says he’ll lead some to safety.  Never seen a brother like that, before.  Didn’t seem properly godly.  But he took ten of them and promised to come back for more.  Said he took them to an orphanage.  I know full well there isn’t an orphanage out there in the wilderness,” he spat.  “But he was close as thieves with Garway, and our dear lord had plenty of coin to throw around, after that.”

“Slavers?”

“Who else wants children?” Lind asked, grimly.  “Garway certainly didn’t.  He hated feeding them. Took every opportunity to get rid of them.  Sent them out alone to gather nuts, berries, and mushrooms, and if some didn’t come back, that meant more beans for the rest.  Disgusting,” he said, spitting on the ground.  Then he looked around at the Kasari children streaming into the already-crowded bailey.  “We don’t have much, after last winter,” he said, cautiously.  “But we’ll share what we have.”

I grinned.  “Lind, I don’t think you have to worry.  I wasn’t lying about any of what I said.  I do have a commission from the Duke, and I do need this facility.  So . . . I am hereby appointing you castellan in the name of the Duke, to hold here until relieved by an appropriate authority.  Provided,” I said, raising a finger, as the man’s eyes got wider, “that you do so in concert with the Kasari.”  I waited for the disagreement to come.

“Truth be told, I’ve always favored the Kasari,” he confided, quietly.  “I trade with them often, for rope, cloth, sundries and such.  They’re honest,” he insisted.  “I don’t care what anyone says, I’ve never had a Kasari cheat or steal from me.  I can work with them, Magelord Minalan,” he assured me.

“Good.  They’re going to be instrumental in the containment strategy that’s being developed for the Penumbra.  I can’t have them be effective if the people in this castle shoot at them every time they see them.  The foe is the gurvani, not the Kasari.”

“So I’ve often told Lord Garway,” Lind said, shaking his head.  “But he was the lord, and the lord’s rule is law.”

“He rules Lotanz no more,” I assured him.  “You do, at least for the moment.  Or, I do, and I’ll turn it back over to you better than I found it . . . in more ways than one.”

I proved true to my word.  Once we got the castle under control, I set the Kasari rangers to watch and had Rondal and Tyndal see to establishing real magical wards around the place.  The rest of the troops arrived in an orderly fashion, and as the bailey filled up we had to set the last two out on the scrap of meadow beyond the wall on the Point.

We stayed at Lotanz for four days, and in that time we got a lot accomplished.  With the resources at hand we were able to quickly reinforce and strengthen the structure of the castle itself.  Carmella and her folk quickly constructed a three story wooden watchtower on top of the keep.  It was amazing how quickly she threw it together, but with magic and two thousand eager hands to work, it was complete in two days.

The gatehouse was strengthened as well, and the narrow, rickety platforms behind the crude crenels on the wall were improved, allowing more than one man to traverse the top of the wall at a time.  The chamber, with the Lord of Lotanz accumulated wealth inside, was cleared out and given over to Lind and his extended family.  That freed up a lot of room in the bailey.

After an afternoon of negotiations, Lind allowed the Kasari to use the castle as a base, coming and going as they pleased, in return for intelligence, protection, and supplies, as needed.  I also secured his assurance that he would allow its use for the Iron Band and other agents of the kingdom, in the ongoing war.

The remote nature of the domain, and its lack of strategic importance had helped preserve it, thus far, from the gurvani’s full attention.  But its proximity to our Kasari allies made it vital for us to maintain.  I aimed to make the castle the cornerstone of my line of pele towers along the perimeter of the Penumbra.  I put the glass sphere Taren had crafted in the top of the watchtower and set it alight on our third night there, to the cheers of all.

They had a lot to cheer about, too.  Rations had been thin at Lotanz for years.  The castle’s littoral location allowed the folk to supplement their diet with fishing and trapping, as well as hunting – the Wilderlands teemed with game.  There were small fields of barley, oats and millet nearby, carefully guarded, but they produced little enough without more careful tending.

Our arrival changed that.  The five magical cauldrons that appeared, brimming with a thick stew of chicken, corn, potatoes and vegetables, surrounded by hundreds of loaves of my father’s bread, was the best meal they’d enjoyed in recent memory.  After a few conversations with Gareth, on the third day I had him send a thousand pounds of wheat, casks of saltpork, and other supplies to restock the castle’s stores.

Carmella detailed one of her folk, Sir Asalath, to remain at Lotanz and act as its warmage-in-residence after we spent a few days repairing the old keep.  A Remeran mage with a talent for augmenting natural defenses, he assured me he could keep Lotanz safe and improve its defensibility against all but the most powerful foes.

He would tend the wards, continue construction projects to improve the castle’s defenses, and mind the Mirror and other enchantments we’d left there – including a Waystone, so I could return at will.  To him was also entrusted the supply rod I’d designated for the first tower, and instruction on how to use the glowing orb at the castle’s peak.

Sir Asalath was not the only help we were leaving behind.  The Kasari agreed to leave a garrison of ten rangers here, to help with the defense and act as a quick response force.  To them I charged the task of sweeping the surrounding lands for survivors, refugees, and escaped slaves from the Penumbra.  To Lind I tasked the duty of feeding and succoring those poor souls, sending along south any who could bear the journey.  The trail we were blazing was designed to catch the unfortunate who had been captured and preserve them.

But we weren’t just leaving people behind.  We were taking some, too. About fifty of the orphans who had accumulated at Lotanz Castle were eager to leave, regardless of the change in management.  The intermittent goblin attacks and the poor behavior of the lord had poisoned the place in their minds, or else they just wished to escape to someplace safer, or wanted to go south to search for distant relatives.

Another fifty mouths to feed, one way or another, wasn’t too much to add to our trek.  I spread them out amongst all of the troops, once it was decided that they would go with us, and I instructed the other children to teach them the Kasari ways.  They were poorly equipped, compared to the Kasari, but we managed to scare up enough clothes and packs for them to come along.  Most had no shoes, much less boots, but they were children in the Wilderlands, who had stayed alive for three years without much help.  Our march wouldn’t bother them, much, I figured.

Still, I placed an order with Gareth for shoes, once I added to our roster and mess.  Our manciple was starting to feel the strain of his post, but he dutifully agreed to send agents to the towns around Talry and purchase as many pairs as he could.  Likewise for cloaks and blankets.

The Lotanz children were eager to leave in such a grand company, once it had been announced that they could come along.  They agreed to obey their trekmasters, and learn the Kasari ways along the route.

Penny shook her head as I lectured them about the dangers of the road, but she knew leaving them here, in a warzone, was cruel when we were providing safe passage out.  The children even dutifully made a shrine to Herus, in the Narasi fashion, and prayed for safety and guidance on their journey.  I threw in my own offering, with a silent prayer myself.

“What are we going to do with them?” she asked in a private moment.

“Take them with us.”

“To where?” she pressed.  “The Kasari are going to Kasar.  Where are these orphans going?”

“Somewhere else,” I said, flatly.  “That’s all that matters, now.  We’ll sort that out when we get someplace where it matters.  Perhaps to Sevendor, if need be, or to a temple orphanage someplace safe.”

As we were leaving our ranger escorts and the safety of the forest behind us and descending in to the rolling valleys and piedmont of hills of the more-settled regions of the Wilderlands, from this point on the danger to the march grew. A hundred Kasari would travel with us for the rest of the march, but our security was now very much dependent on us.

So at Lotanz, while I was testing the Waystone, I took the opportunity to bring the rest of Dara’s wing of skyriders through, along with their normal-sized birds.  Once they were on the other side, in Alshar, they transformed them into their larger sizes, and from then on we had cover overhead as we traveled.

If the Lotanzi were impressed by us essentially rebuilding, restoring and resupplying the castle in three short days, they were even more impressed with eight raptors with forty-foot wingspans circling overhead.  Troop One started out at dawn with one of Dara’s most keen-eyed birds above them.

I left Lotanz Castle in good hands, under the banner of Alshar and the stylized lily that the Kasari used as a device.  Otter’s Point was safe, and in a position to accept our sudden retreat, if we ran into trouble.  As we marched out, mid-afternoon, I felt the thickly-layered wards close behind me and I felt a growing sense of satisfaction.  Apart from Lord Garway, things were going rather well.

I should have known better.

Chapter Twelve

A Quick Trip Home

Within five miles of Lotanz, we were clearly in the wasteland of the Penumbra.  The fields around Otter’s Point had been rough and poorly-tended, but they were a sign of human habitation.  Beyond it, once we descended the little escarpment that led into a wider vale, the depredations of the gurvani were apparent everywhere.

The first mark of their brutal regime we encountered was a horrific pile of human corpses that had been staked together in an obscene fashion in some awful form of art.  Gurkarl, the courageous gurvan who had betrayed the Dead God and lent his insights and intelligence to us, had told us that the practice was originally a feature of a particular clan of tribes in a distant region of the Mindens, but its effect on humans was such that it had been adopted by all the warrior bands.  Anything to keep us fearful of them.

We spared the children the sight by incinerating the pile, even though it threw up a pillar of smoke.  With our giant friends circling overhead I was less worried about attracting attention we couldn’t avoid.

For two days our route was rough, as every “road” we came to was essentially another goat track between settlements, most barely wide enough for a farm wagon.  Nothing had been maintained, once the humans had been driven off, and there were several places we had to cut around because the trail was too damaged. We passed settlements, villages, and hamlets along the way, but all were deserted or burned out.

At noon on the third day out from Lotanz, Tyndal’s troop discovered the site of our next pele tower.

It had been a manor farm, once, and perhaps prosperous in its way.  The hall’s roof was half caved in, but it was large enough, and there was a dike and ditch around the place.  The hall itself was at the crest of a wide hill, and had a narrow stone tower for protection at one end.  The tower had been toppled at the second story, leaving a shell that didn’t even reach the peak of the roof. The yard inside the dike was overgrown with three years’ worth of untended foliage, and there were bones scattered around where the dogs had done their work.

Whatever had happened here, the nameless little manor was the best spot we’d found for the new tower.  A day’s work by all five troops cleared the brush and debris from the bailey, and another day gathered stones enough to begin work on a wall.  Carmella, meanwhile, oversaw the repair of the tower.  She rebuilt it to the third story and added another three-story timber structure on top as a sentry post.

This was the first time we had employed the stone-shaping wands that Taren had come up with for the purpose.

Usually, a mason breaks a rock into a useable, more-or-less rectangular brick by smacking it repeatedly with a wedge-like hammer until it breaks.  It takes skill, time, and patience.  I didn’t have enough of any of those.

What I did have was magic.  Once I described what I wanted, Taren was able to quickly produce them.  The Construction Troop now had five Bricking Wands to be used in construction.  When one of these was laid on a stone and the command mnemonic was pronounced, the wand would emit a sharp “crack!” and the rock would be magically trimmed according to its maximum possible dimensions.

It took some power – only a High Mage could use one – but it sped construction up tremendously.  As the scavenging crews would secure stone from the surrounding territory, and then have it transported up to the site of the fortress, one of Carmella’s warmagi would use a Bricking wand to knock the stone instantly into shape before it was hauled up to the tower site.

That not only gave us a quick and steady supply of useable ashlar, or rocks shaped into bricks, but it also gave us lots and lots of rubble to use for footings and other important jobs.

Once the rocks were carried to the construction site and shaped, another crew would place them in the traditional one-on-two, two-on-one pattern before another of Carmella’s warmagi would come along and tap the well-placed stone with a Bonding Wand.

Unlike the Bricking Wand, which cut rock, the Bonding Wand was used to magically adhere the loose stones together without mortar.  As soon as three or four were placed, the wand would descend, the command uttered, and the blocks were magically attached to each other far more strongly than the best mortar.

Once the crews got organized and enough of a surplus of material was gathered, construction proceeded very quickly.  Brick by brick the tower grew over its existing foundations.  And once sufficient stone had been secured to finish it, another great pile was assembled to complete the modest wall and gatehouse.

If the Bonding and Bricking wands were outrageously helpful, no less so was the Sawyer’s Wands Taren had sent us.  Just as we used back in Sevendor, the wands used magic to trim and then dry any wood it was activated upon. One of them replaced an entire team of sawyers and the big, bulky and expensive saws they used, not to mention the sawpits they usually dug.  With the Sawyer’s Wand you could turn logs into lumber as fast as they could be felled.

Within one corner of the bailey we ended up employing yet another magnificent magical device, the Well Wand.  Developed by Carmella and Taren, the ingenious device acted as a kind of magical shovel.  Using the pocketstone and other enchantments, activating the wand created a four-foot deep divot in the topsoil.  Once you had “filled” it with dirt, you could “empty” it anywhere you liked.  Using the tool Carmella’s people had put down a sixty-foot well and created thirty feet of solid earth berm upon which they built the bailey wall.

As much as the magic speeded the construction process, there still were plenty of delays.  Things got assembled improperly, or sometimes materials failed us.  But we had a lot of knowledgeable, intelligent people working together and we quickly overcame our challenges.

In all it took five days to restore the place to some degree of defensibility and livability.  The well had to be finished off, the ditch had to be repaired, the stores had to be replaced, and firewood needed to be cut.  The roof of the hall was repaired fairly quickly, with Carmella electing to line it with evergreen boughs until she could manage some better roofing, but it would keep the rain off.

It was a lot of work, but then we had a lot of willing hands.  Two thousand strong children moved a lot of dirt, rocks, and lumber in five days.  The kids saw it as a diversion, healthy exercise that helped defeat the monotony of marching.  And watching another spire go up under Carmella’s direction was very satisfying to them all.  Even the newer children had pitched in enthusiastically.  They were picking up the Kasari customs and even the language far more quickly that I’d expected.

I named the place Traveler’s Tower, after my old horse.  He’d died while we were fighting a dragon, and while I had other horses, now, and better, Traveler had been the rouncey I’d ridden back when I was a near-penniless warmage, seeking employment as a spellmonger.  I missed that horse.  I didn’t explain what it meant to anyone (Penny and my older two apprentices knew, but they didn’t say anything) so everyone thought it was just because it was a convenient spot for travelers.  They even built another impromptu shrine to Herus in the bailey there.

It was toward the end of that period that the skyriders started reporting packs of dogs – not just dogs, but semiferal fell hounds – creeping around the edges of our pickets.  That wasn’t good – where the fell hounds were, their gurvani riders wouldn’t be far behind.

“We’re getting closer to the goblin-held lands,” Arborn reported to my staff one night, as we were eating dinner in the hall.  The children were busy outside, preparing to continue our march.  “Those are just scouts.  Next they’ll send skirmishers to probe our defenses.  After that . . . well, we may be moving very quickly,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.

“We overflew for twenty miles ahead of us,” Dara said, doubtfully.  “We didn’t see any sign of settlements.”

“You won’t,” Arborn assured her.  “You flew over during the day.  The gurvani sleep then, and in these lands they find holes or caves, and dig them, if they need to.  You could have flown over a dozen outposts and never known it.  I’ll send some scouts ahead, before we leave.”

“We’ve scryed it,” Rondal added, glancing at Dara.  “We agree with Dara.  There isn’t anything ahead, that we could tell.”

“Nothing organized,” emphasized Tyndal.  “The place could be crawling with dangerous wildlife, but we didn’t see anything indicating any kind of encampment.”

“Check again,” I ordered.  “All of you.  Things are trickier, now.  We have to decide which direction it’s best to take – what landmark to make for.”

Several suggestions were made, based on the available information.  Our footwizard friend Fondaras wanted to make for a small fortified village named Asgot, on a high mound overlooking the Maier River.  He thought that there still might be folk there, owing to the cunning defenses of the place.  Dara was in favor of another ruin she’d seen from the air, an abandoned keep to our southwest.  Arborn suggested a vacant hill ten miles northeast of there, a site he knew called Baerlon Hill he thought would make a good spot for a pele tower.

In the end, I opted for Arborn’s site.  It was close enough to Asgot that contact could be made there, but if the town was overrun it would be a good, defensible position.  The keep Dara had seen – Falasei Castle, from what our footwizard said – was just too close to the active parts of the Penumbra for my concern.  I did note the place, however, as a potential Iron Band garrison site.

We left Traveler’s Tower with a skeleton garrison, four rangers, a Hesian warmage named Aori who took over the magical duties of the tower as well as command, and a priestess of Briga I promised to come back for, when our march was done.  I set the second glass orb at the top of the watchtower the night before we left. Now that the place had a rough stone wall around it, proper wards and defensive spells, and some really good archers behind the walls, Traveler’s Tower could survive way out here in the middle of the Wilderness.

The next stretch of trail was even rougher than the previous thirty miles, we discovered the next day.  Our vanguard troop had done a good job scouting it, but the going was slow due to the steep and rocky nature of the terrain.  The land here rippled in ridge after ridge of hilly country, with a new stream to ford at the bottom of each tiny valley.  It was mid-afternoon on the second day out from Traveler’s Tower than we ran into the first gurvani patrol.

Master, Arborn reports a gurvani patrol about a quarter mile ahead of us, Tyndal barked into my mind, an hour after lunch.

I cursed and called a halt.  Numbers? Composition? I asked patiently as I called up the magemap we’d been using for this area.  Where are you, exactly?

At the fork of the next river, he replied.  Arborn says there are six of them, fell hound riders.  They seem to be just a regular patrol, but they’re being cautious.

Halt your march and huddle, I advised.  Cast a good unnoticeability spell on the boys and keep them quiet, I suggested.  Does Arborn suggest we evade or fight?

A few moments later, Tyndal got back to me.  Evade, for the moment.  Fight, if we can’t.

I broke contact and called each of the other troops and told them what was happening.  We all halted and waited.  Eventually – twenty minutes or more – Tyndal got back to me.

Master, Arborn and the Kasari took care of them, he said, sounding impressed.

I couldn’t resist.

I hope they weren’t messy about it, I goaded.  As I suspected, that’s all it took.

Messy? Ishi’s tits, Master, that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen anyone move who wasn’t a warmage!  Arborn and two of his rangers went forward while I stayed with the troop, but I watched with magesight.  In twenty heartbeats, it was over, and the goblins didn’t know they were under attack.  No one will be reporting back from that patrol, he promised.

Good, I answered.  I’ll have Dara’s folk overfly the area to see if there are any more before we press on.

A day later, another patrol happened across us, this time toward the rear.  It was an infantry patrol, lightly armed, and Landrick and Ormar put a sudden end to it with a magical attack.  By that time the Pathfinders had already made it to the crest of Baerlon’s Hill, re-consolidating after our spread-out trek.

Baerlon’s Hill turned out to be an ideal site for a pele tower.  Rising about four hundred feet above the valley below, it was a wide, flattish expanse of meadow and wood that had been forested a generation or two ago.  At the north end of the summit the topsoil fell away to allow a shoulder of bedrock to thrust itself in a small promontory over the creek below.  There were caves within those rocks, Arborn assured me, caves his people had occasionally used as shelter in their journeys.

But the Kasari weren’t the only ones to know about the caves.  When Tyndal’s Pathfinders showed up on that mound and sent someone to explore the caves, they discovered a nest of human refugees using them for shelter, not the goblins they were expecting.

Three men and two women had fled their homes further west at the invasion and had found themselves at Baerlon’s Hill.  They had used the obscuring rocks to build a sturdy little encampment, and could fly down into the caves at need.  Once Tyndal convinced them that we were, indeed, merely a simple march of two thousand children and not an army, they warmed up to him enough to tell their stories.

After Troop Three arrived at our destination, and while my patrol was setting up our camp I met with the five near-starving peasants.  I could tell at once there was something they weren’t telling Tyndal and Arborn.  When I confronted them about it, they admitted they did have a secret.  They opened the caves and revealed sixteen more children, fellow refugees they had been quietly collecting in their make-shift camp.

“More children?” Penny asked, amused, when I returned to camp and told her about it.  “Don’t we have a sufficiency?”

“It won’t do any harm to bring them,” I pointed out, as I used my staff to magically pitch my tent.  “And getting them out of the area prevents them from ending up sacrificed or slaves or both.  We can fold them into the other troops like we did the Lotanz kids.  They’re doing well, aren’t they?”

“They’re chattering along with the others like they were full-blooded Kasari,” she admitted.  “Picking up on all the little things, too.”

“So will these,” I nodded in satisfaction as my pavilion snapped into existence.  I had only used it a few times so far on this journey.  Most of our days were spent walking and then falling exhausted into our bedrolls, but since we’d be here for a few days, I didn’t mind.  Besides, I wanted a bath.  “It’s just a few more.  I actually anticipated we’d pick up some stragglers along the way,” I admitted as she followed me inside while conjured the bathtub into existence.

“That could become a problem,” she pointed out as she watched.  “Feeding them, keeping them in order . . . I can’t imagine doing this without the Kasari’s organizational structure, can you?”

“It does keep things moving along,” I agreed, as I began pouring water into the tub.  The magelights faded into existence overhead, lighting the interior of my wondrous canopy with soft light. “I think we’ll tarry here awhile, as we build this place, and let a few more wander in.  Some we can put to work, the rest we can take with us.  Arborn and the footwizard assure me that these hills are filled with refugees from the Penumbra like these poor folk, living no better than bandits.”

“Just the sort of folk we want to be in our company,” Penny snorted, as I raised the water’s temperature with magic until it started to steam.  “Hotter,” she directed.

“I don’t like it that hot,” I pointed out.

“If you think that bath is for you, Minalan,” Pentandra said as she pulled her Kasari-style tunic over her head, “that will just be another in the long list of mistaken ideas you’ve had.”  Her skirt joined the tunic on the ground, along with the rest of her garments, and Penny was suddenly naked in front of me.

“I . . .” I said, eloquently.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen them before,” she chided, wiggling for my benefit.  “But you are a knight, now, and if you don’t think I’m not going to use whatever tricks I can to get that bath first, including invoking your chivalry and your desire simultaneously, then you have learned very little about women.”

“I . . . I think you should keep the door closed,” I suggested, as I backed out of the tent.  “There are young boys around who might not have my sense of propriety and restraint.”

“Of course,” she agreed.  “But if you see Arborn, send him in,” she said, That Look on her face as she slid into the steamy water.  “I’d like to discuss some details of the trek, while we have the time.”

*                            *                            *

The rangers and the warmagi of the consolidated troops worked to make the hill encampment defensible while the children worked to turn the hilltop into a real camp.  Each troop was assigned a sector of the hill, with instructions to clear it of underbrush and build a semi-permanent lodge.  They went up surprisingly quickly.  The Hesians and my warmagi conjured earth elementals and used them to sculpt the terrain around the hill into something a bit more resilient.  By dusk, a ten-foot wide ditch and a matching dike wall had been raised around ten acres of the hill, defining the future bailey that would be built.

At the only entrance to the site Carmella had piled two great hills of soil on each side, which she planned on making into bastions to guard the gate.  For now she had bridged them with a catwalk of logs.  The archers posted upon them were able to shoot down at any who attempted to gain the path to the gate with unobstructed clarity.  Once the wards were set, and an enchantment of unnoticeability cast upon the entire hill, I felt a little better about the security of my two thousand charges within.

The magic kettles appeared right on cue, and after final assembly and announcements, I was tired.  I was more than tired, I was exhausted.  More than three weeks on the trail had been a daily challenge to my body, and I wasn’t as young as I’d been when I’d marched to Farise.  Magic kept my feet from aching too much and kept my dry, but it had been a long time since I’d seen my family and my wife . . . and Penny’s  teasing bath reminded me just how much I missed my wife.

But I couldn’t just run off home any time I wanted, because I was homesick and covetous of comfort . . . could I?

It seemed like an extravagant indulgence to use magic for such a selfish purpose . . . but then the gods found a way.  Our magical medic, Lelwen, had two cases of children who’d been living in the caves who had contracted a harsh cough.  While she was sure they would be fine, if tended properly, she was concerned about the conditions here for their recovery.

So I offered to take them to Sevendor to recuperate.  Wasn’t that selfless of me?

The children, a boy and a girl, were brother and sister, orphans who had found their way to the tiny camp and had done what they’d had to in order to survive.  They were skinny and frightened and awed by the sudden and miraculous arrival of help in such magnificent fashion, but they agreed to accompany me on a magical journey to a land where they would be well-fed, well-tended, and provided for.  As I had to collect the Karshak who were to build the tower here from Sevendor anyway, it seemed natural for me to go ahead and transport the children, spend the night home, and arrive with the workmen in the morning.

Oh, the elaborate rationalizations a man will make in order to get laid.

I turned over command of the camp to Carmella, who was running things anyway, and took the two sickly children, Bes and Tal – about eight and ten – through the Waypont to my workshop in Sevendor.  Once they recovered from the journey I summoned my Tal Alon maid, Daisy, and had her take them to the Great Hall for supper and then turned over to Lady Estret, to be assigned somewhere to sleep.  In the morning I’d have someone take a look at them.

My sudden arrival at my castle was unexpected, but not unwelcome.  Within an hour I was in the Great Hall myself eating and drinking wine like I hadn’t tasted it in days – which I hadn’t.  After dinner I spent some good time catching up with Alya and the children for an hour before their nurses took them to bed, and then I spent another hour or two consulting with Sire Cei and my staff about how things were going in the barony and in the domain.

The answer was surprisingly well.  My absence had barely been noted, save at the Chepstan Spring Fair I’d missed, but Alya assured me that Sevendor had been well-represented, with Sire Cei and Lady Estret standing in our stead.  The Dragonslayer was always a big draw, and while Cei was still uncomfortable with his fame, he was growing accustomed to it.  Besides, Baron Arathanial was his liege, and he couldn’t afford to make a poor showing.

That got us into local politics, particularly the matter of Sashtalia.

Once, most of the unofficial barony of Sashtalia was mostly under the control of the official barony of Sendaria, Arathanial’s home and the seat of the once-great House Lensely.  A few generations of dynastic warring and dueling had pared the once-great barony down to a fraction of its former self, as domains successfully rebelled, cadet branches broke off, and lords-in-tenant managed to secure title to their individual domains by playing off one side of the house against the other.

A generation ago a lot of those independent domains had been conquered or secured by alliance by the Lords of Sashtalia, once strong vassals of House Lensely.  Now that the dynastic disputes were over, and only one Lensely baron remained, Arathaniel had ambitions to restore his barony by conquering the lands of his former vassals.

I wasn’t opposed to the move – Sashtalia had been a minor ally of West Fleria when they’d attacked Sevendor a few years ago, and they’d been unfriendly ever since.  Having the domains to the west of me in friendly hands would be a good thing for Sevendor’s long-term security.  My interests actually extended beyond that, as His Majesty had seen fit to gift me with a problematic domain smack in the middle of Sashtalia when he elevated me to baron.

But Arathanial seemed determined to make a move soon, and that was stirring up some trouble in places.  At Chepstan Spring Fair, Sire Cei dutifully reported, there were three times the number of archery contests, and the prizes had been surpassingly rich.  That was a common step of preparation for a lord who had aggressive intentions toward his neighbors.  The more competent archers a domain could field, the better, and nothing gets the peasants to the butts like the promise of a mule or a fat sheep for their victory at the fair.

Arathanial’s preparations didn’t end there.  He had also ordered a grand review of his knights in their armor, and a hundred and seventy responded to his summons with their households.  It was a dazzling display of mounted strength, and the Lord of Sashtalia could not have failed to hear about it.  Indeed, Cei reported, he was readying his own lands in anticipation.  While Sevendor’s passage through Sashtalia had not been tampered with, all visitors to Sashtalia now had to contend with guards on the frontiers and higher tolls at its bridges.  Peasants were making cheese and slaughtering their livestock to make sausage.  Both signs of pending trouble.

“So what do we do if Sendaria suddenly declares war on Sashtalia?” I asked, genuinely curious.  “We are allied to Sendaria . . . does that obligate us to fight on her behalf?”

“No,” agreed Sire Cei, cautiously.  “It is a private dynastic matter, legally speaking.  Only if our interests were threatened would we be compelled to act on one side or another.  For my part, I shall be riding with His Excellency,” my castellan informed me.

“You are his vassal,” I agreed, reluctantly.  Sire Cei had won his tiny domain of Cargwenyn, an estate which produced honey and pretty daughters and not much else, at the Chepstan Spring Fair two years ago, along with his wife.  The match had been highly successful, from the health of Cei’s son on Estret’s breast at dinner and the loving glances between the two.  But it had also obligated my castellan to go off and fight for the baron at need.  For up to two months.  “I always knew that that would be a possibility.”

“While I cannot say I would ordinarily eschew crossing swords with the gentlemen of Sashtalia in a chivalrous manner,” said the Wilderlands knight, who loved to joust, “I also understand the difficult position that might put you in, Magelord.  I can send a replacement for my lance,” he said, a little regretfully.

“No, you are Arathanial’s vassal,” I decided.  “Regardless of your day job, that’s an obligation of honor.  If you are called to his banner, you have my leave to serve him faithfully.  As long as it doesn’t conflict with Sevendor’s interests, I see no reason to keep you from your play.”

That made my castellan genuinely happy.  A little straightforward combat likely sounded like a holiday, compared to the mundane details of running my domain when I wasn’t around.  Sire Cei is an adept administrator, but like all knights he was trained for warfare, first and foremost, and that’s where his passions lay.

Most of the rest of the news really was mundane: the new temple of Briga was progressing, as were the construction of the two new halls and a dozen other projects.  The Karshak had made significant progress in tunneling into the heart of the mountain, and the crops were growing up out of the ground like they were getting paid a bonus.

It was delightful.  I was home, and I crawled into bed that night with a tangible sense of relief . . . as well as guilt.  Two thousand kids were sleeping on the hard ground, hundreds of miles away from me, and I was still responsible for them.  All sorts of things could be going wrong, I imagined, even though I knew I would have been informed, mind-to-mind, and could be back there in an instant.

Then Alya slid into bed and my guilt vanished with her nightgown.  Ishi’s tits, I’d earned this!

I returned to Baelor’s Hill the next morning with Rumel and the Karshak workmen, and they began arguing with Carmella over how to proceed.  I let them.  I was feeling good, my belly full of food from home and my back pleasantly sore from my homecoming.  The camp had survived the night.

Work on the tower, proper, started that day as Carmella’s folk got the troops organized into different crews: one to cut lumber, one to gather stones, one to work on clearing the underbrush . . . by late afternoon the construction site around the caves resembled a colony of ants as long lines of Kasari boys hauled logs and stones to the site and came back bearing sacks full of dirt.

The tower took shape in a remarkably short time, once the construction team agreed on how to proceed.

Within two days two stories of the tower had been built, each rock held in place by stonesinging or Imperial magic, without a bit of mortar between them.  The structural support for an attached wooden hall was put up surprisingly quickly, a larger version of the lodges the Kasari children had erected in their troop encampments.  With that many hands to gather reeds from the creek, it was thatched out in another two days, and a fire was kindled in the great stone fireplace whose chimney ran up the side of the tower as a buttress.

Building a tower from scratch is very different than improving an existing structure.  While the exposed rock gave the Karshak an impressive foundation on which to build, it also presented problems.  I let the experts worry with that while I concerned myself with greater matters.

One of them was the growing crowd of refugees who had been trickling in since we’d established our camp.  As soon as our fires were seen from the hilltop, word of our presence seemed to spread to all of those who had been living hand-to-mouth since the gurvani had driven them from their homes.  Within three days over a hundred had made their way up the hill to our figurative gates.  All were invited in, fed, and assessed by the Sisters of Briga, before we decided what to do with them.

Among them were a lot of children.  Some of them came into camp half-wild, having lived for three years in the wild on nuts and berries and whatever else they could find.  Their tales varied in specifics, but followed a similar pattern.  The goblins had showed up at their farmstead or village, the children had been told to run into the forest or other haven, and when they had emerged all the adults had been taken away.  After that, they’d stayed out of sight and did their best to survive in the forest.

To them, our appearance was a miracle.  Few had thought to ever encounter civilization again, and had resigned themselves to an eventual fate in a goblin’s soup pot or dead of starvation or cold.  The sight of so many other children healthy, well-fed, strong, and vibrant was a tonic to those poor kids, as much as it was to the adults who had similarly fled and hid.  Every castle, manor, village and hamlet in the region had been torched, they reported.  Many were infested with goblin garrisons.  The wild country above the vales was the only refuge they had left.

“I want to set up the other side of the hilltop as a hamlet,” Carmella told me in my tent, one night, as we enjoyed a clandestine drink away from everyone else.  “This is a great site for a tower, but if it is to ever have an existence other than an outpost, it needs support.  Each of them do.  I’ve been talking with the refugees.  A lot of them have no other place to go, and would be willing to settle here if there was some modicum of protection.”

“I’m not opposed, but how would they live?  This land is lousy for crops,” I pointed out.  “You could get a few acres of corn and beans going up here, but . . .”

“There is a lake a half mile east of here,” she informed me.  “The skyriders have been telling me about it.  It’s shallow, but it has plenty of fish and game.  Enough to support a few hundred people, if they could augment their diet with a few grains.  Wild rice, maybe.  And sheep.”

“If you think it will work,” I shrugged.  “Does that include the kids?”

“Not most of them, no,” she said, shaking her head.  “They’re going with the rest, when we leave.  In five years this place might be safe enough for kids, but until then, let’s get them out of here.”

Carmella doesn’t particularly like children.  In fact, when bossing around the Kasari she had treated them like little adults – which for any other children would have been asking for trouble.  But the Kasari prided themselves on their obedience to orders, and so Carmella’s attitude actually worked in her favor for a change.  Still, her concern for the refugees seemed uncharacteristic.  I suppose being around that many children for that long could change even a hardened perspective.

“We’ll take them,” I agreed.  “I spoke with a priest who wandered in this morning.  I liked him, a good man.  He’s agreed to take charge of them and watch over them along the way.  We can spread them out among the troops again, just like the Lotanz kids.  Most of them are indistinguishable from the actual Kasari, now,” I chuckled.  “But what’s another couple of hundred kids, more or less?”

Carmella looked at me cautiously.  “It won’t be just a hundred, Min,” she countered.  “It will be a hundred here, fifty there, twenty there.  As we move south, we’re going to be encountering more refugees like this.  Are you going to take them all?”

I considered.  “I’m going to take as many as I can,” I decided.  “Every one of them is a potential slave and sacrifice.  We’ll need Herus’ help to get them to safety, but Carmella, I can’t leave them behind,” I told her.  And myself.

Chapter Thirteen

Rognar Tower

We marched out of Baelor’s Hill eight days after we marched in, and we had let the place transformed.  A modest but impressive four-story round tower now sprang above the high rock over the creek, and its crenellated top and magically glowing orb could be seen for more than a mile in every direction.

The dike and ditch around the top of the site had sprung a log palisade, while the scrubby little forest that contributed the logs gave way to a mage-churned field of topsoil, ready to plant some late-spring seeds.  The caverns under the tower were stuffed with grain and barrels of salted and pickled meats, and the refugees moving into the lodges in the bailey the five troops had vacated when we left.

We’d found the hilltop barren, when we came.  We left a stout military outpost and a small community of thirty behind, under Carmella’s warmage.  Baelor Tower stood as a beacon in the wastes, a haven for those poor souls fortunate enough to make it that far away from the Penumbra.  It gave me a feeling of satisfaction to know we had left three such stations behind us.  Regardless of outcome, the march had not been a waste.

The next two days we made good time, nearly twenty miles a day, in our sunup-to-sundown hike.  We were of the trail, now, going cross-country rather than risk roads that had been turned to the enemy’s purpose.  Twice in those two days we spotted and avoided gurvani patrols, and twice they passed by without incident.

We weren’t so lucky, the third time.  A cavalry patrol from one of the larger gurvani cantonments nearby caught scent of our trail and pursued quietly for miles.  They attacked Troop Five as they were crossing a narrow but deep stream.

I got the call a few hours before sunset, Landrick screaming into my mind that they were under attack.  I frantically called for Dara to take the air with as many skyriders as possible to help, then gathered four of our Kasari rangers and Sir Festaran, and then threw myself through the Waypoint.

We came out a few feet from where Landrick and Ormar, with the assistance of their rangers, were frantically trying to keep the patrol at bay.  Ormar was using his mageblade to cast spells at a distance, while Landrick was engaging the fell hounds with a battle axe quite effectively.  There were already gurvani bodies on the ground, I saw, but there were also human bodies beside them.

I summoned my mageblade, Twilight and took aim at the brute in the lead of the pack.  A moment later his head exploded in a flash of purple light, spilling his rider to the ground.  But there more where he came from – almost a score of hounds, many with two small riders, were tearing to get at our children.

I turned to face the next one, catching Ormar’s eye as my rangers formed a skirmish line with their fellows already present.  Making sure there wasn’t anyone in danger’s way at the moment, I was preparing a wider-area spell and wondering when the skyriders were going to show up when I heard a shout behind me: Mae sgowtiaid yn ddewr!

Bowstrings twanged, and a light volley of shafts flew overhead and thudded into the mass of dog and goblin.  It was an attack unexpected by either side – had I conjured a company of archers and forgotten about it?

I spared a moment to look behind me, and I saw a line of older Kasari youth standing in a line, shoulder to shoulder, their cloaks thrown back and their bows strung.  There were two dozen of them who had chosen to stand and cover their friends’ retreat across the creek, older boys and a few girls who were firing methodically, in ragged vollies to help.

I wasn’t going to argue – there were more goblins on foot, now, dismounted or some who had run to battle.  The rangers were taking a deadly toll, but the volley from the children was keeping the fell riders wary.  I used that hesitation to lob a spell in their midst, and a moment later several were on the ground, clutching their stomachs and howling.

Another trio of the canine brutes had come around our flank on the right, and Ormar was busy for a few moments tossing alchemical enchantments at them that made your eyes water and your nose sting – but what it did to those ugly puppies was worse.

“Demon pepper powder, somewhat enhanced,” he explained a moment later.  “I improved the formula.  This was my first chance to test it.”

“Make me a dozen,” I ordered, “when you have a spare moment.”  Then I shoved my blade into the belly of a goblin who had avoided the alchemical fumes, and we decided to finish the conversation later.

About then the giant hawks showed up, Dara’s Frightful in the lead.  Four of them swooped in and snagged fell hounds by their whole bodies, like they were rabbits, and then flew into the sky with a screech.  A moment later the dogs thudded to the ground with a sickening crash.  The sudden appearance of the giant birds turned the tide of battle, and another few vollies from the archers convinced the survivors to take to their heels.

Soon the Kasari children were cheering as Landrick put the last goblin out of its misery. A score or more gurvani lay on the rocks of the creek, and half that number of fell hounds.

But we had not been unscathed.  Seven children had been mauled in the initial attack, and four were dead: two Kasari, and two of the refugee children.  Many had been put with Troop Five, as they were slower and more poorly equipped, and some needed medical scrutiny.

We recovered the bodies and withdrew, guarding the rear of the column as it limped up the hill and back on the trail.  We laid them to rest an hour later in turf-covered graves at the edge of a grove of hemlocks.

It disturbed me mightily to be burying children, children who had been entrusted to my care.  It was all the worse that I had anticipated doing so, at least a few times.  As much as I tried to convince myself that it was a victory to need to do such a thing for the first time a month after we’d set out, and not the first week, I still felt the bitter sting of failure in my heard as the monk who had taken charge of the refugee children performed their funeral rites.

“Blessed are the souls of they who perish on the road,” he said, in a pleasant-sounding voice, when the service was done.  “It is said that Herus will walk with those to the gates of the afterlife, and ensure they do not stray from the path.  They were noble little souls,” he added, sadly.

“You’re . . . the monk who came to us at Baelor Tower,” I said, stupidly, realizing I still didn’t know the man’s name.

“The people call me Brother Hotfoot, because I rarely stay in one place for long,” he said, giving me a wan smile.  “This is a courageous thing you’re trying to do here, Spellmonger,” he added.

“They’re the ones with courage,” I grunted, nodding toward the last patrol marching ahead of us.  “I’ve got magic, a sword, and experience.  They’re marching down a road they do not understand.”

“For all of your magic, experience, and weapons, I would venture to say none of us understand the road we walk,” he said, philosophically.  “You may be a bit better prepared, but we are all traveling blindly into a future that is murky to us.  Death or delight may be around the next bend, we never know.  Nor can we.  We can merely prepare ourselves and walk bravely forward.”

I don’t know why, but the humble monk’s words lifted my spirits a bit.  I regarded the man.  He was utterly average-looking, with a rough tonsure and a threadbare brown robe under an undyed woolen cloak.  He had good boots on his feet, and a leather satchel on a strap at his side, but he carried nothing other than a simple walking staff.

“Perhaps, Brother,” I conceded.  “But I am the one tasked with leading the way and protecting them.  I failed to do that, today.”

“Yet we travel on,” he pointed out, “with but light casualties and few fatalities.  This is a remarkable thing you’ve done, Spellmonger.  Do not forget that.”

I trailed the end of Troop Five with a group of rangers until Dara assured me that there was no sign of pursuit from the air, then I transported us back to Troop Three, a few hours ahead, where the trekmaster had called a halt for the night.  We set up only a light camp that night, a few fires and no tents, as I was wary of more incursions from the gurvani.  The Kasari rangers were, too, stretching out their night time patrols longer and wider than before.  I barely slept that night.

We pressed on.  We started encountering more burned-out settlements along the way.  We also started encountering more refugees who heard the commotion of our march, and ventured out of hiding to see what the fuss was.

Their faces were lean and their eyes sunken with hunger, their clothes torn and dirty.  But the sight of all of those children marching along, packs on their backs, completely unafraid of the wilderness around them gave the refugees pause.  More, it gave them hope.  Many, especially the youngest among them, joined the march without invitation.

I didn’t realize just how many of these there were until three days after the attack, when we were waking up for breakfast.  Carmella called me, mind-to-mind, annoyed at the number of hungry refugees who had arrived in the night.  She wasn’t the only one.  The farther south we marched, the more stragglers we picked up.  Every troop had gained some, even the Pathfinders.

“From what I can tell, we have about three hundred people more than when we started out,” Carmella complained, that night.  I had called a meeting of the troop leaders and magical staff in my tent, that night, as we were only two days away from the site of our next tower, theoretically, and I wanted this issue addressed before we got there.

“Two hundred ninety-one,” Sir Festaran said, instantly.  Dara giggled.  “Of those, seventy-two are adults.”

“Feeding an additional three hundred people is going to get expensive,” Carmella warned.  “And adults eat more than children.”

“We will not turn them away,” Tyndal declared, while Rondal nodded behind him.  “We can’t!  These are good Wilderlands folk.  They just need some help.”

“They need what we can’t give them,” complained Ormar.  “Some of them are no better than bandits.”

“But all of them are human,” reminded Lelwen.  “And worthy of our compassion and assistance.  We cannot leave them behind.”

“I’ve already broken up a fight, over food,” Landrick pointed out.  “These people haven’t eaten properly in months.  They are going to get unruly.”

“No, they won’t,” I insisted.  “They will adhere to the order of our march, or they will be left behind.  But any who would join us and follow our rules will be allowed to.”

That set the tone.  I made the further rule that the adults would all be relegated to the end of Troop Five.  Able-bodied men were given spears and swords, and pressed into guard duty, and women were detailed to tend the sick and wounded with the Sisters of Briga.  But I didn’t want them mixing with the children, if I could help it.  Not without understanding the Kasari way.

Our next site for a pele tower put my decision to the test.  It was more remote than Baelor’s Hill, but closer to the enemy.  It was a high ridge about six miles east of what once was the road, above a valley domain that had once thrived there had been ransacked and abandoned.  Called Rognar, according to our footwizard Fondaras, the Wilderlords who had once ruled the valley had been slain defending it, their keep slighted and burned.

It hadn’t been a very good keep to start with, as it was poorly situated in the lowlands.  The ridge above, however, was difficult to reach, and while it would have been costly in manpower to put a proper castle there, I happened to have manpower.  And magepower.

Dara and her skyriders lighted on the ridge first, and informed us that the vale wasn’t quite as abandoned as we’d heard.  Her birds saw movement below, though they couldn’t tell if it was human or gurvani.  A few minutes later Tyndal called back to inform me he had scryed a number of humans in the region, but no gurvani.

No more than a dozen former peasants had escaped the raids, when they came.  The ones who had survived had taken to root cellars or caves or treetops to avoid the slaughter and mayhem.  When the gurvani had left, they had eked out a fearful existence on the periphery of the ruin of the life they once had. Further raids had captured a few more, and the remainder of the survivors had entered into a bleak and desperate life.

Then we came.  Marching proudly to the top of the ridge, Carmella got to work organizing the construction effort while the rangers saw to security.  As the children began to order themselves into encampments, I had Lelwen and a few priestesses go among the refugees with a basket of bread and an invitation to dinner.  That’s all it took.

The tower grew more slowly than Baelor Tower had, but it grew.  The path up to the ridge was long and narrow, which made it difficult to travel but ideal for defense.  But nothing packs a trail down well like two thousand feet stomping on it carrying heavy rocks.  As the children piled up materials, the Hesians and the Karshak argued and designed.  Then they started building.  Within two days the outline for the foundation of the tower was sketched out in the ground while a dike was raised around the future pele tower.

Thousands of stones were gathered and carried from the valley floor to the ridge, one long line of boys grunting and sweating in the late spring sunshine as they toiled.  In a month of walking, they had grown, their muscles getting stronger with each mile, each stone.  They sang a long, monotonous song in Kasari I didn’t understand.  It seemed to make the work go easier.

Not everyone was so enthusiastic about the labor.  I got called down the valley on the second day, to see to a labor dispute.  Some of our erstwhile refugees found themselves unsuited to the task.

Not the children – the kids we’d picked up had taken to the Kasari customs easily.  But the adults were more set in their ways . . . and lazier.

I found Brother Hotfoot and Sir Festaran surveying a group of seven men who had decided they were done with work for the day, and had cast themselves down on a grassy bank to enjoy the sunshine.  Brother Hotfoot found them and took them to task, but they told him to piss off.  He’d fetched Sir Festaran, who had considered drawing his sword and laying about with the flat.  But he’d wisely thought better of it and summoned me instead.

“Done with work for today, are we?” I asked, friendly enough.  I looked around and could tell these men, as filthy as they were, weren’t the type to pride themselves in a day’s work even before the invasion.

“We’ve been at it for a few hours,” one fellow said, through squinty eyes.  “We’re exhausted!”

“You’ve got all them kids working for you,” called another.  “What do you need us for?”

“Every pair of hands makes the work go quicker,” I explained, patiently.  They shifted around uncomfortably a bit, but they made no sign to rise.  “We have a lot of work ahead of us.  Your assistance would finish it faster.”

“Moving rocks isn’t my idea of freedom,” grumbled one man.  “I thought we were getting out of here!”

“We should keep moving,” advised another, with a savage scar down one cheek that looked fresh.  “Scrugs’ll be about, if we linger too long here.  That’s bad business.”  I don’t know why, but the man had the look of a bandit about him.

“All the more reason to see to our defense,” I observed, reasonably.  “We’ll be able to handle an attack more easily if we have a stout wall to take cover behind.”

“Ishi’s twat!  We’ll be able to avoid an attack if we’d stay on our bloody feet!” barked the bandit-looking leader, crossly.  “Building this thing with kids and wizards is a daft idea.  Who would want to live here, anymore?  The filthy Kasari?  Let them – but let’s leave them behind!”

“I can see you gentlemen are going to have to be persuaded,” I said, calmly, though I was anything but calm.  “You’ve each eaten from our table for . . . how many days?”

“Three days, Magelord,” Festaran supplied.  “Twenty-one meals in all.”

“Twenty-one meals, with bread,” I added, “and yet you are too good to labor for it?”

“No one said anything about toting no rocks!”

“I’m saying it, now,” I said, sternly.  “But I’m thinking you gentlemen are too good to tote rocks, now.  As I am in need of soldiers, to act as guards, and I am reluctant to use boys for that, I think each of you could use a stint in the army.”  That got their attention.  “Sir Festaran, please escort these gentlemen to the quartermaster’s tent.  Issue them spears and helms, and other gear as you deem fit.  Then give them remedial training in arms and orders, and post them as sentries tonight.  And I remind you gentlemen,” I added, “that falling asleep while on sentry duty is grounds for military justice.”

“Hey!” howled one protest.  “I’m no soldier!”

“You are now,” I assured him.  “This tower will need a garrison, men who can man the watch and guard the gate.  I don’t have any soldiers I can spare, and you all seem fit enough for the work.  It isn’t strenuous, mostly,” I promised them.  “Unless you have to fight.  Then it can be . . . challenging.”

They were all on their feet now, and the scarred man approached me angrily.  “Who do you think you are?  We’re free men, we are!”

“I hereby conscript you all into the service of His Grace, Anguin, Duke of Alshar, as soldiers of this garrison for a period of one year.  You will be issued rations, paid garrison wages, and be subject to military discipline.  I do so by my authority as Marshal of Alshar.  Sir Festaran, make certain you note the names of each gentleman into the garrison rolls, as well as his terms of enlistment.”

“There’s no way I’m—“

I’d had enough of this lout’s lip.  It was time for a demonstration.  I activated a spell I had hung, and a loud thunderclap split the morning air, knocking two of the men off their feet.  A thick cloud of smoke billowed out as well.  It was pure showmanship, but if you didn’t know it was just a powerful cantrip, it looked pretty impressive.

The lazy bastards were impressed.  They followed Festaran out of the dell sheepishly but compliantly.  The next morning they were all sleepily at breakfast, iron helms on their heads and leaning on their spears tiredly.

I made the same offer to the other adults we’d picked up along the way on a volunteer basis.  Half a dozen men took me up on it, including one former man-at-arms who warranted a sword.  I named him captain and had he and Sir Festaran teach the novice soldiers their trade.

There was a lot of grumbling, until I produced a cask of ale, informing them that they were entitled to a soldier’s ration of a cup a day.  They hadn’t tasted ale for two years, some of them.  That quieted them down significantly.

Construction proceeded quickly.  The Kasari youth were well-practiced at the coordination, by now, and the Karshak and the Hesians had found a comfortable working rhythm, once they had settled on who was in charge of what.

The bailey of the pele tower would eventually encompass more than twenty acres, double the size of Baelor Tower, but that was because I wanted this more centrally-located facility to have adequate hospital and barracks space.  Eventually this would become a major garrison of the Iron Band, the company of soldiers charged with warding the Penumbralands from the rest of the kingdom, and that required a more extensive design.

For now the ten-foot earthen dike Carmella’s folk had raised by magic would be topped with a wooden palisade, but the Karshak assured me that decent stone could be quarried from the ridge, once there was time.  The walls were not the best element of defense of the tower, however.

The long, winding stair that was the only real means to gain the gate was narrow and treacherous.  It switched back three times before it ended at the rough wooden gatehouse the Kasari work crews had thrown up at the top.  Those switchback landings were the key.  We made certain each was fortified, as well as we could, so that a few men on each could discourage any advance.

I put Rondal on that task, and he set to it with a purpose.  He had a strong facility with magical stonework, and by appropriating stone from the endless trail of boys lugging them to the ridge he was able to construct a sturdy little hardened gate at each switchback.  A simple stone arch, with a crenellated eight-foot wall extending out enough to cover the flanks was enough of a defense to begin with.  The Kasari whipped together wooden platforms behind them, allowing archers to stand above the arch and fire, at need.

In addition, each approach could be covered from the trail above.  When Rondal was done with the switchback gatehouses, he turned his attention to creating stone blinds from which archers could shoot, or otherwise deter aggressors.  Ormar ended up helping with that.  The short, hairy little warmage fashioned an array of alchemical devices from his stores, and went with Rael into the wild as an escort to find further supplies to make more.

The enchantress had enjoyed her splendid adventure through the wilds of the Wilderlands, taking notes and samples the entire way.  When she returned from an afternoon of scavenging in the forests and wastes nearby, she was covered with sweat, insect bites, scratches, and bruises.  Ormar didn’t look much better.

“Are you feeling well, Rael?” I asked, concerned, when they returned to my tent to show off what they’d gathered.  “I hope this trip isn’t taxing you overmuch.”  She was a city girl, after all, born and raised in cosmopolitan Sendaria Port.

“Are you serious?” she asked, looking at me, amused and surprised as she unwrapped her bags.  “This trip has been amazing!  You have no idea how many samples I’ve collected along the way!  There are herbs and flowers, nuts and berries, stones, rocks, bark, leaves, twigs – some of these I’ve only read about.  Some of these I’ve never read about!” she said, excitingly.

“Yes, she’s gathered at least two large sacks full of . . . sticks.  Rocks.  Twigs. Leaves.  Grass.  You know, the really important stuff,” Ormar said, disgustedly.  “We did find deposits of salt and sulphur, which were useful, but . . . then she found a marsh and went absolutely insane.  I carried two sacks of this crap back here.  Up a mountain,” he reminded me.

“Do you have any idea what some of this stuff could be worth, to the right people?” Rael asked, her tone rising.  “Any idea?   A bloody fortune is what!  While you were digging in the dirt, I was finding things of real value.”

“Gold plated twigs?” Ormar offered.  “Enchanted snails?”

“This is a close relative of weirwood,” she said, pulling a stick from the bag.  She’d tied a scrap of parchment to it to identify it, and catalog where she had found it.  “This is Rancilio’s Weirwood, which was thought a fable in Remere, until it was discovered again here in Alshar, a century ago!  It’s not true weirwood, of course, but it’s a nativa variety that excels in particular with enchantments of the mind!”

“Really?” I asked, genuinely interested.

“Really!  And this?  This is a mollusk that has absolutely no magical properties at all,” she began.

“Which is why I’m grateful we’re carrying half a gallon of the disgusting things,” Ormar interjected.

“None at all, until it comes to one of the small silver-ringed springs in the forest.  No one knows why, but once it does the shell turns a pale purple!”

“Well, if it’s a really pretty pale purple . . .” Ormar grumbled.

“The purple is an indicator of its magical sensitivity,” she explained testily, “and when the mollusk is purple, it’s ready to harvest.  If you kill and dry the mollusk properly, it can be used as the basis for any number of artifacts that require detecting magical energy.  And this feather here—”

“See what I mean, Spellmonger?” Ormar moaned.  “I’m an alchemist.  I’m used to carting around a great whopping collection of crap that no one else sees any use for . . . and I’m telling you that this stuff is a bloody waste of time to haul!”

“It’s not,” I promised him.  “She’s actually doing some impressive work.  She’s got a strong background in enchantment, and she knows how to trade.  Let her collect her twigs and pebbles.  It only takes one or two discoveries to make the effort worthwhile.”

“And if we don’t discover anything of value?” he asked, skeptically.

“Then we’ve discovered how much fun it is to haul useless crap through the forest,” I grinned.  “Certainly that’s of value.”

“And people come to you for wisdom?” he asked, crossly.

“Not usually more than once,” I soothed.  “The smart ones learn after that.”

*                            *                            *

While we were working on the magical defenses, even more refugees found their way into our camp.  Some of them were nervous, fearing that we were drawing goblin attention, so close to their territory.  That told me we were in the right place.

Brother Hotfoot and the Sisters of Briga helped sort out the newcomers and set them to task, explaining the rules of the march and the options they had if they came within our bounds.  Almost all were content to obey our rules and work in exchange for a few pennies and a few hot meals.

Children, especially, seemed drawn to our site, and we ended up with more than a hundred wander in over the next few days.  Half-starved, filthy, many sick and all malnourished, the priestesses did what they could to heal and succor them.  The adults were little better, physically.

But with a few good meals and a safe place to sleep for a few nights, most were happy to do something – anything – other than hide and scrape a living from the wilderness.  A few were suspicious of our intentions, and some were clearly bandits by trade and inclination . . . but a few moments under the eye of a giant hawk makes a man reconsider larceny.

Things were proceeding smoothly, despite the sudden need for additional rations.  The Kasari helped out with that by sending hunting parties into the wilderness, in addition to their regular scouting patrols around the area.  Soon there were moose and deer roasting on spits over fires in camp, which kept the pressure on our imported rations down.  And once there was a skeleton militia guarding both the entry to the growing keep and the entries into the camps within the bailey, the new refugees settled down and realized that we meant business.

As the tower climbed to two stories, and then three, I started to turn my thoughts toward the next leg of the journey.  Of course, that’s when things started to go wrong.

I was in my pavilion, looking at maps of the route, when Dara’s mind linked to mine.

Master, I’m flying patrol west of the tower, she reported, dutifully.  I’m about ten miles out.  There’s a large concentration of gurvani gathering in a ruined manor.  At least a thousand of them, maybe more inside.  And there are smaller groups that are heading their way.

No chance that they’re just getting together for a summer fair, is there? I asked, weakly.

I didn’t see any banners or sweetmeat carts, if that’s what you mean, Dara replied.  But a whole lot of Fell Hounds.  What should I do?

Continue taking observations until you’re certain of the numbers.  Try to do so without being noticed.  Then head back here and prepare your wing for combat.  They may not be heading this way, but if there aren’t any sweetmeat carts . . .

I broke contact and found Tyndal’s mind.  He and his troop were foraging in the ruined old village in the valley below, scavenging useful scraps from the ruins and considering how best to re-establish its viability.  I explained the situation to him and he understood at once what was needed.  He agreed to get everyone up to the tower as quickly as possible and inform everyone below of the danger.

“How soon will this place be defensible?” I asked Carmella, casually, as she and the Karshak foreman, Rumel, were looking over the parchments on which they had sketched the plans for the tower.  She looked at me with those nearly-expressionless eyes.  I could almost hear her thoughts click.

“Ten hours, against a light assault.  Another day, against anything serious.  Why?”

“The gurvani want to throw us a housewarming party.  At least a thousand, maybe more, ten miles west.  You may get that day.  Then again, you might not.”

I’ll give Carmella credit – she didn’t emote beyond swallowing and nodding.  She’d been at Boval Castle with us.  A thousand gurvani weren’t as troubling to her as they would have been to others.  Besides, she was confident in her creation.  She might have been the worst drinking companion in the world, but she knew her craft.

Getting everyone up to the ridge and encamped in the nascent bailey was a little troublesome, but that evening there were more than two thousand people within, campfires burning, sentries posted, wards firmly in place.

And the goblins were definitely coming.

All night long the rangers brought in accounts of clear signs of mobilization among our foes.  Skirmishes with their patrols were decisive, but they didn’t stop coming.  The next morning the goblin army had moved to within three miles of the tower, camping for the day on the banks of a river they would ford the next evening.

We were defended, for the moment, at least.  I was confident we could keep them out.  But for how long?  And then what?  I tried not to think of the long-term, as I focused on the immediate situation, but I knew that eventually I’d have to deal with it.

We had food.  We had water.  We could defend ourselves.  But we’d need relief, eventually.

*                            *                            *

“They’ll be at the base of the trail, below, by midnight,” Arborn reported, grimly.  “Their scouts are already at the entrance of the valley, and my men are withdrawing.  Most of them,” he added.  “I have a few who have hidden to scout for us.”

“That will be helpful,” I agreed.  “And we have a plentitude of arrows, thankfully.  As well as some adept warmagi.  Tyndal, your report on the field?”

Tyndal had withdrawn from the village ruins and concentrated on peppering the area around the trailhead with defensive spells.  He was developing a real talent with certain varieties, I’d noticed.  Not the really harmful ones, but enchantments designed to prey upon the gurvani mind in insidious ways.  Ormar was focusing on constructing an arsenal of alchemical spells, and Carmella was shifting her attention to building a few quick siege engines.

“They’ll have a lot of fun, setting up down there,” my senior apprentice grinned.  “I’ve got berserkers, I’ve got sensory blockers, I’ve got confusion enchantments, soporific spells, all very subtle.  They won’t know they’re in danger until it’s too late.”

“And once they gain the path,” Rondal continued, “then they’ll have even more fun.  Traction is compromised, they won’t be able to shoot straight, they’ll be plagued with vertigo, the path will collapse under them, in places . . . all the while they’re dodging arrows and spells from above.”

“You’d really have to guess as to why they’d bother,” the footwizard Fondaras continued.  “The wards on the slopes are hung.  They won’t send anyone scaling the cliffs without us knowing it.  And when they do, they’ll have a few hundredweight of rock come tumbling down on their heads,” he said, with a nod of satisfaction.

“I’ll have three small trebuchets, more or less, ready to hurl rocks by morning.  I’d prefer to have them done by a proper engineer and carpentry team, but the Kasari understood the principle well-enough.”

“We have sufficient stores to last a few days, even without the supply rods,” Pentandra added.  “We had already started stocking the tower when the goblins were sighted.  And there’s a good spring just on the other side of the ridge,” she added.  “We won’t lack for water.”

“The . . . militia is as ready as I can make them,” Sir Festaran said, choosing his words carefully.  “Most haven’t held anything more deadly than a hoe, before.  But they’ve mastered the art of puncturing a bag of dirt,” he finished, sourly.

“Hey, don’t underestimate the power of a bag of dirt!” Rondal said, with an uncharacteristic smirk.  “You’d be surprised just how effective it can be.”

“They’ll stand, at least for a while, is what I meant, Sir Rondal,” the knight said, a little irritated.  “Whether they’ll actually fight when it comes to blows is another matter.”

“The medical tent is stocked and ready to receive casualties,” Lelwen assured me.  “Now be sure not to send me any.

One by one my staff informed me of their readiness, and considering there hadn’t even been a tower here a week ago, I had to admit that we’d done fairly well.  We could hold out a good, long time.  Whether that would be long enough remained to be seen.

“I guess all we need now is a set of dice,” I sighed, when everyone had spoken.

Chapter Fourteen

Mask

You could hear the drums of the goblins as they marched to the mouth of the valley that night.

Big, deep drums, made from the bolls of giant trees and stretched with entire cowhides, the goblin drums beat a steady, relentless cadence designed to intimidate us in the darkness.  We didn’t let that happen – the last thing we needed was two thousand cranky adolescents on the eve of battle.  We cast sound-dampening spells that kept the drums from keeping the kids awake.

As Arborn suggested, they made quick time, their fell riders leading the infantry.  We watched by magesight from the vantage of the scaffolded tower.  The nocturnal gurvani drove their canine steeds into the vale cautiously, the smell of our people everywhere.  And as they crossed an imaginary line, they ran smack into the enchantments our clever magi had put there for that purpose.

Gouts of flame and flashes of light flickered in the night, followed by howls and whines.  Pits created by furiously-digging youths and filled with spikes engulfed the fell hounds foolish enough to cross them.  Ingenious snares and traps tripped and incapacitated the wolf-like giant dogs in a dozen fiendish ways.  The Kasari excel at such things.

But that did not deter the infantry who marched after them.  Even as they blundered into other spells designed to entrap them, they were relentless in their approach.  All night long their drums beat a grim cadence as their iron-soled sandals thudded an echo that rang in the valley.

The kids were scared, of course.  So were most of the adults.  The only ones who weren’t showing it were the grim-faced Kasari rangers and the warmagi, who were more intrigued with the opportunity to try new combat enchantments than they were worried about the outcome.  Luckily most mistook that eagerness for confidence, and they were heartened.

We weren’t arrayed for war, but we weren’t unarmed.  The oldest of the children had bows suitable for hunting – or slaying goblins.  There were now over forty men conscripted into service as emergency militia. They had spears and helms, a few swords and axes.  And we had the warmagi.  And the skyriders.  As desperate situations went, it could have been worse.

Dawn broke with a sprawling crowd of black furry ants swarming over the floor of the valley below.  Rondal held the first landing’s gatehouse.  He was determined to prove its utility, and had taken the position with ten of our impromptu infantry and five Kasari rangers.  Landrick had command of the second landing, with more archers and a selection of Ormar’s finest incendiaries, and Tyndal had command of the highest landing.  Above him, Ormar had control over the wooden frame that was supposed to be a gatehouse and the melded-stone arch that would someday become a proper gate.

“That’s an awful lot of ugly, down there, Sire,” Sir Festaran said, as we looked down at the enemy gathered below.  “Three thousand four hundred twenty-one gurvani,” he said, as another infantry company joined the mass.  “Three hundred and four fell hounds.”

“But no trolls,” I pointed out, optimistically.

“You are correct, Magelord,” Sir Festaran agreed.  He didn’t sound terribly cheered by the lack.  “Sire, I do not mean to sound impertinent, but might I ask what your plan is?”

“We’ll sit tight here, make life very difficult for those fellows down there, and hope they go away eventually,” I supplied.  I could tell Festaran wasn’t particularly happy about that plan, either.   “They have to be impressed that there’s a fortification here that there wasn’t, last week.”

“Yes, they seem quite eager to tour it,” my aide pointed out, dryly.

As I turned away from the observation point built into the dike, Rondal contacted me, mind-to-mind.

Master, they send an emissary forward to negotiate.

Negotiate?  That’s unusual.

I think that’s due to their leadership, Rondal continued.  They’re flying the device of the Mask.

The Mask.  One of the human renegade warmagi who had betrayed their species and gone to work for Shereul, the Dead God.  I’d heard all about Mask.

Mask had been given a small army of his (or her – there was still a lot we didn’t know about the mage, but we were pretty sure she was female) own, as well as lordship over her own little estate.  From what we knew the renegades ran their armies and their domains like independent kings.  One of them, Buckler, had ravaged through Gilmora last year and escaped just as the kingdom’s forces were closing in on him.

Mask held a witchstone, I knew, but beyond that there was little intelligence on the mage.  The army below demonstrated the resources at her command, but we had yet to test her magical strength in the field.

Meet with the emissary, I instructed.  Find out what they want.  If you need me, let me know and I’ll come down.

I’ve got this, Master, he assured me, confidently.  I watched from above as a single gurvan came forward, about half-way up the narrow stair, and spoke to Rondal.  I considered casting a Long Ears spell, but even that enchantment has limitations of distance, and I was four or five hundred feet above the conversation.  I didn’t have long to wait – Rondal was back a few moments later.

It was pretty standard ‘surrender or die,’ he reported.

Don’t they mean ‘surrender and die?’

More or less, he agreed.  They say we don’t have His Majesty The Goblin King’s permission to build a castle here, would we kindly move it, that sort of thing.  Or they will move it for us.

Interesting.  Do you think Mask himself is here?  Herself?

Herself, he corrected.  They were clear about that.  Mask is female.  And human.  And we’re infecting her given territory.

I feel just terrible about that.  You let them know we’re reluctant to move?

Very clearly, Master, he affirmed.  They seem determined to see us gone, however.

How long did they give us?

Before he could answer, I could see the first charge of goblins up the trail.  They crossed the spot in which their emissary had stood, and the first in the rank fell over with arrows in them.  That didn’t stop the assault – far from it – but the first ten gurvani who ran up that trail died in their tracks.

Never mind, I told him, I can see you’re busy.

He didn’t answer, because he was busy.  I watched with pride as the boy who had been driven from his Wilderlands home three years ago thundered arcane death at the gurvani who had done it.  Explosions, cascades of blue electricity, smoke and bolts of magical energy swept the oncoming swell of attackers and created a pile of bodies in the path.  Arrows flew from his emplacement as the Kasari added their more mundane shafts to the carnage.

The goblins kept up the assault for an hour, sending one squad after another up the narrow, winding path . . . and then watching them tumble off the side, an arrow in their gut or their eyes burned out by a magical flame.   Rondal seemed tireless as he methodically applied a wide range of deadly and disruptive warmagic spells.  I had to admit, I was impressed by how far the studious lad had come in his craft.

“It seems a shame to let all of those goblins just mill around down there, getting bored waiting their turn,” I noted to Fondaras as we watched the battle from above.

“I was thinking the same thing,” the old footwizard said, philosophically.  “Never liked those scrugs, even when they weren’t no more than chicken thieves.”  He went over to check on one of the impromptu siege engines that Carmella had built during the night.

It looked rickety, compared to real engines, with the Kasari using their vaunted rope-tying skills to lash it together, instead of nailing it as a proper engineer would have, but they seemed to hold together.  I’m certain there was binding magic involved.  The footwizard spoke to the crew, and in a few moments the first of many heavy stones was flung out into the void . . . and amongst the massed goblin infantry below.

One rock can cause quite a lot of damage.  When the other two engines joined the fight, soon it was raining boulders the size of a man’s head down on the goblins.  We watched them scatter as they tried to avoid the deadly missiles, which was a lot of fun.

But then we watched one well-shot rock suddenly veer out of the way a few dozen feet above the crowd, and our fun was done.  Mask had cast a counterspell to protect her troops, damn her.

Worse, she had further reinforcements arriving, goblins who did not wear her livery but nonetheless seemed enthusiastic about besieging our new tower.  They ran up the path with abandon, but fell just as easily as their friends had.

Just after noon a gurvani priest managed to cast a couple of ingenuous counterspells, allowing them to push Rondal back to the second switchback, but the hundred-odd black furry corpses they left behind showed the price they’d paid for the victory.  By nightfall, when the real battle heated up, we’d only lost two men, and the second landing still held.

Just before dusk I had Dara and her skyriders enter the battle.  The giant hawks sped in unexpectedly and began tearing havoc in our foes by tearing at them with their talons and dropping them from the air.  Despite their size, the birds were difficult for the short bows of the gurvani to target.  I called a halt after the fourth pass, however, as I didn’t want them to master the ability.

As darkness fell over the vale, the goblins redoubled their assault.  They loved the night like we enjoyed the day, and saw as well by starlight as we did by the noonday sun.  So it really messed with their assault when we hung huge, incredibly bright magelights over their heads, providing our archers with the light they needed to see their targets.  I’m just an asshole that way.

Mask countered our magic wherever she could, but there was only one of her and a dozen or so of us.  She was a good warmage – she had dueled Rondal to a standstill, and negated his spells long enough to gain the first switchback – but there were just more of us.  And some of us were much better than her.

She tried a lot of the old standards – concealed climbers up the slopes, which we detected and deflected.  Swaths of darkness designed to obscure our aim, which we countered with more powerful spells.  She tried to magically undermine the base of the tower, but Carmella’s enchantments on the foundation were resolute, and backed by Karshak stonesinging.  The tower might have been fresh and more thinly-walled than I was used to, but it had been magically hardened.  It would take a lot to pull it down.

Still, it was a long, loud, bloody night.  Twice we had to send reinforcements down to the second switchback, and twice we repelled the besiegers.  But it was hot work, and we lost six more men doing it.  More were wounded.

Ormar got a nasty cut on his scalp that promised an intriguing scar, and Landrick had taken an arrow into the meaty part of his right thigh.  But more than a hundred goblins were piled before the second gate, and they both looked like they were on holiday, enthusiastically trading accounts of the battle while Lelwen saw to their wounds.

As dawn’s twilight lit the sky, the goblins retreated back to the first gate, and halted their assault.  We thanked them by having Dara’s skyriders strafe them with the long iron javelins they called skybolts, and glass spheres bearing berserker enchantments.  But the goblins had had enough for the night – they were ready for naps, and a better strategy.

I didn’t intend on giving them the opportunity.  I’d been using my stone and the Mirrors all night, trying to arrange some relief.  The good news was that there was a company of Iron Band soldiers four hundred strong that could be diverted from their mission to support us.  The bad news was that they were at least two, perhaps three days away.

“We can hold out for three days,” Penny assured everyone that morning, after we’d conjured breakfast from Talry.  “It took them a day to take even one gatehouse.  And they paid dearly for that.”

“Not dearly enough,” remarked Arborn.  “They’ve left a tithe of their force on the trail, but they’ve received at least that many in reinforcements.  Heavy infantry, this time.  Hobgoblins, and Bloody Roots, by their banner.”

That was bad news.  Not many goblin regiments were known by their names, but the Bloody Roots had a certain flair for brutality that had become known even among their human foes.

A legion of eunuchs, fed on human flesh and hatred, armored in black mail and great helms, and bearing heavy iron halberds, the Bloody Roots had stormed one manor hall after another in Gilmora last year.  Lady Ithalia had nearly caught up with them, during her cleansing of the region, but they had deceived her and slipped away.  That’s hard to do, with one of the Alka Alon.  The Bloody Roots were smart, as well as tough and brutal.

I hate a clever hobgoblin.  The Bloody Root was going to be problematic.  That thick armor and those big halberds were a much different story than the light swords and darts the common gurvani soldiers bore.  Arrows would be much easier for them to stand, and they would be able to power through our defenses a lot easier.

“We need heavy infantry of our own to counter them,” I sighed.  “And I don’t happen to have any.  Not unless we can build them out of stone.”

“How about . . . bags of dirt?” offered Rondal, hesitantly.

“What do you mean?” I asked.  I didn’t dismiss the lad – he was smart.  If he saw something I didn’t, I wanted to know.

“How about earth elementals?” he suggested.  “Post them on the trail and it would be hard for even the hobs to make it past.”

“We do have plenty of dirt,” Carmella said, amused.  “The elementals might be good for moving it.  They aren’t very good at fighting.  They can’t maintain cohesiveness for long enough to be effective.  Once they lose their material, they’re just an enneagram with no place to go.”

“What if something else held their material together?” asked Rondal, thoughtfully.  “Conserved their mass and kept them cohesive?”

“Another spell?” Penny asked, intrigued.

“No,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Not what I had in mind.  Or, well, maybe, but I don’t think we have time to experiment with that, under the circumstances.  I did this spell, once, that used an earth elemental, but . . . say, Master, do you think you could get us some empty sacks?”

I thought of the huge shed stacked full of the hundreds of bags of flour my father’s bakery had already run through, back in Tudry.  Gareth could transport them here easily.  “Yes, but . . . why?”

“Well, can any of these ladies sew?” he asked, pointlessly.  The Kasari girls prided themselves on their needlework the way the boys did on their wood carving and knot tying.  Every time we stopped to rest, nearly every Kasari girl whipped out some patch of needlework they were working on the way that the boys carved wood.  “Because if we do this right, I might just have an answer for our heavy infantry.”

*                            *                            *

Rondal’s plan was a good one, especially as it didn’t require anyone getting hurt.  Gareth sent us a huge stack of sacks and bags from my father’s surplus, and the rest of the morning a squadron of young Kasari women gaily stitched them together under Rondal’s direction.  Once he explained the principle to us, I had to agree that it was a simple and elegant solution to the problem.

But it was only part of the problem.  Elemental cohesiveness is difficult to manage for earth elementals, but that was only one reason they were rarely employed as weapons.  They are the least aggressive and active of the elementals.  Good for work, but as belligerent as a turtle.

I could help with that, by using the Grain of Pors.   While Rondal oversaw the sewing, I sat in my tent and studied the tiny shard of Ghost Rock and the thousands of enneagramatic impressions it held.

Most thaumaturges understand the principles of enneagramatic magic; I was one of the few who had successfully conjured one of each type – I had never met someone who had managed a fire elemental the way I had, at the Battle of Timberwatch.  But as I allowed my mind to descend into the depths of the Grain, I began to understand why that tiny stone held such power.

There were things within, the remnants of creatures so ancient they had no names.  Some were like fishes, others like crustaceans or even avian predators, and some were so wild and strange I had no idea from what kind of nervous system they had sprung.

A few I could roughly identify by the patterns of their enneagrams – predators tend to share certain characteristics, for example – and some I had no discernible function that I could tell.  After a few hours of steady work, however, I located entities I felt could be useful.  They certainly gave me some ideas for amending Rondal’s basic creation. Transferring the enneagram from the Grain was difficult, but as I’ve said, I’ve done it before.  And I was getting good at it.

By afternoon, we had a working prototype, and several more were under construction.  The girls were glad to be able to do something other than fetch water for the archers and practice bandages with the priestesses.  Sewing their way out of a battle seemed exciting.

While we had been crafting enchantments, the rangers had been busy.  Those not grabbing a precious few hours of sleep were harassing the foe in countless ways.  Sentries had their throats slit.  Snipers slew officers in the midst of giving orders.   Distractions interrupted vital intelligence reports.  And Dara’s skyriders, who could do little at night when their birds were essentially blind, harassed the encampment from the air all day.

But that evening, when Frightful was back to her proper size and resting on her perch in my tent, Dara took a nap until dark and then prepared the Thoughtful Knife.  It had no trouble seeing in the dark.

Just after our magical kettles appeared with supper (fish stew, this time) we got another call of truce down at the first gate.  Mask, herself, wanted to speak to who was in charge.  So I walked to the second gate after I wolfed down a bowl of stew and a heel of bread to meet our foe.  Brother Hotfoot and Arborn both accompanied me, to represent the Kasari and the refugees, respectively.

The gate was crowded with determined-looking rangers, scared-looking militiamen, their knuckles white on their spear shafts, and Ormar and Landrick, who had been healed of their wounds by our magical medic.  Ormar had a pyramid of alchemical devices at hand, ready to deploy, and the former Censorate warmage had sheathed his mageblade in favor of an oversized polearm of his own design.

Mask and her retinue were waiting halfway between the first and second gatehouses, where the trail widened slightly, permitting more than one person to stand on it at a time.  While within bowshot, she did not seem to fear our shafts.  I had to commend the gurvani – they had yet to break a truce, in my presence, something that few human lords could say.  I had no intention of breaking it – I wanted to hear what she had to say.

Mask was accompanied by three aides, two gurvani, dressed in fairly standard light infantry or cavalry armor, and a hobgoblin bearing the Bloody Root’s obscene black and red banner.

The hob’s armor was every bit as good as human manufacture, a forged iron breastplate secured with thick leather straps, vambraces and grieves of iron, and leather gauntlets sewn with iron plates.  His helm was impressive, more complex than the simple iron cap that most gurvani wore.  It mimicked a human style of helmet.  A sophisticated rounded crown was designed to deflect glancing blows, a metal gorget protected his thick neck, and it had savage-looking guards projecting in front to ward the face and eyes from harm.  He wore thick iron pauldrons attached to the straps of his breastplate.  A short, wide sword hung at his belt.

The Bloody Root was no joke.  That armor was built for serious infantry work. The scars on the hob’s face and arms bore testament to his experience, too.  That was a killer’s stone face, and his eyes glowed eerily with a fierce ring of bright copper pigment around his irises.  If Mask wanted to impress me, she had.

Mask, herself, was a slight woman, shorter than even Penny, though she wore equestrian boots with a high heel to make her appear taller.  As it was, she was not much larger than her goblin aides and shorter than the hobgoblin, who wasn’t quite six feet.  She had a billowing dark mantle around her, adding to her presence, the cowl over her head leaving her eyes in shadow.

She wore light but sturdy leather armor reinforced with steel, but darkened to keep it from reflecting.  There was a mageblade on her back, a wickedly-curved design popular with the Cormeeran warmagi, and she bore a staff her own height.  Weirwood, I could see.  And at its summit was set a witchstone.  A big one.

She struck a defiant pose when she saw us approach.  Arrogant, I could tell, and not a little vain.  Good qualities in a fearless leader, and weaknesses I could potentially exploit.  Here was a woman concerned for her position, my intuition told me.

“Hail, the besiegers,” I called, as I came within earshot.  “What names shall we call you?”

“You may call me Lady Mask,” she said, haughtily.  “These are my lands you trespass upon.”

“I don’t seem to recall seeing your name in the Hall of Records,” I chuckled.  “Even right of conquest has to be secured by application.  At the very least, these lands are in contention.”

“Insolent mage,” she sneered.  “You have no right to bring that rabble here, and pretend to build a castle on my doorstep!  A clever illusion, but it will not deter my soldiery.”

“Your soldiery will receive a rude surprise, then, if they ever gain those walls.  That’s no illusion, my lady.  That is a fortification.  And we’ve managed to keep building throughout your quaint little assaults.  We expect it to be finished in a few days.”

I could only see her eyes above her veil by magesight, but they turned dark and skeptical.  “Impossible!  It can take years to build a castle!”

“Not when you have motivated workers, clever engineers, and a wheelbarrow full of magic,” I pointed out.  “That tower is here, and here it will stay.”

“Perhaps,” she said, threateningly, “but it will be my gurvani who tend it, not humans.  Your blood will be used to affix its foundations.”

“Already done,” I promised.  “And I really doubt that.”

“I have a full company of Bloody Root infantry, ready to storm this gate!”

“And I have a couple of hundred twelve-year-olds up there who look forward to watching them fail,” I smiled.  “My lady, if brute force could accomplish the goal, you would have won the day already.”

“The day is nearly done,” she replied, evenly, “and we will win the night!  We have sent for further reinforcements,” she said, as if that settled the matter.

“So have we,” I agreed, lightly.  “And we have only just begun our magical defenses.  But I do appreciate the effort – it’s helping us refine them, under field conditions.  One rarely has that luxury during construction.”

She glowered at me.  “What is your name, warmage?” she demanded.

“Minalan the Spellmonger,” I replied.  “I have a lot of titles, but that’s my name.”

Her eyes got as big as roundshields.  Apparently she’d heard of me.

“You!” she said, in a harsh whisper.  I may have been mistaken, but I thought maybe the goblins exchanged worried looks.  Nonhuman faces are hard to read, sometimes.  “You have confounded our lord’s desires at every turn!“

“I’ve certainly tried,” I agreed.  “It’s nice to know I’m starting to get the recognition I deserve.”  I could hear Arborn and Brother Hotfoot stifle laughter behind me at her expression.

“It will be a pleasure and a service to the realm when I take your head,” she proposed.  “I will succeed where so many others have failed!”

I got closer, causing the goblins to back up – but not the hobgoblin.  The eunuch looked on, unconcerned, merely awaiting orders. Lady Mask, to her credit, appeared unafraid.

“Your ambition does you credit, my lady, but there is a reason that all those others failed.  Despite your bluster, you are overmatched.  And I warn you, crossing staves with me would see you fail utterly.”

“I do not fail!” she insisted, her eyes defiant over her mask.  She shifted her staff to interpose it between us.  Her witchstone glowed eerily with power in the gloom.  “I will see you dead, and all your works ruined!”

“You will slink away with your tail between your legs, if you survive at all,” Arborn called out.  “I have known the Spellmonger a short time.  I have never known him to lose a contest.”  Those bold words were heartening, but they also raised the level of expectation.  And hardened her resolve.

“I could tear that peasant’s shack down by myself,” she spat, her eyes glancing above.  “Our truce is over, Spellmonger.  Beware, lest I call you out in a duel and you show everyone just how your reputation serves you more than your enchantments!”

I studied her intently.  “Best you don’t, my little lady,” I said, emphasizing the ‘little.’  “The last time I drew my sword and rode to battle against gurvani, a hundred thousand of them lost their lives . . . yet I thrive.”  I cast my eye on her staff.  It was potent – the shard of irionite was twice as large as most of my magi carried – and it pulsed with the spells she had hung around it.

“Do your worst,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  I could feel her combat spells activating.

“I’d rather do my best,” I said, quoting the Kasari motto.  I reached out and grasped her staff – probably the last thing she expected – and I whispered a mnemonic to myself.  A spell activated.  The deadly thing disappeared into a pocket dimension attached to a ring I wore.  I hadn’t thought it would be that easy, but it just vanished out of her clutching fingers.  So did the spells she had powered with it.  She stared at me furiously, her eyes wide with shock.

“Try to assault us without the toy,” I said, contemptuously.  “As you said, do your worst.  We’ll be waiting at the top.”  I turned and walked away, unconcerned with the strangled cries of frustration and anger behind me.

“Are you certain that was wise, Spellmonger?” Brother Hotfoot asked, amused but concerned.  Arborn was looking dourly at the goblins and their mistress as they sullenly retreated, his great bow in hand. He seemed to dare them to attack us as we withdrew.

“Wise?  Absolutely not.  But strategically valuable.  Now she’s enraged and bereft of her greatest source of magic.  A goodly portion of battle is taking advantages of your enemy’s mistakes.  I just gave her a couple of good reasons to make some.  What is she going to do, kill us even harder?”

Darkness was falling fast as we walked back up to the top of the ridge, and I had to cast a magelight to see my footing.  When we arrived, Rondal was stretching after his labors.

“All is ready, Master,” he called.  “The skyrider returned from her mission, just as the sun set.”

“Good,” I nodded, as I surveyed his work.  Nine of them, altogether, some as big as trolls.  Lady Mask had her heavy infantry. I now had mine.  “Get them ready to deploy, the big one on the trail, the others in waiting.  Let’s see how long it takes for them to get through one before we spend them all.”

“That’s some classy enchantment,” Carmella agreed.  “You know, there’s more than one way to deploy them.”  She told me her plan, and I had to agree, it had merit.

“Do it,” I ordered.  “Start with two.  Then let’s see what happens.  It’s not like we can’t get more bags and more dirt.”

“Yes, Spellmonger!” she said, with a rare grin.  Carmella hardly gets excited by anything.  “This is going to be more fun than Timberwatch!”  That had been the last major battle in which such engines and strategy had been used.  That had been Carmella’s masterpiece, proving her value to all as a defensive warmage of highest regard.

Most of the Kasari children were being called to bed by their horns, almost unconcerned with the battle around them.   Some of the older lads, those who had taken the Life Oath, volunteered to stand guard, or assist with the defense on the walls with their bows.  The Sisters of Briga were manning the canopy that served as a field hospital, and the hundreds of workers who had toiled on the tower while the battle raged below were ending their work day.

I was hopeful.  The inspired move to steal Lady Mask’s magical staff had made me confident.  Without that power, she was an ordinary warmage.  Reporting its loss to her superiors in the Umbra would be painful, at best, even if she won.  No one was getting that staff back unless I wanted them to have it.

I was in the middle of a Mirror call to Alya, explaining the situation and assuring her of my safety when the drums started up again, echoing across the ridges.

The night’s attack had begun.

Chapter Fifteen

The Legacy of Pors

The drums thundered all night long, a monotonous rhythm by which the gurvani timed their assault.  One after another they charged up the trail, screaming and shouting warcries as they tried to gain the second gatehouse.  Many fell to arrows and stones lobbed from the trail above, others were impaled on spears or thrown off the trail by our warriors.  Throughout it all the gurvani rumbled a guttural chant that kept them moving and propelled them toward violent death.

When Rondal’s enchantment was ready, we were ready to start some noise of our own.  It took four big Kasari youth to lug it down the trail between assaults, but once it was in place my apprentice spoke the words of command and activated the artifact.  It came to life and stood on its stumpy legs.

Call it the descendent of the Clay Man of Pors.  An eight-foot tall bulging scarecrow, a staff of oak for a spine and legs, its flesh the soil of the land – lightly seasoned with snowsand, enchantment, and sophisticated spellwork.  Its skin was three layers of burlap tightly stitched together and bound with belts and straps for added stability.  An iron helmet too small for its unseeing head was placed upon the top, to protect the integrity of the burlap, but it was mostly a decorative measure.

At the end of its long tube-like arms instead of dirt the bags had been covered with tough leather and filled with gravel – stones the size of a man’s eye, about thirty pounds in each mitt.  And there were four of them.

It had occurred to me while I was poking around in the Grain that most of the entities I encountered were not built along the two-arms-two-legs design; indeed, most of them had no need of legs, as such, or if they did they weren’t used like we’d use them.  But the dexterity suggested by their enneagrams convinced me to select some patterns that had a facility with multiple limbs.  So our largest dirt-bag construct was created with four stubby clubs for hands, not two.

When Rondal activated and animated the construct at the gatehouse, it pulled itself erect in a jerking mockery of life . . . but it was a lot more life-like than your typical earth elemental.  It hulked there, barely moving, as Rondal checked its cohesiveness and obedience.  Then he essentially told it that its eggs up on the ridge were in danger from the goblins on the trail.

That’s all it took.  With far more alacrity than I’d ever seen an elemental display, the construct trundled forward into the darkness, impelled by Nature’s command to protect its young.

Not even the gods know the form or fashion of the original creature, but whatever it had been it had apparently been used to using its limbs as weapons.  As it came to the first group of cowering goblins, it soundlessly regarded them before it methodically began tearing them apart.  The arms on each side acted in concert, like pincers, and grasped the goblins before squeezing them to death or throwing them over the side.

It was an eerily beautiful, utterly horrible sight, as the construct did not react the way a living thing would when struck.  It had no capacity for feeling pain.  Arrows peppered it, and it ignored them.  But it still had an aggressive sense of self-preservation.  Any foe who got within reach received a pounding from two thirty-pound bags of gravel.  Not many goblin helmets could withstand that.  Nor goblin heads.  One by one the infantry who faced it died in brutal fashion until the front ranks broke, colliding with those who pushed up from behind.

Near the far end of the trail, near the first gatehouse, Mask’s regular troops gave way to the veterans of the Bloody Root.  The hobgoblins bravely stood their ground against the construct and used their wicked pole arms to try to block its flailing limbs.  Working in concert they pinned one, then two of the club- like appendages with the hafts of the halberds, while others struggled to pin the other side without being bashed to death.

They were partially successful.  They managed to wedge enough of them between the slope and the construct to pry it loose from the trail, sending it tumbling down the slope . . . and into their unsuspecting fellows on the lower trail.  While the hobgoblins in the vanguard cheered, their fellows in the second company were suddenly being attacked by an even angrier and confused construct who saw threats to its eggs all around.  It took a heavy toll on the hobs it hammered into.  Even as the vanguard turned to race up the trail to the second gatehouse, Rondal spoke another command word . . . and the second construct rose to life.

This one was different, even less anthropomorphic.  More like a two-headed ram on four feet, with a lower center of gravity.  The crab-like thing I had used to harness to the elemental template had a temper, I assumed a mating cycle or just general belligerence that made it want to bash things, really hard.  We’d facilitated that by arming its two rams with thick iron jousting helmets, well-secured with leather straps and spiked on the crowns.  When the crab-beast construct was set loose, it charged into the hobs to even greater effect than the first.

Satisfied with the dance of magical violence my apprentice had incited – and glad that it wasn’t being witnessed by most of the children – I let Rondal direct the counter-assault while I went up to the battlements.  Carmella’s makeshift trebuchets were ready to lob more missiles over the side and into the besieging army below.  Without her witchstone, Lady Mask’s protections against such things were weakened.  And these were very special missiles.

“Good thing they don’t have any bones to break,” Sir Festaran chuckled, as he helped fold the limp bags of earth we’d prepared for the assault.  “You say the creatures they’re patterned after had none?”

“I couldn’t say, for certain, but I’m sure it looked like nothing we’re experienced with,” I nodded, as the multilegged constructs we’d fashioned were put into place.

“Wait,” Tyndal said, as we were about to fire the siege weapons.  “I almost forgot – I added a little enchantment!” he grinned, and cast a quick spell.  From each of the constructs’ “heads” a single magelight of surpassing brightness beamed.  “There!” he said, satisfied.  “The scrugs have a hard time with bright light – let’s see how they fight something they can’t look at directly!”

“That’s ready, then,” Carmella said, with a smile.  “Let’s see what they can do.  Fire!” she called to the crews.  Three hammers slapped at their blocks, letting the heavy stone counterweights plummet to the ground, while three limp forms were flung in a harsh arc out over the side of the mountain and down into the darkness below. We all watched the spinning light of the constructs as they fell.  It must have looked incredible from the ground.  Until they landed.

I activated the constructs while they were in the air, and moments after they landed I used magesight to watch them respond to the goblins around them like crazed insects defending themselves.  Their many appendages lashed out to strike at everything they could reach as they spun through the surprised army.

Just as the first of our constructs fell, I ordered Dara to launch the Thoughtful Knife.  She spent an hour or so zipping through the mass of goblins who had assembled to fight the other constructs, using the flying blade to discourage large, easy-to-target groups from gathering.  There were limits to how long a human mind could control the thing, however, and after she ruined Lady Mask’s tent I made her call off her assault and put the Knife away for the night.  She needed sleep.

The sudden attack in their camp broke the goblins resolve to charge up the trail, and all was in chaos.  Bodies of goblins and hobgoblins lay everywhere, and the survivors struggled through the night to maintain discipline.

Eventually, of course, our elemental constructs were defeated.  Enough axes and swords slashing at the burlap and leather of the constructs caused them to lose their material, and then their enchantments, but they had done their job.  In three or four hours they had left hundreds dead and wounded and challenged Lady Mask’s resolve.  Along with Dara’s mayhem, the sun rose over a very chaotic and battered goblin army.

“That’s pretty bloody awful,” Sir Festaran said, admirably, as we gathered around to watch the aftermath.  He had his arm over Dara’s shoulder, warming her with his cloak, and keeping her upright.  The Knife really was exhausting work.  “About four hundred seventeen casualties, at least another two hundred twenty -six wounded.  Nearly a third of their force incapacitated, the rest demoralized.”

“We’ll see if they slink away when the sun comes up,” I speculated.  “Why don’t you see Lady Dara to her tent, and then grab some sleep yourself?   I don’t think we’ll need to repel any storming parties tonight. “

“Master, it seems awfully wrong of her to be besieging our camp, when her home is sitting there, virtually unprotected,” Dara pointed out sleepily.  “It’s only twelve, fifteen miles away.  When we flew over it, we saw hardly any guards left.  It was mostly slaves.  Just a skeleton garrison,” she pointed out, with a yawn.  “It would be a shame if something were to happen to her castle while she was out fighting us.”

“Master, I like the way Dara thinks,” Tyndal agreed with a grin.  “Coming home to a broken keep and a slave uprising after you just got routed on the field is a special kind of indignity.”

“You think you could start a slave revolt?” I asked, amused.

“I’ve done it before,” he shrugged.  “It doesn’t take much.  Some weapons, some leadership, and some opportunity.  The faint hope of escape lends a desperate strength.  It’s quite fascinating, from a professional perspective.”

“Get ready, then,” I agreed.  “Come dawn, we’ll pay a little visit to the hall of Lady Mask.”

Then I went to take a nap, with instructions to wake me if anything important happened.  Thankfully, I slept until Sir Festaran woke me, just before the sun rose.  That’s the crappy thing about fighting goblins – it throws your sleep schedule off.

We could see the councils the of our foe meeting outside the ruins of Lady Mask’s tent the next morning.  Her commanders angrily demanded she do something about the belligerent bags of dirt that were beating them into a pulp.  Mask pleaded and demanded and begged, and in the end her officers grudgingly agreed to give her another opportunity to win the day.  Fresh troops arrived soon after dawn, having marched through the night.  Not more hobgoblins, we could see, but a few hundred spindly-legged gurvani with ropes and hooks.

“They’re going to try to come up the slope,” Carmella said, shaking her head as she sipped her morning tea.  “Does she still think it’s some kind of illusion?”

“The spells on that slope are no illusion,” said Master Mortan, the Hesian Order’s warmage who Carmella had decided would be in charge of the tower when it was complete.  He had spent a lot of time enchanting the slopes around the ridge to deter just this sort of attack.  “The first line is just annoying.  They’ll soil themselves and vomit, and fear for their lives for no reason.  If they get past the first line, the second will kill them.   I plan to make this tower impregnable, I’m not likely to allow that sort of simple attack.”

“Mask hasn’t had a lot of experience against other warmagi,” I reminded them.  “From what we know she’s adept at Imperial magic, and with a witchstone she’s deadly.  But she’s mostly been tested against nonmagical foes, where she has an advantage.  Now that she’s up against opponents who can counter her sorceries, she’s flailing.”

The battle died down, during the day, as Mask tried to put her camp back in order.  For the most part we left them alone to count their dead and recover with just a few sniper attacks to keep them awake and nervous.  The first gatehouse had been retaken after a rally and counterattack led by Ormar and Landrick, and Rondal was working to re-fortify and strengthen it, against tonight’s inevitable offensive.  Instead of the constructs, during the day the two giant dogs sat on the trail and growled menacingly at the goblin sentries at the other end.

Meanwhile Dara and her wing of giant hawks took flight soon after sunrise and winged their way west.  Dara found the site of Mask’s fortress, complete with her ugly banner, and confirmed the presence of but a few sleepy guards and overseers.  Over a hundred slaves were being used to tend the scraggly fields of grain and vegetables, and the few herds of goats and pigs the castle still maintained.

Dara set down in an empty corner of the bailey and dropped a Waystone on the ground.  When she informed me all was ready, mind-to-mind, I used magic to take myself and a small squadron through to the decrepit keep.

The depressing squat tower Mask had appropriated was old but sturdy, made of tightly-fitted rubble and lacking much in the way of aesthetics.  The castle village sat within the bailey, making it easier to defend and oppress.  Dara’s field observations had been correct: there were less than a dozen gurvani left inside, my scrying showed.

I’d brought Tyndal and Sir Festaran, as well as two rangers to help.  That had hurt – taking four people through was difficult, and five was extremely hard.  My head hurt with the effort, but I felt I had to push myself to practice.  I looked at my senior apprentice, who was surveying the keep with a discerning eye.  A good time to depend on the services of my vassals and liegemen.

“Festaran, which of those corners would you estimate is the weakest?” I asked, curious about the scope and extent of the lad’s magical abilities.

“The southeast corner, Magelord,” the young knight answered almost at once.  “It is lower than the other three by five inches, at least.  Likely built on a poor foundation.  Too easy to drive an undermine into.”

“The Wilderlords prefer storming parties to sapping,” I chuckled.  “The ground is too rocky around here to make that productive, in most cases.  Tyndal, you have your weakness.  Take down that castle, please.”

“My pleasure, Master,” he said, grinning.  It’s not often a warmage gets that kind of opportunity.  He considered for a few moments, then began constructing an elaborate but efficient spell.  It was professionally gratifying to witness him building the layers of enchantment in the proper Imperial-approved manner, and when he was done he looked at me for final permission.  I nodded.

He spoke a command, in a loud and somewhat boastful tone, and a high pitched whine began.  In moments, the lowest corner of the square keep began to rise up . . . and up . . . until it was level with other sides.  And it kept going.  In a few moments the rocks that made up the wall fell away from each other, their mortar broken, and the entire side of the keep collapsed, taking a good measure of wall on either side of the corner.

“Well done!” Festaran approved, while Dara giggled.  A cloud of dust had erupted with the crash of the collapse.  The keep erupted with activity as the goblins sleeping within who had survived began to shake themselves out of the rubble, coughing and choking and squealing in pain and confusion.  The village full of human slaves next to the keep filled with poor wretches shaken awake by the sound.

“Let’s go speak to these good folks,” I suggested.  Leaving the giant falcon behind us, we walked calmly through the grass of the yard, the morning dew clinging to our boots and decorating every spider web along the way.  We reached the edge of the village to find a crowd of gawking slaves staring at the ruined castle.

“You know,” Tyndal remarked casually, as we came up behind the wretches, “there probably aren’t more than a few guards left alive in there,” he said to a knot of onlookers.  “It probably wouldn’t take much to overwhelm them and take the gates.”

“Who are you?” asked a middle-aged man in a filthy hempcloth smock and a thick iron collar around his neck.  “Did the Lady send you?” he asked in a Gilmoran accent.

“Not on purpose, but we’re here because of her,” I answered.  “We thought we’d give you the opportunity to take advantage of her absence and escape.”

“Escape?” he scoffed.  “The lands around here crawl with her riders.  Those damn dogs can sniff out a human anywhere we hide.  And what she does to those who get caught . . . she experiments on them.  Besides, no one knows where the Lady went, or how far away she is.  She could return at any time.”

“I have it on excellent authority that she’s currently engaged more than a dozen miles from here,” I said.  “At the quickest, she couldn’t be back here before a day.  And her attention is rather occupied at the moment.  It might take much longer.”

“So we should just . . . walk away?” the man scoffed.  A small crowd had gathered around us – we clearly weren’t slaves, and while they were fearful of the consequences of speaking with us, curiosity won out.

“Well, take what you can carry,” suggested Sir Festaran.  “Loot to your heart’s content, but escape.  Today.  All of you.  Go south for a ways, then east.  There is a new fortress built about thirteen and two seventh’s of a mile from here, up on a high ridge.  Find that keep, and you will find rescue within.  Perhaps even find your way back home,” he promised.  “But certainly you will not die here.”

“We can’t fight without weapons!” complained a man, who looked like he was searching for a reason to believe us.  I was ready for that.  I’d had as many loose gurvani weapons collected from the battle on the trail as I could.  Most of the armor went to reinforcing the constructs who were still protecting us, but the weapons included many sturdy, if ugly, iron knives and swords, as well as dozens of those little maces most of the traditional gurvani still carried as a personal weapon.

I opened a magical pocket from my staff and dumped a pile of nasty looking blades at their feet.

“Aw, look what fell out of my pocket,” I complained, impishly.  “Take them.  And while you’re at it,” I said, extending a tendril of magical force into the cruel iron collar around his neck and severing the bolt with a silent command, “take those off.  They’ve fallen out of fashion, of late.”

There was a cheer and a rush to arm themselves when it became clear this was no trick.  My two apprentices spent a few moments removing collars and manacles – such magic was beyond Festaran’s simple Talent – while the rangers and I consulted with the leaders of the slaves to tell them how to get to the new pele tower.

While we were in discussions, two gurvani overseers came out to demand that the slaves return to their huts.  They were slain on the spot by the vengeful slaves, and soon a party of a dozen was picking their way through the ruins of the keep, slaying whatever goblins they came across.  The guard at the gate fled in terror before he could be taken, no doubt running to his mistress with news of the treacherous turn of events.

We let him go.  What’s the point of breaking someone’s home in a humiliating fashion if they don’t know about it?

Tyndal looted Mask’s personal chamber, liberating several valuables and a sheaf of parchments that could have worth as intelligence, we decided.  There was also a collection of interesting-looking magical items, many of gurvani manufacture, that bore further study.  Less important, but more gratifying was a big chest full of money, apparently Mask’s pay chest for her garrison.

“Be a shame to leave it just lying there,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Not when we need to feed and clothe all of those children.”

“You manage to make greed sound so altruistic,” Dara quipped.  “How much were you going to keep?”

“Money is a transitory pleasure,” Tyndal said, feigning offense.  “I had nothing but the interests of the poor orphans in mind, I assure you.”

“Your charity does you credit,” I said, waving my hand and putting the chest into the pocket where the weapons had been carried.  “I’ll see that a portion gets left at the pele tower to be divided among any of the slaves who actually make it that far.  The rest will be used, as you said, to equip the refugees.”

“No finder’s fee?” he asked, pouting.

“You work for me, remember?” I pointed out.  “And we’re on a mission.  Loot on your own time.  Now let’s get the rest of this packed up, get those slaves organized, and get back to camp before Mask knows we’re gone.”

We were back at the pele tower before noon, after the slaves safely tromped out into the Wilderlands, their arms full of every bit of food and treasure they could bear.  The remains of Mask’s keep burned behind them.  Dara and her skyriders flew overhead to ward off any stray patrols, while the rest of us went back through the Waypoint and returned to the business of defense.

I made two trips.  My head still hurt for an hour afterward.

That night Mask tried both a scaling party up the slopes and a storming party of hobgoblins attempting to re-take the first gatehouse.  Neither was successful, and the scaling party failed spectacularly.

Master Mortan’s enchantments and wards proved deadly and disastrous to the gurvani.  Dozens of would-be assault troops plummeted to their deaths or were blinded, burned, or maimed by the traps in the slopes.  None made it even half-way up the mountain.  Master Mortan took notes the entire time, planning on improvements to make the site even better defended.

The storming party fared little better.  The first gatehouse held, and the hobs lost another fifty or more in the attack.  Our crab-like constructs were just too tough to fight in such tight quarters, particularly once their burlap was reinforced and protected by stray bits of hobgoblin armor.  It must have been galling, fighting a magical beast dressed in the armor of your fallen comrades, but I wasn’t concerned with hobgoblin dignity.  The Bloody Root was a damn sight more bloody that night.

“One thousand, two hundred sixty-eight, give or take,” Sir Festaran pronounced at breakfast the next morning, after surveying the enemy’s camp from the battlement.  “I might be wrong, but there may have been some desertions.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Carmella agreed.  “We dropped another two constructs into their camp, last night.  This time we added some of Ormar’s alchemy.  As soon as the constructs were defeated, they burst into a spectacular gout of flame that singed everything in range.  Along with a generous dose of demon pepper powder, Ormar’s recipe.  It will be awhile before any fell hounds want to get close to this place.  Those truly are remarkable constructions, Min,” she said, approvingly.

“Thank Rondal,” I shrugged.  “My apprentices are surprisingly crafty, when left to their own devices.”

“One starts to wonder why they’re still apprenticed,” Carmella noted, quietly.

I had to admit, she had a point.

Traditionally, a mage’s apprenticeship lasts until he can take the certification exams.  Or at least that was the theory – in practice, some never had the funds or the skills to successfully sit for exams.  That period can be anywhere from three to seven years, depending upon the master, the student, and the circumstances.  It wasn’t unusual for a master to extend an apprenticeship beyond reason in order to secure the service of his apprentice.  But a good master knew when to turn his pupil loose on the world.

I decided to think about it.

In the meantime, I had a battle to win.  After three days of failed assaults, enough of Mask’s troops had had enough that she faced a mutiny in her command.  Even the Bloody Root hobgoblins were fearful of the armored constructs.  They’d lost half of their number to the creations.  Mask’s escalade parties had failed utterly, and we’d lost less than ten men to their hundreds.  The screech of the hawks had become so fearful to the ears of the goblins that Landrick had copied the noise in a spell and played it into the camp repeatedly.

It was close to noon when we received word from the ranger scouts watching the mouth of the valley that the vanguard of the Iron Band had been sighted.  Fifty mounted knights and three hundred fifty infantry had changed their route to come to our support.

I felt it was an opportune time for Mask and I to have another chat.

I ordered the appropriate truce flag to be flown, and when we had received assurances I headed back down the trail to speak with our attacker again.  I brought Hotfoot and Arborn along again, for the sake of consistency.

“You seem to be having a crisis of organization, it seems,” I pointed out, helpfully.

“Say what you wish, Spellmonger!” she spat – which I’m sure was interesting, wearing a mask.  “Had you not stolen my rod, it would be you who was in dire straits right now!”

“Again, doubtful,” I shrugged.  “You gave it an admirable try, I admit.  A valiant effort, even.  I’d say as much to your commanders, if you’d like me to write a letter on your behalf,” I said, sympathetically.

“Shut your vile mouth!” she screamed angrily at me.

“Are you certain?” Brother Hotfoot offered, helpfully.  “Considering your situation, I think every little bit might help.  Losing a battle, most of your troops, your witchstone and your keep, all in one week, that can’t look good on a renegade’s resume,” he said, shaking his head.

“My . . . keep?” she whispered.

“You should be receiving word any time now,” I smiled.  “While you were trying to keep your troops from deserting you, my apprentices paid a call on Castle Mask, or whatever you call the place.”

“Castle Rubble, would seem more appropriate,” Arborn said with a grin.

“They did a remarkably thorough job,” I agreed.  “It’s now slighted and burned beyond repair.  Your slaves have revolted and fled.  And your treasury has been mislaid.”

“You . . .” she said in a growl.

“I’m willing to let you keep your head,” I offered.  “I’ll even let you retreat in good order.  I don’t have to.  There are four hundred Iron Band warriors ready to box you in while I unleash my new generation of constructs on your troops.  But I’m willing to let you march away, if you agree to do so at once.  If not . . . well, we’ve got spells we haven’t even tried yet.”

It took her a few moments of consideration – mostly of the gurvani behind her whose opinion on the matter were clear – but she eventually relented.  She would not allow her command to die to the last man, she said, arrogantly.  She would return and report her failure and face the consequences.

“Was that wise?” asked Arborn, sounding troubled.  “Should we have not killed her and defeated her troops utterly?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” I agreed.  “It’s generally poor practice to leave a live enemy behind you.  But with Lady Mask, I had an ulterior motive,” I explained.  “I want to discourage the number of renegade warmagi who think they can bargain with Shereul and come out ahead.  I want her to be an example of what happens when they do, and the Spellmonger contends with them.”

“She knew you could have defeated her utterly,” Hotfoot pointed out.  “By letting her live, you humiliate her more.”

“By letting her live, I let her peers see how well the Dead God rewards failure,” I pointed out.  “Somehow I don’t think that her discipline will be pleasant.”

It took until dusk for the gurvani to get themselves ready to march away, but we let them.  The Iron Band stood by and made rude comments – they’d picked up quite a bit of gurvani in their service – and afterwards joined us in the bailey of the new tower for supper.

It was a good time, made even better by the tiny column of smoke that still burned on the horizon.

It really made for a pretty sunset.

Chapter Sixteen

An Audience With The King

After humiliating Lady Mask by defeating her on the field, stealing her source of power, and burning down her castle, you might think the goblins would have left us alone for a while after we left Rognar Tower.  But their fell riders dogged our shadows for days, always staying under just enough cover to keep them from getting plucked into the sky by a giant hawk.

We were moving into what had been one of the more densely populated regions of the Alshari Wilderlands, a string of fertile valleys and wooded ridges, the kind of landscape that encouraged more communal farming along the river valleys than the isolated freeholds further north.  Four years ago this had been what passed for an agricultural heartland of this rugged region.  Now every hamlet we passed was deserted, every village burned, every rustic manor or humble shrine abandoned.

Yet as we passed, the few human folk who lingered on the fringes of their ruined lives came out to see the spectacle, despite the danger.  The sight of the proud Kasari children, marching under their banners, their cloaks flung back in the warmth of the sun, and singing, always singing, as the giant hawks circled overhead.  It must have seemed like a military parade, or some bizarre pageant to these Wilderlands peasants.  But they came out as we passed by, to watch the sight . . . and to join us.

We didn’t invite them, exactly.  But those who realized that the last troop was passing them by often found their feet following, for lack of a better direction in life.  The children in the wasteland, in particular, found some security in so many other children well-fed and free, and they wanted a part of that.  More, they wanted to be part of that, not just recipients but participants.  Every day another dozen, another score would find their way to the camp at night.  The aroma of our magic cauldrons lured them, at first, but the fellowship and friendliness of the Kasari made them feel welcome.

I don’t know what we’re going to do, Min, Rael the Enchantress complained.  I’ve got more than a hundred new kids to feed, and two score of adults.  Most can barely keep up with us, they’re so starved.  But the rations just aren’t holding.  We ran short.  I’ve notified Gareth, and he’s trying to compensate, but it’s getting to be a problem.

I know, I know, I agreed.  Yours isn’t the only troop getting extra mouths to feed.  It’s like they’re growing on trees, or something, and we’re happening along just in time to harvest them.

Supply issues aside, the fascinating thing is how more quickly the kids are adapting than the adult refugees.  The adults just want to march and eat.  The children are mimicking the Kasari kids, even learning their songs and such.  A bunch of refugee kids even made their own patrol banner.

The adults already have their opinions about the Kasari, I pointed out.  Out here, they’re not trusted by most Narasi.  But the kids haven’t developed that prejudice, yet.  Nor will they, now that they’re the last remnant of the Narasi left out here.

By the time we made it to the ford of the Harden, we had more than five hundred more kids than we’d started with at Bransei.  The problem was that we were keeping a strong pace, with kids who were used to marching by now, and the refugee kids just couldn’t keep up.  They didn’t have the boots and they didn’t have the strength.  I could slow our pace, but that would just invite more attention from the goblins.

Our next and last pele tower would be built on a site sixty miles south and east of the last, at the far edge of the fertile belt, it was decided.  We’d chosen the former castle of the Lord of Salik.  Former, because the Lord of Salik had offended his baron, a generation ago, and the fine stone keep his father had raised on a high motte over a fork in the river had been slighted.

It’s hard to build a castle.  It’s actually not that hard to render one unusable, if people aren’t trying to kill you while you do it.  The process is called “slighting”, and usually involves driving wedges into the supporting walls of a keep and increasing the pressure with leverage or magic until the wall collapses, or the top of the keep falls over.

It’s a common penalty for a rebellious vassal, if you wanted to punish him without taking his head.  Usually a lord was prohibited from rebuilding for a set period of time, sometimes it wasn’t specified, but it was very costly to re-construct a slighted castle, usually.  And until you could, it was virtually useless as a military facility.

The Lords of Salik had finally been allowed to resume construction of their ancestral keep just two years before the goblin invasion.  It had been sitting dormant and abandoned in all that time, unusable by humans for defense, unworthy of attack by the gurvani.  The present Lord of Salik had been living in a manor estate – now sacked and burned – before answering his baron’s banner call with his household to defend the realm.  He died in the first few months of fighting, his lands ruined and his slighted castle long forgotten.

But our footwizard Fondaras had apparently camped within its shell for several years when he was in the region as a comfortable alternative to the inns.  Two of the original four stories were still standing, and the bailey wall was untouched by the baron’s edict, as were the small mural towers on the wall.  It wasn’t a huge castle to begin with, but without the security of the keep it wasn’t much use.

Until Carmella got done with it, that is.

The ruined villages and manors that had once fed and clothed the keep were also abandoned, but as we’d found elsewhere, not all of the folk had fled or been captured.  The goblins rarely ranged beyond the rivers, they’d discovered, and a whole arboreal refugee community scratched out an existence deep in the woods.  And just as elsewhere, when the Kasari arrived they emerged from the shadows and gawked at the unlikely sight.

The river gave some protection to the region, but fell riders regularly patrolled, hunting for slaves or sacrifices . . . or just dinner and a good show.  While goblins disliked water, their fell hounds had no issue with it.  Where they could the refugees had fought back.  Some had bows, some had tools or even real weapons, but they were armed no better than bandits and had no organized defense.

For some reason, Carmella seemed quite taken with the remote region.  Perhaps it was the chance to refurbish a slighted castle – I don’t know, Carmella has some strange tastes.  But she tore into the restoration of the keep and the construction of the tower with an interest she hadn’t shown at Baelor or Traveler or the other pele towers.  Salik Tower was special, to Carmella.

By this time she and the Karshak had come to a good working relationship, and they set to the work of building a four-story spire on top of the two stories already there, and building an attached hall on the motte.  There was room enough – the bailey enclosed fifteen acres of land, with river on two sides.  Carmella directed the wall to be shortened and a gatehouse built, with a drawbridge and flanking towers to discourage the wrong sort of people.

The Kasari pitched in to help with their characteristic determination, and most of the refugee kids were willing to help, too.  Rations continued to be thin, but now that we were encamped the rangers could hunt to supplement.  Gareth was working like mad, trying to secure more supplies, but he had exhausted the local markets around Talry and several miles up and down the Burine.  Similarly Sendaria and Chepstan had sold their entire surplus, and Gareth’s agents were forced to go even further afield.

Our best course of action, it was decided, was to extend our stay at Salik Tower and wait for our supply issues to ease before we continued.  It was nearly midsummer, and things should loosen up, soon, as the harvest started coming in.

Salik Tower was also a great place to rest our weary feet and try to integrate the hundreds of orphaned refugees who’d joined us.  After consultation with the rangers, it was decided that two weeks of rest would be sufficient time to get things sorted out.  The warmagi warded the place rotten, the Kasari patrols had cleared it of any stray gurvani, and the nearest known goblin encampment was more than twenty-five miles away.  We were safe, for the moment.

And I needed that security. After the sudden attacks on the trail and the short siege of Baelor Tower, I was exhausted. The battle against Lady Mask had been harrowing.  The stress of being responsible for so many young lives was telling on my mind, the thought of those small graves and the parents who would never see their children again.  I had fretted about every soul under my care every step of the way, and it had taken a toll on my nerves.  If the kids were safe and doing something productive, I felt I could slip away and handle some important business.  Once Arborn and Pentandra had things well in hand at Salik, that’s exactly what I did.

Of course the first place I used my magic to send me was home, to see my children and Alya.  We had a lovely homecoming, and a wonderful dinner in the yard of the castle, in front of my new hall.  The roof shingles were almost finished going on, and the limners were decorating inside.  Alya wouldn’t let me look, though – it was to be a surprise.

After a day catching up and handling what urgent business had to be handled, I decided to do a little shopping.  A lot of shopping, actually.

Gareth’s supply problems were a function of the limitations of transportation.  Getting the food to the field was easy enough, thanks to our enchantments, but getting it to Gareth’s growing facility in Talry-on-Burine was limited by how fast the barges and the wagons could arrive from market.  But Gareth didn’t have the use of the Waypoints, as I did, or the ambition to exploit that advantage to the fullest.

I’d met with Brother Hotfoot and the Sisters of Briga, before I’d left.  They had taken charge of the refugee children, and they had a list of concerns and a longer list of supplies that the kids would need if they could be reasonably expected to continue the march.

“We need boots for five hundred?  In child’s sizes?” I asked, uncertainly.  Usually only cobblers in larger cities made shoes for children, and only for the wealthier kids.  Poor kids went barefoot in good weather and made do with over-sized adult shoes, when they could get them.  “That’s a big order.”

“No, we just need the leather to make them,” corrected Brother Hotfoot, pleasantly.  “And sinew, and sealant, and . . . well, you saw the list.”

“So who is going to make them?  You’ve discovered a secret colony of Tal Alon cobblers hidden in the dungeon?”

“No, the children will make their own,” explained the priest.  “Every Kasari child who left Bransei Mountain wore a pair of boots they made themselves.  As part of their training, the Kasari require such demonstrations of competency before they are allowed to advance in rank.”

“So all the Kasari are cobblers?”

“All of the Kasari know basic leatherwork, and can use a simple pattern to make a comfortable set of boots,” Hotfoot explained.  “That’s an admirable skill to have.  If you can secure the supplies, the Kasari children will teach the refugees how to make their own boots.  And if you can secure enough thread and cloth, they will learn to sew their own cloaks.  If you can find knives and bowls, cups and blankets, all the better,” he added, smiling.

So I went shopping.  For three days.  All over the kingdom.

The Alka Alon Waypoints are scattered, and I did not know but a tithe of them, but among those I’d been shown were some close to large cities or trading towns.  With a bag of gold and some magic I went on the biggest spree of my life.

First I consulted with Gareth in Talry, and caught up briefly with my parents.  Then I went to Carsaris, a big town known for its trade in south-eastern Castal, where the Riverlands fall away to the wide, flat Coastlands.

Carsaris has a lot of river trade and the markets there were vast.  In short order I had procured thirty cured hides, sinew, twenty bolts of green wool (more or less the same green the Kasari used), spools of thread and needles.  The grain market yielded fifty bags of wheat, another fifty of rice, seven hundred pounds of dried beans, and about a thousand pounds of salted or smoked pork.

I had everything delivered to a stall I’d hastily rented, then banished it to the supply rod I’d brought for the purpose.

Next I transported myself to the small town of Ferum, in southwestern Castal.  I’d worked there, once, when I’d been a mercenary warmage.  Ferum was the home of not just the largest iron mine in Castal, but a famed temple of Hemat, the minor Imperial god of ironwork, and an ancient school that taught his arts.

The monks there were burly men devoted to the secrets of metals, and they held iron sacred.  The Narasi don’t place quite the same emphasis on metallurgy in our culture – hence smithcraft was lumped with baking and given to the elemental fire goddess, who looked (I could swear from personal experience) nothing like the muscular monks who met with me.

When I told them what I wanted and who I wanted it for, they were intrigued but skeptical.  What I asked would be difficult, and not the sort of thing they were organized for.

I calmly invoked their spirituality, their creed of smithcraft in the service of humanity; I told them of the blessings their sister-temple of Briga, an aligned goddess, had already invest the journey with; and then I laid a big bag of gold large enough to collapse the decorative ceremonial anvil I set it upon, and it looked like the Hematic Order would, indeed, be able to help me out.  We discussed designs and purpose for a while, I placed some additional orders with promise of even more gold when I collected, and my business with the black-clad monks was done.

Cloaks were simple enough to make, and I counted on Kasari ingenuity to craft proper boots, but clothing was more problematic.  The refugee children had arrived in camp in rags, some of them half-naked.  But they were of all different sizes.  I had to find a source of children’s clothing, in quantity, in a culture where the vast majority of such things were custom made, by hand, and then handed down until they fell apart.

But with a little consultation with Alya and Pentandra, we figured out a solution.  I traveled to Castabriel, the kingdom’s capital, and the home to the greatest temples in the western world. In fact, right outside of the Arcane Orders’ combined headquarters was the temple district, aswarm with priests, monks, nuns, mystics, pilgrims, and the devout of all kinds, seeking spiritual solace in a multitude of forms.

Among the many services performed by the charitable orders were medical, hospital, and, of course, funeral services.   Out beyond the fabulous spires of the great gods patronized by the wealthy and powerful were dozens of abbeys and temples, shrines and monasteries dedicated to lesser deities or greater deities fulfilling lesser roles.  A simple walk down the street into the poorer temples brought me to the tidy quarters of an abbey.  I’d heard sick children were frequently brought here for the prayers and tending of the sisters.

The Sisters of Trygg ran the abbey as a subsidiary order.  As good as they were, all too often their best efforts were to no avail, and Trygg gathered the poor child to her sacred bosom in the afterlife.  The personal effects of the deceased were occasionally taken away by their grieving parents, but all too often they were left behind.  A few gentle inquiries got me to see the elder sister responsible for the sad surplus.  She led me down into a deep vaulted cellar, where a century’s accumulated clothing filled it to the ceiling.

“We cannot sell it,” she said, shaking her head, sadly.  “No parent wants to dress their child in a dead child’s clothing, for fear of curse.  And some of them likely be infectious,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.  “We sprinkle the place with spirits and burn herbs to keep out the vermin, but . . . they have no place to go.”

The transportation process would take care of the vermin – and likely the infection, too.  Even disease perished in the pockets we’d made, thus far.  But there was far more clothes here – and shoes, belts, slippers, and other accoutrements – than I needed.  Enough to clothe thousands.  The parent in me despaired to consider all the misery and tears shed over the bodies who had worn these clothes.  I could understand the hesitancy of dressing my children in them.

But necessity overrides superstition.

“I want it all,” I said.  She looked skeptical, until I jingled my purse and promised to have it removed in its entirety before the end of the day.  Nun or not, the sister saw an opportunity and she took it.  While she watched, astonished, I used my supply rod to make every pile in the room vanish, until it echoed with emptiness.  I handed her the purse.  My kids had clothes, now.

I walked back to the Order feeling satisfied with my bargain.  The kids wouldn’t know where the clothes came from, and most of them didn’t have parents to care.  And I’d found enough to ensure everyone got properly fitted – there were ten times as many garments tucked away in my rod as we would need.  But when I arrived, there was a Mirror message waiting for me, from Sevendor.

Sire Cei informed me, formally, that His Majesty had used the Mirror to attempt to contact me, and wished to communicate with me at my earliest possible convenience.  Why he didn’t just get Hartarian the Royal Court Wizard to contact me, mind-to-mind, was beyond me, but this was sufficient, I supposed.

Since he was at the Royal Castle in Castabriel, right down the road, it seemed silly of me to use the Mirror when I could just order a coach and pop in for a visit.  I hadn’t planned on being here, but my official apartments in the former temple included all my official robes and regalia.  I summoned a barber from down the street to trim my beard and cut my hair before I went, and I wasted fifteen minutes on a gloriously decadent bath, but within an hour of receiving word I was in a coach and trotting my way toward the palace.

It felt a little strange, being without attendants for a change.  I spent the time in the coach checking with each of my magi, ensuring that there weren’t any emergencies to be dealt with.  It was peaceful – this close to Midsummer, even the goblins were taking it easy.

I arrived at the palace an hour after the coach departed the Order, and I was welcomed by the Royal Herald . . . or at least one of his many deputies.  One who apparently didn’t know the correct protocol for unexpected visits from powerful magi who also happened to be royal counselors.  I let the man send word to his superior, and offer me wine, which I accepted.

“May I ask why you’ve come to the palace, Magelord?” the real Herald asked me, once my credentials had been established.  I’d thought the funny hat and the shiny stick would be enough, but some people are just untrusting.  He was no more certain of protocol than his underling, but he hid it well.

“Because the King summoned me,” I said, enjoying his discomfort just a little too much.  “I received a message His Majesty wished to see me at my earliest convenience.  Well, I’m here.”

“I . . . His Majesty is dining within his private apartments, this evening,” the man said, smoothly.  “I will forward a message to his staff, and we shall see if he has the time to speak with you.” I could tell why he had the job.  He delivered it with just enough indifference to salvage his dignity, should I suddenly be clapped in irons, and just enough deference to appear properly servile if I turned out to be important.

Soon I was being led to a small outdoor hall at the back of the cramped castle bailey where His Majesty was dining this evening.  King Rard was actually drinking, more than dining, surrounded by a circle of his gentlemen of court.  Everyone was smoking, and drinking, and there were dice on the table, though it didn’t look like Rard was playing.

“Spellmonger?” he asked, as if he hadn’t believed the message.  “You came here?  Personally?”

“I was in town on business when your message caught up with me,” I explained. “ I figured it would be easier and more discreet to drop by, rather than use other means of communication.  Besides, this way I can drink your wine for the price of the trip.”

Rard seemed to be in a jovial mood, and a cup was poured for me.  Good stuff, top-of-the-barrel Cormeer.  After weeks on the trail, I savored it.  “So what seems to be the trouble?” I asked, casually.  While I was doing so, Rard picked out his gentlemen by eye and silently excused them.  Soon we were alone, as they had other errands out of earshot.

“I hear that you’re building castles in Alshar,” he grunted around his pipestem.

“As Your Majesty bid me,” I pointed out.  “Merely defensive outposts to house our watchmen, in case the gurvani decide to break the treaty.”

“From what I hear, you’re building them with children,” he said, skeptically.  “And enough formalities.  You’re a minister, you get to skip the ‘your majesties’ when we’re in private.”

“As you wish,” I nodded.  “I’m building them with magic, Hesian warmagi engineers and a few Karshak craftsmen.  We’re using a lot of local labor for the grunt work because it’s cheaper than importing it and thanks to the refugees there’s enough hungry mouths to work for food.”

“From what I hear,” he repeated, “you’re moving those refugees south.”  It was almost an accusation.

I shrugged.  “It’s easier to move them, once we have them trained, than to try to train up a bunch of new locals.  Some are staying behind and working the fields around the pele towers,” I said, truthfully.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they become the start of a renewed presence in northern Alshar.”

“And the Kasari?” he asked, suspiciously.  “I hear you have an awful lot of Kasari with you.”

“They’re outstanding rangers, they know the territory, and we’ve worked together recently.  They’ve kept us from getting into too much trouble with the gurvani.  We’ve only encountered sporadic resistance since we began the building campaign,” I offered.  “I think the blow we struck last year weakened them significantly, for now.”  I studied him.  “Rard, what do you think I’m doing out there?”

He sighed.  “I’m sorry, Minalan, it’s my son.  Someone’s been telling Tavard that you ‘re going to push a bunch of Alshari refugees across the frontier to Castal, and he’s not having it.  There are rumors in Vorone that you’re going to lead all of the refugees there to new homes in the east.  People are believing them,” he said, shaking his head.  “The tale of the Spellmonger and his army of children, come to save them all from the gurvani.”

“I only wish I had that power, Sire,” I chuckled, lighting my pipe.   “Have you any idea how difficult it is to feed the people I have, way up there?  The land is devastated and depopulated.  There are no crops to purchase, nor villages to plunder.  We have to bring in nearly every bit of grain and bread, at great expense.  Yet we are under budget – for the moment,” I warned.

“Then you are a wizard, indeed,” he chuckled.  “My new Warlord – you heard about Count Salgo’s retirement, did you not?  Baron Leathan has agreed to step in, now that there is peace with the gurvani . . . and the possibility of invasion of rebellious Alshar.  His requests for additional funds from the treasury have begun, and he has not yet taken office.  A Coastlord, so he’s emphasizing our coastal defenses, and that’s expensive.  And here you’ve raised . . . how many towers?”

“Four, so far,” I conceded, a little proudly.  “We’re constructing the fifth.”

“And you’re still doing it under budget!  You are, indeed, and it is making many people nervous, Minalan,” Rard sighed.  “You’ve accumulated power quickly.  As have the other magelords.  This marriage between that old fool Dunselen and Hartarian’s niece, for instance . . . the girl is getting estates in Wenshar as well as a gift from Rardine.  Yet his neighbors petition me for redress against his aggressiveness.  And he is nearly the least of you!”

“Nearly,” I conceded.  I really didn’t want to discuss that wedding with Rard, for a variety of reasons.  “And perhaps the least wise.  I admit that magic allows us certain advantages, Sire, but we attract a lot of ire from our neighbors just being who we are.  My own experience with Sire Gimbal, in the Bontal Riverlands, for instance.  Yet my other neighbors are as pleased with my rise as my foes are nervous.”

“Not all who are nervous are your neighbors.  My son is anxious at your presence at court,” Rard finally admitted around his pipe.  “He has taken up the coronet I left for him with commendable enthusiasm,” he said, with a mixture of pride and anxiety.  “I had hoped that when he wed the salve of a pretty bride and a secure holding would soothe his youthful temper.  But he delights in his position and authority – perhaps too much.  He whispers to me that you have designs above your station,” he informed me, guiltily.

“He thinks I want to be an Archmage?” I said, my mouth agape.  “Sire, I don’t even want to be head of the Arcane Orders, but if I don’t then some power-hungry idiot like Dunselen will, and we’ll all have problems and none of my good sense.  Can you imagine how things would have turned out if he had persuaded me to cede my witchstone to him, as he first considered?  Disaster.  I have no aspirations for more power than I have,” I assured my king, “and the last thing I want is a greater temporal demesne, when I’m struggling to master the seven domains in my purview now!  Archmage?  I’d rather stay a village spellmonger.”

“You’ve learned that power isn’t as fulfilling as its allure,” chuckled Rard, wryly.  “I like you, Minalan.  You could be lying to me – that happens at Royal Court, believe it or not – but I believe you.  I took the crown because it needed to be done, and because it promises good to a lot of people.  But . . . had I known what weariness was in store . . .”

“It concerns me that your son is so opposed to my rise,” I said, after a few minutes smoking.  “I’ve gone out of my way to keep from being a distraction at court, while he enjoys his full prestige and due honors.”

“He heard you visited Duke Anguin,” Rard admitted.  “He found that . . . curious.”

I sighed.  I was so relieved I’d prepared for this.  “I visited His Grace to secure permission to build the pele towers in what are, technically, his lands.  A mere request for formal authority, which as it turns out came in handy.

“Is that all?” Rard snorted.  “My son gets his suspicious nature from his mother’s side.”

“If it is any consolation to His Highness, I did take the opportunity to encourage His Grace to enjoy the pleasant comforts of the tournament season . . . far, far from the capital.  Who knows what accidents might befall a young man in the robust pursuit of adventure and honor on the lists?  I assure you, and His Highness, that I have only the best interests of the realm at heart in my actions.”

“People are naturally suspicious of wizards,” Rard chuckled, apologetically.

“For good reason,” I agreed.  “We’re sneaky.  We’re deceitful by design.  We use misdirection and applications of secret power to achieve obscure goals that few can imagine.  When your stock-in-trade is something no one else understands, there is a lot of room for suspicion.  We’re secretive by nature, and some of us by inclination.  He is only exercising good sense and caution.  I take no offense.

“But I am more than just a wizard, Rard.  Put me not in the same order as that fool Dunselen, I beg you.  Nor is he the worst of my occupation.  Judge me as the man I am, not the profession the gods have decided for me.  I am content to do the same.”  I had to have a delicate hand, here, I knew.  Of all the royal family, Rard probably liked me the most.

“You speak wisdom,” he conceded, refilling his glass.  “I’ll speak to my son.  He sees dangers and spies where there are none.  You’ve given wise counsel, even he has said so.  Though I caution you to beware: he has an unforgiving nature.”

“Something else, perhaps, he gets from his mother’s side, no doubt,” I quipped, treading dangerously close to potentially offending the king.  But Rard got the joke and chuckled.

When your wife isn’t just co-monarch, but also head of the secret intelligence service that specializes in beautiful assassins, there were few people you could joke about it with.  My wager paid off with a sudden laugh, and after that we were just a couple of gentlemen enjoying the evening.

We sat and talked of many things, smoking and drinking ridiculously expensive wine.  He eventually called his courtiers back in when our sensitive matters were dispensed with, and I enjoyed an evening of gentle company and rare conversation with the king and his men.  Rard was an enjoyable fellow when the strain and stress of his position wasn’t immediately on him.  I decided I was glad I’d made him king, even though I had to soil my hands to do it.  There were worse heads that could bear the crown.  Rard was no tyrant.

The next day I resumed my shopping spree in the city’s many markets, focusing on the few items left on my list.  Mostly wooden bowls, spoons, cups and horns, string, cloth for bandages, water bottles, needles, thread, scissors, and the dozens of other trivial essentials that made marching a challenge, and not a trial.  I had everything shipped to the Order to inventory, order, and consolidate it.  Just making merchandise disappear in the middle of a market has all sorts of possibilities for misunderstanding.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my study at the Order, making notes, communicating mind-to-mind, and genuinely handling the parchment piled up on my work table.  And thinking about my strategy.

My conversation with Rard confirmed that His Highness, the Duke of Castal – and my overlord – was suspicious of me.  There were a lot of things I could do to react to that, from ingratiating myself to him as a courtier to rising in rebellion, but for now I decided to follow my original plan.

The royal house enjoyed a relatively strong grip on power now largely because it had destroyed one rival duchy’s power structure and bribed another’s into submission.  It wasn’t that I wanted to weaken the strength of the kingdom, but the prince’s behavior and attitudes were problematic for my plans.

What I needed was another pole of temporal power to ally myself with.  Even if I had to build it myself.  Or conjure it out of thin air.

Part Three

“Gweithredoedd Da”

Chapter Seventeen

Midsummer

I spent one more decadent day in Sevendor with my wife and family after finishing my shopping trip in Castabriel. I felt I deserved it, and they certainly did.  Pentandra was checking in with me daily about how things were proceeding at the camp, and so far all of the goblins in the area had kept clear of the Iron Band infantry who had set up as guards for the growing tower, so it wasn’t like I was needed back immediately.

I figured I was owed a day off after all the magic I’d been casting.  My head hurt, with all of the Waypoints I’d traveled.  It really took a lot out of me, if I didn’t rest up enough between jaunts.  Besides, Alya wanted to show off the new hall as it neared completion, before I returned to the march.

It was magnificent, far larger than the tower and nearly sufficient for our household needs.  I’m certain I’ll describe it in minute detail at some point, but at the time a few key elements struck me.

First, there was the tower, a dainty-looking spire that looked like a toy next to the rest of the castle.  But it was roofed and allowed me a delightful view from my chamber window over the wall, with Lesgaethael jutting into the air against the sky. The hall was more cozy than the Great Hall, more suited to a prosperous family than a lord.  The second floor contained the nursery and Alya’s chambers, along with the servants’ quarters, and the third held our bedchamber.  An elegant solar was built between the bedchamber and the spire, which was designed as a place for study or intimate conversation.

“There is one steadfast rule,” Alya warned me.  “Keep the magic in the castle.  I don’t want to turn this into another laboratory – this is where we live.  This is where we entertain privately.  This is not a wizard’s workshop!”

I had a hard time arguing with that.  Rolling over at night and finding a wand or a scroll in your bed is uncomfortable.  Besides, the look in her eye told me what would happen if I decided to violate that rule.  This was her house, for all practical purposes.  I could live here, and I was still technically the lord and all that, but . . . this was where we lived, as she said.  I had to respect that.  And it wasn’t like I didn’t have a castle out back to play in.

The entire place was painted in hundreds of six-pointed snowflakes, and a massive snowstone mosaic covered the hall in front of the fireplace.  It was cozy and quaint and magnificently grand all at once.  I approved, and congratulated my wife on her excellent taste.  She had already moved in with the children, for the most part, just waiting for me to return.

While I was home I also took the time to check on the two refugee orphans I’d brought home.  They were living in a temporary cot the Sisters of Briga had erected on the grounds of their future temple, but it looked like the folk at Boval Hall wanted to take them in.  The kids seemed to be doing well, their coughs starting to wane under the eye of the senior priestess who had taken over as their foster-mother.

But the next morning, a few days before the Midsummer festival in town, I rose before dawn and prepared to return to Alshar.  My holiday was done, and there were people depending on me. After breakfast I began my final round of Waypoint use for a while, I hoped.

First I stopped back to collect my merchandise and deliver my payment to the tired-looking forgebrothers of the Hematic Order, back through Castabriel to pick up my final deliveries there, and briefly back to Talry-On-Burine to deliver some supplies to Gareth . . . and finally appeared in the middle of camp before luncheon, refreshed, renewed, and ready to get back to work.

If there was anything left for me to do.  I’d only been gone a few days, but the place had been transformed.  The tower was growing a third story already, and the hall attached to it was taking shape quickly.  It was significantly larger than the other halls we’d constructed, and I could see foundations were being dug for outbuildings around the perimeter of the bailey.  Another crew was repairing and strengthening the simple wall around the keep.  About a third of it had been crudely crenellated so far.

But the most impressive change had been over the refugee children.  When I had left they had been an unruly mob, near-feral orphans tagging along behind us, lacking even the most basic trappings of civilization and security.  But thanks to Brother Hotfoot, the Sisters of Briga and the other clergy, and due in no small part on the Kasari’s genius for organization, the refugee kids were assimilating quickly into the Kasari ways.

Each patrol had been required to take one or two refugee kids and teach them what they needed to know.  My patrol pulled two boys, about eleven  and nine, Rat and Treg, who were so overcome with the simple of experience of being presented as members of the patrol that they barely spoke the first day.

But my boys went to the job of teaching them the Kasari ways with patience and persistence.  I was proud of how they took the new kids in hand.  They were already responding awkwardly to the commands and responses in the strange Kasari language, and learning the various signs.  A few were starting to pick up on the letters and numbers the Kasari used.

There had been problems, of course.  Plenty of the refugees had tried to steal or assume control of whomever they could.  Fights had broken out.  But Brother Hotfoot had a knack for getting between the combatants and smoothing things over.  Second infractions were dealt with more harshly, but there had been few of those.

After luncheon I called a brief assembly of all the new children, and the leaders of their patrols, and distributed the results of my shopping expedition.  There were (according to Sir Festaran) now six hundred and six new refugee children in our march.  Each of them got enough hide to make boots, a needle, thread, sinew, a new well-forged knife, a small camp hatchet, and enough wool to make a cloak.  Most got new water bottles, cups, bowls, and such, but we were a little short in areas and some had to share.

The greatest excitement was reserved for when I produced a massive mound of new clothes, however.  As predicted, the children did not care where they came from – they were magical clothes the Spellmonger had conjured out of thin air.  The garments were clean of vermin and disease, thanks to their stay in the pocket of my staff, but they were somewhat soiled, still.

The kids didn’t care – they were dressed in filthy threadbare rags.  They descended upon the piles in a screaming mob and found tunics and hose, leggings and dresses that fitted them.  There were far more clothes than there were children, and most of it was left in piles as kids found the clothes they wanted.  A group of flamesisters and older girls gathered what was left and led everyone down to the river to thoroughly launder their new clothes and dry them in the hot summer sun.  By the end o the day every kid in camp was dressed as well as they had ever been.

Boot making and cloak making classes occupied the next few days after work detail, with Brother Hotfoot demonstrating a surprising amount of knowledge about the subject.  While the new children learned how to make boots I helped in strengthening the tower and the walls with the other warmagi while the younger Kasari children provided the labor.

This tower would be the most elaborate so far, thanks to Carmella’s interest in it.  While finding ready stone proved more difficult in this location, using earth elementals to complete elaborate series of ditchworks and bastions made getting to the walls far more difficult.  The protection the river afforded was augmented by a series of nasty spellworks between the bank and the walls.

The Iron Band company who served as our escort and temporary guards to the castle were constructing a hall for their own use, as well as stables and a forge, inside the bailey against the curtain walls.  Most of them would leave just after we would, but a garrison of forty was being left behind.

I was wondering who Carmella would put in command of the pretty little place.  When I asked her about it, she surprised me.

“I plan to take up residence here,” Carmella told me, after we finished strengthening the third floor of the tower.  It was a lovely view over river. .

“I thought you already had quarters n Wilderhall?” I asked.

“The Order has a headquarters, and I have an office there, but each of these towers needs a mage,” she reminded me.  “And this one, in particular, needs a mage who can respond to a potentially strong challenge from the Penumbra.  I can keep this tower safe,” she assured me.  “But it’s more than that.  I’ve been wandering for years, Min, and while I don’t want all of the headaches that you have in Sevendor, I do want a place of my own.

“If you want a domain of your own, Carm, I’m sure—”

“I like it here, Min,” she replied, a little self-consciously.  “I liked it when we first marched to Boval Vale, and now there aren’t even very many people here anymore. Here, no one is around to tell me what to do, what to build, what not to build.  I have a simple job close to the front and the people here . . . well, I think they might like me,” she said, as if the admission was painful.

“I’m sure that they do,” I answered, cautiously.

“No, Min, I mean they don’t just respect me and – they actually like me, some of them,” she confessed, miserably.  “I know I’m not the easiest person to befriend.  If it wasn’t for Pentandra, back at Alar, I don’t know what I would have done.  Hesia was different, too, but for my entire life I’ve known I’m not that . . . likable.”

“Sure you are, Carm,” I soothed.

“Don’t lie to me, Min,” she said, crossly.  “I know what I am.  Who I am. ‘Charmless Carm’, they called me behind my back.   I’m not pretty, I’m not warm, I’m not . . . loving.  I’m not even friendly.  I’d rather build a scorpion or design a magical gatehouse than play games with the ladies.  I’d rather drink myself insensible than speak with them.”

“I’m sympathetic,” I agreed.

“The people here, the Wilderland  refugees, they respect me, for what I’ve done.  I had Rumel take a break from the tower and throw together some shelters for them, and they about wept.  Some of the guards want to stay on, too.  We’re going to set up a village in support and they’ve asked me for my terms, already.  This place is peaceful, for a war zone.  It’s close enough to the other towers to support them, close enough to Megelin and Tudry to lend a hand south, too.

“But it’s the people, Min.  Maybe it’s just that they’re grateful, and don’t really know me yet, but . . . well, I want to give it a try.  Enough of the refugees from the area were willing to stay on and farm, with a stout castle nearby, to re-constitute at least one little village.  They’re desperate people, desperately looking for a home.  I want to attempt to make a kind of home, here.  I think in this lonely, desperate place even I can find room to just be . . . me.”

“Of course you can,” I agreed.  “And to be honest, I’d appreciate having you here to command the towers.  I can trust you Carm, and . . . well, I hate to call you a liar, but I like you.  Really like you.  You’re odd, and quiet, most times, and you’ve got a crappy sense of humor, but you’re a kind and thoughtful person.  If you can find some peace here, then take the tower with my blessing.”

Carmella wasn’t kidding about investing in the place.  The next day a few of the fallow fields nearby were cleared of brush and broken up with elemental magic, preparing them for a planting of winter wheat.  She was right about the people, too.  The Wilderlands peasants who had clung to the tower as a sign of security were ecstatic with the prospect of even a somewhat normal life.

As idyllic as the place was at the moment, however, there were still plenty of goblins within a day’s march.  They skyriders’ patrols identified a few cantonments and settlements, one uncomfortably close.  While it wasn’t a warrior band, the Iron Band troops spent a day aggressively encouraging them to relocate further to the west.

By the end of the first week, the main structure of the tower was complete, the halls had been roofed, and the attention of the Kasari children was focused on splitting firewood for the winter and preparing to head back out on the trail.

But the next day was Midsummer, and I felt odd not having a proper celebration.  Midsummer was the time between the mowing and the beginning of the harvest.  Every village and hamlet had some sort of celebration around the solstice.  We had planned on staying here another week, anyway, so I held an impromptu festival.  Not just because everyone had earned it, after their diligent labors.  I wanted to commemorate the dedication of the tower, and the continuing march, with a remarkable memory that every child there would take into their dotage.

First I encouraged the Kasari rangers to hunt up something worth roasting.  The Wilderlands team with game, and the rangers were outstanding hunters.  Once again we had them to thank for the boar, wild kine, and deer they brought back.

Then I contacted Gareth and arranged to have my father make honeycakes – a traditional Midsummer treat – for the feast.  I also had him include a special delivery of ale, mead and wine.  The Kasari rarely drank.  The Iron Band drank like the sea drinks a river.

I sent word out through the troops that I was looking for musicians, and discovered that music is one of the arts the Kasari are required to excel at in order to advance in rank.  Two fiddle players, two pipers, and several horn players convened, along with two fellows from the Iron Band, one who played a sliding woodpipe, the other who had brought a tambour with him into the field.  Between the lot of them they figured out how to play a few simple songs well enough.  And the Kasari all sing, mostly simple songs for work or marching.

Carmella had her new peasants clear the bailey in front of the hall, and we festooned the entire area with multicolored magelights.

Then I popped back to Sevendor to collect Alya.  Though she had just finished her own Midsummer Festival in Sevendor Town, she very much appreciated the outing.  She also appreciated not being in charge of anything but holding my elbow.

After a delightful midsummer night spent showing off my magnificent pavilion to my wife, we spent the next day just relaxing and celebrating, listening to the kids sing their camp songs and enjoying our time together.

It helped when Alya knew what I was doing, and why I was so invested in this march.  When she saw what we had accomplished and how far we had journeyed already, she went back to Sevendor with a new appreciation for my efforts.  Particularly after seeing the skinny orphans smiling and laughing in ways they still didn’t seem used to.  She particularly enjoyed watching them play simple games, or run races or wrestle.  These were Wilderlands kids, after all, and she still strongly identified with them and their plight.

“I wish we could bring them all back to Sevendor,” she sighed, after a chorus of young girls came to our camp to serenade us.  “Where are they going to end up?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed, “but wherever they land, it will likely be better than hiding in the forest and waiting to be eaten or enslaved by goblins,” I pointed out.  “If I can just get them out of danger here, they might have a fighting chance, somewhere.”  I knew that would become more of a problem the more miles I crossed, but right now it just didn’t seem a priority.

“You’ve done an admirable job feeding and clothing them ,” she agreed, as we watched some of the refugee girls showed off their new finery to each other.  There were an odd mixture of styles and colors, compared to the uniformly dressed Kasari, but everyone was dressed, and nearly everyone was shod, now.  More importantly, they had eaten well in the week or two they had been with us, and it showed.  That had improved their lot by far.

“Will you really be able to take them all the way to Kasar, by this autumn?”

“It’s a long way, but we’re through the roughest part,” I pointed out.  “About twenty miles south of here we cross a big river, which will put us out of reach of most of the goblins.  Ten miles southwest of there is a road, of sorts.  It leads to a slightly better road that, gods willing, will speed us along much faster.  From there we should be able to travel south into Megelin barony, thence to Tudry for a short rest, then down the road toward the frontier.  A few weeks,” I promised.

“It won’t be that easy!” she laughed, knowingly.

“Did I mention we defeated an evil sorceress and her army of goblins with a couple of bags of dirt and a slave revolt?  How is it going to get harder than that?”

“You’ll find trouble,” she teased.  “You can’t resist.  And when you don’t find it . . . it finds you.”  I know she was just teasing, but the gods watch for such jests, I think.  I felt the stirring of one of my wardings, and when I’d identified it, I realized that it was one of the Mirrors I carried being activated.  I evacuated a pocket on my staff and revealed a small chest where I kept the things.

“Perhaps it’s Rard with a Midsummer message of good cheer,” I suggested, unenthusiastically, as I opened the chest.

“Or your wife,” Alya said.  “I hear she’s an utter shrew!”

“If you only knew . . .” I said, digging through the various magical appliances until I found the one that was glowing.  Well, pulsing.  Only it wasn’t the Royal Mirror.

It was the Ducal Mirror.  Of Alshar.  The one I’d given to young Duke Anguin.

“Uh oh,” I whispered, clearing my throat as I answered it.  “Yes?” I asked, into the shell-like device.

“I seek the Spellmonger,” a voice said, tinged with wonder.  It wasn’t Anguin’s voice.  It was that of his priest, Landfather Amus.

“You have found him.  What service can I do for the Duke, today?”

“It’s really you?  Master Spellmonger, His Grace and I are in Lartilly, at the tournament there.  His Grace is in a particularly unpleasant mood, after being bested by . . . well, the details are not important.  But I fear he may do something rash, and could think of no one else I could turn to, in this land.”

“What is he threatening to do?” I asked, cautiously.

“Any number of impetuous things, from murder to rebellion,” sighed the priest, sadly.  “He is consumed by anger and despair.  He seeks the comfort of wine or spirits in greater abundance than I would counsel,” he added, leaving a lot of things unsaid.

“And you think I could speak some wisdom to him that you, yourself could not?”

“He may hear it more clearly from a voice he’s less used to.  My service to the ducal house has been as a mentor and, unfortunately, a guardian.  But the Duke has grown to manhood, albeit one unblooded.  He sulks now in his tent, drinking and cursing his fortunes.  I have mislaid his sword, for the moment, but I fear an even darker mood may come, if none intervene.”

I looked at Alya, and sighed, smelling the wild boar that was roasting on a nearby spit.  “I can be there soon.  Keep him calm, and distracted, and when I arrive we can talk.  That’s all I can promise.”

“That is all I ask, Baron.  Thank you.  How many days away are you?”

I chuckled, remembering the Waystone I’d included with the Mirror.  “Look for me before you expect me.  You’ll grow used to the ways of wizards, eventually.” I closed the connection and looked at my wife.  “As much fun as this rustic feast is, how would you like to abandon spit-roasted squirrel and honey cakes for the pampered luxury of a tournament?”

“Can we stop back home, first, so that I can change into something more suitable?  This is adequate for a day in the country, but hardly for a tournament, much less an audience with a Duke,” she asked, smiling broadly.  She still found such magical travel novel.  And I was a lot more acutely aware of the importance of such things, after the surprise banquet with Their Majesties where I was unexpectedly raised to the peerage.  A woman had to dress the way a warrior had to armor himself.

“No need,” I assured her.  “I have two of your gowns in a magical wardrobe in my tent.  One formal, suitable for royalty, and one merely noble.  I tried to think of everything in advance – preparedness is a Kasari watchword.  And I’ll fetch Penny while you’re changing.  I think we’re going to need her powers of persuasion with this one.”

*                            *                            *

We ended up making it a foursome, as Arborn was keen to meet the nominal overlord of this troubled land.  For most men, I’d suspect a potentially treacherous ulterior motive, but not Arborn.  He was a man of deep thought, despite his rustic demeanor, and he had deep concerns about affairs usually beyond the head of a mere ranger captain.

Transferring four of us through the Waypoint, all at once, was easier with Penny’s help.  The actual spell was simple enough to activate, but every person included in it added an additional penalty in terms of power.  I could manage one person easily enough, two with some effort.  Three was a challenge.  Even transporting Frightful, in her small form, required additional energy, nearly as much as a human.  When I thought of the amount of power it took to transfer an entire army, as we had for the Battle of Cambrian Castle, I was amazed the Alka Alon could survive.

But it still didn’t keep my temples from throbbing when we materialized, even after the nausea had passed.

We appeared near the Mirror, inside the tournament pavilion of His Grace.  It was a green-and-blue striped affair that was far gloomier than my own – the advantage of magelights over tapers and torches.  It was also crowded with the trappings of the listfield: cast-off armor, jousting saddle, banners and streamers, and a trio of cowering attendants who were not at all used to magi suddenly appearing from nowhere.  It smelled like horse, sweat, and that odd mixture of mildew and cooking aromas that infest every tournament or fair.

I looked down at a squire who appeared to be considering soiling himself in shock at four people appearing out of thin air, and politely asked him to announce our presence to His Grace.  It proved unnecessary.  Father Amus appeared from behind a partition in the great tent and calmly excused the attendants, ordering wine for us all.

“I suppose this is what you meant by ‘I’ll see you before I expect you’,” he remarked.  “I had thought you were hundreds of miles from here, in Alshar.”

“I was,” I nodded, trying to look serene while my head pounded.  “Magic is uncommonly useful for such things.  Is His Grace still here?”

“Sitting quietly with his thoughts . . . and his cup,” the priest said.  “I informed him that I summoned you.  He seems disinterested, but I think if you spoke with him . . .”

“What wisdom can even the great Spellmonger of Sevendor impart to me that will chase away the stain of my dishonor?” came the voice of the young Duke from the shadows of the canopy.  He stepped out into the dim light.  “Can he restore my House to its place?  Repair my broken duchy?  Save me from the bitterness of exile, and the humiliation of taking a knee to my boorish cousin?” he croaked.  He was slurring his words a bit, but he wasn’t as drunk as I’d feared.  Another hour, perhaps . . . but I knew he was still reasonable.  It was time for me to go to work.

“Well, yes, actually,” I blurted out, without consideration.  “That is, I can show you the path that will lead to those things.  But I cannot make them happen.  Only you can,” I offered.

“Then my House is doomed,” Anguin said, bitterly.  “I am its last son, and here I sit in exile, the object of scorn and mockery.”

“The greater the challenge, the greater the glory, Your Grace,” Pentandra offered, boldly.  “The blood of warriors and conquerors flows through your heart.”

“Would that they were here, now, to guide me,” he said, as his trembling squire reappeared with a tray, a bottle, and silver goblets.  “This is the fourth tournament I’ve entered, since we last spoke, Spellmonger.  If this exercise was meant to teach me humility, well done.  Wherever I’ve traveled I’ve been mocked, jeered, and lampooned.  I’ve been feted by lords who seek only my influence and favors, seduced by ladies intent on adding the bedding of a Duke to their gossip, and plagued by obsequious courtiers.  My retinue is full of my aunt’s spies.  And I am no bloody good at the joust!” he said, ferociously.

“Which means that you appear to be what you are, at the moment,” I pointed out as I brought his chair out from the wall of the canopy, and bade him to sit.  “Frustrated, sulky, angry, bitter, and deep in your cups.  That is, in fact, what will be reported by all of those spies you rightly see around you.”

“Well, splendidly done, then!” he said, eyeing me darkly.  “Much more of this plan of yours and I shall find myself dead in a field over a dice game with bandits.”

“It is important that you are not considered a threat, at the moment,” I soothed.  “In Castabriel, you were surrounded by serpents, each ready to strike at the merest provocation.  By removing you from attention, and giving you this quest, I gave your opponents the illusion that you are a drunken wastrel – which makes you unthreatening.”

“And great ducal houses are built by their unthreatening nature,” Anguin shot back, sarcastically.

“No, your Grace,” Pentandra said, taking the seat the Arborn brought to her.  The squire hurried to fetch seats for the rest of us.  “They are built by guile and plotting, strategy and tactics.  While it is true your position is weak, at the moment, in fact that serves the interests of your house’s survival.  While the attention of your opponents is turned away from you, you build your strength quietly, in secret.”

“What strength?” Anguin asked.  “The strength of Alshar is broken by invasion and rebellion.  My father could command the banners to rise, as he did for the Farisian campaign, and he could call thousands.  Who would rally to my banner, Spellmonger?” he asked, accusingly.

“Your realm is divided, but not broken, Your Grace,” Arborn said, quietly and respectfully.  “I have traveled to many of its provinces, and there is a strong loyalty to the ducal house among the Narasi.”

“Like the loyalty of the Gilmorans?” he asked, dredging up an old grievance of the Alshari.  “They were good Alshari, once.”

“Many of them are Alshari once more,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Nearly a hundred thousand were enslaved and taken to the Penumbra.  Thousands have already been sacrificed on the Dead God’s altar.”

“A pity that the gurvani do not respect human frontiers,” the Duke said, laughing mirthlessly.  “Shall we include them as my presumed subjects, as well?  They would respond to a banner-call as much as any of my ‘loyal’ subjects!”

“Your Grace,” I said, carefully, realizing the dark path the young man was traveling, “You are fulfilling your part in my plan.  But it occurs to me that you may be more sanguine about your future if you understood better what my intent is.  Unfortunately,” I sighed, “the spies around us make that problematic.  But I think I know a way we can inform you without that danger, if you can order us to remain undisturbed for the rest of the evening.”

The Duke wavered a bit, but the allure of a revelation was too great.  He cast his eyes to the priest, who went to instruct the attendants that the pavilion was not to be disturbed until sunrise.  That caused a flurry of gossip among the servants, but that was fine.  The priest was wily enough to insinuate that His Grace had yet another noblewoman who wished to converse on affairs of state, and requested a covered coach be provided at dawn.

“So tell us, Spellmonger, of your plan,” the Duke demanded, when we were secure.  Pentandra went so far as to spellbind the knots tying the doorway to the pavilion closed.

“I think that we are yet in too much danger of eavesdroppers,” I said, apologetically.  “It would be best if this conversation took place in a more secure location.”

“You try my patience, Wizard,” the Duke said, darkly.  “Unless you can conjure a castle and army out of that staff of yours . . .”

“No, Your Grace,” I admitted.  “But I can do the next best thing.  I think it’s high time you saw our plan, and met some of your subjects, before you give up your legacy in bitterness.  I think it’s time for you to return to Alshar, if but for an evening.”

I reached out to him and grasped his shoulder, and in a moment we were back in my camp, next to the Troop One supply rod that was acting as a banner pole.  We were surrounded by Kasari children, feasting on the roasted flesh of some great beast and gobbling down honeycakes.

I sent a quick summons to one of my apprentices, mind-to-mind, while Duke Anguin recovered from the disorientation that is the natural result of transport.

“You get used to it,” I counseled, as he bent over and lost a good deal of the last hour’s wine on my boots.  “Ah!  Sir Tyndal!” I said, as I saw my bushy-haired apprentice approach, a quizzical look on his face.  “This gentleman is the Duke of Alshar.  If you’d be good enough to have a chair fetched from my pavilion, I’ll be back in a moment with the rest of our party.”

Tyndal recovered from the shock of being casually introduced to the supreme lord of the land of his birth fairly quickly, and once I was certain that the Duke was all right, I made two more trips back to the tournament to retrieve Alya, Pentandra, Arborn, and Landfather Amus.  It was exhausting, using that much power so quickly, but I was getting used to it, too.  Just not the headaches that accompanied them.  Wine helped with that, though.

That night Duke Anguin was feasted by the Kasari with all deference and respect reserved for their council elders.  The children sang for him in their strange language, and then again in perfect Narasi, songs about the wonders of nature and the joy of hiking through it.  The Kasari would not bow, but they reverently saluted the Duke in their fashion and treated him as an honored guest.

The refugees, on the other hand, were awed by the idea of the duke – the real duke! – among them.  For his part Anguin was quite overwhelmed by the reverent awe with which his poorest subjects treated him.  But he also delighted in watching their common exuberance and enthusiasm.  I watched him, watching them, for quite some time.  I could tell he was moved.

After dinner I arranged for Carmella to take the duke and the priest on a tour of the fortification built for the defense of his realm, and he was impressed at how quickly it had come together – and how integral magic had been to its construction.  He paused to share a drink with the Iron Band men, who were quietly celebrating Midsummer with the keg of ale I’d brought, and then he visited the portion of camp set aside for the adult refugees who had sought refuge in the tower.

There was the beginnings of a little village, in their camp, but even with our assistance there was very little to it. A few wooden sheds and shelters and some hastily-constructed huts.  Three hundred had gathered, now, and claimed to live there.  Some of whom had taken up arms in the militia Carmella and Sir Festaran were organizing, some were working on planting, some were working on the halls and tower, and some were merely willing to do whatever it took for a chance at a safe bed and a crust of bread.

The Duke was profoundly touched as he went among his Wilderlands subjects and heard their stories.  The horror of the invasion, the tragedies endured after, the loss of everything echoed in account after account.  Father Amus listened just as attentively, asking pointed questions and giving assurances and messages of hope the way a good clergyman does.

“All these people you’ve helped,” Anguin said, shaking his head, as we headed back toward the tower.  “Even the Kasari, who have always been our bitterest foes in this land . . .”

“Only when you threaten their homelands, Your Grace,” I reminded him.  “They will never be as loyal as the Wilderlords who have sworn fealty to you in return for lands and protection.  Yet their loyalty can be earned, even if it cannot be bought.  They have only known your House as foes – show them what you can do for them, prove to them that you are worthy of their loyalty, and they could become among your best subjects.”

“And these poor souls?” he asked, gesturing to the poor encampment around him.  “What good is their loyalty?  And with what could I purchase it?”

“You have made a deposit on it merely by allowing me to do what I’ve done,” I answered.  “Feed them, arm them, protect them, and they will give you their loyalty gladly. As for what it is worth . . . this was once the hardiest portion of your realm, if not the richest.  If these folk get what they need to strengthen themselves, then your realm grows stronger . . . and they credit you for that, as much as I.  Or they will, as we move into more the habitable regions.  This is your quest, Anguin: be the ruler these people need.  Provide them order, justice, law, and honor, and they will follow your House as they always have.”

“Your words are wise, Minalan,” he admitted, smiling at some of the older Kasari girls we passed, “but a few healthy peasants isn’t enough to reclaim what I’ve lost.”

“The only way that can be done is if Your Grace seizes the opportunity to do so,” I pointed out, as gently as I could.  But they were words he needed to hear.  “No one is going to hand Alshar back to you, Anguin.  You will have to re-create Alshar yourself.  And only you can do that.”

“Your vision exceeds mine, Spellmonger,” he frowned.  “With one capital in rebellion, another in anarchy, and no great nobles willing to follow my leadership I see little way forward.”

“Because you see only the trappings of rule, and not its foundations,” I counseled.  “Your capitals are in disarray – set them to order.  Your domains are ungoverned.  Appoint loyal governors.  Your treasuries are looted – conspire to gain more resources.  Your nobles are squabbling and your people turning to rabble without their Duke – lead them.”

“How?” he asked, simply, but utterly sincerely.

“Summer ends the tournament season,” I explained. “Prepare to make your winter in an estate near to the frontier with Alshar – certainly you have some land you could pretend to spend an exile in.”

“His Grace is heir to dozens of domains in Castal,” assured Father Amus, helpfully.  “Particularly in Gilmora, though that land is sadly harmed.”

“Only in the north, and if you have an estate there, I encourage you to select it for this ruse.  Make it well known that you are going there.  Prepare as for a long and decadent winter.  His Majesty has allowed you a generous line of credit – use it to secure supplies as though you wished to stay drunk and whoring all winter.”

“And then . . . ?” he asked expectantly.

“Then when all attention is off of you, and firmly elsewhere, then you will slip back over the frontier to Alshar,” I explained.  “Where your minions have been preparing for your arrival.”

“My minions?  I did not know I had minions,” he chuckled.

“You don’t as yet,” I conceded.  “Save for me and my little conspiracy, here.  But there are still Wilderlords loyal to your house, once you remind them that there is a House to be loyal to.  You have few resources, but wise use of them can return dividends that can set the stage to restore you to full power.”

“The south would seize me and imprison me, use my sovereignty while I was a prisoner,” he reminded me.

“Then ignore rebellious south, for now, and grasp that part of the realm that is within your reach.  Vorone was as much the capital of the duchy as Roen.  It now lies under the administration of a corrupt baron appointed by the King to govern the city, until such time as the Duchy can be restored.”

“Vorone?” he asked, skeptically.  “Vorone is a joke, and all the Duchies know it.  A pretty castle, a mildewy palace, and a horrid mess to defend.”

“It is a magnificent opportunity, Your Grace,” I countered.  “The fact that it is considered a joke will make your return there seem  inconsequential.  You will have little oversight there, as you bend to the mammoth task of re-ordering your realm, from a capital city most consider lost.  But I ask you, Anguin, of what are realms made?”

“The nobles, the land, the people,” he recited,

“Forget the nobles – the nobles are leadership, or they’re parasites.  Let’s start with the land and the people.  You have both.  Northern Alshar lacks many things, Your Grace, but iron and timber, and a many other things, it has in abundance.  The Wilderlands folk are hardy, and even crafty.  And they are warriors,” I reminded him.  “You have the ingredients to restore your duchy, Anguin, but it will take a lot of toil to knit them together into what you seek: a proper state.”

“And this disaster I’ve inherited is my secret weapon, then?” he jibed.  “Iron and timber I have, not gold and steel.  Peasants and yeomen I have, not knights and soldiers.”

“It takes but work to turn the one into the other,” I pointed out.  “Work and knowledge.  Let us help you put your state aright, and strengthen your realm so that it can withstand both the goblins of the north and the serpents of the east.  In five years, Your Grace, five short years, I can make Alshar a name to be feared and respected, again.”

“And what do you hope to gain from this, Spellmonger?” he asked, warily.  “If I have no desire to be a rebel’s puppet in the south, I have even less to be a wizard’s puppet in the north.”

“What do I hope to gain?  Influence.  Protection.  Discretion.  And power.  But not over your Duchy.  I have no desire to rule, your Grace, it is not in my nature.  But I do like to plan, and It suits my ends to see Alshar restored under responsible leadership, at least the northern part, for now.  We’ll deal with the south later.”

“Yet you could have taken it for yourself, if you had wanted,” he pointed out, insightfully.  “Father Amus has told me so.  If you ordered the men of Tudry to march on Vorone, he said, you could have conquered the capital in a day.”

“Had I wanted it,” I shrugged.  “As I said, I don’t want Alshar.  I just don’t particularly want Rard and Tavard to have it.”

“So why me, then?  You could have appointed anyone to rule in fact, there, while I was kept here in exile.”

“It is your right to try, your Grace.  More, you have been groomed all of your life to rule this realm, and though it falls to you in fallen state, it is your responsibility as much as your legacy to put it right again.  No man I could put in that position would pursue that goal as resolutely as you.”

“I can’t do it alone, Spellmonger,” he sighed.  “My father had ministers and knights and . . .  and half of them have abandoned me for the southern baronies, while the other have bargain away what is left of the duchy to buy favor in the new royal court.”

“We will get you the right people,” I assured him.  “They are there, just waiting for your word.  But without you at the center of the effort – and truly committed to it – then all will fail.  You must be committed to rule, and rule wisely, not for your own benefit but for the restoration of the prosperity of all.

“In the Wilderlands?” he snorted.  “You’ve seen what these people have.  Nothing, compared to the Riverlands!  They’re ignorant, half-civilized, hardly more than tribals themselves,” he said, discouraged.  “I could pauper myself and still not raise them up.”

I considered.  “The Kasari have a motto: Gweithredoedd Da. It’s a directive, for each of them to make a point to do a good deed at least once a day.  They expect nothing for it, not even salvation.  They don’t do it to feel smug, or to brag about it.  Nor does it have to be a great deed.  But they feel that if each of them contribute to the common good a little, for no better reason than it is right to do so, then everyone benefits.”

“An odd custom,” he decided.  “But an intriguing one.  It is meaningful in this context?”

“If a single Kasari girl can volunteer her efforts to make the world a better place by helping someone with a bucket at the well,” I explained, “then what good could the duke of the realm do with that same attitude?”

“Duchies are not built on good deeds, Minalan,” he chuckled, knowingly.  “I might be new to the position, but I’m not naïve.”

“Good deeds don’t build duchies, perhaps, but they do build friendship and loyalty.   You must lead, Anguin, as your ancestors led before you, and to lead you must have followers.  You can bribe them with titles and lands, or you can entice them to follow you because of the strength of your character.

“But at the proper time, and at the proper place, you will announce your resumption of authority and power over northern Alshar, and the loyalty purchased with those deeds will begin paying dividends.  You will have the beginnings of a cabinet with you,” I said, already knowing who might be the right man for the job.  “And you will have the support of the Arcane Orders . . . quietly, of course.   For now.”

“But I still do not understand your interests,” he admitted.  “This is all lovely, of course, but . . .”

“The Penumbralands are areas of interest to us,” I continued.  “They lie on the border of your realm.  Many magelords make their homes there, now, and there is room for more.  That is Alshari territory – your land.  That is where my interests lie.  In return for your support and protection, you could have some of the most powerful warmagi in the world as your vassals.’

‘That thought appeals to me,” he admitted.  “As does the thought of raising Alshar out of the ashes of my forebears, and beginning a new dynasty of my own.  It seems a worthy ambition.”

“There are few more worthy, Sire,” I agreed.  “If you are willing to be the Duke you were born to be, I can help you rule in magnificence in ways unseen since the Magocracy.”

“You really are quite persuasive,” he said, suddenly grinning after a moment’s consideration.  For the first time since I’d known him he didn’t look depressed or irritated or afraid.   “I think I can agree to this plan, Spellmonger.  It is, at least, a better plan than I had.”

“It’s just a start, Duke Anguin.  Just a start.  But from such small seeds the mightiest of trees grows.”

Chapter Eighteen

The Wilderlands Refugees

I returned the Duke and his mentor back in their canopy in Gilmora before dawn, a little wiser and a lot more hopeful.  And very, very grateful for the respect and courtesy he was shown at our humble little castle.  So grateful, in fact, that he gave verbal title of the tower and the surrounding lands to Carmella, personally, for her dedication and devotion to the realm and its people.  She wept.  Bidding us all a fond journey, he and Father Amus were reluctant to return . . . but willing to continue with my plan, now that they both knew its promise.  Then I took Alya back to Sevendor and spent the rest of the day resting in the new hall before heading back to finish the march.

The tower was nearly complete.  Carmella had made it a home of sorts, and declared that it would become a commandary of the Hesian Order, before turning over its administration to her aide.  Once the orb was installed in its peak, and the banners of the Hesians and of Alshar were raised over its gates, the children began to get restless to move on.

A few days of camp life had helped transform the newest refugee children.  They were assimilating with the Kasari as well as their predecessors, with Brother Hotfoot intervening to speak with those who had difficulties.  The priest seemed to be everywhere at once, preparing everyone to get back on the trail.  He helped dozens of refugee kids lash together frames for burlap-bag packs, Kasari style.  He ensured every pair of feet was well-covered by shoes, and made certain every child cut a staff to help them walk.

The excitement of the children wasn’t quite shared by the adults.  Thanks to a week’s worth of drilling with Sir Festaran and the Iron Band, a study little garrison of forty would be guarding the castle while the nascent village in the bailey worked to finish the details and – hopefully – get a crop in.

But not all of the adults wanted to stay.  Plenty wanted to leave with the children and follow them out of the high country.  Some complained loudly about the axes and knives, and the clothes and boots given to the kids and not them, but I was having none of it.  If they wanted to pick up a spear and helm and commit to guarding our march,, that was one thing.  But I was not there to feed the lazy and cowardly.  They could follow – I couldn’t stop them – but they had to fend for themselves.

That might seem cruel, but the point of the march wasn’t to depopulate the north, it was to rescue kids and help restore a little order as we went.  I was sympathetic to the plight of the adults, but they were adults, who could make their own choices.  If they wanted to work, we had work for them.  But I would not stand the kind of shiftlessness I saw among some who saw the march as a means of slinking away from their lives without effort.  I had the clergy quietly on watch for them all.  A few I had rangers take to the side and convince them not to follow us when we left.

But the day soon came when we set out again, the Pathfinders bravely leading while the skyriders wheeled  in patrol overhead.  The summer weather was perfect, and while the heat of the afternoon was harsh, the coolness of the shade made it bearable.  We hiked away from the Salik Tower and headed south to build our last.

A day later we came to the big river, the Wildwater, as it’s called before it falls over the escarpment and joins the Daner.  Unnavigable save for small leather canoes due to the deadly rapids, the river was well past its spring flood and had settled down into a steady but potent stream.  Arborn had chosen a particular site to ford it due to its ease of passage, but it was still a harrowing day.  We had to string ropes across the river and assist each child across.  Four times someone let go during the crossing and the current carried them away.  But rangers with ropes tied around their waists quickly retrieved the children before tragedy happened.

I don’t think I breathed until the last kid was across.

But beyond the Wildwater, things got a little easier.  The chance of goblin patrols was reduced – the gurvani didn’t like big rivers, unless they were magically frozen solid, so the Wildwater had acted as a defense against the bulk of the invasion.  There were still isolated goblin bands who roamed and caused mayhem, or who had begun clandestine little cantonments in the forest or ruined hamlets.  Whole tribes of fell hound riders had made their cantonments on the eastern side, and raided as far as the Pearwoods.  But the organized mass of the goblin armies was safely on the other side of the river, now.

Things got easier in another way.  Around noon of the second day out on the march we finally came to an overgrown path that led to a decrepit track that was the closest thing to a road I’d seen.  At the end of the day  we came to an abandoned hamlet and encamped for the night, re-consolidating the troops into one large unit.

Troop One still acted as the vanguard, but the rest of us stayed in one large group, spaced out enough for comfort but close enough for security.  The next day we came to the very first inhabited village we’d encountered, a place Fondaras knew as Loru, in merrier times.

Three hundred frightened souls locked themselves fearfully behind a hilltop palisade and threatened us, if we tried to come in.  The villagers stared at us with wonder and suspicion, and it took a lot of effort to get them to allow us to camp outside their walls – not that they could have driven us off.  One bark from the giant dogs, and one overflight of the skyriders, and the folk of Loru were cowed.

An unexpected result of our camp was a group of parents approaching us the next morning, begging them to take their children with us.  They didn’t know where they were going, but they figured it had to be better than the hard life here.  Before I could stop them, Brother Hotfoot admitted them to the march.

I didn’t say anything then . . . or the next day, when a harried old abbot who had taken in a dozen orphan boys to the shelter of his shrine could not stop his charges from demanding to follow us.  Or the next day, when seven new children were at breakfast, according to the roll calls, than had been at dinner the night before.

I don’t know how, but word spread: the Spellmonger was leading the children of the Wilderlands south into safety.  Whether it was true or not was immaterial.  It was the first glimpse of hope these folk had seen since the Battle of Timberwatch sent the invading goblins back into the Penumbra.  The idea that some magical force would take your children to safety, when their best hopes were bleak, seemed too irresistible a tale to be untrue.  By the time we reached the first occupied castle we’d seen since Otter’s Point, there were close to a thousand refugee children among us.

That was the domain of Tralsalan, where the local lord had successfully sustained his folk against the invasion and protected them during its aftermath.  Tralsalan had been lucky.  Tucked away in a eastern-facing valley, the little manor had driven off several bands of gurvani and survived two short sieges here beyond the Wildwater.  Lord Vahcei was dedicated to keeping his little community safe.  When our march came down the road that led to his domain, his watchmen stopped us and demanded to know our business.

It took an hour and some persistence, but finally Lord Vahcei himself rode out from the three-story round keep that dominated his valley and spoke with me in person.  I explained my mission, presented my credentials, and begged permission for us to spend the night behind the protection of his walls.

I expected resistance.  I expected reluctance.  I expected suspicion.  I didn’t expect the man to embrace me and welcome us all to his little valley, for as long as we wished to stay.

Tralsalan was actually three small villages in a triangle around the keep in three distinct estates.  Somewhat naturally protected on three sides by thickly forested hills, the fortress was comprised of a strong wooden stockade, ditch and dike fortifying the entrance to the valley.  It was well-manned.

We passed through three sets of barricades on the way in, and at any point we could have been shot by the crossbowmen who patrolled the walls and looked out from the wooden towers.  Things looked as bleak as elsewhere, outside the gates, but once you got behind them you started to feel safe again. The fields in the center of the valley were bulging with crops, well-tended by peasants, though each field was attended by a wary-eyed spearman.

Lord Vahcei and his family took their duties seriously.  He explained his situation to me as he led his horse and walked with us.  He and his four brothers, and his two brothers-in-law, had started to respond to the banner call his baron, nearly a hundred miles south, had issues when word came not to bother: his baron’s castle had been stormed.  A raid by gurvani convinced him that defending his defendable little vale was wiser than leading his people into an uncertain battle.

He had chosen well.  He was the kind of Wilderlord the people loved to rally around, and he had inherited the remains of two other knightly households in the district, when their own manors were overrun.  More, he had accepted the peasants and yeomen who had fled their homes during the invasion and sought refuge, never turning anyone away who came in good faith.  His villages were bulging, and despite two good years of crops, there was little enough to go around.  They supplemented by hunting and fishing, but every winter they lost dozens to hunger.

He painted a depressing picture at dinner that night.  There were two small bands of gurvani who still raided his lands, occasionally, but worse were  the few knights who had retained their holdings not by defiance, but by treachery.  Lord Vahcei spoke of a few such lords whose estates were now run like the slave farms of the goblins – and the gurvani themselves had been spotted trading with the traitors.

“That is ill news for all of Alshar,” he told me, over thick hard cider that night.  “And troubling for my estate.  I’ve been offered gold and other inducements by each of them, to walk away from my holding.  The implicit threat is that they will go to war with me if I do not, eventually.  But what use would gold be to a man who loves his country?  Ishi’s tits, my grandfather built this castle himself, with twenty freemen.  His bones lie now in its crypt.  How could I dishonor that memory for mere gold?”

“You were right to stand and fight,” I agreed.  “Though you struggle to do it, you’ve taken in your neighbors.  And fought with honor.  More, you’ve survived, when a weaker man would not.  And your cooperation with this mission will be noted by the Duke,” I added.

“The Duke!” he snorted.  “I met old Lenguin, once, at Vorone when I was a lad.  They say he’s dead, now.”

“His son Anguin was invested with the coronet,” I informed him.  “I spoke with His Grace just days ago, and he is quite anxious to resume his governance, now that his period of mourning is over. Those who have maintained their loyalty will be remembered,” I promised.

“Loyalty or not, I’m pleased to have you here, Baron,” he told me.  “For three years we’ve been out here worried that the rest of the world has fallen, and we are but the last remnant of the Narasi.  It is good to hear that is not necessarily true.”

“Not at all.  Indeed, there is a king, now: you live not just within Alshar, but within The Kingdom of Castalshar.  King Rard, former Duke of Castal, now sits on a throne in Castabriel, and His Majesty is just as concerned with the goblins and the holdings in the Wilderlands as His Grace,” I lied, boldly.  “And His Grace has the restoration of the Wilderlands to his realm as high on his priorities,” I lied.

“He could appoint another baron,” the man suggested.  “Once I’d take a threat to my lands to our overlord, but since the Baron died I have no one to appeal to for aid.  It has made me . . . overly cautious.”

“You have a people to preserve,” I reminded him.  “Without order in the realm, you did right by them in your caution.  But tell me of these treacherous knights, and I will inform His Grace of them when I tell him of your loyalty.”

We went on to discuss the political situation in the middle vales after the invasion.  Much of the armed might had gone to the banner calls, when they came, leaving many villages and manors defenseless.  Isolated homesteads were abandoned as folk sought more security in greater numbers. Unfortunately, that made tempting targets for goblins who were sent to procure more slaves.  Where the humans fought, they died, mostly, or were taken.

Now the sparsely-peopled Wilderlands east of the Wildwater most resembled the earliest periods of Narasi settlement.  The social and physical infrastructure that had connected the far-flung pockets of humanity was gone.  The trappings of commerce and civilization – inns, markets, temples – had been destroyed, replaced by a number of remote warlords struggling independently to survive.

Lord Vahcei had done what he could as a warlord, but without assistance and support from an overlord or a real opportunity for commerce he was limited in what he could do.  His little force was adequate to guard his frontiers and man his fortifications, and guard against the marauders of both human and gurvani type, but hardly enough to contend with his treacherous neighbors.  Luckily none of them seemed to have the strength to overcome Tralsalan’s strength, either.

“But the raids are coming,” Vahcei assured me.  “All the signs are there.  Instead of looking to their own lands and enriching them, they send spies and raiders against mine.  Had I the strength . . .”

“You will, someday,” I promised.  “And while we are here, let us see what we can do to improve your defensive position.”

That turned out to be quite a lot, actually.  With the help of a thousand husky boys the Tralsalani were able to clear nearly five acres of woodlands, while magi used spells to dry and dress the lumber.

The cleared land was combed for stumps and rocks by my apprentices, who were keen to teach Dara the trick of directing simple earth elementals.  When they were done there were several more acres available for cultivation.  There was also a huge pile each of stumps and rocks on the edges.  More boys carried these to the stockade to add to the little battlement Carmella was crafting there.

Carmella, still pining for her own tower, strengthened the integrity of the outer defenses and made some suggestions for improvements.  She also taught the Tralsalani how to make simple siege engines with their lumber, artillery that could cover the approach to the gates.  Ormar and Landrick, and the two Hesian warmagi we had left, hardened the round keep and enchanted the great oak doors with defensive spells.

We stayed three days at Tralsalan and we left it better than we found it.  Guidance from Lord Vahcei convinced us to change our route to avoid the domain of the knight Sire Rontad, who was known to consort with goblins, and go instead through the ruined town of Anstreg, bearing six miles east.  As the road led there anyway, it seemed a natural course.

Anstreg had been among the first towns sacked and burned by the goblins when they’d crossed the river.  A market town catering to the iron miners further west, Anstreg had its own charter, and felt secure enough not to invest in expensive walls or other fortifications.  When the hordes swept in there was little the people could do but flee, hide, or die.  The entire place had been looted and put to the torch, most of its inhabitants slain or led away in chains.

Three years after that attack it still smelled of old ash and despair.  The Pathfinders cleared it of any possible goblin attack before we moved in but there were still issues.  Goblins, it seemed, were not the problem.

Anstreg had not been entirely abandoned, even after its ruin.  Survivors and orphans haunted the ruins, living in the remains of their old lives for lack of anyplace better to go.  Where once there was a town of two thousand souls in Anstreg, less than a tithe of that remained, literally in its ashes.

And they all wanted to come with us.

We were already stretching our rations thin.  The rangers supplemented with hunting, taking the older boys with them to instruct them in the art, but that was time-consuming.  The magic kettles had worked for weeks, but Gareth was getting frustrated at the increasingly difficulty he was having procuring what we needed in quantity.  Worse, his purchases had put the local economy around Talry-on-Burine in a spin.  Market prices were nearly double what they were a year ago, he reported, and a lot of people were angry.  What kind of bakery buys endless amounts of flour and beans, for instance, but never sells a loaf?

Adding yet another few hundred mouths to the roster would be difficult, without a better source of supply.  It wasn’t a problem yet, but the more stragglers we picked up, the sooner it would be. There seemed to be no end to them, some just walking out of the woods and tailing along behind the rest of our march.  Some came carrying all of their belongings on huge packs, or dragged behind them in wheelbarrows.  They didn’t even mind not getting much to eat – they were going someplace, doing something, other than just surviving.  There was safety in numbers, and this was the largest number of human beings some of these folk had ever seen.

*                            *              `              *

South of Anstreg, we cut back across country toward the chosen site of our last watch tower.  Carmella had decided on this one, based on the reports the skyriders brought back and what she knew of the terrain.  On a small bend in the river Nar, on the hilltop that bent it, Carmella had envisioned the last pele tower.

Strategically, it was a good site.  The river location offered natural defenses.  The location was within ten miles of the edge of the Penumbra, as we’d drawn it.  There was a large outcropping of good stone nearby, as well as a thick wood to the north.  By placing a bridge here, and a tower beyond, it was hoped that the location would provide a point of escape and refuge to the unfortunates in the Penumbra.

We got busy at once. Patrols were assigned to work crews, the Hesians began sketching their designs in the dirt, and the digging of the foundation commenced.  After building five towers this summer, the children knew exactly what to do, the Kasari teaching the newcomers . . . and some of the earliest newcomers were almost indistinguishable from the Kasari, including literacy.

The Kasari kids taught the newer children in regular classes, just like they did for leatherwork, needlework, cooking, and wood carving.  They read to them out of the Book of the Hands, the small guide in their native language most of those with star rank carried, though the alphabet they used was Old Perwynese.  I was amazed at how quickly these theoretically ignorant orphans, near-feral runaways avoiding starvation just days and weeks ago, were sounding out words in the Kasari language over the fire at night.

Carmella was impressed, too.  Several of the children had shown an aptitude for construction and engineering, and she was considering some sort of apprenticeship program, based here.  She had a good reason for wanting a lot of young engineers around.

“This is the closest point to the place where I want to put our main fortification,” Carmella confided to me, mid-afternoon after she had given her foremen their assignments for the day.  “We really need something big, strong, and permanent, if we’re going to win this war.  Or even run it properly.”

“Didn’t you hear?  We have a treaty,” I pointed out, humorlessly.

“I heard.  I don’t believe a word of it.  The only reason we aren’t knee-deep in goblins right now is because we eliminated a goodly portion of Sheruel’s front-line army last year.  He’s wounded, but he’s rebuilding his strength.  Within five years there will be another horde coming out of the Umbra.  Unless there is a ship strong enough to survive that wave, these little towers will be for naught.”

“How big are you thinking?” I asked, curious.

“The rock I want to set it upon is massive, a nearly cube-like block of granite that used to be a mountain, before most of the soil and substrata fell off.  The top can be reached by the eastern side, which trails down two big hills.  Really, Min, the place is perfect for a fortress.”

“How big, Carmella?” I repeated, flatly.

“I think we could take the keep five stories, the towers at least seven.  Large enough for five thousand men, if we build it properly.”

“That’s a big castle,” I said, shaking my head.  “But you think we need a big castle.”

“Think of it this way, Min,” she proposed, after a moment’s thought, “when that big army comes marching out of shadow, like we both know it will, where will it go?”

“Down the Timber Road to the Cotton Road, thence into Gilmora,” I offered.  “Or along the East Road into northern Castal.”

“Either one would be a catastrophe,” she agreed.  “So let’s give them something to attack. Something they’ll have to attack, something so strong they dare not leave it behind them.    Something so tough they have to spend armies on it, but something so remote that it won’t matter if they lay waste to the countryside.  Something so big that if they don’t attack it, it will turn around and attack the Umbra itself.  Something big enough to withstand dragonfire,” she added, finally.

“That’s a big, big castle,” I said, nodding.  “Big castles are expensive.  Ishi’s tits, little castles are expensive.”

“How expensive is invasion?” she countered.

I had no answer to that.  I knew a castle could be built – it was just money – and I appreciated her strategic thinking.  But that was a great undertaking, something on the line of Relan Cor or Darkfaller.  One that could take years to be completed.  Some fortresses were never completed, if money or will ran out.

But having something designed to be attacked, sparing the brunt of the thrust from the heartlands, that appealed to me.  Having a hardened fortress close enough to our forward positions to support them, act as a depot and reserve, made a tremendous amount of sense.  Which also made it unlikely for the King to consider.  He was trying to reduce his commitment to the Alshari front, not increase it.

I promised Carmella I would consider it, and had Dara’s folk go fly off to take a look at the site.  She was no expert, but she was a good artist.  I had her make several sketches, including one from the air.

Meanwhile, w had more refugees – particularly more kids – coming in every day.  All sorts of outlandish rumors got spread, from how I was leading them to a land of honeycakes and berry tarts to how I would conjure magical armor for everyone and go fight the Goblin King.  It was said that I was giving new clothes and shoes and money to every child who came with me.  I had good work in secure quarters for all in the east, ran another.  I was going to found a monastery and teach my magic to every child, to build a mighty army of warmagi was another.

It was all kind of ridiculous, and the more ridiculous the rumor the more people wanted to believe it.  That was understandable – desperate people are desperate to believe in what they want most.  Thankfully the Kasari were level-headed enough to dispel most of the outrageous ideas before they got under control.  And Brother Hotfoot, as the unofficial organizer of the new refugees, was adept at explaining the rules and the situation to newcomers.

But that didn’t stop them all.  I was on my way to the latrine when a young refugee girl about nine, her new dress clearly from the Quartermaster and a bit too big for her, stared at me intently as I walked by.

“Hey!” she called.  “Are you the Spellmonger?” she asked, suspiciously.

“I am,” I nodded, warily.

“True that you’re gonna marry all the girls?  That you want more wives?”

That took me aback.  “Uh, no, not true at all.  I’ve got a wife.”

She looked at me skeptically.  “I heard that you were gonna choose the prettiest girls to marry yourself.  I just wanted you to know . . . I don’t wash dishes.”

“You don’t . . . wash dishes,” I answered, confused.

“No, I bloody don’t,” she insisted.  “I’ll do laundry, I’ll cook, I’ll clean, but no bloody dishes.  As long as that’s clear, I don’t care what you do.”

“I . . . I will take that under advisement,” I agreed.

She nodded firmly, as if we had come to some arrangement.  I nodded back.  I had no idea what the hell I had just agreed to, except that she wasn’t planning on doing any dishes.

The refugee children were adding an increasingly wild element to the orderly march.  Part of that was the sheer number of them coming in, now – about a dozen a day – and part of that was the difficulty convincing them that they had to live by adult rules, after living feral in the forests.  Some had formed little gangs, and were loath to give up their associations in favor of the Kasari patrol system.

Brother Hotfoot instituted a transitional patrol, a kind of training program, after the first two days at the river site.  New kids who wanted to be included in the march had to spend three days learning the rules before they were given any equipment.  Once they could prove that they could behave themselves for three days, they were assigned to an existing patrol as a kind of apprentice.

The problem was that the patrols were expanding to fifteen or eighteen kids, now.  That forced the older kids to get together and re-organize the system, all on their own.  They ended up creating twenty new patrols, spread out over the troops, mixing the native Kasari with the refugees as much as possible.  They did this all on their own, without consulting any of the adults – and the Kasari rangers accepted their decisions without question.

“Seems a little odd to let the children decide for themselves how they are organized,” I pointed out to Arborn at breakfast.  He and Pentandra had come by to eat and discuss organizational details when the patrol re-assignments were announced.   It was a little disconcerting to be informed matter-of-factly that I was losing three of my patrolmen by a twelve-year old girl with a roll of parchment and an authoritarian attitude.  The boys were reluctant, but they didn’t argue;  They had their assignments.   they started to pack up their bags.

“The best way to teach is to invest them with the responsibility and encourage them to think ahead,” Arborn replied, reasonably.  “We’ve been training them to think like that since they were six years old.  Assuming authority and making real decisions forces them to hold themselves accountable for their mistakes.  And being well-organized is the essence of preparedness,” he said, as if quoting a proverb.

“I suppose I just don’t expect that kind of initiative from children,” I decided.  “Narasi kids are taught to obey, and to wait for instructions.  Usually with beatings, if they’re slow to comply.  I’ve never seen a Kasari adult raise a hand to a child.”

“Nor will you,” Pentandra said, her hand desperately close to Arborn’s.  This march had seen her maddeningly close to her beloved, but unable to express her desires in the slightest ways.  Yet you could tell she was smitten with him, and for his part Arborn returned her affections, if you could see beyond the dour ranger’s exterior.  “The Kasari don’t punish their children that way.  They are central to the culture, and a lot of their civilization is dependent upon their focus on their children.”

”I’ve noticed,” I agreed.  “It just seems a little obsessive, from my perspective.  Children are our legacy, but to make their nurture and education a culture’s primary focus . . .”

“It’s more sophisticated than that,” Penny assured me.  “But the culture emphasizes personal honor and responsibility to the point where the focus on the interior development of the children keeps the Kasari from becoming warlike, or competing for resources outside of their groves.  You can’t argue with their competence and effectiveness – can you imagine how ruthless they’d be if they applied that expertise toward being soldiers?”

“I’ve seen them in battle,” I agreed.  “But they don’t even have a warrior class, exactly,” I pointed out.

“That’s right; all Kasari can fight, to an extent.  But few train to fight exclusively.  Arborn was telling me that was one reason why the Narasi have historically had problems with the Kasari: the Narasi are led by their warriors, whereas the Kasari are led by the wisest of their elders, selected for competence.  Some have never been in battle – so the Narasi have a hard time respecting them.  Whereas the Narasi glorify battle and warfare to the exclusion of much else in their leadership, and the Kasari have a hard time respecting their idolization of warfare.”

“I can see the Kasari perspective,” I agreed.  “And the Magocracy promoted people based on magical talent and political connections.  Which made you easy pickings for the ignorant warrior culture of the Narasi,” I pointed out, helpfully.

“It was our own fault,” Penny agreed, gravely, “we spread a rumor that the Magocracy’s sheep were more shapely and elegant south of Vore, and the Narasi didn’t get the joke,” she shot back.

Arborn eyed us both with a mixture of amusement and surprise.  “You offer a choice between war and mystery?  Massacre and magic?  We Kasari will keep to our groves.  We will stay focused on our legacy, in our children,” he said, finishing a biscuit.

“So . . . you don’t have any children, Arborn,” I asked casually, knowing he didn’t.  “I never got around to really asking.”

“No, Minalan,” he said, his face suddenly stone.  “I have not added my name to the lists of those seeking mates.  Perhaps . . . soon,” he said, pointedly not looking at Pentandra, who was glaring at me so furiously I feared a magical attack.

“I highly recommend it, if you find the right girl,” I said, hoping to salvage something for Pentandra.  I hadn’t meant anything by it – really – but in retrospect I suppose it wasn’t the best topic of conversation.

“It will depend upon the sorting ceremony,” he said, woodenly.  “A Kasari man who wishes to wed must submit his name, and through the four days of the marriage rite, he will be paired with a complementary Kasari bride,” he said.  Apparently this was news to Pentandra, whose eyes shot open.  Suddenly she wasn’t looking at me, anymore.

“I thought . . . I thought that one had simply to complete the Kasari rites,” she protested.  “I thought that once . . . once a girl became initiated, or whatever, that she was free to marry!”

“Aye,” Arborn agreed, reluctantly, “but inside Kasar, that decision is made by the bride . . . the groom . . . and the will of the council.  If they do not think that the match is a good one, they will assign a different mate.”

“A different mate?” I asked, suddenly amused.  Even if Penny did complete whatever tribal ritual she had to do, she might not end up with the muscular Kasari ranger she wanted.  “Would the council really disapprove of a wedding?”

“It has been done before,” agreed Arborn, quietly.  “And if there is a disagreement as to the bride and groom, either can petition for a better match.  Or withdraw.  But they can only withdraw once, before they are restricted from the rite.”

“That’s . . . unusual,” Penny said, struggling with words.  “What about love?  What about passion?”

“They are not requirements for good marriage, it is said,” Arborn replied, a little guiltily.  “They are considered, but  . . . it’s complicated,” he said, finally, shaking his head.  I never thought I’d see Arborn squirm.

“So it seems,” Pentandra said, quietly, withdrawing a little.  “Arborn . . . they wouldn’t deny a match so clearly made, would they?”

“It’s complicated,” he repeated, uncomfortably.  “Mating is done with the good of all Kasari in mind, not just the bride and groom.  Some Kasari stay celibate their entire lives, for many reasons.  Others have large families. Each match is judged in context of the whole council.  If it seems doomed, or one of the two are not adequately skilled in housecraft, or the union would present undue problems, then yes, it could be denied.”

“That’s very interesting,” Pentandra said, in a way that sent a bit of a chill up my spine.  “And just what criteria are used in determining skills in . . . housecraft?”

“Cooking, cleaning, laundry, sewing, spinning, weaving, churning, wood carving, baking, shearing, skinning, dyeing, curing, salting, singing, drying, accounting, planning, husbandry, horticulture, gardening, childcare . . . the basics,” Arborn shrugged.  “The things needed to run a house. But you needn’t worry,” he said, in a low voice only I could overhear.  “You excel at all that you do.  I have every confidence that you will do very well in the competition, and that there will be no . . . obstacles,” he said, rising and walking away.

Lucky bastard.  I had to stay and clean up the metaphorical blood.

“Did you hear that?” Pentandra whispered to me, a shocked expression on her face.

“The fact that your future happiness might depend entirely on what some tribal elder raised in the forest might think of you?  Or your ability to churn butter, weave cloth, or change a nappy?” I asked, waiting for the inevitable volley of ire.  Or possibly magical death.  Pentandra relied on servants or magic for most things.  I had never seen her pick up a needle in her life.  It was funny – Penny, Alya, and Dara, the three women closest to me, all hated needlework.  I wondered if that meant anything.

“No, that he . . . he has confidence in me!  That he wants me to take the rites!  Min, I’ve been hinting around for weeks, now, but that was the first tangible sign that Arborn is supportive of me pursuing him!”

“And you aren’t worried about the competitive element of the rites?” I asked, surprised.  There were an awful lot of young, pretty Kasari maids, I’d noticed.  Probably some better at, say, churning than Pentandra.

Her eyes narrowed.  “I might not be able to bake a pie, but I’ve been competing against women my entire life.  And as Arborn said, I excel in all that I do.”  Without saying anything more about it, she got up, brushed off her rustic gown, and strode determinedly back to her camp.  She managed to do it with just the right element of feminine grace . . . and a hint of hysterical compulsion.

My throat was suddenly dry.  I felt sorry for any woman who decided to vie with Pentandra for Arborn.

When she has That Look, she’s committed.

Chapter Nineteen

The March To Tudry

We named the final tower Anguin Tower, in honor of the duke who had clandestinely visited our march.  His magical visit at midsummer had an interesting effect on the march.  The Kasari had been cautiously open to the young man, and understood that his cooperation had been granted for their transit. They were grateful and respectful of him.  The Narasi refugees had clung to any display of traditional authority adamantly, and meeting with the highest lord of the realm had been akin to a divine visitation.

The tower that bore his name was as modest as the Orphan Duke.  The hill over the river was slight, a mere hundred feet above the river, but it was wide.  Carmella followed the earlier plans, though she proudly proclaimed she had refined the technique considerably since her first pele tower.  Once the site was prepared with earth elementals and defining ditchworks that ran to the river’s edge, I brought the Karshak in from Sevendor and set to work one last time.

Foundations were laid, halls were staked out, a springhouse was dug . . . the site wasn’t nearly as pretty as Salik, but Anguin Tower ended up being a handsome little castle on a smart little hill.

One of the major elements of the tower was the fortified bridge over the river.  That took two days of Rondal’s attention, securing footings in the riverbed to build piers sturdy enough not just for a bridge, but for a blockhouse with portcullis and such.  Once the planks were laid, the western bank was accessible.  But as the tower’s basic form neared completion, and the bridge was roofed over and a small guard tower added over the far end, the naming ceremony also began the process of figuring out what to do with the adult refugees.

I didn’t want to keep them with us.  As it was, we were employing fifty or so as guards, many who had fought at Rognar Tower.  We didn’t really need them, this far away from large gurvani concentrations, and some of them were unhappy with the conditions.  I was a soldier, once.  I could understand.

Anguin’s Tower needed a garrison just as much as any other tower did, and our plans for this particular tower were grand.  Twenty-five acres of land around the structure was included in the earthworks.  Two large halls, stables, and a temple were being planned, in addition to a garrison hall.  The goal of this tower was to attract escapees and runaways from the Penumbra, to give them a beacon of hope and a reason to desert their foul masters.  And, as Carmella had suggested, it could be a place for the talented to learn some engineering and construction techniques for future endeavors.

From here the former slaves could be fed, clothed, strengthened and sent on to Tudry, just a few dangerous days down the road.  The Iron Band planned a presence here, at some point, but I wanted something more regional in character to handle day-to-day operations on behalf of the Hesian Order mage, Mistress Marsden, who we were installing here.  Marsden was a stubborn old baud who was raised in a mercenary camp and specialized in static defensive spells, the kind that slowed down armies and broke them in sieges.  She was an ideal commander for a troubled region.

But she needed a garrison to command.  To that end I set up a full company of men-at-arms, recruited from among the refugees-turned-guards.  Any man who volunteered for a one-year stint got four ounces of silver as an immediate bonus –courtesy of Lady Mask’s pay chest – then half an ounce of silver per week, every week, as livery.  We hired women to run laundry and cooking services for the garrison, too, and paid a decent wage.  The lands behind the tower were sparsely wooded, and could be made into pastures and perhaps corn or bean fields, so I was hopeful about the possibility of an entire new settlement arising around Anguin Tower.

The name and the garrison were important for other reasons, too.  I made certain that the men understood that they were in the service of the Duke, and instituted rituals and policies for the place to emphasize both their attachment to the Alshari ducal house, and their loyalty.  It was a crude start, but important.

For one thing, by being ducal troops, officially, it kept them from getting embroiled in local disputes.  Neither could they be ordered about by even a baron.  Their orders were to garrison the castle, rescue refugees from the Penumbra, guard the bridge and follow the orders of the Duke and his chosen officers, starting with Mistress Marsden.  The Anguin Tower Company was thus formed, and a banner depicting the antlers of the ducal house hovering over a white tower (Carmella insisted on whitewashing the exterior of the place, for effect).

They weren’t particularly good troops.  We found a few veterans among them, made them ancients, and organized them into watches and patrols under a crusty old woodsman who had been in three campaigns against his lords’ neighbors in his youth.  Most were peasants or woodsmen driven from their homes and holdings by the invasion.  Few had seen organized battle before, but nearly all had fought for their lives.

They lacked training and discipline, and for the moment they lacked appropriate arms.  I was able to scrounge a few more old swords to go along with the spears and helms I’d gathered, but there were still not enough for everyone.  I promised more weapons and real armor, as soon as I could procure some.  They were content for now to drill with staves, trading out real weapons for duty.

There were rogues among those too cowardly to fight and too lazy to farm.  Some had been bandits even before the invasion, or had used the excuse of social disorder to walk away from debts, or cover for other crimes.  I didn’t want them following us – they were the sort you had to watch around the kids – but I couldn’t exactly command them to stay, either.

Instead I hit upon the solution of forming a company for them.  They were lazy and cowardly, but they knew how to brew, some of them, and they all knew how to drink.  I made use of an abandoned smallholding a quarter-mile from the bridge  on the western bank and quartered them there.  I gave them a kettle, six bags of barley to malt, and a couple of casks – enough to begin the business of brewing.

Carmella was skeptical, when she heard my solution.

“You just made the closest neighbor tower named after the duke a taproom,” she chided.  “Do you have any idea what that’s going to do?”

“Give your garrison someplace to drink and spend their coin?” I answered.  “There are worse things, Carm.  I put it on the far side of the river on purpose.  If those scoundrels want the garrison’s protection, then they’ll have to bend to the garrison’s rules.  Its second purpose is to serve as a lure to those poor souls enslaved in the Penumbra.  A man might risk his life for the chance of freedom, but the chance of freedom and a beer?  I expect this to be a busy place.

“Which brings me to my third reason,” I continued, before she could object to my first two.  “This region is more densely inhabited than the wilder areas north we crossed through.  Notice how many more survivors have gathered here?  There are enough people to consider re-establishing some sort of real order.  If Tralsalan can thrive, this place has even more potential.  We’re mere days from Megelin.”

“And an alehouse will be a beacon of civilization?  You’re going mad, Min!”

“Most of these folks’ lords went off and got killed in their defense two years ago.  Then the goblins burned everything they could burn.  This region is a wasteland.  Now that things have settled down, a taproom is a sign of commerce, a portent of order, and a symbol of normalcy.  It will also soon become a hub of gossip, rumor, and real news.”

“You place a lot of store in a barrel of ale and a hovel,” she said, doubtfully.

“It’s human nature.  Who knows, if the ale is good enough, it’ll attract a goblin clientele, too.  Think how much effort that would save in intelligence gathering?”

She called me devious, which I felt was a compliment.  Carmella is very good at what she does, but she doesn’t appreciate the wider scope of warmagic.  I was learning that there was more to war than swords and soldiers.  Intelligence was a vital part of the equation, and right now we knew precious little about what was going on in the Penumbra.  I saw that nascent tavern as an important strategic asset.  Besides, it kept the ruffians out of the castle, where they could cause trouble.

That only left a hundred or so who insisted on coming along with us.  That was manageable.  For the most part, they had adopted useful jobs with the march, assisting the medical troop, or the construction troop, or simply wanted to see where the march was going.  If they agreed to follow the rules of the march, I did not bar them from traveling with us, at least as far as Tudry.  Since that was generally south and away from the Penumbra it seemed a good place to travel for many.

We tarried at Anguin’s Tower for ten days before we set out again.  The days were long and hot, the weather was clear, and I wanted to make as much progress as possible while we could, before the autumn rains came and turned the roads to mud.  With our number swelled to three thousand, two hundred eighty six, now, according to Sir Festaran, keeping our momentum going was important.

Once Anguin Tower’s bridge, garrison and magically glowing orb was behind us, we made remarkably good time moving south.  The roads were little-used, but still in good repair in most places, and we were able to march four or even six abreast.  The giant hawks wheeled overhead, in front and behind us as we marched.  The inevitable complaints of the newest marchers were drowned out by the Kasari marching songs, and we did better than twenty miles that first day, and the two after that.

Though we passed through more abandoned and burned-out settlements, we started seeing more intact, too.  I tried not to stop the march unless we needed to, and usually stopped just long enough to present our credentials, ensure that the lord of the land was willing to pay at least nominal loyalty to Duke Anguin, and keep us from being attacked by jumpy men-at arms.

Not everyone was happy with our transit, however.  Some were openly scornful of the Kasari.  Unless they threatened action, I let them be.  Few were willing to start trouble with so many Kasari bows in evidence, but the grumbling from some rustic lords was severe.  It rose to the level of a response when an ugly little yeoman at a crossroad demanded a toll: a penny for every child, two pennies for every Kasari child.  The rangers didn’t beat him – they let the youngest Kasari children tie him to his pike with hundreds of knots, and left him at his post with a single penny for us all.

I’m sure he had a friend, somewhere, who would come untie him.  He seemed a friendly sort.

This country felt like rural Alshar of old, the Wilderlands baronies I’d come to love as much as my native Riverlands.  The rivers and the diminishing reach of the goblins had kept it relatively safe.  Baronial castles had held out in most places east of the river.  Raids had been fierce, in the early days, but once the gurvani had turned their attentions to Gilmora this region had resisted the sporadic attacks from the Penumbra.  The guards were wary and well-armed, and the wardens suspicious when we approached frontiers, but otherwise life continued here much as it had before the invasion.

Unfortunately, many local lords saw our march as a means of evacuating the refugees who had gathered in this relatively safe zone.  As our company marched through a land, the reeves of the domain would sometimes push their unwanted folk behind us.  Sometimes they were sent with a few “gifts” to encourage them on their journey.  Sometimes they were beaten with staves until they followed.  But in four days we’d accumulated an excess of four hundred more people, mostly adults.

We couldn’t feed them, really, but they clung on to our scraps and foraged, much as they were used to.  Luckily the summer months find the Wilderlands lush with fish and game, and these were wood-wise folk, in their way.  We kept pushing south and I let Brother Hotfoot deal with them.

We got even more children, too.  Including some pushed along by their own parents like the beggars. Times were lean in the Wilderlands, and a magical march to a fictional happy ending was too good a hope to pass up.  I felt miserable as I saw the enthusiastic new recruits being taught the basics of Kasari order, because in fact I had no real idea where they would end up, or what would happen to them.  And that was starting to weigh on me.

I wasn’t the only one worried about that.  As we approached the outer frontiers of the former barony of Megelin from the north, word of our advance had spread down the road ahead of us.  At a little hamlet called Yellen, a force of a hundred men-at-arms stood against the Pathfinders, when they arrived, barring their approach.

They were armored Wilderlands fashion, with swords and roundshields and coats-of-plate, and the three Wilderlords who led them wore mail and carried lances.  Their leader got into a heated debate with Tyndal and Arborn, until I was called forward to speak to them.

Sir Helden, Sir Oacei, and Sire Gand all stood off against Sir Tyndal, who was continuing to argue with them as Arborn looked stubbornly on . . . and his rangers took positions along the flanks of the column.

“. . . permission to proceed, as I’ve said, without hindrance or toll, through any domain so sworn to his seat.  That includes this domain,” he insisted.  “Master, perhaps you can speak wisdom to them!” he said, when he saw me arrive.

“You are not leading that rabble through our lands,” Sire Gand insisted.  He had the bushy mustache that Wilderlords preferred, much as Sire Cei affected.  It was streaked with gray and arrogance.

“My lord, as my fellow has said, we have the Duke’s own permission to proceed,” I said, smoothly.  “I have all of our documentation right here,” I said, patting the case at my belt.  “Everything is adequately spelled out, signed, and sealed by the hand of His Grace.”

“The last we heard, Duke Lenguin fell at Timberwatch,” Sir Oacei said, suspiciously.

“And his son has been confirmed and invested by the Coronet Council,” I informed him.  “Long live Anguin, Duke of Alshar.  Now, are you going to let us pass, or are there going to be complications?” I asked, in a friendly voice.

“Regardless of whatever parchment you bear,” Sir Heldon said, menacingly, “the Kasari are well-known enemies of the realm.  Permitting them free access through our country risks our security.”

“We are just passing through, gentlemen,” I soothed, “by the wish of His Grace.  Who also made me a Marshal of Alshar.  Now, you can let us pass unmolested or you can defy the Duke’s command and be named rebels, your lands forfeit.”

“And just who do you think would enforce such a ruling?” Sire Gand asked, with scornful amusement.

“Baron Minalan the Spellmonger, and company,” I said, bowing.  “Perhaps you heard of me, from the Battle of the Lantern?  The Battle of Timberwatch?  The Battle of Cambrian?  I helped slay a dragon, in that one.”

“He directed the slaying,” Tyndal added, unhelpfully.  “Other people actually slew.”

“Regardless of your campaign history, and I’m sure it is a worthy and noble one,” Sire Gand said, sarcastically, “we know too much of these rope peddlers and vagabonds.  It is not rebellion to police your realm of vermin.”

Arborn and the Kasari did not respond to the insult the way a bunch of Narasi would have.  There was some stirring, but Arborn shouted out mae sgowtiaid yn gyfeillgar! and made the Kasari sign, and they quieted down.  But they also became more wary.

“If the duke desires it, then it is,” I corrected him, softly.  “I ask you one last time, gentlemen: yield the road or face the consequences!”

I didn’t draw my blade – we weren’t at a point where I would threaten violence directly.  But we were getting close.  They made it very appealing, too.

Sire Gand regard me stubbornly.  “I have fought all my life to preserve this land, the land my ancestors have bled for and been buried within for six generations.  Why would I dishonor their memory by permitting such . . . refuse to pollute their legacy?”  There were nods and grunts of assent from the other two.

“You dishonor it more by having your lands and title stripped from you.  Very well, Sir Hanlon, Sir Oacei, and Sire Gand, I hereby name you rebels to His Grace, and in the name of Anguin of Alshar do now reclaim the titles to your estates and holdings.  Further resistance shall result in your arrest and detention for your rebellion.”

The three knights looked at me, gaped-jawed.  “You’ve got to be mad!” chortled Sir Oacei.  “You?  Take our lands?  You have an army of children,” he scoffed.  “Not a horse or lance among you.”

“These children just built six castles in two months,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “They can shoot, too.”

“You would wage war on children?” Arborn asked the knights, contemptuously.

“We would keep Kasari vagabonds out of our lands,” Sire Gand said, finally drawing his cavalry sword.

“You don’t have lands anymore,” I reminded him.  I reached out to contact my other apprentices, mind-to-mind.

“You are mad! I’ll not hand over what is mine to some strange Riverlord with a pack of beggars at his back!  Turn around and head back north, this is your last warning!” he snarled.

“Sir Tyndal, do me the favor of seizing these men,” I commanded my apprentice.  “They have refused the lawful order of their overlord, and shall therefore see his justice.”

“Gentlemen, your swords?” Tyndal asked.  “Mae sgowtiaid yn gwrtais.”

“Come and take them!” Sir Oacei called arrogantly, drawing his own.

Arborn was bidding the children in the closest patrols to stand back . . . but a number of them were stringing their bows, instead.

“All right,” Tyndal shrugged.  He reached his hand into the air and made a motion, whispering a word under his breath.  Sir Oacei’s blade was torn from his grasp, and flew to land next to Tyndal’s foot.

“Sorcery!” accused the outraged knight.

“Psychokinetics, if you want to be technical,” Tyndal said, kicking at the blade.  He made another motion and Sir Harlond made a strangled cry as his elbows refused to obey his commands anymore.  “Do I have to bind you, my lord, or will you lay down your arms?” he asked Sire Gand.

“You think a wizard’s trick will keep my men from slaughtering you all?” he asked, angrily waving his sword at me.

Dara chose that moment to land all eight of her wing of giant hawks and falcons in a circle around the men-at-arms.  Every man there suddenly felt like an under-dressed mouse in a field under the hungry eye of such gigantic predators.

“Depends on the trick,” I replied, smoothly.  “You are overmatched, gentlemen, and your own prejudice has earned you a hard sentence.  Don’t compound your folly by thinking a glorious death will redeem you, somehow.  It might just make you dinner.”

There was more grumbling, but in the face of such opposition there was little the trio of lordlings could do.  I was sympathetic to them, a little – they were trying to impose some order on their ravaged lands, and three thousand children tromping through upset their ideas of order.  But that didn’t excuse their backwards ideas about the Kasari.

I disarmed all three and insisted that they pledge to return to their homes, settle their affairs, and report to Tudry (a mere sixty miles away) for judgment by the Duke or his magistrate.  They grudgingly agreed, promising a vigorous defense in front of His Grace, when their day came.

But they let us pass without bloodshed.  That didn’t happen the next day, when we came to the bridge over the great, deep Danz river.  The lord of the closest estate, Lorvay, had closed the bridge to us, and no matter how much we threatened and showed credentials, he fired on us.  In volley.  Two dozen of his archers let fly against the Pathfinders as they approached, and four children were killed.  Six more were wounded.  Tyndal had to be persuaded from blasting the bridge to rubble.

Once again I came forward and tried to discuss my credentials.  They shot another hail of shafts.  I detonated a thunderous explosion over their heads for spite and withdrew.

I was angry at the deaths, but I didn’t want any more.  The Danz was only about thirty feet wide in this region, but very deep and tumultuous.  After consultation, the Kasari assured me they could lash together a temporary wooden bridge to by-pass the stone bridge guarded against us.

It took them an afternoon to build a construction of poles to span the river, with supports and a walkway sturdy enough to hold all of our weight to cross.  We had fifty husky lads haul it into place, with some magical assistance, about a half-mile upriver.  The warmagi snuck over as soon as it was in place, and at dawn the rest of the march proceeded across without difficulty.

I led the warmagi.  I was angry.  Those kids had been entrusted to me, and they’d gotten killed because some petty lordling couldn’t be bothered to talk before firing.  Arborn and a score of his rangers came along.  The Kasari aren’t big on vengeance, but they feel powerfully about justice.

We hit them in a surprise early-morning raid, striking them from behind and by surprise.  The skyriders peppered them with bolts from above, and while they writhed in turmoil Tyndal, Rondal, Ormar and Landrick struck in a devastating series of warspells.  Alchemical smoke covered the bridge with noxious fumes while bolts of magical force wracked the warriors guarding it.

As the men ran out of the smoke, they ran into a series of stunning spells and other disabling enchantments.  If they struggled, Landrick put them down efficiently with the flat of his big pole arm.  The Kasari held their fire on any who laid down their arms.  Those who tried to fight were shot dead .

I picked through the moaning bodies as they struggled against the spells that bewitched them until I found their commander, a young Wilderlord in a richly embroidered surcoat bearing a device with a dog and a bear.  I picked him up by the belt and threw him into a clear area, as my men sorted out the survivors.

“Who gave the command?” I demanded when the knight was conscious enough to respond.  “Who gave the command to fire upon children?”

“I-I did!” he gasped, as he coughed and choked from the sulfury smoke he’d inhaled.  “Who are you?”

“Baron of Sevendor, Marshal of Alshar,” I said, dismissively.  “You killed children I’m responsible for.  That makes you answerable to me!”

“I was defending my land against an army,” he gasped, struggling to get to his feet.  “We’ve heard about this rabble Kasari army for weeks.  I was not going to let them imperil my folk!”

“They’re not an army,” I said, patiently, “they’re a peaceful relocation.  Of children.  Which you would have learned if you had deployed your wisdom as quickly as your bowmen.  But now you have committed this crime, and while it may have been a mistake, there will be consequences.”

“We will not have the Kasari in our lands!” the knight said, pulling himself to his feet.  “The last thing we need are those vagabonds skulking about!”

“They’re marching through, not staying,” I said, as patiently as I could.  “But your stupidity has forced us to tarry.  We have funerals to conduct, now.  And you have dead children to answer for.”

“They are not my concern,” he said, angrily.  “They had no right—”

“The Duke, himself, gave them the right,” I interrupted.  “Are you of better rank than he?  You’ve proven yourself a witless fool . . . what is your name?”

“Sire Hafos of Paranz,” he said, brushing his long hair out of his eyes.  “Here on behalf of the Lord of Lorvay.  I find it hard to believe that the Duke gave leave to march an army of Kasari through these troubled lands.”

“I’m guessing you’d find it hard to believe a great many things, Sire Hafos,” I replied.  “That is not my concern.  You’ve done grave injury to these people, and it will have to be answered for.  You gave the order – the responsibility lies with you.”

He hemmed and hawed about it, but the steely-eyed rangers around him made him nervous, as did the looks of contempt from my warmagi.  Eventually he conceded that he’d acted hastily, unwisely, and that he did, indeed, have a responsibility for that.  Had he persisted in his belligerence I would have made more of an example.  As it was he’d lost nine men-at-arms in the attack.  Others were wounded.  It was a harsh blow, not just to the man’s power but for the security of the area.

I left Sire Hafos with a warning not to interfere further with our progress and a summons to appear before the Duke, at the next convenient court, to answer for his actions.  I had no idea if Anguin would even be holding a court near the man any time, soon, but it was sufficient enough threat to get him to do as I wished.

It did nothing to soothe my mood, however.  The weight of those kids’ death was a burden on me.

There were no more incidents as we passed through the district and into the outskirts of Tudry.  The Megelini Knights gave us an escort for the last several miles to avoid any more unpleasantness.  Bendonal the Outlaw came forth with a score of knights and rode with the main body all the way to our next destination.

We encamped around an old temple to Huin I recalled in the area, setting up the camp in the green meadows that had borne witness to a great battle a few years back.

There was little sign of that, now.  There were crops ripening in distant fields and peasants dutifully mowing the meadows for hay.  A mound where the dead had been buried lay covered with scrub in a field outside of the town’s wall, but that was all.  Apart from the number of horsemen patrolling the region, it looked much as it had the first time I rode through the town years ago.

Tudry was an important milestone in our journey.  It marked, roughly, the half-way point between the Kasari homelands.  But from Tudry we should be able to travel more quickly over the roads.  Once we were over the frontier to Castal, there was a direct route north and east that ran nearly straight to the only city in Kasar, Lemsiddons.  That was when the children would be safe, really safe.  But Tudry marked the auspicious half-way point, and I wanted a few days to celebrate.

What I didn’t anticipate was the thousand war orphans who haunted Tudry deciding, as a group, to include themselves in our march.  Word had spread down the road ahead of us, word of the Spellmonger’s great march of children.  It didn’t matter where we were going or what we were doing – every orphan in town wanted to come along.  If there was room enough for the ones who had come along on the march, there should be room enough for all, ran the reasoning.

They came out to our camp in a mob the morning after we arrived.  A thousand ragged-looking, mostly-barefoot children were excitedly running across the meadows, invading the camp and interrupting breakfast.  The Kasari didn’t really know what to do.  These children, in some ways, were worse-behaved than the kids we picked up along the way.  They had been living in abandoned buildings in New Town, the parts that hadn’t become barracks, and doing what they could to survive.

Some had heard of the things we required for the march and presented their own knives, hatchets, or boots – likely stolen, in most cases.  Many thought that the equipment in camp was free for any to take, which sparked dozens of fights between the Kasari and the refugees.  Others were determined to go on a grand dragonslaying adventure with the famous Spellmonger, far from the smelly streets of the ugly army town.

“There are a thousand of them, Min,” Penny moaned, as we contended with the chaos.  “We can’t take them all!”

“How can we not?” Brother Hotfoot asked, as he pulled a five-year old urchin out of a pot of porridge.  “Look at them: many are even worse fed than the poor souls we found in the forest.  If they are able to make the journey, how can we leave them behind?”

“Because we don’t have any place to put them!” I answered back, sharply.  More sharply than I intended.  The kindly old priest had been adept at organizing the refugees, a real asset to the march.  But my point was valid.  “Once we get to the other end of the trail, what do you think the Kasari are going to do with two thousand more children than they planned on?”

“The gods will provide,” the priest supplied, unhelpfully.  Monks are always saying crap like that.

Of course, I happened to know a god.  Goddess.  I tried to think about how she could help, but nothing sprung to mind.  I resolved to have a quick prayer with her, as soon as I got this situation under control.  Kids were everywhere, fighting, shouting, arguing, crying, laughing, playing . . . I had to put a stop to it.

I summoned a cantrip I usually reserved for serious distractions in battle.  I wasn’t sure it would be potent enough in this situation, but it was worth a try.  I cast it high overhead, to get the maximum coverage I could.  A peal of artificial thunder rang out as a large vacuum was magically created, and then allowed to be filled in an uncontrolled implosion.

Every kid there froze.

“HOLD!” I called, magically amplifying my voice.  “ALL TROOPS IN FORMATION . . . NOW! Mae sgowtiaid yn ufudd!”  There was an instant scramble as all of the Kasari children and their recent recruits sorted themselves out around their individual banner poles.  The refugee children looked on in wonder and confusion.  I’m sure it seemed magical to see children responding with such order.

“THE REST OF YOU . . . FORM UP AROUND THE TALL KNIGHT IN THE MEADOW!” I commanded, indicating a startled-looking Sir Festaran.  He was on the far side of the encampment, away from our gear, and that’s where I wanted these urchins for now.  The orphans moved sluggishly and without order, but with a little persuasion from rangers and warmagi, they moved back away.  Some were getting angry about being denied the fulfillment of their individual dreams, but most were curious about what would happen.

I realized I had a decision to make.  I looked out at a sea of orphan faces, and realized that the decision was already made.  I could see the faces of Minalyan and Almina in each boy and girl.  I could not leave them behind, when these other children would get the benefit of opportunities these kids didn’t have.

I knew what would happen to them if they stayed in Tudry.  If they didn’t die of disease or starvation, that is.  The girls would quickly seek protection from men who would ill-use them; the boys would form gangs for protection, and slowly kill each other off in petty disputes until they found a noose or conscription.  A few would escape to temples or apprenticeships, but war orphans rarely ended up at the end of happy tales.

“IF YOU WILL ALL LISTEN AND BE WILLING TO OBEY THE INSTRUCTIONS, WE CAN GET TO WORK DETERMINING IF YOU CAN QUALIFY TO ACCOMPANY US!” I instructed, as I walked to the space between the neatly-organized (mostly) Kasari and the mob of orphans.  “ANY CHILD WHO FAILS TO COMPLY WILL BE EXCLUDED FROM CONSIDERATION!”

What are you doing, Min? Pentandra asked, mind-to-mind, as I found a place from which I could be seen by all as I addressed the children. We can’t take them all!  We discussed this!

We started to, I agreed.  This changes things.  We can’t leave them behind.  We just can’t.

She didn’t complain anymore, because everyone was looking at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath.  I stepped off the cliff into madness.

“ALL WHO QUALIFY FOR INCLUSION IN THE MARCH MUST COMMIT TO FOLLOWING THE KASARI WAY!  BUT NO CHILD WHO DOES SO WILL BE LEFT BEHIND!”  I realized, quickly, that I was bellowing authority without establishing who I was.  “FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DON’T KNOW ME, I AM MINALAN THE SPELLMONGER.  I SAVED TUDRY FROM THE GOBLINS THREE YEARS AGO.  NOW I’M BACK TO LEAD YOU ALL TO SAFETY.  BUT ONLY IF YOU ARE WILLING TO DO AS I SAY.”

There was a cheer – thanks to Astyral’s governance over the town, my name was well-known and highly respected in Tudry.

But with that cheer, my fate was sealed.  The nature of the march changed.  Suddenly we weren’t just building towers and escaping the Penumbra.  Suddenly, we were saving the orphans of the Alshari Wilderlands.

The fact that I had no idea where they would go, what they would do, or who would care for them was beside the point.

I was committed.

Chapter Twenty

The Origins Of The Kasari

“I really appreciate you taking a thousand street urchins off of my hands, Minalan,” Astyral said casually, as he poured the wine.  I’d ask him to bring some – Kasari culture be damned, after the day I’d had, I needed wine like a flower needs the sun.  I didn’t need Astyral’s sarcastic attitude.  “I’m looking forward to the drop in street crime and petty theft.”

We were having an impromptu council meeting in my pavilion on the grounds of the temple.  It had been an exhausting day, sorting through the hundreds of children who were desperate to join our company.  It had taxed our already-strained supplies, and if it hadn’t been for Astyral’s appropriation of some of the garrison’s supplies, we might have run short.  But that night all one thousand one hundred and fifty five, according to Festaran, bedded down in the warm summer air with full bellies.  For some, it was the first time they had eaten a real meal in months.

“A thousand,” Pentandra said, in a daze.  “We’ve already absorbed a thousand orphans from up-country,” she said, shaking her head.  “Min, this isn’t what we planned for!”

“Plans change,” I admitted.  “I don’t know how we’re going to feed them, yet.  We exhausted our royal stipend in constructing those pele towers.  Same with Mask’s pay chest.  I’m paying for this out of Sevendor’s funds, at this point.”

“Well, you won’t have to feed my crews anymore,” Carmella pointed out.  “Not that they ate as much as that army of urchins.  I’ll ride back to the Salik Tower, when we’re done here.  There’s still plenty of finishing work to do on them all.”

“But you can’t fund this effort on your own, Min,” Astyral pointed out.  “How much is it costing to feed these kids per day as it is?”

“Two hundred ten ounces of silver, on average,” Festaran supplied, wearily.  “The additions will require an increase in costs, I’d figure about three hundred and fifty ounces a day.”

“That’s not counting equipment that they need, if they’re going to keep up,” Dara pointed out, helpfully.  “How much does that cost, Fes?”

“About five ounces of silver,” he figured.  “If you include cloak, pack, boots, knife, and blanket.  Another for sundries like cups and bowls.”

“So we need at least five thousand ounces of silver to equip these kids, and another hundred and fifty ounces of silver per day to sustain them,” Brother Hotfoot said, reasonably.  “That is certainly not an impossible goal to meet.”

“The Hesians will kick in five hundred ounces of gold,” Carmella offered.  “The Kasari did good work, for unskilled labor.  We couldn’t have built those towers without them.  We got a bargain, it’s only fair we contribute.  And we can afford it,” she said.  “A lot of members in our order have been taking side jobs strengthening castles.  Lucrative work.”

“For Tudry’s part, in a show of good wishes for the future, we will contribute a thousand iron knives and hatchets,” Astyral decided.  “We still have a bunch of poorly-made iron goblin weapons we gleaned from the battlefield, just lying in storage getting rusty.  There are only so many horseshoes we need.  The iron is good quality, just poorly forged.  I think we can get the city’s smiths to manufacture that many basic knives and hatchets.  Especially if they get some magical assistance from Sparktown.  And we can contribute, say, five bags of corn or wheat to the camp a day, while they’re here.  The harvest looks good, so I don’t think we’ll miss it.”

“That still leaves a nightmare of organization,” Pentandra pointed out.  “And the question of where they will go when the Kasari go to their sacred groves still hangs.”

“Are there not orphanages in the east?” asked Fondaras.

“They’re already bulging,” sighed one of the priestesses of Briga.  “Finding homes for two thousand orphans would be a challenge.”

“Why cannot the Kasari take them?” asked Ormar.  “They seem to have a facility with children.”

“It is the focus of their culture,” Pentandra admitted.  “And their culture is among the most ancient human cultures on Callidore.  I’ve been reading their primary sacred texts, The Book of The Hands, which Arborn provided for me.  They’re supposedly preserved word-for-word from their most ancient writings.”

“The Kasari were originally a religious order?” Bendonal the Outlaw asked, our healer cuddled up at his side.  Lelwen had saved Bendonal’s life after Cambrian, and the two still were very close, it seemed.  “That seems unusual.  They don’t seem particularly superstitious, quite the contrary.”

“The texts aren’t religious in character.  Much of it is practical knowledge, the sort of thing a young child might need to know,” Pentandra said, knowledgably.  “After studying it in the original Old Perwynese and observing their culture, I’m starting to believe that I’ve theorized the origins of the Kasari.”

“The origins?” Astyral asked, an eyebrow cocked.  “That does sound intriguing.  So where did they come from?  Monks?”

“No,” Pentandra answered, carefully, “if I’m right, they grew out of a program of secular instruction our ancestors instituted.  To teach the youth and to prepare them for adulthood.  But it’s more military in nature than religious.”

“A militant order, then?  That doesn’t seem in their character, either,” Bendonal observed.  “They dislike fighting, even as mercenaries.  Perhaps they were originally warrior-monks?  Soldiers in a religious army?  That would explain their literacy fetish.”

“No, it was . . . I think they were originally a vocational training school for military scouts,” Pentandra said, pursing her lips in concentration.  “I suppose it makes sense – our earliest records show that the struggle for settlement, even in Perwyn, was tough.  Whatever military pour ancestors possessed when we first came to Callidore would naturally have been involved.  Teaching the young practical skills for survival and settlement would make sense.”

“Military scouts?” I asked, confused.

“I’ve taken a bit of interest in their civilization, recently,” she said, casually, as she cut her eyes to Arborn.  “There have been a few translations of the sacred texts, but they’ve always been from the Kasari vernacular version of the books, which are a little . . . abbreviated in places.  But Arborn loaned me the works in their original Old Perwynese.  Translating the work from the old language into the vernacular is part of the rite of the Life Oath, so they don’t leave a lot of copies lying around.”

“We await your instruction, oh gracious scholar,” Carmella said, sarcastically, as she drained her cup.  She and Pentandra were old schoolmates, I knew, back at Alar in Wenshar.  No doubt they had survived many a boring lecture together.  “Why is this important?”

“The difference is instructive.  Even the title is misleading, in the translations.  The Book of the Hands is divided into the Left Hand Book and the Right Hand Book, but that’s entirely misleading.  The Imperial scholars were just lazy.  The title was actually pressed on the works by the scholars, who didn’t understand the translations.  They saw two Books of the Hand, and just assumed one would be a left-hand book, the other a right.  But they’re not.

“The Book Of The Left Hand, as it’s known, is actually known as ‘the Book of The Hand for Girls’, with a double use of the term ‘child’ in the title, one gender-neutral, one gender-specific.  It’s been translated variously as ‘The Children’s Book Of The Hand For Girl’s’ or ‘The Girl’s Book Of the Hand Of Children’, but the meaning has always been cloudy.  So the scholars do what they usually do, and use their own shorthand for the works.

“But when you compare the vernacular texts to the originals, which are supposedly pristine with the ancient texts, things get a lot clearer.  For example, the vernacular Kasari word for ‘child’ is escawtiag, but the literal translation into Old Perwynese is ‘scout’,” Pentandra informed us.  “Gender-neutral.  Meaning ‘one who goes before, observes, and reports back’, the same term used in military texts.  It’s a military term,” she explained.

“You’re certain about that, Penny?” Astyral asked.

“I might be wrong, but I’m not uncertain.  The two Books of the Hand are divided into the primary text by section and subtitle.  One, usually known as the Right Hand Book, as ‘Scouting for Boys’ and the secondary is subtitled ‘Scouting for Girls’.

“That’s why translations are difficult – the Perwynese words for the Kasari language are slightly different, and the Imperial sages didn’t have access to the primary texts.  So the few scholars who have attempted a translation haven’t been using the proper work.  The Kasari were originally a training camp for military forward observers . . . sort of.”

“That would explain the organization into troops and patrols,” agreed Astyral.  “And the emphasis on their code.  If it was derived from military or religious orders, it would likely be sacrosanct.  But why the difference between the boys and girls?  One would imagine that the skills needed for field operations wouldn’t be different for a male and a female.  Of course I could be wrong,” he conceded, without elaboration.

“The skills in the Books of the Hand aren’t mere observation and reporting skills, it’s a whole set of practical skills and moral guidance,” Penny lectured.  “For whatever reason, the metaphor of military observation was used to convey all sorts of loftier things.  It’s a little confusing, especially when they start bringing in the animal totems, but . . . the Kasari were originally a quasi-military order designed to teach important life skills to young people, boys and girls.”

“And our ancestors thought well enough of the order to grant it their sacred groves,” Carmella pointed out.  “Look where their homelands are: remote, wild areas as far from the civilizations of the eastern coast as they could get.  While the schools of Merwyn and Perwyn taught refinement, culture and civilization, the Kasari were teaching skills for settlement and homesteading.  Two different poles of academic focus.  One on the practical, one on the intellectual.”

“Don’t forget the dedication to Nature,” Pentandra reminded us.  “They don’t name any specific goddess, but the Kasari fetish for the wilderness and its sacred nature is profound.  Their rangers are taught to travel the world without leaving a trace of their passing behind.  Their Life Oath includes a passage on defending the wild – as if it needed defending – and preserving the integrity of the natural world.  The language is a little obtuse, even for Old Perwynese, but the meaning is pretty clear.  It’s a youth training program.  Perhaps designed to preserve cultural elements from wherever we came from, before man came to Callidore.”

“Why would such a trivial thing survive when so many of the greatest institutions of the Magocracy fell?” asked Astyral, waving his wine glass around expressively.  “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Likely it was the very simplicity of the creed which helped preserve it, that and the isolation of the Kasari.  With such a simple purpose, their own sacred lands, and a cultural code to preserve, they persevered where more sophisticated creeds failed,” Tyndal suggested.  “Rondal and I noticed that the twelve Kasari laws are more codes of personal conduct than actual laws.  They guide behavior without specifying action.  They admonish the Kasari to be reverent, for instance, but it fails to specify which gods to worship.  That kind of basic adaptability kept it from being overcome by other cultures.”

“Good insight, Tyndal,” Pentandra approved.  “The Kasari education system, the reason all Kasari are literate, is simply an exercise in understanding the Books of the Hand.  Living out in the wilderness, without many neighboring cultures to influence them, allowed them to become insular, reinforce the basic precepts of the cult without much interference from other sources.  The basic ‘laws’ given to children to guide them into adulthood evolve over the centuries into the pillars of an entirely self-sufficient culture.”

“Rather impressive, for a bunch of arboreal tribal savages,” Astyral observed.  As a Gilmoran, he had none of the Wilderlands’ prejudice against the Kasari.  That gave him a more objective perspective.  As a Gilmoran, he tended to look down on everyone else a bit, equally.  “But it seems inconvenient of our ancestors to place such useful schools in such remote places.  Western Alshar?  Northern Castal? It would take half a lifetime to travel there from the Perwyn Archipelago.  I could see such schools in the coastal provinces, but . . .”

“Don’t forget that our ancestors had a lot more advanced civilizations than we do,” I reminded him.  “The earliest histories clearly indicate that they ruled the skies, something none of the Alon had mastered.  They had sky-ships and air-chariots, long before the Perwyni and the Merwyni became great mariners.  Up to the time of the Inundation there were still such things employed by our ancestors.  Making a journey to a remote location like Bransei or Kasar wouldn’t have been that difficult, if they did it by air.”

“Nor are they the only remote homelands,” Arborn agreed.  “Our most ancient records speak of eighteen councils, originally, each with stewardship over their grove.  Kasar was greatest, and next Bransei, but there were others.  Some were overrun by . . . invaders,” the ranger captain said, diplomatically, “some were abandoned due to fortune or circumstance, some were lost to our knowledge.  But all were designed to be visited by air.  Where your great birds landed, Spellmonger, was originally the roost of flying ships, as we understand.  Indeed, our oldest records indicate that new escawtiag were welcomed as they came down from the air.”

“And that sort of thing would have stopped around the time of the Inundation,” Astyral deduced.  “Remember, they were trying to evacuate an entire civilization, as the island sank.  All of those incredible engines they used were employed to that end, if the histories are to be believed.  Keeping track of a youth training program out on the other side of the continent when you had hundreds of thousands trying to flee Perwyn would seem unimportant, I’d guess.  A bit like worrying where you left your purse while your house is on fire.”

“Instead their house burned down, and they ended up leaving  the purse in the wilderness,” Pentandra finished.  “A few hundred, a few thousand, perhaps, left to fend for themselves.  It’s kind of sad, really,” she said, pursing her lips and looking at Arborn.  Great.  Like she needed another reason to be attracted to the big man.  Now he was a little lost boy in the woods, as well as being one of the most dangerous men alive.

“All of this is fascinating speculation,” agreed Carmella, skeptically, “but is there any proof to this?  Besides Penny’s translations – not that I doubt your scholarship,” she added, quickly, “but that’s a big conclusion to draw from a few casual observations.”

“Well,” considered Pentandra, as Tyndal refilled her glass attentively, “if you’ll hand me my bag, there, I can show you the evidence that convinced me.”  Rondal quickly handed her the large leather bag, from which she took a small, thick book.

“This is the Old High Perwynese version of the Book of the Hand.  The one Arborn and his fellow rangers translated into their vernacular, to prove their mastery of the two tongues.  Every book must be as close to identical as possible to the originals, which are kept in the council libraries somewhere.  But here, in the very first leaves, you can see the legend: ‘Originally Published By Callidore Central Council, 178 AC.”

“That proves nothing,” Carmella dismissed.  “There are a lot of old books with old dates.  Some are even forgeries, to add legitimacy,” she pointed out.

“I’m familiar with the practice,” nodded Pentandra.  “But that’s not what convinced me.  Tell me, why are the Kasari known as the Kasari?”

“Uh, because they’re from Kasar?” I answered, puzzled.

“And why is Kasar called Kasar?” she asked, patiently.

“Why is Alshar called Alshar?  Because it means ‘western limits’.  Kasar must mean something, to someone, at some point.”

“Actually, it means something very specific, and its right here on this page,” Penny continued.  “I asked Arborn about it, and he showed me.  Kasar isn’t the name for their homeland, or even their people, exactly.  Below the Original Published date, you see the date and place of the first copy: Lem Siddons Station, Kuline Council . . . of the Southern Kuline Callidore Authority Scouting Association Reserve.”

“I don’t get it,” admitted Carmella.

“I think I do, if I understand Perwynese properly,” said Astyral, suddenly intrigued.  “Our noble ancestors had several cultural quirks we have –thankfully – abandoned over the years in the pursuit of style and sophistication.  One was the horrid practice of using acronyms in place of speaking properly.  The further back in the histories you go, the more you see this barbaric fetish.  If you look at the legend phonetically, as it was originally intended, it spells C . . . A. . . S . . . A . . . R.  Kasar.”

“An . . . acronym?” Certain magical fields used the practice incessantly, particularly alchemy.  I disliked the it as needlessly obtuse in most cases, though I wasn’t as against it as Astyral apparently was.

“One assumes, of course, that the ‘Callidore Authority’ is the same mentioned in the histories of the early Magocracy, which I think we’re safe to conclude is accurate.  ‘Scouting Association’ makes more sense, in light of Pentandra’s scholarship; and the term ‘reserve’ is an archaic term for a land-grant.  Like the Imperial Migratory Songbird Reserve, in Merwyn,” he suggested.  “Put them all together, and you get Kasar.  The people of the reserve.  The Kasari.”

“So . . . how does that help our situation?” I asked, curious.

“I have no idea, but it’s damn fascinating,” Astyral said, merrily.

“I . . . have an idea about that,” Pentandra said, slowly.  “If we can convince the Kasari elders in Kasar to open themselves and their rites to all of the refugee children, as they were originally intended to be, they might be able to take many of them.”

“Twice the number they expected?” Carmella asked, an eyebrow raised.  “That’s not going to be easy to persuade them.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Arborn said, shaking his head.  “Kasar is vast, larger than Bransei.  There are dozens of camps we visit but rarely.  Room could be found for many more than are currently expected.  It would require resources, and preparation, but it could be done.”

“It’s something to consider,” I agreed, my head spinning with this new information.  “We’ve got to do something with them all.”

*                            *                            *

We were still trying to get the new refugees sorted out, organized, and equipped, but it wasn’t going as quickly as I’d like.

An appeal went out to the townsfolk of Tudry for what things they could donate to the effort, but that was little enough.  The town had been picked clean in the last three years, and the folk who remained were dependent upon the garrison and the few farms still producing to survive.  Provisioning the refugees with help from the garrison’s stores bought us a little time, while Gareth tried to ensure our supplies were adequate for marching, and I’d sent word to Taren for more assistance.

The organizational issues were soothed by the work of the local clergy.  The Landbrothers of the temple and the various priests and monks in town had already been caring for the refugee children as part of their ministries, and often they knew the urchins by name and reputation.  Brother Hotfoot acted as a liaison as each child’s name and place of birth, if possible, was noted in the rolls of the march.  Hotfoot kept the folio of records, and over the course of three days each one of the children who wished to accompany us was officially included.

Of course, just when things looked like they might work out, I received a message from town that threatened to undo it all. Another formal request to attend the royal family, this time from His Highness, the Prince Heir, at the Summer Capital of Wilderhall, where he and his new bride were enjoying a season of hunting and hawking.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Pentandra agreed, when Astyral brought the message out to camp personally.  “Isn’t this the second time the royal family has asked for you lately?”

“The third, technically,” I murmured, re-reading the tersely-worded command.  “But only the men.  The women have left me alone, for a change.  I guess that searching for a suitable groom for Rardine is taking up all of their time this summer.  I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.”

“Considering they probably orchestrated the whole Isily-Dunselen marriage, they probably don’t want to invite your opinion,” Pentandra pointed out.  “What is your opinion of that, by the way?”

“Yes, I was wondering that myself,” Astyral agreed.  “You seemed quite . . . close, back at Timberwatch.”

“She was a helpful colleague,” I shrugged.  “If she wants a dynastic alliance with Dunselen, well, that’s within her rights.  No reason for the Order to interfere.”

“That’s mighty gracious of you, Min,” Astyral nodded, a strange look in his eye.

“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” Pentandra agreed.  “If she can stomach that bag of bones in her bed for the next few decades, it might be worth the estates he’s accumulated.”

“And I’m hoping marriage and family cure the old coot’s desire for conquest,” I lied.

You aren’t fooling anyone, Min, Pentandra interrupted, mind-to-mind.

Not something I really want to talk about, Pen, I replied, sternly.  She blinked but she took the hint.

“There’s always the chance he wants to give you a medal and new lands for your good work along the Penumbra,” she offered, without giving away a hint of our silent conversation.  “But somehow I doubt it.”

“I can tell you that . . . well, a certain ‘family’ has agents aplenty in Tudry,” Astyral informed us.  “More now than ever.  They use a lot of ways to communicate, but they’ve come to use the Mirror array for coded messages.  Somehow a copy seems to find its way to my desk, with the regular reports.”

“If it’s coded, how can you read it?” Penny asked.

“Because some families aren’t particularly imaginative when it comes to their codes,” Astyral said.  “I’ve confirmed enough by casual observation to know what they’re talking about.  The last few have raised some alarm about the refugee children, and the Kasari.  But they haven’t gotten any instructions back, yet.  At least not through the Mirror.”

“I’m sure His Highness has heard about it.  And I’m sure he’s concerned.  He’s voiced such concerns in our last meeting.  I assured him I was just building the pele towers his father requested.  This is going to take some more explaining.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m not exactly certain, yet,” I admitted.  “The invitation requests me to attend him in Wilderhall at my earliest possible convenience.  I’m hoping to think of something by then.”

“Min, you knew this would be a problem,” Pentandra reminded me, unnecessarily.  “Didn’t you have a plan?”

“More of a vague idea.  But let me deal with this.  You just keep getting the kids ready to go.  I’m hoping to be on the road, day after next.”

I sought some peace in my pavilion, and may have opened a bottle of wine and a bag of smoke to help the process of inspiration. We still had hundreds of miles to go, before we reached Kasar.  Most of it would be easy, compared to the trek through the wilderness the last few months had seen.  But with our numbers doubled, sneaking quietly through the frontier would be difficult, now.  Especially if the Duke of Castal and his barons knew we were coming.  Which they clearly suspected.

I could continue to mislead His Highness, my overlord, and incur his eventual wrath, or I could demand that he obey his own father’s dictate as king and allow them to pass . . . incurring his immediate wrath.  With possibly disastrous consequences for myself, the children, and my folk in Sevendor.

I was considering invoking a convenient deity for help with the inspiration side of things when my tent flap parted, and Brother Hotfoot came in.  I silently cursed – I thought I had set the ‘do not disturb’ spell that sealed my tent from casual interruption.

“Spellmonger?” the monk asked, wiping sweat from his tonsure.  The day was hot, and getting hotter.  “A word?”

“Yes, Brother,” I sighed.  “What can I help you with?”

“Actually, I was wondering if there was something I could help you with,” he offered.

I chuckled at the novelty.  “That’s not something I hear often!”

“I just noticed you entering the tent with a troubled expression on your face.  I know the weight of this journey rests largely on your shoulders, and thought I’d offer my pastoral services . . . is that wine?” he asked, licking his lips reflexively.

“Help yourself, Brother,” I chuckled.  “You’ve earned it.  How many have we included in the rolls, now?”

“Over eleven hundred,” he said, pouring himself a goblet of wine.  “Good children, all of them.  The sisters have examined them all to insure that they are able to make the journey.  Those who are lame, or infirm will be left behind.  The orphanages here should be able to accommodate them, once the fitter children depart.  Lord Astyral has indicated he will select among the brightest of them for training as clerks for the garrison, to ensure their livelihood.  He is a good and generous lord,” he said, glancing briefly heavenward as he sipped.

“He’s pompous and elitist, most days,” I chuckled.  “The worst kind of Gilmoran aristocrat, in most ways.  But he’s so far removed from his element that he’s fascinated by the opportunities Tudry has provided.  He says it’s a lot easier to be a Gilmoran here, where there aren’t any other Gilmorans around.  At least he understands what is necessary to administer a place like this, and does it without resorting to gibbet and gallows.  He’s working in his self-interest as governor as much as his altruism.  But he always makes you feel good about it,” I added with a smile for my friend.

“The best kind of gentleman,” the monk agreed.  “Gentility to your face while he’s picking your pocket.  Well, I work in my own interests, and right now that means keeping this trek functioning.  The largest obstacle to that right now, in my mind, is the temper of the leader.  What troubles you, son?”

The monk asked so straightforwardly and sincerely I didn’t feel I could refuse.  Besides, he was restricted from breaking my confidence by his vows.  I shrugged to myself.

“I have a powerful opponent who will be against our people crossing his frontier,” I answered.  “Defiantly against.  Likely to the point of employing troops against us.  At best, we get stopped at the frontier and have to re-assess our purpose.  At worst, we get massacred by bloodthirsty barons who hate the Kasari, hate magi, hate refugees, and want an excuse to bloody their swords.”

“I . . . see,” the monk said, scratching his belly.  “That is a truly profound obstacle, son.”

I blinked.  “That’s it?  ‘A profound obstacle’? That’s your wise counsel?”

It was Hotfoot’s turn to chuckle.  “Just a little invocational sympathy.  I’m just a country priest, of course, and my perspective on the world is limited, but I am not unsophisticated in such matters.  The desires and conceits of men are common and unchanging, whether they be of high estate or low.  If you wish to circumvent a man’s purpose, then the easiest way is to travel around the obstacle rather than confront it.”

I considered that.  “Taking a more southerly route isn’t going to help, much.  Castal’s frontiers are guarded for hundreds of miles.  All bridges and roads have checkpoints.  We could push through a lightly-guarded one for a ways, but it wouldn’t take long for the Prince to organize opposition again, and we’re back to bloodbath.”

“You take me too literally, son,” Hotfoot smiled.  “Your obstacle looms because you are accused of transporting refugees through the frontier between duchies.  Your alternate route lies by avoiding that accusation entirely.”

“I don’t follow, Brother,” I admitted.

“If the children aren’t refugees,” he said, simply, “then there is no crime.  You must simply transform them into something that can, indeed, legally cross the frontier.”

“I’m a good wizard,” I said, shaking my head, “but I have neither the skill nor the power to transform them into, say, a vast herd of sheep, or birds, and smuggle them across.”

“I have no illusions about your powers, Spellmonger,” he said, sipping heartily, “nor is it your magic that will solve this crisis.  Indeed, you need to look away from spells and toward . . . the gods.”

Once he explained what he meant by that, I had a whole new appreciation for how devious monks were.

Chapter Twenty-One

A Summons To Wilderhall

Wilderhall was just as magnificent as the last time I was here in summer, the trees in bloom and the air scented with apples and pears ripening toward harvest.  I had chosen to travel by Waypoint to the tower in the palace where the Order had set up the Mirror array for the convenience of affairs of state.  Sending a Waystone to be affixed there had been trivial, and it also allowed me to by-pass the pesky security details the palace had.  I took two trips to carry us all, and still had a headache, but it didn’t take long before my party was within the palace, with no one the wiser to our presence.

I tasked Rondal to secure lodgings in the city, while Tyndal and Dara had their own errands.  Lastly, Father Hotfoot had accompanied us to help with the finer points of our plan, including meeting with some folk he didn’t want to speak of.  I dismissed them all, after speaking with the local Mirror administrator to emphasize the need for discretion.  This was Order business, after all.

After composing myself I slipped into my official robes and walked up to the palace, my gaudy staff in hand.  Finding a junior assistant castellan was easy – the place was crawling with them.  Telling them casually that the Prince Heir was expecting me in response to a summons was entertaining.  I wasn’t in any of the schedules, they insisted.  I showed them my official invitation, emphasizing ‘at my earliest possible convenience’, and inquired if they thought the Prince Heir liked to be kept waiting.

The problem, it seemed, was that His Highness was out hunting today, and wasn’t expected to return to the palace until dark.  I left a message that I’d called, that I could be reached at the inn Rondal found, and I was at His Highnesses’ convenience.  Then I got the hells out of there before I ran into anyone I knew.  I didn’t particularly want my presence noted by any more spies than absolutely necessary – this was a delicate matter.  And the Family had ears in every quaint decorative corner of Wilderhall.

I used the time until my audience to my advantage, walking halfway across town to the temple district.  I had to cross the White Bridge along the way, and decided to stop into the inn for a drink before I finished my business with the gods.  I was glad I did.  I found an old acquaintance there.

“Count Angrial,” I said, when I identified the man.  What a coincidence to see you here.” He had been among the nobles Alshar had unofficially dispatched to help raise troops from Castal to face the goblins.  His official title was Counselor of the West, and there was a pretty big chunk gone from that, now.  While he had been successful, his success had also led to the death of Duke Lenguin of Alshar and the breaking of the realm he had served so faithfully.  “

“Master Minalan – Baron Minalan, now, I hear,” the man said, his voice creaking beyond his years.  He had the look of an aristocrat in exile, living on a stipend.  His clothes were rich but threadbare, his mantle shabby but delicately embroidered, his hair a little too long for fashion.  “Come, join me for a drink, and let us talk of happier times.”

“Have the times been ill, my lord?” I asked.

“Have they been fair, since you and I met?” Angrial riposted, signaling for more wine.  I could tell by the way the tapman responded that this was a common summons.  “My duchy lies in chaos, the northwest is lost, the rest of the Wilderlands a horrid mess.  Now even Gilmora is partially ruined.  What lands I have left are plagued with revolts and raids, my income dwindles, and I have little to do but sit here in exile and spend it carefully on the betterment of my barmen.”

“There are less-worthy goals,” I agreed with a chuckle, paying for the wine as it was delivered.  “And more worthy.  What if I could tell you that there was a possibility of a posting for you?”

“For me?  I am no soldier, Baron,” the old diplomat said, “and that seems to be what Alshar needs.  And I am poisoned for royal service, thanks to my devotion to the late Duke Lenguin,” he added, softly.  “My choices are to return to my land a pauper, go south and be branded a rebel or spy, or take up some meaningless existence here, in the safety of court.”

“Yet there are ways you can still be of service to your duchy,” I coaxed.  “More, there are ways in which a man of your talents can find a suitable position, if he isn’t afraid of a challenge within his means.”

“A challenge?” Angrial asked, curiously.  “Arising in the morning and dragging myself to table is a challenge, my friend.  Avoiding the ire of my rivals and my creditors is a challenge.  That is all I’m fit for these days, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense,” I dismissed.  “You may not be a soldier, my lord, but you excel at diplomacy and court politics.  Your rank and title afford you great access,” I reminded him.

“I can still manage to get into the palace, at need,” he admitted, “but there are few enough there I care to see these days.  I spend my time here, out of the notice of history . . . and the court.”

“Would you be open to a new opportunity, if it presented itself?” I inquired, carefully.  “One in which your particular skills would be essential to the success of a great enterprise?  And in honorable service?”

The thin, small man licked his parchment-thin lips.  “I find I would, Baron.  If you hear of such a position – particularly one that will get me away from this place – then I encourage you to inform me of it.”

“So I shall,” I said, pleased.  “I trust I can find you here?”

“Here or my rooms at the Lion of the North,” he said, mentioning a once-popular inn with the aristocracy.  Now it catered to the meaner sort of merchant and the higher class of whores.  “But if you can find something for me to do other than support the local vintners, I would be grateful,” he almost whimpered.  “Perhaps a game of Rushes, before you leave?  I recall you were a cunning player.”

“Another time, perhaps,” I conceded.  “I am on an errand now – wizard’s business, and it will not wait.  But I’m glad I chanced upon you, Count Angrial.  You’re just the man I need,” I said, confidently.  I said my good-byes and paid for another bottle, for after I left.  The poor old sot could use the help, I guessed.

After I left the White Bridge Inn I finished my journey to the Charvelene Abbey of the Temple of Briga, once again in time for evening services.

“Oh, not you again!” Abbess Parsily said, when she saw me at the door of the sanctuary.  Her hands went to her hips and a fat finger pointed at me accusingly.  “Last time you showed up here, I lost more than half of my sisters to your damn quest!”

“Technically it’s a religious mission,” I reminded her.  “Which brings me to my first report: your priestesses are all alive, well, and doing splendid work near Tudry, in the Alshari Wilderlands right now,” I said, conciliatorily.  “They have really been a credit to your ministry.”

“Quit blowing hot air up my skirt and come to business, Wizard,” the crabby old nun said, darkly.

I smiled, despite myself.  “As helpful as they have been, I still need a favor.”

“The temple has done all it can do to help the likes of you!” she said, vehemently.

“Not from you, Mother,” I assured her.  “From your patroness.”

I proceeded to sing the invocation I’d used before, in front of the sacred hearth.  Briga showed up even more quickly than last time, flame-haired dressed as a high priestess of her order.

Abbess Parsily squealed a “Oh, bloody hells!  Not again!” and fell prostate at her feet.

“You have really got to stop doing this, Minalan!” the goddess sighed, putting her hands on her hips in a remarkably manner to Parsily, a moment before.  “I am not some minor river goddess with nothing better to do, you know!”

“I know, I know,” I soothed.  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t essential.  But . . . if you can get Abbess Parsily’s face out of the floor . . . I actually wanted to run something by the both of you.”

I explained my idea, and watched both of their faces as my plan unfolded.

“You want me to do what?” Briga, Goddess of Fire asked, accusingly, when I was done.

“A miracle,” I suggested.  “Sort of like what you did in Sevendor, but . . . bigger.  Flashier.  Something that can’t help drawing pilgrims like honey draws ants.”

“Min, that’s a bigger request than you might think,” the goddess said, chewing her lip.  “I was able to do the thing at Sevendor with the Everfire because it’s Sevendor, surrounded by snowstone.  I’m not sure I could do that anywhere else.”

“It doesn’t have to be that permanent,” I encouraged.  “Just something impressive.  And clearly holy.  But it has to be in that location,” I urged.

“Let me think about it,” she grumbled.

“And you, Mother . . . I assume you have some knowledge of the intricacies of canon law,” I began.

“Aye, all senior clergy need be familiar with it,” she said, warily.  “Are you planning on committing blasphemy, then?”

“No more than usual.  I was just wondering what you knew about how the recent establishment of the kingdom has affected the clergy.”

The priestess blinked, glanced at her divinity – who was staring at me, still chewing her lip ominously – and told me what I needed to know.  When she saw what I intended to do with the information, she became a little more animate.

“All right, I think there’s something I can do,” Briga finally said, when I was satisfied the priestess did, indeed, know what she was talking about.  “It will be a little more subtle than the Everfire, but no one will be able to doubt that it came from me,” she declared.  Then she looked at me a little nervously.  “Uh, Minalan, that may prove problematic, too.  That kind of miracle attracts attention.  Divine attention,” she emphasized.

“What, one of the other gods will get jealous?” I quipped.

“My . . . unique condition has already started something of a murmur,” the goddess confessed.  “There are those divinities who manifest more regularly than others, and they’ve noted the change in the Otherworld.  It’s spawning a bit more activity in that realm that I anticipated.  So . . . yes, there is a chance that one or more other gods will appear to find out what is going on.  And that could become quite . . . problematic.”

The way she said it made me unsure I wanted to know.  So I decided I didn’t.  I had enough problems to deal with.  “So can you do it, or not?  And can you publicize it?”  When both women, mortal and immortal, assured me that they could help, and would, I was satisfied.  Briga disappeared, after giving me a perfunctory blessing, promising action in the near future.  The High Priestess was less polite, but warmed up again when I dropped a heavy purse of silver in her offering plate.

The gods were on my side.  At least one of them.  And that was all my plan needed.

*                            *                            *

The next morning I received word by a herald from the palace that I was to attend the Prince Heir and his gentlemen at hawking in the North Fields estate mid-morning.  That would have flustered a lesser man, but I had already prepared a carriage for our use.  I left the boys back at the inn with further errands and had Dara attend me, with Frightful on her wrist.

The drive out to the hunting lodge was pleasant.  The Wilderlands were just as pretty on this side of the border, and the quaint shops and cottages that surrounded the summer capital were built to be lovely to look at.  Dara couldn’t stop gawking at everything.  She still found new cities novel, not boring repetitions of each other.  She found meeting sitting royals to be novel, instead of tedious and pointless.

We ended up waiting nearly an hour for His Highness’ hawking party to appear.  Five great carriages, flanked by a half-dozen lancers and a similar number of guardsmen, arrived at the lodge and disgorged three or four of the Prince’s courtiers and their falconers.  Most had two or three attendants to keep up with cages full of birds strapped to the back of their carriages.  I looked positively miserly with my sole falconer.

“I thought the message was a mistake,” the Prince said without preamble as he exited his carriage amid the bustle.  “I summoned you but three days ago, and had word that you were in Alshar . . . yet here you are!”

I bowed, and Dara did likewise.  “A wizard seeks to be prompt, Highness,” I reminded him.  “You had need of me, and it was convenient.  What service might I do for you?”

He surveyed me cautiously while his servants scurried to unpack his hawking gear.  “You can explain why there’s an army of refugees preparing to march on my lands,” he said, evenly.

“Is there, Highness?” I asked, surprised.  “From whence do they come?”

“Stop the games, Spellmonger!” demanded Tavard, frowning angrily.  “I know what the reports say!  You’ve emptied Tudry and the surrounding lands of urchins, and you intend to march them to the safety of Castal!”

I feigned shock.  “Your Highness, I know not where your reports originate, but I assure you, my task is done.  All six pele towers have been constructed and manned across the northeast of the Penumbra, and even now I work to disband my workforce and send them home.  I am anticipating a long and restful homecoming,” I insisted.  “Perhaps after a celebratory pilgrimage,” I added.

“Then you are unaware of the rabble that assembles across Alshar?”

“I am aware of them,” I conceded.  “I have nothing to do with them.  I did not put them there, nor am I responsible for them.”

“First all that talk about you starting peasants rebellions, then you run off with the entire magical corps last year in the middle of a war, and now this,” Tavard said, frustrated.  “All of my sources indicate that you are about to lead thousands of refugees into Castal, Spellmonger.  Yet it has been my clear and express wish that no undocumented persons shall cross the frontier.  Have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Highness,” I agreed, bowing congenially.  “As soon as I’m done wrapping up my affairs in Alshar, I’ll be returning home myself.”

“See that you do,” he agreed, a little uncertainly.  “I do not trust wizards, Spellmonger.  Even those who are my vassals,” he reminded me.

“We are a subtle and sophisticated breed,” I agreed.  “It is best you be wary.  Rarely are things what they seem when dealing with magi,” I added, sagely.

“Yet you are now a peer, as well as a mage.  A gentleman, as well as a Spellmonger,” he said, half-challengingly, as his courtiers gathered around him.  They were all high-born themselves, barons, counts, and knights of the highest households.  Young, obsequious snots, in other words, eager to curry favor with the Prince Heir.  “Let’s see if the son of a baker can match a prince of the realm in the hunt,” he suggested, insultingly.

“I am only recently come to such noble sports,” I smiled, “but it would be an honor to venture forth with Your Highness.  I’ve recently acquired a number of great hawks from the Mindens, and have started hunting them.”

“Did you bring one today?” he asked, eagerly.  “I’m flying a Kuline Crimson,” he boasted, showing off the bird on his man’s arm.  It was nearly half again as large as Frightful.

“Nay, my falconer – may I introduce my apprentice, Lady Lenodara the Hawkmaiden?  She has brought her most well-trained bird, Frightful.  A Silver Headed Raptor she caught and trained herself.”

“Silver Hooded Raptor?” one of the gentlemen, who fancied himself a sportsman, scoffed.  “Adequate for taking a hare, perhaps, but nothing impressive.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” another said, with a casual Gilmoran drawl, “some of those birds are decent hunters, for falcons.  A good lady’s bird,” he emphasized.  “Sometimes they’ll take a pheasant.”

“We shall see,” the Prince said, enjoying the sneers.  “The usual wager, gentlemen?  A hundred gold for the greatest prize?”  I nodded in agreement with the rest.  It was only money.

It was odd, how quickly I’d started thinking that way.

We took our birds and our handlers into the broad meadows, a series of pastures and ponds that provided ideal wetlands for wildlife of all sorts.  The dog-handlers went first, their small canines scouting ahead and flushing out game.  The falconers handed off to their birds to the lords.  Dara gave me Frightful with a knowing smile.  The pretty falcon hopped easily to my hand.  She was lighter than I expected.  I peered into her eyes for a moment, and she stared back with intently.  I suppose it was intently.  I had no idea what a falcon’s expressions meant, actually.

I carried her along with the other gentlemen as they casually talked about the ‘scourge’ of vagabonds that were fleeing from Alshar . . . clearly for my benefit.

“They’re worse than villeins,” one lord, a baron with lands near the frontier, declared.  “Villeins at least know their place.  These filthy creatures pretend to be freemen, and won’t work properly when given the chance.  They have nothing . . . they don’t even know how to farm, properly.  Show one a plow, and he’ll not know how to use it any more than a sword!”

“I’ve had the worst of them driven from their camps in the forest,” an older man – Count Something-or-other – agreed.  “They’re bandits and worse.  I’ve had four hung for hunting in my best lands – you have no idea how lucky you are, Your Highness, to have such a rich preserve as this!  Ho!  They’ve got something!” he called, as the little dogs barked and ran into the underbrush around the pond, disturbing a flock of waterfowl.  Rabbits, too, scattered from their advance.

“Fly!” the Prince shouted, shoving his huge bird into the air.  The hawks of the other men followed the big red hawk, with Frightful winging belatedly behind.  She quickly gained altitude, however, as the other birds broke up and began lining up their prey.  Indeed, she rose so quickly she was soon out of sight.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” the prince said admiringly of his hawk as it settled into a stately soar over the fields.  “He’ll select the largest of prey, as his species always does.  It’s a matter of Nature, and the will of the gods that he do so . . . over lesser birds,” he said, attempting to sound wise.  Another man might have carried it off, but he had neither the age or experience to sound anything but asinine and condescending.  “And certainly over the prey that the gods have decreed shall be his by right.”

“Whereas your bird seems to have gone a-courting, Spellmonger,” chuckled the baron.  “Pity, that.  A bird who won’t hunt isn’t worth very much to the hunter, is it?”

“No, perhaps not,” I muttered.  “Neither is a Wilderlands peasant who won’t toil for a lord.  They make poor villeins, even when you offer them reasonable terms and manageable fees and rents.  Men who are free have difficulty assuming the yoke, even when it’s clearly in their interests.”

“It would be one thing if we even had the work for them,” complained a knight with an Imperial beard.  It didn’t look good on him.  “At best the keep the cost of day-labor down, but then our own peasants complain.  It would be one thing if their women were comely, but they’re rangy and ill-fed, even the prettier ones.”

“Some are meant to be predators, some are meant to be eaten, as Nature and the gods intended,” the count agreed, sagely.  One thing I dislike about the nobility is their utter lack of subtlety.  Of course, they were trying to impress me with their power and importance with this ostensible object lesson.  “And by their feast you shall know their place in the world.”

The lesser birds of the courtiers brought respectable prizes, a fat houndove and a thickly-furred beaver.  The count’s hawk landed upon a fat grouse worthy of the table.  Of course the prince’s Kuline Crimson exceeded expectations and mangled a large swan at the edge of the pond.  The fight was vicious, but the hawk was relentless and far stronger than the swan.  The prince raised the bloody corpse of the bird triumphantly while the falconer treated it to the lure and hooded the large bird.

“It looks like Nature triumphs again, Spellmonger,” he sneered, good-naturedly.  “And your bird is nowhere on the horizon.  A poor showing, but I’ll make a point to drink only the finest wine with your wager!”

Dara?

In just a moment, Master! my beastmaster apprentice assured me, biting her lip while she closed her eyes.  Just . . . take a step to your right . . .

“One could think that, my prince,” I agreed, smoothly, “And yet the smaller bird who ranges wider oft secures more elusive prey.”

Right on cue, a ram the size of a wheelbarrow plummeted to the earth nearby.  It was an unfortunate, unforgettable sound.  Frightful, in her large form, had rent the poor animal as thoroughly as a rabbit.

Dara flew her from the direction of the sun, overhead, and activated the enchantment that transformed her as she descended.  By the time she lit on my wrist, she was the same bird who flew away.  Dara quickly took her, gave her a treat, and hooded her while the courtiers and the prince looked in astonishment at the ram.  Its horns had done nothing to save it from the giant beak of the enchanted falcon.  Some farmer, somewhere, was going to be very pissed off in the morning.

“It seems Nature has been bested by magic, which is also oft the case.  That sheep is a lordly catch, I’d say . . . though I leave it up to His Highness to judge.”

“What trickery is this?” Tavard asked, a scowl on his face.

“No trick, Highness,” I shrugged.  “Just a very, very talented falconer.  And a very talented bird.  As I said, things are rarely what they seem, with wizards.  The unexpected abounds.  The natural order, even the will of the gods, can turn on a bit of magic in the right place and at the right time.  There is always a bigger prize, an unexpected opponent, a subtle meaning wrapped in a gentle phrase hidden in an obscure misdirection.”

“What do you mean by this, Spellmonger?” demanded the prince, angrily.  “You mock me?”

“I instruct you, my prince,” I corrected, respectfully.  “When dealing with wizard folk, and magelords in particular, knowing what game you are playing – and for what stakes – is as important as winning.  Now, will you concede my victory at the hunt?  I would of course consent to Your Highness declaring victory, and my entry forfeit, under the circumstances – that is your prerogative.  But while your winnings would go to buy wine, mine will go to support the war orphans of Tudry, whose fathers died to preserve the kingdom.  Which shall it be, gentlemen?”

*                            *                            *

“That didn’t seem very wise, Master,” Dara reproved, as we rode back to the inn.  She had Frightful hooded on her block and was staring at me accusingly.  I had no problem reading her expression.

“It wasn’t – on the surface,” I agreed.  “But there was little I could have done to win his favor.  He’d already made up his mind that I was up to something, despite my pretense.  He called me on it, with his pedantic display about the ‘natural order’.  So I called him on it.  And no, it isn’t usually wise to humiliate a prince in front of his courtiers.  One who is also your direct overlord.  But you have to admit . . . he’s really an asshole.”

“I would hesitate to argue with the opinion of my learned master,” she said diplomatically, in a way that reminded me of Rondal.  “I still don’t see what that gained us.”

“It was a matter of diplomacy,” I decided.  “He told me not to do something I denied wanting to do, then dared me to do it on the grounds that both me and those I supposedly wish to defend are naturally and divinely unworthy of such considerations.”

“And this was diplomatic . . . how?” she asked, skeptically.

“I let him know that I wasn’t intimidated by his heavy-handed, arrogant and condescending attitude to either me or his other subjects who aren’t fortunate enough to be of common birth, or wealthy enough to bribe their way across.”

“So now he knows that you plan to oppose him, or at least are willing to show him up in front of his toadies in a way that implies you plan to oppose him . . . I’m still trying to see the point.  Forgive me for my inexperienced perspective,” she said, sarcastically.

“You’ve been spending far too much time with Pentandra,” I complained.  “It wasn’t precisely wise.  But since he wasn’t going to do what I wanted anyway, and we are going to cross lances, politically speaking, and he did make a point of summoning me across half a kingdom to dress me down . . . I felt it was important to establish my relative power.  He might be king someday.  I’m the Spellmonger right now.”

“But he is Duke of Castal right now,” she reminded me.  “And it’s the Duke of Castal whose vassals are going to be standing in our way if we try to cross that border.”

“Actually,” I said, “The Duke of Castal is going to stand there and watch every single one of us cross the border, and he and his vassals won’t do a thing.”

“What kind of spell are you going to use?” she asked, curious.

“It’s more complicated than that,” I said, thinking through my plan.  “It involves more misdirection than actual magic.  And it’s still evolving,” I said, a little defensively.

“I look forward to seeing its brilliant conclusion,” Dara said, dryly.

“Frankly, so do I,” I sighed.

We met up with Brother Hotfoot and the boys back at the inn, where we had – coincidently – a leg of mutton and early potatoes for supper.  The monk had successfully concluded his business in the city, and had a large bundle to show for his efforts.  He seemed preternaturally smug about it, too.

Tyndal had been successful, though his purchases would not be ready for days, yet, which was fine.  Rondal had been assigned to secure supplies on Gareth’s behalf.  The harvest was beginning to come in upriver, and grain merchants were eager to procure early contracts.

“Are you sure this is going to work, Master?” Tyndal asked, as we finished discussing the details.  “It seems a pretty flimsy pretext to go on.  Do you really think the prince is going to allow this?”

“The Prince Heir may not,” I agreed.  “But the Duke of Castal will.  He won’t have a choice.  By his own words, and under the law.  And if we are very careful and set things up just right, he’ll do so to avoid civil war.  Or at least he will think that’s what he’s doing.”

“Civil war with who?” asked Rondal.  “Master, as far as I can tell there is no one around who has the resources – or the initiative – to go against the royal house who hasn’t already done so.”

“It’s not the royal house,” I reminded him.  “That’s key.  And as for who, well, I’m in the process of doing that.  Perhaps my greatest feat so far.”

“And what would that be?” Tyndal asked, spearing another potato on his knife.

“Conjuring a duchy out of thin air,” I answered.  “But first we have to get an army.  That’s the last stop we have to make before we head back to Alshar.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Orphans Of Vorone

While we were gone, the others had gotten the new marchers relatively organized and mostly equipped.  Gareth had added another few cauldrons and a small army of cooks to the operations at Talry-on-Burine, and Taren had finished more supply rods.  Summer was waning, and I was anxious to get on the road before the autumnal rains turned every track into a muddy mess.

There were eight troops, now, with Troops Six and Seven made into Training Troops.  They were made up mostly of newcomers and older Kasari experienced enough at teaching by now to help them along.  While not every child had every bit of equipment, most had enough of the basics to keep up, sharing with their patrol mates where necessary.  When the Pathfinders set out that morning, all four thousand children were as prepared for the journey as we could get them.

For two days along the Great Eastern Road we made good time, more than twenty miles a day.  The Kasari kids taught their songs and chants to the new kids, everyone learned how to cooperate around mealtimes, and everyone was constantly working on the new skills they were being taught.  Kids who had been cursed as useless urchins in Tudry had learned that they could make a pair of boots, or sew a cloak without a tailor’s guild.  It was impressive to watch each of the pensive, insecure orphans who had joined our company struggle and then triumph with each new bit of learning.

Interestingly enough, those most enthusiastic about teaching the Tudry orphans the ways of the Kasari were those Wilderlands orphans we’d picked up earlier in our journey.  They acted as ambassadors to the newcomers, explaining the strange ways of the Kasari in a manner their fellows could understand.  They seemed even more adamant than the Kasari children about the importance of the codes and laws, as well as ranks and organization.  From orphans who had nothing but the rags on their backs, these children had become competent leaders in their own right.

I was starting to feel hopeful about our chances of making this work when we ran into our greatest problem of all.  On the third day on the road from Tudry, I received a message from Tyndal in the Pathfinders.  Our vanguard had run into a larger force.

A much larger force.  Of more children.

Not just children, of course, but mostly children.  A mob of them, just as ragged as the Tudry kids, if not more so.  Hundreds of children waited in a field near the south side of the road, as Tyndal’s troop marched up the hill.  The kids had started cheering, to Tyndal and the troop’s confusion.  As soon as they had seen the Kasari patrol banner they had started cheering and swarming the confused marchers.

It wasn’t just a few hundred, it was thousands, as we discovered later that day.  The field was covered with kids, war orphans like the Tudry children, who had made their way all the way from Vorone after hearing about the march, and there were more arriving every moment.  A long ragged trail of kids struggled to make the miles over the road from the decrepit old summer capital of Alshar.   When I had arrived at Tudry, the word had spread like magic to the vast fields of refugees at Vorone.

The rumors were just as outlandish, but the number of reports of our arrival at Tudry had made believers out of enough – thousands – that no child wanted to be left behind our marvelous march.

The priests and nuns who had cared for them in the camps had tried to dissuade them from such foolishness, but the enthusiasm and reckless willingness to abandon security for the promise of something better was more powerful than wise counsel from priests.  The adult refugees, too, had responded, with hundreds accompanying the children to see if the rumors of possible salvation were, indeed, true.

They kept coming.  As the Kasari marchers arrived up the road, so many of them recently in rags themselves, the thousands of children cheered and screamed their excitement until I couldn’t hear myself think.  Or hear anyone trying to speak to me mind-to-mind.

It was hard, but we got our people encamped that night across the road from the orphans, and the Kasari rangers did their best show of looking mean enough to dissuade any would-be thieves from stealing from our camp.  The magical lights at the entrance ways helped, too.  Most of the urchins from the Vorone camps were too awed to approach the things.

“There are too many,” Pentandra said, despairing, as she surveyed the thousands of children watching our camp on the other side of the road.  “A thousand at Tudry was hard enough.  Min, Festaran says that there are at least six thousand here, now, and more arriving every hour.  There’s no way we can take them all!”

“I know, I know!” I said, despairing.  My ruse might have worked for the extra “Kasari”, but for that many new children who were – clearly – not Kasari?  They would not be allowed through the frontier.  Nor did we have any place for them to go.  Yet there they were, miles from the miserable squalor they called home on the faint promise of a better life.  Like it or not, I was responsible for them being here.  I was the great and powerful Spellmonger, after all.  They had come for me.

I felt like an ass.

The chaos of the next few days made our time at Tudry seem like a formal occasion.  Not only did we have all of the problems the Tudry orphans, we didn’t have the resources and order provided by Astyral and the townsfolk.  We were in an abandoned field on the side of the road, eighty miles from the frontier.  There were thousands of extra mouths to feed, all of a sudden.

And worse, some of the adults who had accompanied the army of children from Vorone didn’t have the compassionate intentions of the clergy who had come with them.  There were incidents.  I made some harsh judgments on the spot.  Whether it’s Nature or the will of the gods who make the strong prey on the weak, when the stronger decide to levy justice, it’s to preserve the best interests of all.  Some people don’t need to be around children.  I made certain some never were again.

Provisioning became a problem.  The Kasari had food – the refugees didn’t.  I did the best I could to supplement, but it was just not going to work.  Our careful and expensive procurement did not have that much surplus.  We shared what we could, but most of the orphans on the south side of the road went hungry.

Brother Hotfoot wanted us to stick with the original plan – nothing had changed, he insisted.  We just had to expand the scope of the original plan . . . by orders of magnitude.  That might have been impossible, had we not had the foresight and resources to include all the kids in it.  After careful consideration and a lot of discussion, the monk persuaded me that it was worth trying.

Our opposition had grown, too.  The exodus of refugees from Vorone was too grand to escape the notice of the spies that infested it.  Soon Dara’s skyriders and our warmagi reported an increase in the number of troops at the checkpoint at the frontier, from fifty to three hundred.

That was daunting, but if our plan worked, it wouldn’t matter how many troops the Duke of Castal sent.

A lot depended upon timing . . . and that was fouled up when the Prince figured out how we were keeping our march supplied without a baggage train or supply depots.  At breakfast the third morning between the border and Tudry, while we were still trying to sort out the orphans, when we summoned breakfast with the supply rods . . . nothing happened.

“Oh, Ishi’s . . . temper!” Rondal said, realizing he was around a bunch of children, when he repeated the command word to no avail.  We tried each of the rods, but no kettles filled with grits or porridge or biscuits appeared.  “This isn’t good!”

Of course we immediately tried to contact Gareth, mind-to-mind, but our manciple was busy evading arrest, by the order of the Duke.

I give Gareth a lot of credit.  When the soldiers from the local castle came banging unexpectedly on my father’s door, demanding that all operations cease, Gareth didn’t panic.  While my mother and the cooks interfered in their search of the temporary kitchens Gareth collected the magic rods and other essential supplies, used a few to grab what stores he could in their pockets, and fled over the wall and to the river.  He had hid out there awaiting a barge he could escape on while the rest of our crew was instructed to stop all victualing and baking until further notice.

Gareth finally made contact with me near lunch time, when some of our less courteous kids were grumbling.  He informed me about the raid and his escape, but was unsure about what to do next.

We’ve got to get you out of there, for one, I agreed.  My parents can take care of themselves, and I’ll take care of them as well.  Where are you now?

A little village downriver called Grellin.  There’s not much more here than a dock, an inn, and a stable.

Get a room in the inn, I counseled.  Sit tight until I can come and get you.

Why would the Duke raid a kitchen? he complained.

Because it was the only way he could stall me, I explained.  He’s warned me against completing this quest, and I warned him that I wasn’t going to let him stand in my way.  So he found a way to complicate things without bloodshed.  Commendable, really.  If it wasn’t so damn inconvenient!

I wanted to panic.  I couldn’t afford to. I arranged for a few wagons of supplies to be brought from Tudry, but that wouldn’t do more than keep everyone from starving and it would take a few days to arrive.  I also sent Dara’s skyriders aloft with instructions to hunt, the way Frightful had at Wilderhall.  Again, a stopgap measure.  A few deer or sheep or goats added to the pot would help, but I had thousands to feed.

After a lot of quick consultation with my staff and with various members of the Order, I was able to get at least a trickle of supplies moving.  I took a few hurried trips through the Waypoints and picked up grain and salt pork from the Order in Castabriel, twenty bushels of potatoes from Sevendor, and a load of fresh-milled oats from Robinwing Castle.  That was enough to keep the camps going, at short rations for a few days.

But I needed more.  Much more.  I needed a new space to prepare and cook from, to resume our magical supply, someplace beyond Tavard’s reach.  Sevendor was too crowded to do the job, and too well watched.  The moment I tried to re-create our lavish outdoor kitchens there I would be caught.  Similarly using the Order complex in Castabriel was a poor choice.  The prince would know about it before the first meal got served.  I needed a big enough place that wouldn’t be saturated with spies before it could even begin the task.

I finally settled, at Astyral’s suggestion, on the old encampment left over from Timberwatch.  The site was not too far from where we were, but safely out of the reach of the Prince.  Of course the great army that had been there had long gone home, but the earthworks, fortifications, and even the latrines from that great army were still present.  A small garrison manned the tower of Timberwatch, but its lord and its folk had fled in the aftermath of the great battle.

There were, however, the basic facilities our kitchen needed there.  Wells, storehouses, and firepits remained.  I detailed Rondal and Ormar to go prepare them while I took Tyndal and Dara on a rescue mission . . . and another shopping trip.

First we shopped.  I took us down to the Coastlands by the Waypoints and found a good-sized riverport I had yet to exploit.  We bought more grain, far more than I thought we’d need, but we got it cheaper by the bargeload.  That gave me an idea, and soon I had an entire barge packed with our day’s purchases.

Next was the rescue.  While my family’s shop was closed and under guard, they were still permitted to come and go as they pleased . . . as long as they didn’t cook more food than the family could eat.  I took the Waystone into the midst of the compound and quietly stole back the cauldrons, cooking gear, and other supplies that were locked in the shed.  Yes, they were under guard.  And when that guard woke up from his nap, the shed he was guarding still bore a large padlock.  The fact that it was now empty escaped his attention.

My parents, sisters, their husbands and children were all fine – just really angry.  They had poured themselves into the effort to feed the Kasari, and the gold I’d paid more than made up for their lost trade.  To be denied the chance to complete the task was galling to them.  They had been baking more than two thousand loaves a day, a staggering amount for a small village bakery.

I told them to pack it in and lay low for a while.  Their part in this adventure was over, and I couldn’t risk putting them in more danger.  I hadn’t expected the prince to come at me that way, but I should have.

I made the quick trip downriver to the village Gareth was hiding in and rescued him.  He was looking worn and ragged from the pursuit.  He had escaped with little other than his clothes, his witchstone, his mantle, and a bundle of sticks that proved to be the troop supply rods.  I thanked him profusely for his service and then transported us back to Sevendor, where he could recover for a few hours before we got to work.

I was tempted to rest myself – the panic I felt over the thousands of children who depended upon me was driving me to push my limits.  Traveling through the Ways is tiring, for a human.  I’d been doing it an awful lot, and it was taking a toll.  My head was pounding.  But I couldn’t stop now – my burden had increased, and the stakes had never been higher.  I transported back to the station we had set up in Timberwatch – the old blue barn we’d used as a magical corps headquarters during the battle.  One of the skyriders had taken a jaunt over there and deposited a Waystone for me.

That old familiar barn would be our storehouse.  Outside Tyndal and Rondal, with the help of some of the Hesians who volunteered, constructed ten big firepits for the cauldrons, and had the locals hauling wood by the wagonload to stock it.  Unlike in the Riverlands, where fuel was at a premium, Timberwatch had an endless supply of wood.  I conjured our stolen kettles from their pockets – along with the other cooking gear from Talry – and let them organize it while I found people to employ it.

Finding cooks I could transport magically to the middle of nowhere proved more difficult.  I drafted a score of Tal Alon from Hollyburrow, in Sevendor, as scullions and assistants.  It took four trips to bring them all through, but after they recovered from the trauma of transport they scurried off and had the great kettles set up on their fires before I was ready to leave again.  This time I needed human assistance.

It took a lot of mind-to-mind communication to track him down, but thanks to the league of magelords who had come up from mercenary warmagi and still maintained their contacts in that world, I finally located the man everyone agreed was the perfect candidate for such an emergency job.  His name was Targad, and he was as famous in his field as I was in mine.

Targad, a half-Remeran, half-Castali army bastard, was legendary among the mercenaries for his ability to feed large numbers of men and make it look effortless.  He had worked for three of the largest mercenary outfits in Remere and Castal, including the Orphans, before taking the assignment of bossing the kitchens for the staging area for the Farisian Campaign.  I’d eaten his food as a recruit and not even known it.

He had gotten so good that he didn’t work for anyone but himself anymore.  He had formed his own mercenary company, specializing in victualing larger mercenary companies under contract.  Targad’s outfit included twelve specially-built wagons, each designed as a component of a larger kitchen.  He had assembled a crack crew of men as dedicated to his art as he was, and his company’s service commanded a premium price.

Had I the power and resources to do so, I would have hired them at the outset – but Targad’s company, Death’s Repast, was under a year-long contract to the Count of Jero in southern Remere – more than a thousand miles from where I needed them to be.  And they were good mercenaries – they wouldn’t blow a lucrative contract to an important client, no matter how much gold I stacked up in front of them.  A mercenary outfit’s reputation is everything.

But I didn’t need the whole company, I just needed their commander.  Targad had a genius for cooking, organization, and improvisation that defied mere excellence.  The story of how, during a skirmish with Remere a decade ago, he contrived a five-course meal for Duke Rard in an advance infantry camp with half an hour’s notice, no special supplies, in the dark, and under enemy fire.  The Duke pronounced it an outstanding meal and gave the man a gold dagger he wore to this day in appreciation of his talents.  That was the kind of man I needed.

Getting to his camp took half a day I couldn’t really afford, but the Alka Alon had few Waypoints in southern Remere.   I eventually found my way to Death’s Repast’s magnificent camp, and with a little bribery and a little rank I was able to meet with the man just as they were finishing service for luncheon.  For eight thousand infantry soldiers.  I watched the process with fascination as everyone was fed within an hour, in orderly fashion, with an absolute minimum of fuss.  Breakfast at Sevendor Castle during a shift change isn’t that smooth.

Targad was willing to speak to me, based on my rank if not my reputation.  The tall, swarthy man had his long black hair tied back under a blue kerchief, a long well-stained cloth apron embroidered with the grinning skull-and-plate device of the company.  The famed golden dagger was sheathed at his belt.  I introduced myself and explained I wanted to hire him.  He told me his company was already contracted.  I specified that I wanted to hire him, not his company, for a lucrative short-term assignment.

He was skeptical.  I was insistent.  He was dismissive.  I was persuasive.  He began to refuse.  I produced a pouch with fifty ounces of gold from thin air that fell to the cutting board in front of him with an unmistakable clink.  I had Targad’s interest.

It took some quick and vicious negotiation about the price, once he heard the parameters of the mission.  Nor was it a straightforward bargain – he knew about my capabilities.  Indeed, he had acquired at great price some of the gear I’d enchanted for the Orphans during the Timberwatch Campaign and included it in his inventory.  He wanted a premium price in gold for his time, but he also wanted some very specialized custom enchantments – the kind only the Spellmonger could create.

I was both flattered and irritated.  But I could appreciate his position, and his intelligence.  I would have done the same thing if I was in his position and possessed his leverage.  Hells, that was more or less what I’d done to Briga.  I started to appreciate her attitude more.

In truth I didn’t mind doing the work he requested purely for the exercise in enchantment, a field in which I was growing increasingly adept.  In the end we came to an agreement, and he agreed to be ready to depart with his two chosen assistants the next morning.  I gave him a Waystone to make the journey easier.  I liked southern Remere, I discovered, a land of gentle hills and pretty olive trees, but I couldn’t spare the time to appreciate it properly.

That’s the problem with life as a Spellmonger.  Life has a way of passing you by while you’re busy doing other things . . . until Life decides it has had enough of your inattention and smacks you around a bit.

Which is why I collapsed almost immediately after arriving back home.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Crystal Snowflake

When I went back to Sevendor, for some reason my materialization hit me a lot more forcefully than I had expected.  My head throbbed, my mouth tasted of bile, my stomach was rebelling and my body was trembling.  I called for my maid and quietly collapsed into a chair after one big glass of wine.  I had a headache the size of my castle.

When I tried to rise, my knees gave out.  My face broke out into a powerful sweat.  I swayed and swooned, and if it hadn’t been for my valet I would have hit the rushes on the floor.  That alarmed everyone, and before I knew it I was surrounded by nearly every woman in the castle fussing over me.

Sister Bemia appeared with her satchel of herbs and a disturbed expression on her face.  She felt my head, tasted my sweat, listened to my heart and took my pulse in my feet, hands, and neck.  Her expression became a little more grim.  She dug around for herbs in her bag while insisting I be taken to bed immediately.

“You can’t keep going at this pace, Min,” Alya said insistently as she tucked me into bed.  Sister Bemia was just leaving, after leaving a steaming cup of noxious herbs for me to drink, when it was cool enough.  “You’ve been on the trail for weeks, now, sleeping outside every night.  And all of this Waypoint travel is . . . it’s draining you,” she said, concerned.

“I know,” I admitted, much to my surprise.  I had planned on dismissing her worries, but I realized that I had a few of my own.  I’d never had a headache like this before.  Using the Waypoints took a fair amount of power, which was tiring enough, but the process itself took a toll on my body beyond simple arcane exhaustion.  “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.  Have the Alka Alon returned from their conferences?”

“No,” she sighed.  “Lesgaethael is near-deserted, only a caretaker or two.”

“This isn’t their problem, anyway,” I sighed.  “I have to get back to southern Remere and pick up the cook and take him to Timberwatch.  This is my problem.”  My temples were throbbing like the drums of goblins, and my stomach was rebelling against me.  I didn’t want to move.  But I had to.  There was too much to do.  I hauled myself to my feet . . . and collapsed on the floor, vomiting.  The pain in my head surged until I couldn’t see anything but red.

Alya was alarmed and screamed for Sister Bemia, who was still nearby.  Soon my valet and the women helped me to the bed in the tower, closer than the new hall.  I collapsed on the mattress, feeling awful.  I was covered in sweat, and I felt my whole body suddenly burning up with fever.

“I’ve got to go,” I insisted, weakly, as they covered me with blankets.  I was sweating profusely.  “I’ve got to get back . . .” I moaned.

“It won’t be your problem if you’re dead,” she declared.  “You’re physically exhausted.  You’re no use to anyone if you can’t move.  You’re to sleep until you wake on your own, and leave only when your head no longer pains you – priestess’ orders,” my wife insisted angrily.

“But the camp in Alshar,” I protested.  “The kitchen at Timberwatch—”

“Will not fall into the abyss without you for a few hours,” she interrupted, sternly.  “You have spent the last six months putting together the best staff you could manage.  Let them do some of the work, for a change!”

“I . . . I yield to my wife’s superior wisdom,” I sighed, sinking back into the security of my own bed, as she brought the tisane in the cup to my lips.  It wasn’t as vile as I’d expected, but in a whole unexpected way – alkaline and sour at the same time.  By the third swallow I felt my limbs grow heavy.  By the fifth my eyelids were closing.  Alya kissed my lips as I fell to sleep, and her kiss lingered warm there, a reminder of safety and refuge in the midst of my pain.

My dreams were as frantic as my waking life, if not made worse by my own fears and imaginings.  Images of the Kasari being torn to shreds by a surprise goblin attack.  The refugees being corralled by the gurvani and treacherous humans into a vast slave coffle headed to the sacrificial stones of the Umbra.  Seeing my apprentices dying from a betrayal I could not prevent.  Assassins and foes lurked in the dark shadows of my subconscious.  In dream after dream I was given a hopeless situation and watched myself fall to defeat, the lives of those most precious to me forfeit for my failure.

It wasn’t all horror.  There were moments, mere flashes, where I found some reprieve from my own mind.  But they were tantalizingly few, and only increased my anxieties.  But mostly it was one endless stream of catastrophic defeat and personal failure.  I seemed to visit every corner of every personal fear I had.  I’m grateful I don’t remember all of the details.

When all seemed lost and dark, I remember being in a murky, misty forest in the middle of winter.  It was as bleak and disturbing a wood as I’d ever seen, made worse by my own poor state.  But along the thin trail I found a familiar if unexpected face – Brother Hotfoot.

I’d encountered plenty of other folk of my acquaintance in my dreamscape.  Usually just before I did something tragic that lead to their death or worse.  I wondered idly how my mind would do in the kindly monk.

Hotfoot was sitting next to a small but cozy fire, a battered kettle sitting in the coals.

“About time you wandered here,” he said, welcomingly.  “I was wondering if you’d forgotten about me.”

“Sorry.  I’ve been damning more important people in my life with my mistakes,” I grumbled.  “Consider yourself fortunate.  No doubt you’re about to be eaten by a dragon while I sit here helplessly.”

“Such are the fortunes of the road,” he shrugged.  “For now, enjoy the fire, drink some tea, and rest yourself.  You’re safe, for the moment.”

“I’m never safe,” I sighed.  “There are too many I care about to ever be safe.  And now I’ve invested that care in thousands of kids who believe in me.  This is beyond magic’s power,” I said, realizing the futility of the task ahead.

“Of course you’re not safe – in general,” the monk said, pouring the tea into a leather traveler’s mug.  “Security is an illusion.  For anyone, even the gods.  But you can put aside your worries for a moment, around the fire.  A good fire is so very important.”

“So my goddess thinks,” I chuckled.  “That’s someone else I’m going to disappoint.  It’s just not wise to disappoint a goddess of vengeance.”

“Your self-criticism does you little favor,” the monk said, shaking his head and handing me the mug.  “Minalan, this trek is not all on you.  You began it, you lead it, you envisioned it, but it has a life of its own, now.  You have chosen good folk and given them resources.  Even without you, they will accomplish much.”

“Without me, they’ll be slaughtered, enslaved, or die of disease and starvation in the wild,” I protested.

“You give yourself too much credit – and your people too little.  You’ve set mighty things in motion, with your magic and your ingenuity.  Like a river from the mountains of the Wilderlands, you have created a current of magic and fate that cannot be stopped by swords or sovereigns.  The gods themselves are involved,” he reminded me.  “And once those powers have been invoked, they are not lightly dismissed or denied.”

“How many innocents have perished when the gods have been involved?” I reminded him.

“Depends on the gods,” he countered, breaking off a piece of journeybread and handing it to me.  It was chewy, and a little dry.  But it was filling and wholesome. “It’s not like you sacrificed a village to Duin the Destroyer, you know.  You set out with a particular goal in mind, and the divine current will follow that direction.  You’ve encountered obstacles along that road.  You’ve overcome them, or found a way around.  Where you have lead you have created a trail for others to follow, even once you have left the trail.  Every step you’ve taken bears testament to your commitment to the task.  The people who have joined with you in its execution have done so because of their devotion to you and your vision.”

“So much more to disappoint them with my failure,” I said, resisting his attempts to cheer me.

“Or challenge them with your devotion,” he countered, sharply.  “When someone who has done such great tasks falls short, do you think those around him are going to slink away in defeat?  Or will they be inspired to rise to the challenge of your vision?”

“They’ll kill themselves trying to get it done,” I conceded.  “But it’s not their task to do – it’s mine!”

“That’s bullshit, Min,” the monk chuckled.  “You can’t delegate authority so adeptly without also delegating responsibility.  Yes, it’s your task, but you’ve ensured that it isn’t yours alone.  It’s bigger than you, now.  Big enough to survive without you,” he said, ominously.

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

“I mean that the choice to return to it or not is yours.  You can elect to push forward, accepting the consequences of what you’ve created, whatever they might be,” he said, nodding to one direction along the trail, “or you can walk away and let things happen without you,” he said, turning his tonsured head and nodding toward the other direction.  “It’s your choice, Min.  It’s always your choice,” he emphasized.

“It’s my choices that have gotten me here in the first place,” I sighed.

“Everyone has to be somewhere,” he shrugged.  “And where we are is always the result of the steps we’ve chosen to take.  You can stay here in safety as long as you like, but eventually you’re going to have to stand up and pick a direction and start walking.  Eventually, you’re going to have to choose.”

I did stay there a while – how long, I could not say, considering that it was a dream and my concept of time was skewed.  I remember the reluctance to leave the fire, to leave the security of the hospitable monk and brave either path.  I debated openly with him the advantages of both, and their perils.

But eventually I stood, brushed the dirt off of my arse, and took my leave of image of Brother Hotfoot.  I walked back toward my responsibilities with the priest’s blessing in my ears.

I don’t know how long I wandered . . . there’s no sense of time in a dreamscape, at least not like this.  I just kept putting my feet down, just like I did when my bone-weary feet protested one more step on the march.  I wondered idly whether or not this was actually playing out in the Otherworld, or if this dismal adventure was confined to my own skull.  Only a thaumaturge would be quirky enough to consider such a thing.

The path I was on – the one toward my responsibilities, if you had any doubt – was broken and rocky.  I’m certain it was an apt metaphor for something, but my aching feet didn’t seem to be interested.  It seemed as if I had been walking forever along this wooded trail – at night, in the daytime, under the blazing noonday sun, through all sorts of terrain . . . and sometimes all within moments of each other.  As metaphorical journeys go, it was pretty interesting, and not a little frustrating.

Eventually I came to a crossroads, and to the north there was a little clearing in the imaginary forest where there was a point of interest.  It was twilight again, and the little meadow was dominated by a massive stone forge.  A blazing fire crackled energetically within.  Briga’s Cross was heavily graven on the stone in a simple but elegant design.  Briga herself stepped from behind the impressive altar and studied me, worried.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” I nodded.  “I gave up praying to you for assistance or salvation eight or nine horrific failures ago.”

“I’ve been working on it,” she informed me.  “You’re very hard to reach, right now.  And there happen to be a lot of prayers directed at me, at the moment, many of which concern you.”

“I’m touched,” I chuckled.  “Certainly not Abbess Parsily . . .”

“Don’t dismiss the earnest desires of your admirers,” the goddess warned.  “Even old Parsily respects you, for all of her gruff manner.  My priestesses among the Kasari have organized ritual vigils across the camps to pray for your safe recovery.  In Sevendor Town folk have gathered around the Everfire to add their prayers for your health.  Your family has beseeched all the gods willing to listen to bring you back to them.”

“That’s . . . humbling,” I admitted.  “Makes me feel a little guilty about loafing like this, when there is work to be done.”

“Your life is at stake, Minalan,” she said, quietly, the light from the fire illuminating her face in dancing shadows, and making her brilliant red hair sparkle.  Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to see.  “Yet you have made the decision to fight for yourself.  That’s an important first step.”

“Well, I did consider giving up,” I sighed, warming my hands by the forge, “but honestly I kept thinking of all those ten-year-old Kasari kids trudging along when they were exhausted, doing their best.  If they can keep going, and doing their best, then so should I.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“If your will is intact, then leading you out of your illness will be easier,” she said, sagely.  “And so very much still depends upon you.  Not merely the Kasari – you are destined for much more, if you live.”

“I can’t help but feel troubled by your uncertainty on that matter,” I said, carefully.  “I thought the gods had a fair amount of knowledge about it.”

“The realm of the divine is far less orderly than you mortals believe.  Your desires and will give us form and function, but the structures you have imagined for us are your own creations,” she explained.  “Thanks to you, the continuity I enjoy gives me the power of perspective and experience.  And that has allowed me far more foresight in my actions than I have been able to employ in the past.  That, Minalan, has the potential to change . . . everything.”

“I just cast a spell,” I said, a little defensively.  “I wasn’t trying to re-order the universe!”

“Every spell you cast re-orders the universe,” she pointed out, which was a first-year thaumaturgical axiom that every apprentice knows.  “That one was just a larger log in the fire than most.”

“So what is this grand destiny you speak so vaguely of?”

“Is not the re-ordering of the divine world enough?” she snorted.  “Minalan, the gods have power, but we’ve been weak and unorganized, thanks to the limitations of our nature.  That’s just where certain other powers wanted us to be, in order to keep humanity . . . manageable.

“Now you and snowstone have permanently altered the balance of power – real power, not the stuff King Rard thinks he’s playing with,” she added, derisively.  “Your dalliance with the Grain of Pors has exposed you to a whole new dimension of magic.  Your experiments with the pocketstones will eventually grant you incredible power, once you work out how to transfer the enneagramatic matrix through the portal spell without stripping it.  And you’ve just begun to explore what can be done with the other stones.”

“Yes, I do have a lot of work to do,” I realized.

“Important work,” she emphasized.  “I’m not here just for a pep-talk, Minalan.  It’s rare than anyone, even a seasoned Theurge, has access to these parts of their mind, permitting such direct contact with the divine.”

“But I talk to you,” I pointed out.

“We’re not just talking,” she countered.  “That’s just how your mind is manifesting the experience.  As a side-effect of the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re access realms of your subconscious that are usually enshadowed.  I’m able to give you as much divine inspiration as you can handle.”

“That’s likely not a lot, right now,” I warned.  “I’m just looking for a little guidance.”

“Guidance?  Minalan, you don’t understand – the unexpected introduction of snowstone, and all of the other wonders that have arisen, has dramatically altered even our ability to predict events, much less foresee them.  The future lies in your hands, and even the gods await your vision before we can proceed.  Rare has a mortal held such sway over humanity’s fate.”

“So the gods are waiting on me?” I guffawed.  “If that isn’t the biggest cosmic joke . . . I’m just trying to get a few good things done.  I didn’t enlist to give orders to the gods.”

“We aren’t waiting for orders,” she clarified, testily, “we are waiting for your vision to manifest.  That, at least, we know.  Then we can react.  But we have little idea what will come out of that feverish mind of yours, so . . . we wait.”

“Well, while you’re waiting, can you at least give me a hint?” I asked, frustrated.  Gods aren’t supposed to be that passive.

“I have,” she stated, flatly, gesturing to the forge.  “This altar represents the fever that is roaring through your body and brain right now.”

“A pretty, if destructive, metaphor,” I agreed.

“It’s a forge,” she pointed out.  “The symbol for creation.  The altar on which a man who understands the mysteries of fire can bring forth from his imagination any shape and beat it into existence with the skill of his hand and the sweat of his brow.”

“So my fever is supposed to create something?”

“Your fever is creating a lot of things,” she said, obscurely.  “But from it will emerge the vision you need to create what you will inevitably create.”

“Shouldn’t it be an oven?” I pointed out.  “My dad was a baker.”

“The flame creates,” she replied.  “It’s very existence is a function of time and situation.  Fire is an event, unlike water, earth, or air.  Fire is inherently transformative, from its ability to light the night, to heat the cold, to consume and destroy, or to create and enlighten.  Every man and woman has a metaphorical flame within.  Yours blazes, now.  Will you allow it to consume you?  Or will you tame its fierceness and master its mysteries to allow your vision to emerge from its ashes?”

“You really didn’t answer my question.”

“You need to build something, not bake something!” she said, rolling her eyes in exasperation.  “All right?  This is the metaphor your mind needed to manifest, I’m just working with it!”

“All right, all right!” I said, backing off a little.  No need to invoke the whole ‘consume and destroy’ thing prematurely.  “I understand.  I need to forge something.”

“Build something,” she corrected.  “Likely a lot of things.  No human mage has ever had access to the kinds of resources you enjoy.  Not even the Archmagi at the peak of their powers.  With the treasury you have, and that you can accrue, what mighty works could you create?  What spells of power could you fashion?  What could you do to change the world?”

“All sorts of things!” I snorted back.  “Sure, I can make magic cauldrons of grits appear – but someone still has to buy and cook the grits.  I can dabble in Alkan magic and Karshak songspells and cobble together some intriguing creations – but how does that help anyone?”

“I don’t know, Minalan,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “What do you think would help anyone?”

“How about if the gods could actually do what we want them to be doing?” I observed.  “That would be helpful!  And while you’re at it, eliminating the existential threat to the human race that keeps invading us might be helpful.  We once ruled the skies in ways the Alon never did – now we trudge down shit-covered roads and try not to get eaten by goblins.  Maybe dealing with that would be helpful?”

“So . . . what are you going to do about it?” Briga prompted, folding her arms across her chest.

“Me?  Why do I have to do anything about it?”

“You don’t,” she pointed out.  “That’s the beauty of free will.  But if you could – and let’s just pretend that you could, for a moment – what do you think the answer to those problems would be?”

“Well, getting the gods all on our side would be a start,” I grumbled.  “The Dead God is a fearsome foe, and if Korbal is ever found—”

“Korbal has been found,” she interrupted, her eyes downcast.  “Sadly.”

“What?  How do you know?” I demanded.

“I am not omniscient,” she admitted, “but I am rather well-informed.  Korbal’s tomb was discovered, and even now there are those who toil to revive him from his ancient slumber.”

“Gosh, that’s just great news!” I exploded.  “What are we supposed to do now?  Shereul was bad enough – more than bad enough.  Now we have a thousand-year-old Alka Alon madman to consider?”

“He’s far beyond mere madness,” Briga said, worriedly.  “He is as dangerous, in his way, as Shereul is.  But he is far more calculating and cautious.  And his enmity is not focused on humanity, thankfully.  But he will not hesitate eliminating you if it is in his interests.”

“And how are we supposed to fight him?”

“It will take time for him to regain his former powers.  Once he does, he will be extremely difficult to defeat.  You don’t even want to know how many Alka Alon died trying to control him the first time.  If he and Shereul align . . .”

“So you have no idea,” I sighed, feeling defeated.

“I don’t provide the ideas,” she suggested, unhelpfully.  “I provide the inspiration.  You provide the ideas.  That’s how this works.”

“That’s frustrating!”

“That’s the nature of the divine,” she shrugged.  “If you don’t like it, fix it.  That’s kind of what this is all about.”

“At least you’ve narrowed it down,” I considered.  “And I am supposed to build something . . .”

“A lot of things, actually,” Briga said, sitting down on the ground in front of the forge, smoothing her long skirt as she did so.  “As I said, you have resources undreamt of by Archmagi.  Or even the gods themselves.  So . . . what spells can you imagine?”

I didn’t say anything.  I joined her on the ground, in the heat of the flames, while the stars started to come out overhead.  They were strange stars.  The moon wasn’t right, either – too large, and too white.  I found it disconcerting, so I stared at the fire.

The flames were soothing.  Briga was right – fire is transformative, and not just about turning wood into ash and heat.  It had been so since the first time I accidently lit the oven fires with magic.  Before that, actually.  Without the flame, the bread didn’t get baked.  Fire was essential to transformation.  My eyes sank into the quivering coals, the pulsing plasma within the innermost recesses of the flame.  I allowed my conscious mind to fade away, which was pretty ironic for a fevered dream.

But there was peace, within the coals.  Peace and transformation.  As I let my thoughts drift in reflection to the flame, an inkling of an idea sparked there.  And then another.  And then another.  The flame seemed to inspire me to consider problems from different directions and perspectives.  Sometimes the answers were there, clear and obvious.  Sometimes they were painfully elusive, or lead to even more intriguing questions.

My experience with the Grain of Pors had been instructive.  I understood more about the enneagramatic magic that underlies so much in everything from basic elemental work to the dark science of necromancy than I ever had.  That was a part of it, I knew.

Irionite was key, of course.  But I would need more.

The unique stones from my mountain were also essential, I knew.  I wasn’t certain precisely how, but between all of the crazy enchantments we’d been able to figure out it was clear that I would need several of them.  And there were more under the mountain, I knew, somehow, stones of yet more strange powers.  No, this would not be a simple process, I realized.

But once I realized it was a process, toward a specific goal, I knew I had the beginnings of an idea.  I let my mind languidly drift from one component to the other, considering each separately and then in relation to each other.  No, the Witchsphere was not going to be adequate for this purpose.  Which was fine.  I always hated that name, anyway.

What it became was something far more potent, in my mind.  A mixture of Imperial magic, Alka Alon songspells, Karshak stonesinging and elements of the arcane that were strange and unknown to me.  Yet the imagined result was far more potent than the sum of its parts.  As potent as a goblin head encased in pure irionite?

I could see that it might be.

But even that wasn’t enough, I realized.  The power implicit in the artifact was great, but it was not sufficient, on its own.  To compete with the Dead God, I finally understood, then I had to overmatch him in resources.  And irionite was just one of his resources.

“I’m going to need help,” I finally said, after a few minutes or a few hours of gazing into the flames.

“Of course you are,” Briga said, soothingly.  “There is much you do not know.  But you have managed to place yourself in a position where the people you need will find you,” she predicted.  “But I take it that means that you have begun your vision?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea of where I want to go,” I admitted.  “Where I logically and rationally should proceed.  But considering my dabbling with Alkan magic landed me on my back debating reality with a goddess the first time I tried using it, I’m feeling a little cautious about the plan.”

“You can’t learn from your mistakes if you don’t make any,” she pointed out.

“Thanks,” I grunted, sarcastically.  “This is going to be a hell of a learning experience, then.  I’m pretty sure Master Azhguri will be game to assist – but I’m also going to need Onranion’s help.  That might be more problematic.  The Alkan Council isn’t exactly enthusiastic about letting him have his way with us half-civilized humani.”

“I’m sure you can work something out,” she dismissed.

“The thing is, it’s just one piece of the equation, so to speak,” I explained.  “It’s daring, it’s ambitious, and it’s dangerous, but even if I do build it, it still won’t be sufficient.”

“It would be easier to follow your reasoning if I knew what you were talking about,” she suggested, her eyes locking with mine.

“I think I know how to challenge the Dead God,” I said.  “Or at least how to build the device that will challenge him.  Or part of it.”

“Part of it?”

“Shereul has enormous power,” I agreed, “but he’s also got other tools.  Without a way to match that, it won’t matter how much power I can get out of the thing.  I can’t help but wonder if the rest of the answer doesn’t, in fact, lie with the gods . . .” I trailed off into thought.

“This particular god is a bit confused,” she confessed.  “What the hell are you talking about, Minalan?”

“We need some leverage,” I said, enjoying the idea of keeping a goddess in suspense. “Whether it’s against the gurvani and Shereul or the Alka Alon or . . . whomever else, we need leverage, and we just don’t have it.  The power is helpful, but without a fulcrum and a lever . . . no leverage.”

“Brilliant metaphor . . . what does it mean?”

“It means that I want to try something dangerous and stupid,” I said, suddenly eager.  Inspiration had struck.  “If what you say about my mind is correct at the moment – and who am I to doubt the word of my patron goddess?  Then I’m wondering if I can’t try to use that to at least create a fulcrum.”

“You want to try . . . magic?” she asked, skeptically.  “While you’re unconscious and in a feverish state?  At the exact center of the magical vortex you created?  Minalan, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

I laughed.  “Of course it’s not a good idea!  It’s a very bad idea!  But it’s also the only chance I’ll get to do something like this and have the great excuse that I was unconscious the whole time.”

“Min . . .” she said, her tone sounding like a mixture of Pentandra’s and Alya’s, “what are you planning to do?”

“Let my subconscious mind guide my magic,” I explained.  “I can’t consciously construct what I need to – I have no idea how to do it.  But I didn’t consciously construct snowstone, either, so there’s certainly the possibility it will work.”

“What will work?” she asked, exasperated.

“That’s the thing,” I smiled.  “I have no idea.  I’m going to hook my subconscious mind into your divine inspiration, feed it power until I can’t any more, and see what happens.  If my theory is correct, then my subconscious will supply the form and fashion of what I need, and my divine patroness will supply the inspiration to make it work.”

My divine patroness studied me.  “You are mad,” she finally said, shaking her pretty head sadly.  “Utterly mad.”

“Yes,” I sighed, with satisfaction.  “Now let’s put that madness to work and see what happens.  Stoke up that fire, Goddess.  If flame is transformative, I want a lot to work with.”

The details of what I did, locked in my own head, elude me.  I know that fire was important, I know that various runes of Imperial magic and snatches of Alkan songspells were involved.  Some of it was cribbed from the spell that had inadvertently created snowstone, some was wild magic spewed forth by parts of my brain I didn’t know exist.  I allowed my desire to fill me, and transform itself into will . . . will without form or structure.  I knew what I needed.  I didn’t know how to put it together, consciously.  But I gave my brain all the encouragement it needed to figure it out while I wasn’t paying attention.

The entire enchantment built up around me, encircling the forge, the goddess, and me until the clearing was swirling with power and magic.  The fire leapt into the night’s sky, challenging the strange stars and mocking the too-bright moon.  The heat of the forge swept over me, engulfing me in its volcanic embrace as it raged from the fuel of magical power I was feeding it.

“M-minalan . . . ?” the goddess of fire asked, in a shaking voice.  “What are you doing?”

“No . . . idea . . .” I grunted, as the arcane forces of my mind shot into the forge and began to work without my guidance.  “But it seems to be working!”

She didn’t speak again, for a while, as the imaginary forge transformed from the block of stone to the altar under the Everfire in Briga’s temple in Sevendor Town.  From within the column of flame I could see an object.  The construct of my unstructured desire, made manifest by the depths of my subconscious.

Finally, when the energies I was working with built to a pitch, Briga quietly laid her arm on my shoulder, and I felt a wave of divine magic wash through me.

That was enough.  That brought the construct to final form.  A burst of light and sound and heat exploded from the altar, leaving a diminishing Everfire in its place . . . and the results of my conception.

A glittering snowflake of infinite, changing complexity hung above the ground, made of brilliant crystal.

“That . . . was impressive,” Briga said, as she stared at the creation.

“Yeah,” I agreed, dully.  “Pretty, too.  I wonder what it does?”

“I wonder where it is?”

“You don’t know?” I asked, confused.

“It was just created,” she pointed out.  “I don’t even know if it exists in reality.  It might just be in the Otherworld.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” I said.  “That was just too draining to be a mental exercise.  But it is pretty.”

“A snowflake forged from fire,” Briga nodded, studying the beautiful artifact.

“In the mind of a mad spellmonger,” I finished.  “It does have a certain elegance to it.  And I like the symbolism of the snowflake.”

“Snowflakes are symbols?” Briga asked, skeptically.

“No more than fire is,” I shrugged.  “A symbol is what you make of it.  But this is it,” I pronounced.

“I understand.  I just don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

“It’s the fulcrum I was speaking of,” I explained.  “And no, I don’t know anything beyond that.  I have a feeling I’m going to be studying it in-depth, however.”

“There is one good thing about the exercise,” she pointed out.

“What?”

“Your fever has broken,” she informed me.  “Your brain is starting to shrink a little.  Who knows?  You may even regain consciousness.”

“That would be good,” I decided.  “These strange stars are making me uncomfortable.”

She smiled at that, but didn’t comment.  “In any case, I think that you’ve done all you can, here.  It’s time for you to continue your journey.”

I sighed.  “Isn’t it always?  Which way?”

She shrugged.  “It’s your head.  Does it really matter?”

*                            *                            *

It was a dark road, at first, but after a ways I noticed the skies above the trees lightening.  Twilight.  Dawn.

I kept walking with renewed purpose, and soon every step was lighter.  I realized that the sky was brightening above me, and the more I stared at it the more it pulled at my attention.  I could hear the birds in the trees, and focused on their song . . . until I realized it wasn’t really birdsong.  It was a voice.  A bell-like voice speaking a language I didn’t understand, but whose meaning was tantalizingly out of my reach.  The voice got louder, more intense, transforming into a more complex song that infused me.

Alkan magic.  A songspell.  I remembered those.  I paid rapt attention, trying to understand the nuance.  Alkan magic was fascinating and elusive.

“Repeat that last bit,” I whispered.

“He’s awake!” I heard someone shriek.  That wasn’t part of the song.  My eyelids fluttered.  Light from a pale magelight hung over me, reflected by the walls of Sevendor Castle.  My bedroom.  My tower.  My home.

There was a face above me, silhouetted by the light.  A stunningly beautiful face with metallic-colored hair.  Lady Ithalia. Her song stopped abruptly.

“Magelord?” she asked, anxiously.  “Minalan?”

“Where’s . . . Alya?” I gasped, my head pounding.  But not nearly so aggressively.  Like a boisterous giant dog who had finally settled down to sleep, the pain had become manageable.

“We’ve sent for her,” she assured me.  “She will be here shortly.  Do you require anything?”

“Water,” I agreed.  My mouth was as dry as an old shoe.  The taste was reminiscent, as well.  Someone held a reed to my lips and I sipped.  The pure, clean water refreshed my mouth and aching throat like a spell.  I could speak again.  “How long have I been out?  What about the cook?”

“We took care of it,” the beautiful Alkan lady reassured me.  “All is well, Spellmonger.  You have had a ferocious fever.  The human brain was not designed to endure such punishment as you have inflicted.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, continuing to sip.  I tried to sit up.  My head explained to me what a mistake that was, and I reconsidered.

“When news of your illness reached the Alkan enclaves, we emissaries returned to service.  The men you hired were taken to Timberwatch, and have done as you asked.”

“Oh, thank Briga!” I sighed, settling back into my pillow.  “You would not believe the deposit that guy wanted!  But what about the Kasari?”

“They are all well and secure, just where you left them,” she informed me.  “Lady Pentandra has stepped into your place to lead them, with the assistance of Captain Arborn and your staff.”

“And the refugees?”

She smiled at me.  “What refugees?”

I was confused.  “The thousands of orphaned children from Vorone who were expecting me to produce a miracle and save them from a short desperate life of despair before a bleak and lonely death from starvation or violence?”

“Things have changed a bit since you fell ill, Magelord,” Lady Ithalia said, managing a quite human smile.  She must have been practicing.  “The spells you prepared were well underway before you did.  There are no orphaned refugees in Alshar, anymore.  And as for the Kasari, they have already begun to march east, toward the frontier.  Indeed, the vanguard is but days from the border.”  She said it so casually, and not at all like thousands of unarmed children were about to get butchered or worse.  Nothing could have changed that drastically in the few hours I was out.  Unless . . .

“Ithalia,” I said, carefully, “exactly how long have I been asleep?”

“Magelord, you were not merely asleep – you were courting with death.  But you have been unconscious no less than nine days.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Recovery

A lot can happen in nine days, as it happens.

After a joyful, tearful reunion with Alya and the children, a good breakfast of porridge, and a much-needed bath, Sire Cei himself helped me up to my workshop and into the padded chair I used for reading and meditation.

My body was still weak after my fever.  My brain had swollen, Lady Ithalia explained, as she followed me up. That was what had eventually made me take ill: all the Waypoint transportation I’d been doing.

It was interesting, in a morbidly arcane sort of way.  When a body comes through a Waypoint spell, it is forced to suddenly adjust to the angular momentum of the world below its feet.  The resulting jolt forces the brain against the skull for a brief moment – one of the reasons the spell produces nausea and a flash of panic – a bit like being punched hard in the head without the pain in your face to distract you.

The brain heals, of course . . . with time and rest.  But I had been using the Waypoints so frequently and so often that my brain hadn’t had time to catch up.  At a certain point, it began to swell with the inflammation, and I had slipped into darkness.  Had I not been treated, it was quite possible I might not have returned.

That was frightening, even more frightening than facing a dragon.  At least you usually see the dragon coming.  The Alka Alon had expected me to use the Ways, but they hadn’t anticipated just how much I’d come to rely on them for the march.  The key to my recovery, they said, was more rest and a course of herbs that would reduce the inflammation and promote the restoration of my neurology.

Alya and Estret and the other ladies of the castle fussed about me as much as I’d let them, and Sire Cei did his best to screen the number of messages and dispatches that were arriving for me.  It wasn’t restful, Lady Ithalia insisted.

But neither was sitting there uninformed and anxious about events.  My body didn’t want to move, after nine days in bed.  My mind was still clouded, and I was unable to do more than simple magic.  Not even mind-to-mind communication was possible with the herbs I’d been given.  And no one around me wanted to give me any details. The longer people tried to take my mind off of my worries, the more anxious I became.

“Enough!” I finally said, irritated, when Alya tried to put a pillow under my feet.  “If someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on in Alshar this instant, I’m going to start walking there myself!”  It was a hollow threat – I doubt I could make it down the stairs unassisted – but it got people’s attention.  Sometimes it’s good to be the Spellmonger.

“Fine!” Alya said, hands on her hips.  “If you must know, Pentandra is leading the entire march to the frontier, even now.  They will be there the day after tomorrow.  The local barons have assembled a force of nearly two hundred lances and hundreds of archers at the border checkpoint to intercede.  Now that you are awake – and yes, everyone there has been informed – she plans to stop tomorrow and re-assess her course of action.  Are you happy now?”

“Happier,” I conceded, considering the intelligence.  “Two hundred lances, you say?”

“At least, Magelord,” Sire Cei affirmed.  “Most of two baronies have turned out, in response to the crisis.  His Highness is adamant about Alshari refugees in Castal.  Despite your absence from camp – certainly not missed by his spies – he still believes you are the one behind their advance.  And there is more . . . word of a large contingent of mercenaries moving west along the road, apparently in support of the Prince’s troops.”

“That is interesting news,” I agreed.  “Thank you.  I feel a little better about things, now.  The march hasn’t fallen apart, they aren’t starving –”

“Gareth is overseeing the provisioning operations from Timberwatch,” Sire Cei assured me.  “The man you hired to lead the effort is apparently uncannily efficient.”

“That’s why I paid him as much as I did,” I nodded.  “So no starving kids?”

“No, Magelord,” he promised.  “All are well.  There have been deaths, from what I hear,” my castellan reported, “but they have been few, for a host so large.”

“So . . . all I have to do is sit here and rest, and wait for Pentandra to consult me?”

“That seems to be the case, Magelord,” Sire Cei agreed, gravely.

“And that means rest!” Alya emphasized.  “Not experimenting, not enchanting, not reading, not talking, not writing, not planning, plotting, scheming, or even idle daydreaming, do you hear me?” she said, warningly.  It would have been comical if I didn’t hear a desperate note in her voice.

“I will, I promise,” I agreed.  “At least for a day or so.  I really don’t feel like doing anything more strenuous, and now that I know things in Alshar are going well, I don’t mind a bit of a nap.”

“Says the man who just slept for nine days straight,” Alya said, a little shrilly.

“I’ll rest!” I promised.  “I don’t want to go through that again.  Besides, if I did I’d miss how all of this turns out.”

*                            *                            *

I did rest for an entire day, sleeping a few hours and the waking up just long enough to drink more disgusting herbs, a little watered wine, and some broth.  Then I’d nod back off.  I think they laced the wine, knowing I’d finish every drop.

But every time I awoke, I felt stronger, less frail, and more alert.  My muscles began to unstiffen, and I was able to walk across the room and then up and down stairs.  Going to the guarderobe by myself was an event.  By the end of the day I felt strong enough to resume my link with the witchsphere and do some light thaumaturgical exercises.  Just as Ithalia had warned me, my brain was still recovering from the damage it had sustained.  I cursed myself for not paying closer attention to it, but at least it was healing.

As helpful as the treatments I was receiving were, there were some warmagic spells I knew could assist the process.  When no one was looking, I cast a few.  But the thing that made me feel better the most was something utterly unexpected that happened that morning.

My father poked his head into my workshop.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” I asked, surprised and startled.  I’d just seen him . . . ten days ago?  Eleven?  But that was back in Talry-on-Burine, not—

“Decided to take a bit of a holiday,” my father grunted as he pulled himself up the narrow stairs and into the room.  “I wasn’t fond of the way the castle men treated my shop, and when the baron rescinded my license—”

“He what?” I asked, shocked.  Baron Lithar was getting old, to be sure, but I could not imagine him inflicting politics on a long and trusted vendor like my father.  But that’s just what he’d done.

“He had the order from the Duke, himself, it’s said,” Dad grumbled as he found a stool and pulled his portly body into it.  “It’s also been said that it’s a highly temporary thing.  That when the trouble blows over, it will be restored without prejudice.  It’s not personal, Min.”

“It damn sure is personal!” I said, angrily.  “The Prince’s problem is with me, not you!  He—”

“He is just doing what men of power do, using the means at their disposal as leverage,” my dad reminded me.  “The same as you do.  Or I, for that matter,” he added, proudly.

“Well, to be fair, there’s not much you can do about it, Dad,” I said, a little gently.

“Actually, in my way, there is,” he chuckled.  “Don’t dismiss my power, just because I’m not a lord.  There is power, and then there is the power you get from knowledge.”

“How so?” I asked, genuinely curious.  I hadn’t considered my father an authority on the subject of power, but I was suddenly very keen to hear his insights.

“You serve a place for more than thirty-five years, you get to know its secrets.  And how one thing relates to another.  And what happens when certain things don’t get done the way that they’re supposed to.  Or certain people don’t get paid when they’re supposed to.  Not to mention the fact that if the village and castle want bread, they must bake it themselves . . . at the premium price the mill charges everyone but me.”

“That seems like a pretty small thing,” I said, sadly.  “There must be something you can do!”

“It’s being done, Son,” he assured me.  “After the raid, your mother and I decided to come see our grandchildren on holiday, in Sevendor, and live with my son, the rich baron for a few months.  And we brought everyone else in the family, too – and every apprentice.  The shop at home is locked up tight and the ovens are cold.

“And cold they’ll remain,” he continued, resolutely.  “I’ve asked the Temple of Briga to issue a Writ of Prescription against the barony, for its unjust behavior against me.  If it is granted that means that no leavened bread will be able to be baked there, at risk of Briga’s Curse.  And no smith will be willing to light his forge for so much as a horseshoe nail.  No fosterlings will be taken.  No candles made from wax.  It’s not a harsh response, but it will be a great inconvenience.”

“As it happens, I’ve developed a close relationship to priestesshood of Our Lady of Rapid Oxidation.  Especially Abbess Parsily at the Charvelene Abbey.  She might be well-disposed to your request.  But Dad, your shop—” It pained me to even think about it.  That shop had been my home and his career since he’d gotten his journeyman papers.  It had to be killing him.

Or not.  “My shop will remain closed while my wife and family and I take a well-deserved holiday,” he said, defiantly, “sponging off of my rich and powerful son in his beautiful little valley.  My son who apparently owns everything in sight.”

“Well, to be fair, you can’t see much from the tower,” I said, lamely.

“Humph.  Just a couple of mountain ridges, castles, villages . . . that’s a lot more than I ever envisioned for you, Min.”

“Honestly, me, too, Dad,” I admitted.  “Most of it was an accident,” I confessed.  “Just the result of people being grateful for me doing some unlikely things.  It’s also cost me a lot, in many ways.  Honestly, sometimes I wonder whether I’d have been better off as a baker.”

“It’s a hard thing, to question the will of the gods,” he sighed.  “You would have been a good baker, I have no doubt.  But you love magic,” he pointed out.  “You really do.  As much or more as I love bread.  And that’s fine, Son.  That’s more than fine.  A man who can discover the thing he loves most in life is almost as fortunate as the man who discovers a woman he can love.  You don’t have to love baking to make me proud.  I understand what you see in magic – and you’re as talented in your art as you could ever have been in mine.  It’s sufficient,” he pronounced, “to see you doing well at what you love.  I don’t need to see you doing well at what I love.”

“I do love magic,” I agreed.  “And I’ve been very fortunate to have discovered that.  And I am good at it.  Not the best, even if I’m the most powerful.  But if the gods have set this path for me, and given me both the talent and the interest, I feel compelled to follow it.  Even if it leads me into some strange places . . . like tramping through backwoods Alshar with a couple of thousand children.  Or facing off against a dragon.  It also lets me do some pretty impressive things, too.”

“Like turn a mountain and a castle white?” he offered, smiling.  “Or stringing the place with those magical lights until a man doesn’t know what time of day it is?  I’ve heard about what this place looked like before you got here.  It’s a wonder, what you’ve done here.”

“To be honest, I feel I’ve neglected it too long.  Both the domain and the rest of the barony.  After this march is completed, one way or another, I think it’s time I devoted some attention to the place.  If you think it is a wonder now, just wait until you see what I’ve got planned for it.  Including the world’s best bakery.  But other things, more impressive things.  Just wait until the new fortress is completed,” I promised.  “Just wait until you see what I have planned for the town and the countryside.  In Sevendor I can use magic in ways that haven’t even been attempted since the Magocracy,” I boasted.  “And because it’s Sevendor, I can experiment with things that the Archmagi couldn’t even imagine.”

“Not to mention power,” he added.  “My son, the Baron.  It was astonishing enough to learn that you’d been ennobled.  But a baron?  A peer of old Lithar?  That’s impressive!”

“My craft has been fascinating, and it’s purchased me some security.  Security I hope I haven’t injured.  It’s not usually a good idea to make enemies of your liege lord,” I observed.  “Yet I fear I may have done that.”

“It’s purchased more than that.  I know what you’ve done here.  Your people are in awe of you.  I’m proud of you for that.  You could have been one of those snot-nosed aristocrats, as useful as a fairy cake.  But you’re a two-pound loaf, as a lord.  You’ve done better by your folk than even old Lithar has with his, and he’s counted a good lord by one and all.”

“He doesn’t have magic on his side,” I pointed out.  “Or as much money as I do.”

“As to that,” my father said, guiltily, “when we came, your wife put us all up in a . . . in a fancy hall, Min.  A brand new hall, apparently, in the outer bailey.  She gave us the whole hall, and didn’t ask a penny.”  He sounded troubled and indignant about it.  My dad was an honest man.

“If she had, we would have had words.  You are my family.  You will pay for nothing, while you are here,” I promised.  “If you’ve been forced out of your shop because of me, then you stay at my expense.”

“I’d hesitate to say ‘forced’,” Dad said, smiling.  “I’m on holiday.  More, I’m enjoying not being a slave to the ovens for a change.  And honestly, I couldn’t help but notice that you lack a baker, here.  I thought I’d help my sons-in-laws set up a proper bakery and make sure it’s running before I go back to Talry.  Assuming the Prescription is lifted by then,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

“And Mama is all right with this?” I asked, surprised.

“Are you kidding?  Everyone here treats her like a noble.  Except her daughters, of course, but that was too much to expect.  The lads are enjoying the break, after that bit of work you had them at.  In truth they’re looking to spend some of that extra silver they made in the last few months.  Which is why we’re considering sites around Sevendor Town for a bakery . . . a model bakery, with even better ovens and layout than I had in Talry.

“Different, of course, as there’s no river traffic here, but, well, I have to do something, don’t I?” he asked, suddenly looking a little desperate.  “It’s the curse of success.  My shop is overflowing with bakers.  I’ve stopped taking apprentices myself, because your brothers-in-law all have them now, too.”

“Is that a problem?” I asked.  It didn’t sound like it would be.

“Considering . . . I’m considering retiring, if you want to know the truth.  But . . . but who to leave the shop to?  And retire and do what?  So this little holiday really does help me out,” he admitted.  “I can figure out who to set up here, in Sevendor, and who to leave in charge back in Talry, when the time comes.  All of the lads are deserving of it, but this way I don’t have to choose as harshly.  Might take a year or so before we get things working right,” he said, apologetically, “but when we’re done you’ll have the best bakery in the county!”

“I trust your judgment.  Whatever kind of bakery you want, assume you have a license for it.”

He smiled.  “That’s what a father likes to hear: how his grown-up son has learned to use nepotism and family connections for the profit of his kin.”  Then he got a little more serious.

“Oh, and, whatever it was that you did to nearly die and lie there asleep, worrying a year off my life every day you slept?  Don’t do that anymore.”

“Yes, Dad.”

*                            *                            *

Dad wasn’t the only visitor I had that day.  As much as Sister Bemia and Lady Ithalia insisted that I be allowed to rest, Master Guri came to see me, his face more troubled than I’d expect.

“Min,” he grunted, eschewing titles and other formalities.  “You’re looking better.  Thought we’d be turning that mountain into a tomb there for awhile.”

“It takes more than a concussion to keep me out,” I said, defiantly.  “How goes the construction?”

“Oh, well enough, he conceded.  “We’ve been working straight through, day and night.  Bringing out three, sometimes four blocks a day.  The guide tunnel is almost done, and . . . well, that’s kind of why I’m here.  We, uh, found something.”

“Found something?  More magic rocks?”

“We’re not quite certain just what it is,” he said, troubled.  “We do know it wasn’t there a few days ago.  But when my lads went down to the shaft they’re digging in the south east side, they cut through into a vesicle and found . . .” he said, trailing off, clearly having a difficult time describing it.

I had an idea what it was, though.

“A big perfect crystal snowflake about three feet wide that keeps changing its form?” I offered.

The Karshak looked at me, eyes wide, mouth open.

“How the hells did you know?” he exploded.  “You’ve been unconscious since before we dug that shaft!”

“Don’t worry about it,” I dismissed.  “I, uh, kind of created it, I think.  While I was unconscious.  There was a dream . . . it’s all a bit hazy, but I’m pretty sure that big snowflake is my fault.”

“Well, what does it do?” he demanded.  “It’s made out of that quartz your spell affected, only it’s like . . . it’s like the crystal is alive.”

“It’s a magic thing,” I explained.  “What does Azhguri say about it?”

“He’s still singing it,” grumbled Guri, “but he thinks it’s like a molopor.”

“A . . . molopor?”

“Like a molopor,” the stonesinger corrected.  “It’s got a lot of the same properties.  I never saw one before, but my grandsire, he’s seen a few.  It’s not exactly a molopor, but . . . it’s like one.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I pointed out.

“You think?” Guri asked me, his huge nostrils flaring in frustration.  “No one told me I’d have to deal with this sort of thing when I took this job, Min!”

“No one mentioned it to me, either,” I observed.  “But the quick answer is that my brain made it when I was unconscious.  It’s a fulcrum.”

“A bloody fulcrum?” the Karshak asked, stupefied.  “What the hells does that mean?”

“I don’t know!  I’m making this up as I go along!” I said, rolling my eyes.  “Look, it’s probably fine.  Just . . . work around it, for now.  Don’t touch it until I can get down there and do a thorough thaumaturgical evaluation on it.  When I’m feeling better and have some time, I’ll take a look, I promise.  But I don’t think you have to worry about it.  It shouldn’t be harmful.”

“Compared to all of the other magical crystal snowflakes I’ve found under mountains?” he challenged.

I didn’t really have an answer for that.  I had no real idea what the thing was, either, I just knew it was important . . . and that I had made it.  Theoretically, it should be a powerful tool to combat Shereul.  Theoretically.

By that evening I was almost feeling normal.  I’d restored my tissues with fruit juice and water, wine and broth, and moved up to bread and vegetable soup.  I’d slept long and well, as restfully as possible.  Alya would come in and lay with me for a few hours at a time, rubbing my shoulders and stroking my hair.  I didn’t begrudge her that – if I had nearly lost her, I would have been at least as attentive.  And it was gratifying to wake up with her there, staring at me.

A little creepy, too.  But I didn’t mind.

That night I awoke long past midnight, my bladder issuing urgent demands.  After tending to them, I realized I needed to do something else pressing, though in the realm of the spiritual, not the biological.  I left Alya wrapped in our sheets, kissed both babies as I left, and wandered down the stairs into the Great Hall, all but deserted at this hour.  I crept past the great white fireplace and around to the alcove that housed the small castle chapel.  Lighting a couple of candles in front of Briga’s statue on the altar, I invoked her with my prayer.

She appeared within moments.

“Now that’s divine service!” I chuckled.

“Minalan!  You’re better!” the goddess said, looking relieved.

“Better than who?” I quipped.  “I’m only feeling a little bit dead, now, if that’s what you mean.  But I am getting better.  How fares the quest?”

“Better than expected, and in some unforeseen ways,” she admitted.  “You seem to have a knack for this sort of thing.  Even with you gone for a week and a half, your plan proceeded essentially as you wished.”

“Which means you produced that miracle I wanted?” I asked.

“In fact, I did,” she said, a little indignantly.  “More or less where you wanted it.  A small settlement just outside of Lemsiddons.”

“Another magical pillar of fire?” I prodded.

“I could only manage that in Sevendor,” she said, pouting a little.  “Among other things.  But it was a decided miracle.  An aged priestess of mine who married a Kasari man happened to get struck by lightning.”

“Doesn’t sound like your style,” I said, frowning.

“I was in a hurry, I had to improvise,” she said, defensively.  “In any case, when she awoke she found she now has the divine blessing of laying hands upon someone and foretelling that which they are most talented or favored to do, or most inspired by.”

“That’s . . . a miracle?” I asked, confused.  “Any nun can do that!”

“Not with this precision,” she said, shaking her head.  “She can tell you exactly what you’d be best at.  If you have a special knack for the harp, for instance, she will counsel you to find one and learn.  If you would excel in letters, she will tell you to learn to read.  Or if you find deep, soul-abiding inspiration from ocean views, she tells you to seek the sea.  Like that,” she offered, reasonably.

“It sounds like simple prophecy,” I said, frowning.

“It is not prophecy!” she insisted, defensively, smoke curling from her hair.  “It’s revelation!  Big difference!  Did you learn nothing at the academy?”

“I had one course in theurgy, and I didn’t pay much attention,” I admitted.  “That was about the time I met Pentandra, and I got distracted.  I’m starting to give the field further consideration, however,” I offered, conciliatorily.

“How enlightened of you,” she said, coolly.

“In any case, if you say it’s a real miracle, it’s a miracle.  The question is, does the temple agree?”

“When I told the high priestess to her face ‘Oh, by the way, I  just arranged a miracle’?” Briga asked, a red eyebrow arched like a crimson chevron.  “Of course she did.  As you suggested, it was announced throughout the duchy as a recognized sign of favor by the temple.  Now any idiot in the world who wants to tramp all the way to a cabin in the Castali Wilderlands to learn he’s destined to be the world’s third best flute maker will be able to do so for a small donation to the local shrine.”

“I suppose that will do,” I agreed, finally.

“So glad you approve, Minalan!” she said, sharply.  “Do you have any idea what it took to arrange that?  It will be more than sufficient for your purpose.  Now, if there’s no other miracles you’d like me to do—”

“Actually,” I said, foolishly interrupting the goddess of fire and vengeance.  I guess I was feeling cocky.  “There is one little thing.  Could you . . . heal me?”

“What?” she snapped.

“You’re a goddess of healing,” I reminded her, for more than one reason.  “I’m recovering from magical head trauma.  It’s not a speedy process.  I beseech you, oh goddess, to lend your divine aid to my poor aching head, in the furtherance of your divine—”

“Oh, stop it, before you get divine vomit on your slippers,” she scowled.  “Yes, I’ll give you a healing blessing tonight when you go back to sleep.  But I want a favor in return.”

“The temple is already as large as we can safely make it,” I warned.

“The temple is . . . adequate,” she said, with a sniff.  “No, this is a personal favor.  Remember when I said I wanted you to make another god . . . permanent?  You’ll be getting that chance, soon.”

“What?” I asked.  “Who?”

“You should have realized by now that I’m not the only divinity involved in this extended parade,” she said, carefully.  “And while it’s not my place to reveal such a thing, I should hope you’re smart enough to figure it out.  When you do, I think you’ll agree that it’s more than warranted.  I just want you to consider it strongly.  I think it would be helpful to us both . . . to us all, actually.”

“Is that prophecy?” I asked, warily.

“Not my sphere,” she dismissed.  “That was enlightened speculation.  But I hope you’ll agree our little experiment in divine mechanics has been successful.  I think it’s worth expanding.”

I thought about it.  If she meant who I think she meant . . . and they were who I thought they were . . .

I shrugged.  “One good blessing deserves another.  Heal me.  We have a deal.”

*                            *                            *

I awoke at dawn the next morning, and I felt great.  True to her word, Briga’s blessing had restored a great deal of my mind to health.  My vision was clear, my limbs were strong, and there was no trace of headache anymore.

Of course, not everyone was convinced.  Alya insisted that Lady Ithalia and Sister Bemia both examine me thoroughly before she’d even let me dress.  But when they both pronounced me vastly improved, though neither would say the word ‘healthy’, much of my wife’s objections faded.  When I offered to demonstrate (in private) just how much better I was feeling, she agreed I could go back to my magical quest.

I began with consulting Pentandra, mind-to-mind.  The connection was sharp and clear, and I could feel her surface emotions a bit, as well as hear her conscious words.

About time you decided to return to the living, she said, when I made contact.  We’re encamped six miles from the border with Castal, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Waiting for you, mostly, she admitted.  The Kasari are unwilling to go forward without you, once they heard you were awake and recovering.

Recovered, I corrected.  I’ll be joining you later today.  Lady Ithalia even approved limited Waypoint travel, if I rested sufficiently afterwards.

I’ll let everyone know.  But we’re ready, she promised.  Arborn and I, Tyndal, Rondal, Dara, Ormar, Landrick, Rael, Lelwen, Brother Hotfoot, the priestesses, we’re all ready for this.  Which is good, she added.  We just got a report that His Highness is considering riding from Wilderhall to the frontier himself to oversee its defense against the rabble.  Perhaps as soon as a few days.

Oh, really?  You know, I could delay a few days, just so that we don’t do this until he’s there.  In fact, that might be the perfect time, in some ways.

Min, don’t go picking fights you can’t win, in the long run, Penny warned.  You’ve already challenged him.  Don’t make this worse by making it personal.  We’re going to have enough trouble from this as it is, she reminded me.

I thought about telling her about the magical snowflake I had apparently grown while I was asleep.  Somehow I wasn’t afraid of an irritated nobleman.  But then I decided against it.  With what we had in front of us, and with her already feeling distracted by Arborn’s presence, she really didn’t need anything else to deal with right now.  And as much fun as it would be humiliating Tavard again in front of his vassals, I knew that it wasn’t a good idea.

You’re probably right.  I’d rather do it without him, if we can.  Less complications, I decided.  Can you hold the camp there for another day, at least?  Is there any danger?

Not to speak of, she agreed.  We’re well-protected.  We can last another day without you.

Good.  That will give me a chance to get a last few pieces into place.

Isn’t everything in place? she asked.  Or are there parts of the plan you haven’t told me, as usual?

There’s just more than one plan, I corrected.  You know most of it.  This is more . . . political than magical.  Trust me, I said, encouragingly.  I know what I’m doing.

Anybody else in the world might believe that, but this is me, remember?

Which is why you need to trust me, I repeated.  I’ve listened to every word you’ve told me about politics, power, and all of that.  I’ve been practicing it, too.  I’m not adept, yet, but I think I do know what I’m doing, this time.  We’ll know in a few days.

I don’t really have any choice, do I? she accused.

No, not really, I agreed, smugly.  I liked it that way.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Frontier Of Castal

I took two days to continue recovering before I finally appeared back in the camp. The Emissaries were good enough to assist with the transport of a few guests, in preparation, while Sister Bemia tended to me until it was time to depart.  Ithalia had insisted on doing the transport spell herself, actually, to save my brain, and I’d conceded more because I felt more confident in her songspell.

Pentandra had told a few of the other staff I was coming so that they could greet me before the Kasari mobbed me.  That’s why we appeared and met first inside Pentandra’s elaborate pavilion.  After the Alkan was done with her duties, she examined me for a moment and then took her leave.  There were things happening in the realm of the Alka Alon that required her attention.  Pentandra solemnly assured her that she would not allow me to strain myself one bit.

Penny had gathered most of the magical and command staff together for my return in her pavilion.  It was a tearful reunion, and I thought all three of my apprentices were going to cry.  One of them did – I won’t tell which.  I greeted everyone in turn and listened to their well-wishes and quick reports.  Then Pentandra took over, and I was relegated to watching the organization I put together go to work.  Without need of me.

I felt like a decrepit old man, the way they treated me,  Actually, I generally felt fine, now, just a little more mortal.  The staff was behaving as if I’d returned from the dead.  I actually didn’t expect the wave of sound that greeted me when I left the tent to inspect the camp before departure.  Every child there seemed to be gathered, screaming and calling and cheering all at once.  That many voices was deafening.

“Arwyddion i fyny!” Pentandra called, making the Kasari sign with her right hand.  In moments, the thousands of children returned it, Kasari and Narasi alike, each one growing quiet until you could hear them all breathing.

“Our Spellmonger has returned,” Pentandra announced, her voice augmented by magic.  “Tonight we enjoy a meal to celebrate.  Tomorrow, we strike camp and continued down the road.  Are we all ready?”

“Byddwch yn barod!” came the call in unison.  In Kasari.  From everyone.

I looked out at the crowd.  The true Kasari children were easy to spot – apart from some wear and tear, they wore the same hempcloth uniforms they’d begun the journey with.  Many had lost their cloaks or traded them to others, but they looked like Kasari.

So did most of the two-thousand newcomers we’d picked up between Otter’s Point and Tudry.  Our efforts to equip them and teach them the Kasari ways had forged them into children that only another Kasari could distinguish from one of their own.  Their clothes were a little more garish, less embroidered and their gear less standardized, but from a distance you couldn’t tell them apart.

But the refugee children from Vorone hadn’t the time or experience to masquerade as Kasari.  While they lacked the Kasari’s resources, they had managed to each find a staff to carry them.  They had found mantles and clothes, shoes and boots, and many had found packs to carry their belongings.  They were more neatly dressed and well-behaved than the mob who had greeted us on the road.  They were also better fed.

“We had to do something, while we waited for the new kitchens to get set up,” Tyndal explained as we inspected the hundreds of orphans who filed in together, Kasari-style.  “So the rangers and the older Kasari started teaching the orphans how to live off the land, like they do when they’re in the wild.  Which plants are good to eat, which mushrooms, which nuts and berries are in season and when.  How to fish, how to trap, how to forage for eggs and such.”

“Instead of starving, the children learned how not to starve, even when they have nothing,” agreed Rondal, walking on the other side of me.  “The hunters and the hawks were bringing back some meat, but not enough for all.  We got some grain, but not much.  But a little of it, stretched with the wild plants and such the children gathered, seemed to feed everyone for a couple of days.”

“It was a few days of unusual cuisine,” Tyndal chuckled, “but it kept everyone alive and hearty, until the first few meals began to appear again from Timberwatch.  By then we’d heard of your . . . fall.  Everyone was very worried, and it seemed to focus the attention of the new children.   No one wanted to continue without you, so they just practiced.  Learned how to survive on birds and squirrels, wild tubers and bark, but they learned.

“And that wasn’t the only Kasari skill they practiced, while you were gone,” Dara chimed in.  “Pentandra made certain to keep everyone busy while we re-organized, and a lot of those orphans were pretty eager to learn.”

“The local lords weren’t very happy about it, at first,” Rondal continued. “No one likes having an army of children fouling up what little commerce is left in the region.  But they’ve been very encouraging about seeing us over the frontier.  So much so that they were persuaded to sell us some of their surplus.  It was easier than having their herds raided from the air, I suppose.”

“There was one knight who insisted on collecting tolls from everyone,” Tyndal added, “but I convinced him to forgo the fee in the spirit of public service.  And because I told him I would lead every child here to tear down his castle, stone by stone, if he persisted.” He sounded disappointed that the knight relented.

“It sounds like you’ve taken care of everything while I’ve been gone,” I praised.  In fact, I couldn’t really imagine how things could have been going better.  I expected ruin and misery.  What I saw were a sea of smiling, happy – and somewhat dirty – faces.  And a couple of apprentices who were leading like grown men.  That confirmed my decision.

“Yes, they’ve been helpful,” Pentandra said, from behind me.  “Everyone has.  But I couldn’t have kept everything together, gotten everything done, if your apprentices hadn’t been here.  They’re both being far too modest in their accomplishments . . . which I find suspicious.”

“How unfair!” Tyndal moaned, mockingly.  “Here we are, trying to do well by our poor old tired master, so recently risen from his sickbed, so close to death’s embrace . . .”

“Old?” I asked, halting.

“What my colleague means is that the honor of the Spellmonger of Sevendor was at stake, and we could do no less than our best under such trying circumstances,” Rondal added, diplomatically.  “I assure you, we’ve had no ulterior motive beyond simple loyalty.  Mae sgowtiaid yn ffyddlon.”

“See what I mean?” Pentandra said, wryly.  “They’re clearly up to something.”

It was fascinating to watch.  The camp was bustling with children beginning packing up their belongings and striking camp.  Pentandra’s patrol of girls was hurriedly packing her baggage when we were done inside the pavilion, and it was one of the last to go.  The children were eager to be underway, now that I had returned.  They had been instructed to take their place on the road as soon as they were dismissed from their duties, and the Kasari didn’t linger.  The Kasari troops had assembled by patrol in an orderly manner, stretching down the road for a long ways.

The refugee children from Vorone showed far less discipline, although they had picked up the social signal to be silent when the Kasari hand signal was given.  The priestesses and monks who had taken charge of them had begun using it to help control the crowd of kids as they got them organized for march.  The refugee “troops” were more mobs than organized lots – though they had adopted colored sashes from the pile of rags that was left from the clothing I’d procured.  The last of that had been distributed to the grateful throng from Vorone.

About three hundred kids in each group wore strips torn from the same colored garment, and clustered around a priest or priestess bearing a pole with a simple banner of the same color.  Some of the older children had been designated (or had declared themselves) leaders, and sported additional ribbons.  I’m not sure how effective they were, but it was better than the near riot of kids who had shown up nearly two weeks before.

To my surprise there were horses waiting for us at the head of the column.  I had expected to march.

“Ithalia didn’t want to wear you out with walking,” Pentandra explained to me, when I stopped abruptly at the sight of them.  “Tyndal arranged to have them brought in from Tudry, and Astyral says if you return that roan mare to him in less than perfect condition, he will find a creative way to respond – apparently she’s his favorite.”

“But I wanted to march with the kids,” I said, nearly whining.  “We’ve come so far together!”

“Don’t be stupid, Min,” she continued, in a voice too low for most to overhear.  “You were just asleep for nine days.  Your body hasn’t recovered.  Even for the few miles to the border . . . and if there is fighting, I really don’t want you worn out.  Besides, to make this work, you have to be a simple magelord about his business.  Speaking of which,” she said, frowning, “we need to have some legitimate business for you to be crossing the border to pursue.  Not that they’d keep you from crossing, with your rank and position, but if we want to—”

“I know,” I interrupted.  “I have the perfect reason for me to be going to Wilderhall.”  I told her what it was.  Her eyes got wide.

“Min . . . are you sure?” she asked, swallowing.

“Yes,” I said, confidently.  “If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that a man has to be willing to let some things go in order to keep things going.”

“That’s . . . it’s just a big step.  I’m not sure you’re ready.”

“You’re worried about me?”

“I’m always worried about you,” she confessed, with unexpected emotion.  “Don’t you understand?  So much depends upon you, now.  Not just this – the march, the Kasari, the pele towers – but so much more.  What would happen if you died?” she asked, a bit shrilly.  “What would happen if you suddenly weren’t there and I . . . I had to be in charge of this mess?” she asked.  There might have been tears in her eyes.  Or it could have been the thick summer Wilderlands pollen in the air.

“It’s time,” I said, gently, as I eyed the saddle.  “We both know it is.”  Then I raised my head and said it louder, to different purpose.  “It’s time!” I called.  “Trekmasters, prepare the troops for march!”

There was a sudden cheering as the Kasari children shouldered their packs and formed a line, five abreast across the wide East Road.  The refugee kids tried to do the same, with far less orderly result.

I allowed myself to be helped into the saddle of the big roan mare, putting my traveling staff into the holster meant for a lance.  Rondal and Tyndal rode their own mounts beside me and Pentandra, and Sir Festaran, Arborn and our special guests riding behind us.

Ormar reached me, mind-to-mind.

Skyriders aloft, Spellmonger!  Good to have you back, Minalan.  It was getting boring.

Your holiday is over, I reminded him.  We still have a few hundred miles to cross until we get to the end of the trail.

I’m counting every step, he promised.

It was a pretty morning, and we began to walk the horses at a languid pace, to keep from outdistancing the marchers behind us.  The Kasari rangers walked next to the ranks, bows strung but shouldered, eyes keen for any hint of trouble.  A few moments after we began I sighted the first of Dara’s wing circling south of us, high up enough to keep one from discovering just how big a bird it was.

I was just settling into the rhythm of the horses’ hoof beats on the road and enjoying the day when we approached the frontier.

I had been through this checkpoint dozens of times, over the years.  The field that marked the boundary between duchies was unremarkable, save that it had been a staging area for various armies over the years.  The one that was there now looked to be the combined forces of two baronies, I could see by magesight.  Over a hundred heavy lancers, and thrice than many archers and light infantry.  Wains and logs had been piled up on either side of the road to create a barricade allowing only a few to pass at one time.  Crossbowmen peered out from behind emplacements, their bows cocked and ready.

“That does look intimidating,” Tyndal smirked.  “Clearly, they’ve dealt with children before.”

“Keep quiet,” I counseled.  “Let me do the talking.”

“I would not dream of depriving you of the honor, Master,” Tyndal replied, eying the three heavily-mailed knights who were striding toward us with purpose.  We halted within bowshot, bravely and patiently waiting parley.

“Hail!  Who comes to the frontier of Castal?” the lead knight asked, formally.

“Minalan the Spellmonger, Baron of Sevendor,” I answered promptly, displaying my ring seal.  “And household.”

“You have business in Castal?” asked the knight, warily eyeing the long line of children behind us.

“I live in Castal,” I replied.  “I currently have business at Wilderhall with the Royal Court Wizard.”

“And all of these . . . people are in your household?” he asked, skeptically.

“Of course not!” I snorted.  “Merely these folk, here.  The rest were travelers we met along the way.”

“You met . . . all of these people?”

“Our master is very friendly,” Tyndal blurted out.

“Extremely gregarious,” Rondal agreed.  “Never met a stranger, from what I can tell.”

I shrugged at the knight’s glare.  “I like to talk,” I confessed.  “Meeting new people on the road is always an adventure.”

The knight was tired of our bantering, but my rank and the tension of the situation kept him from losing his temper.  “I am Sire Falgarch, representative of His Grace, the Duke of Castal.  His Grace has decreed that no undocumented refugees be permitted entry into Castal,” he said, loudly and evenly.

If he expected the Kasari to gasp in disappointment, he was the one disappointed.

“I commend His Grace on his devotion to administrative detail,” I said, smoothly.

“So you understand that there will be NO refugees crossing the border?” he asked, his voice growing even more tense.

“From what I understand, there aren’t any refugees here,” Pentandra said, feigning surprise.

That made Sire Falgarch snort.  “Then what do you call that rabble behind you?”

“The pilgrims?” asked Pentandra, looking over her shoulder at the endless line of children behind her.  “They aren’t refugees.”

“Pilgrims?” the knight asked, his mustache falling.

“Pilgrims,” I affirmed.  “Which, under the terms of the kingdom charter, signed and sealed by the three constituent dukes, ensures that any and all pilgrims be permitted free access across ducal frontiers in pursuit of their religious devotion,” I reminded him.  That had been a serious point of negotiation, I’d learned – the only way the temples were willing to support the establishment of the kingdom was if their clergy were afforded special protections.  And the pilgrims that kept their temples running.

Sire Falgarch was unimpressed.  “Real pilgrims,” he corrected.  “Not vagabonds who say they’re pilgrims!  The charter states that only documented pilgrims on a pilgrimage to a recognized sacred site or precinct are offered those protections . . . not a bunch of landless urchins!”

“From what I understand,” I said, slowly, “each and every one of the pilgrims in this company has their documentation available,  ready for your inspection and approval,” I said, smiling.

“What did you say?” Sire Falgarch said, alarmed at the implications.

“That’s right, my lord,” Brother Hotfoot said, pushing forward to address the man, a folio of parchment in his hands.  “Each and every person in this pilgrimage has the appropriate legal documentation supporting their right to cross the ducal frontier as designated pilgrims.  The Kasari, I believe, are headed to Kasar for the occasion of the installation and rededication of an ancient idol sacred to their people,” he said, glancing at his notes.  “The rest of the company is headed . . . to Lemsiddons?  What a remarkable coincidence!  Yes, the rest are headed to Lemsiddons, in Kasar, to attend to the miraculous nun who can tell a man’s fortune.”

“A fortune-telling nun?” Sire Falgarch asked, skeptically.

“Indeed,” Brother Hotfoot said, serenely.  “The Temple of Briga, Charvelene Abbey in Wilderhall has issued an invitation to pilgrimage, in part to fund a new temple in the Kasari lands, to take advantage of the goddess’ blessing,” he said, handing the knight a parchment notifying one and all of the officially-sanctioned divine occurrence.

“A . . . fortune telling nun,” Sire Falgarch repeated, as if trying to convince himself.

“Aye, the ways of the gods remain mysterious,” Hotfoot said, with a sympathetic sigh.  “But each of these folk have their Letters of Pilgrimage in hand, ready for your inspection.”

“Each of them?” Falgarch asked in disbelief.

“Each and every one,” Hotfoot assured, serenely.

One of the other knights could no longer be silent.

“That is ridiculous!  It would take an army of clerks weeks to write that many letters!” he complained, waving the notification around expressively.  “This invitation to pilgrimage is barely a week old!  There is no possible way that each of these . . . children,” he sneered, looking at the column, “has a duly-executed and legal letter of pilgrimage!  This is a wizard’s trick, my lord!” he insisted.

“No trick, I assure you, my lord,” Hotfoot said, solemnly.  “Every letter has been written, signed by an authorized member of the clergy, and properly and legally sealed.”

The other knight spoke up, his face turning red with anger.

“My lord,” he said, in an urgent voice, “the law specifies that such a pilgrimage must be sealed as well by the sitting lord of the land!  Unless each of those urchins managed to convince whatever liege is still left in Alshar to do so, their letters are invalid!”

“Why, you are correct, my lord,” I said, continuing to smile.  I was enjoying this more than I expected. “But this is an important and hallowed event, one which no man, whatever his age, would want to miss.  Which is why each and every one of those Letters of Pilgrimage has been sealed by no less a personage as the Duke of Alshar, himself.”

Sire Falgarch openly laughed, this time.  “The Duke of Alshar is dead, his realm riven!  He no more authorized these so-called ‘pilgrims’ than I gave my peasants a month off their rents for a good harvest!”

I was waiting for that.  So was our guest.  The gentleman on the horse behind me took off his non-descript warhelm and revealed his face.  Not that Falgarch knew him by sight, but the way he did so indicated he contested the statement.  To confirm his importance, he swept back his mantle, revealing the arms of Alshar, surmounted by the ducal coronet, on his surcoat.  The kind of device only a sitting duke is permitted to bear.

“How forgiving of you to so richly reward those who toil in your lands,” Duke Anguin said, loudly.

“My . . . lord?” Sire Falgarch struggled, unsure of what was happening.  Thankfully, my staff was willing to help him.

“The proper form of address is ‘Your Grace’,” Sir Festaran prompted, smoothly.  “A bow or other courtesy is usually expected, as well.  Sire Falgarch, may I present His Grace Duke Anguin II of Alshar.”

“Your Grace!  I . . . I had word that you were in Gilmora, enjoying the tournament season!”

“As I was,” Anguin replied, smoothly.  “And yet here we are, the season waning, and I find myself growing bored of such amusements.  I thought I might visit my good cousin, the Duke of Castal, since I was nearby Wilderhall.”

“I . . . I mean to say,” the man stammered, struggling to master the situation, “are you saying, Your Grace, that you authorized every one of these . . . pilgrims?” he asked, his eyes growing wider as the truth of the situation dawned on him.

“Every . . . last . . . one,” the Orphan Duke pronounced.  “And under the terms of the Kingdom’s charter, I fully expect any and all pilgrims presenting my seal to you on their documents for your inspection to be duly permitted entry and free passage to their destination for pilgrimage, else I would declare the royal charter in doubt,” he said, more forcefully.

“The . . . royal charter, you Grace?”

“If the charter is in doubt, well, warfare between signatory duchies would be permitted, would it not?  I would hate to have to enforce the charter . . . by wiping out you and your men on the field of battle,” Anguin added, with just the right tone to be perceived as a warrior prince.  He had been practicing, I could tell.

“Your Grace,” one of the other knights said, nervously, “begging your pardon, but apart from a few archers, all I see about you are children!  Would you really order them to be slaughtered on our lances to try to enforce your wishes?  We have our orders from our duke,” he reminded us.

“Who I heard from his very own lips insist that no undocumented persons shall pass his frontiers,” I agreed.  “Everyone here has their parchment in order.  In fact, I insist that you verify that,” I said, a little forcefully myself.

“You insist?” the knight replied.  “I take no orders from you, not in this matter!  Clearly you are trying to deceive us.  We shall halt your march here until the Prince, himself, has a say!”

“Prince or Duke, you will permit us to pass as we are legally allowed to do,” Anguin replied, using his full authority for the first time.  “And you will do so at once, or be prepared to defend yourselves!”

“A broken duchy and a toothless duke,” scoffed the third knight.  “Getting children to fight his battles, because he has no one else!  We’ve six hundred men or more behind that barricade, and scouts report a large force moving up the road to reinforce us!  Send your filthy Kasari and the rest of the rabble!  We’ll water Castali fields with Alshari blood once again!” he boasted, triumphantly.

“You should reconsider, gentlemen,” I said, quietly.  “Because those reinforcements you heard word of are in fact the advanced elements of the Orphan’s Band mercenary troop.  That troop accepted a commission as the personal guard of His Grace, Anguin, Duke of Alshar two weeks ago, and are marching to join their new employer late from an assignment in Wenshar.”

“The . . . Orphan’s Band?” Falgarch asked, swallowing.  The Orphans were not perhaps the best known mercenaries in the kingdom, but they were well-known enough as professionals – who weren’t particularly thrilled with nobility in general – who frequently decimated traditional feudal units in battle.  To assist with his deliberations Rondal chimed in, helpfully.

“Two thousand hardened heavy and light infantry,” he reported, “as well as three auxiliary cavalry units they hired out of respect for their new employer’s rank.  Are your six hundred men willing to stand against four times their number, with a force of archers – and warmagi – behind you?” he proposed.

“I . . . I need to send word to—”

“You need to prepare your men to read and inspect every single one of these pilgrims for entry into Castal,” ordered the Duke.  “That is the law, gentlemen, and no orders from your superiors are going to change that.  You can either stand and do your duty as ordered, or refuse and bear my enmity.  The choice is yours.”

The final straw was Dara making a low pass overhead of our deliberations, all forty feet of Frightful’s wingspan on display for the knights.  She flew low enough that you could smell bird.  The wind that rushed past us when she went by blew his mantle into his face, and Sire Falgarch had had enough.

“Gentlemen,” he ordered, sternly, “prepare to inspect the pilgrim’s documents.”

“But Sire!” one of the other knights protested, “our orders were to stop—”

“I know damn well what are orders are, and I know what the law is!  So does that man over there who is a Duke!  If the Duke wants every parchment read and inspected, that’s what our orders include!”

“But it’s a trick!” insisted the shorter knight, shrilly.  “They’re wizards!  They cast a spell and conjured all of these so-called papers!  The King holds the Duke of Alshar’s seal!”

“Actually, my lord,” Brother Hotfoot said, smoothly, “that is not true at all.”  He took a heavy gold signet ring out of a pouch and presented it to Duke Anguin with due ceremony.  “Thank you for the use, Your Grace.  Blessings on you and your house for your attention to the spiritual needs of your subjects,” he said, with just the right trace of humor.

“Ever shall I rule with the grace of the gods, and the support of the clergy,” Anguin said, surprised to see the ring his father had borne, the most important administrative symbol of his position.  “Thank you for your keen attention to detail,” he added, diplomatically.

“And I assure you gentlemen that every one of these documents is real, authentic, and in no way magically fabricated,” I added.  “You have the word of the Spellmonger on that.”

“There aren’t enough scribes in the duchy to write that many letters!” the skeptical knight – clearly a blindly loyal supporter of the Prince – insisted.  “It has to be some magical trick!”

“Ah, but there’s where you are wrong, my lord,” corrected Hotfoot.  “For you see before you more than two thousand competent scribes.  The Kasari are all literate, believe it or not, and most can read and write as well as any clerk before they come to adulthood.  Writing so many letters was merely an exercise for them, and a rather basic one, at that.  A couple of thousand sheets of parchment, a few thousand quills, two small barrels of ink, and it really didn’t take all that long,” he shrugged.  “Now, shall I present my own documents first, to begin the process?  If we proceed, you may get to half of the trek by nightfall.”

“Uh, I cannot read, Sire Falgarch,” the taller knight admitted to his lord.

“I’m sure we can find a twelve-year-old to help you,” Hotfoot said, smiling.  “The Kasari are renowned for their helpful spirit.  Or you can just witness the Duke’s seal on each document, to spare your poor eyes, and take our word for it.”

“But we do expect an orderly and prompt crossing,” the Duke reminded them.  “My men are waiting beyond the frontier, and I would hate for such a belligerent company as the Orphans get frustrated with waiting.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sire Falgarch said, with a deep sigh of resignation.  “I shall prepare my men to receive the . . . pilgrims at once.”

And that’s more or less how it went.

Falgarch had no more than twenty men among his six hundred who could read and who he trusted to verify the documents.  Brother Hotfoot speeded the process considerably by checking off each child on the roll, first the Kasari, then the orphans, as they entered Castal.  With that many working, it actually went quicker than predicted.  The last orphan came across to the cheers of the crowd on the other side of the frontier an hour before darkness fell.  Most of our advanced party had already joined the Orphan’s Band at the camp they had made in a meadow hired from a shrine to Herus, four miles down the road.

It was a merry gathering, that night.  The Orphans had indeed been returning from Wenshar towards Wilderhall in the hopes of picking up a late-season mission, or perhaps arranging a garrison assignment for the winter.  When they had heard the particulars of my situation – and the nature of the refugees – they were very interested in negotiating a contract.

The amount of gold I promised had a lot to do with it, of course, but Bold Asgus and the other Orphans were very protective over war’s human debris.  They had all been orphaned, one way or another, and all of them had seen what happened to those children whose parents died, without support.  They might have been mercenaries, but they were human beings, and human beings who were very sympathetic with the refugees’ plight.  The fact that their patron was known as the Orphan Duke had also struck a chord with the mercenaries.  There was a camaraderie in the suffering of orphans I did not understand, but certainly appreciated.

They had another reason for escorting us all the way to Kasar, as well: they wanted to give some of the older lads the opportunity to enlist in their ranks.  The Orphan’s Band was a better billet for mercenaries than most, and far more egalitarian about pay and loot.  Few lords took service with the unit, because they only recruited orphans.  Finding a rich source of hale and hearty potential enlistees was a stroke of luck for them.

A helpful additional advantage of the contract was that Duke Anguin now had his own professional military force, although only through Midwinter unless the contract was extended.  We were still negotiating the details, and the Orphans weren’t looking to become anyone’s permanent army.  But they would serve a purpose when Anguin did eventually take power in what was left of Alshar.  He would have some troops he didn’t have to raise through feudal obligation.  He just had to figure out how to pay them.

The next day those of us who were mounted broke camp earlier than the rest of the marchers and pressed ahead.

“Why are we outpacing the Kasari?” Tyndal complained, as the vanguard of the Pathfinders disappeared around the bend behind us.  “They’ll never catch up like this!”

“We have to make it to Wilderhall before they do,” I explained.  “We have an appointment there.”

“With who?” Rondal asked, curious.

“Spellmonger’s business,” was all I would say.  They accepted that, like good apprentices, and didn’t press.  That was just as well – I didn’t want any more argument from them than I anticipated. We had special company after all.

“That was well done, yesterday, Minalan,” Duke Anguin told me, when he had ridden ahead to speak with me.  “That was really the first time I’ve used my title to overcome a man.  It was . . . heady,” he admitted.

“Get used to it, Your Grace,” I counseled.  “Before too long, you’re going to have to use power that way in order to reclaim your lands.  If you don’t act like a duke, people won’t treat you like a duke,” I pointed out.

“So I see,” he agreed.  “Well, I have you to thank for it.  I feel less like a prisoner, or even an exile, and more like a proper lord.  Do you think my cousin will really let me leave Wilderhall, if I come there unannounced?”

“I think with two thousand infantry behind you, he’ll have to seriously consider just how well he could hold you, if he wanted,” I observed.  “Besides, what legal basis would he have for holding you?”

“Threatening his summer palace with two thousand infantry?” suggested Anguin with a smile.  “I owe you much, Spellmonger.  I cannot claim to have a throne, just yet, but when I do take it, it will largely be your credit.”

“You said ‘when’, and not ‘if’,” I smiled back.  “So you think you will follow my plan?”

“After a summer on the tournament circuit, even running a broken duchy is better than the prospect of more pointless jousting.  I’ve proven I’m no bloody good at it.”

“Well, you are blessed, then, your Grace.  In Kasar there exists a woman who can tell you what your life’s purpose is.  With any luck, it will have nothing at all to do with jousting.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The End Of The Trail

Those of us who had more urgent business in Wilderhall took to horse and rode ahead of the slower-moving march.  Now that the Orphans were guarding the orphans I was less worried about Castali intervention.  Brother Hotfoot borrowed a horse to accompany us, so that he could make provision for the encampment of orphan pilgrims (and their Kasari guests) someplace near town, before they started the final leg of the journey into Kasar. Duke Anguin decided to ride ahead with me and my party, with Landfather Amus, to pay a call on his dear cousin at his summer palace.

The Duke tended to be quiet on the road.  Rondal and Tyndal threw jibes and jests back and forth liberally, and Anguin didn’t fail to smile at them, but it took several miles before the lad joined in to the conversation himself.  I got the feeling his restraint was borne from inexperience rather than innate shyness.  He had been tutored by wise monks while most lads his age were engaging all manner of boisterous pursuits together.  Anguin was quite willing to join in to the camaraderie of the road, he just didn’t exactly know how.

I took it as an encouraging sign.  I found it even more encouraging that he was not just willing, but somewhat eager, to confront his cousin, Tavard.  Whatever enchantments I had performed in Alshar, the one that had convinced Anguin that he was no longer a prisoner nor did he have to act like a hostage was perhaps the most subtle, and perhaps the most profound.

Without waiting for the foot weary marchers, we made excellent speed.  Two days after we set out we were back in Wilderhall, where I was going to take rooms at an inn for a few days when Duke Anguin insisted our entire party stay at a spacious townhome he happened to own near the palace.  Landfather Amus reminded him that one of his titles included the mansion, which had been sitting idle for years.  It had been built by an ancestor who had enjoyed the hunting around Wilderhall.

I couldn’t very well begrudge the Duke’s hospitality.  That would have been rude.

Once we settled in, we headed for the palace.  It was still early enough in the day to conduct our business.  Brother Hotfoot took his leave, as he needed to find an adequate campsite, but the boys were laughing and jovial as we headed to the castle.

Until we stopped at our destination.  When I explained to them what I wanted them to do, they instantly got upset.  But they did as they were asked.  They were good lads.  And as their task would take a few days, that left time for me and Anguin to track down the Prince Heir.

As it happened, we were fortunate enough to find His Highness just adjourning a meeting of some of his vassals when we asked the herald to announce us.  The servant was quite surprised by the titles and names he announced, as was Tavard, but the man did his duty.  Tavard looked easily as surprised by our presence, and even less pleased.

“I’ve had word that you managed to circumvent my orders,” the youthful prince said, dismissing his vassals and inviting us into his study.

“Not at all, your Highness,” I assured him.  “No undocumented refugees were permitted past your frontier.  I made certain of it.”

“Yet now a rabble of them infects my roads,” he complained.  “My vassals are alarmed and asking me to take action.”

“They are pilgrims,” Anguin pointed out.  “All perfectly legal.”  That earned him a sharp eye from his cousin.

“Legal, perhaps,” Tavard said, his voice a growl.  “But not wise.  I’ve consulted with His Majesty, and, alas, there is little I can do about it,” he said, with a note of resignation.  “Apparently dukes who slaughter pilgrims aren’t well-thought-of in some circles.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” nodded Anguin, his nostrils flaring.

“Yet dukes who support pilgrims are highly thought of, by the clergy and the people alike,” I pointed out.  “His Grace has begun his reign as Duke of Alshar by magnanimously approving and funding this grand pilgrimage to help ensure the future of our youth.  It has been seen as a propitious sign of a long and prosperous reign,” I lied.  I mean, it would be, once I made the rounds to some temples and spread the word . . . and some gold.  “The clergy do love a lord who looks to the spiritual welfare of his subjects. “

“Which means if I do not do likewise, I will suffer in comparison,” Tavard said, angrily.  “My father insists that alienating the clergy is dangerous, and currying favor with them like a lickspittle courtier is the key to a good reign.”

“It would be seen as a generous token of your Highnesses’ piety, if you were to match your cousin’s commitment,” I agreed.  “In fact, to be seen as brother dukes, investing equally in the future of the kingdom . . . the people love to hear such tales.”

“A generous . . . token . . . of my piety,” Tavard repeated, icily.  “No doubt it will.  Yet though we are cousins, I am a prince, not merely a duke.  Whatever funds you have provided for this madness, I will double the figure, if it speeds that filthy mob out of my sight.”

“Your highness is quite generous,” I beamed.  “I will inform your chamberlain to draw up the letter of credit.  And I will, of course, be sure to make it known far and wide how it was your idea alone to sponsor the pilgrimage.  With his Grace’s cooperation, of course.  Not an unfair bargain, for a mere two thousand ounces of gold.”

“Two thousand ounces?” Tavard asked, his face pale.

“His grace did pledge a thousand ounces,” I shrugged.  “Enough for the pilgrims to see themselves to Kasar and beyond.  Two thousand will make that possible for many more, now.”

“Your piety does you as much honor as your military victories, Cousin,” Anguin said, smoothly.  “I look forward to many future endeavors together, our two houses united in the purpose of an enriched realm.”

“You . . .” Tavard said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.  “Who do you think you are?  You’ve been a parasite on my family for three years, now.  And you repay our generosity and kindness with such deceit?”

“On the contrary, Cousin,” Anguin said, cockily, “I have never been anything but a loyal vassal of your house . . . and a stalwart defender of my realm,” he added, a touch of iron in his voice.  “Now that His Majesty has graciously acknowledged my majority and confirmed my investiture, I look forward to one day re-assuming the rule of my lands.  Until then, I’m grateful to enjoy the hospitality of yours.”

“Of course, Cousin,” Tavard said, pained and irritated . . . but wise enough to know that his rival was not easily bullied.  “But as for you, Baron,” he said, casting his bright eyes on me, angrily, “I think that after your business in Wilderhall is done, then you should see to your own lands for awhile.  No doubt they have suffered from your attention to Alshar, this year.  In fact, if I did not see your face out of them for awhile, I find it would suit me well.”

I bowed.  “Your Grace is prescient.  I was just speaking about such a re-assessment of my priorities recently.  As soon as my pilgrimage is complete and my business here done, I will retire to Sevendor as you ask.”

“Perhaps you’ve mistaken that as a request,” Tavard said, darkly.

“Understood, your Grace,” I agreed, smoothly.  “May the gods continue to bless you, your bride, and your coming child.”

“Don’t think this matter is settled,” Tavard said, dismissing us with a grunt.  “Both of you.”

We departed with a minimum of ceremony.

“That went better than I expected,” I mused, as the Duke and I crossed the lovely bailey of the palace.

“He didn’t threaten civil war,” agreed Anguin.  “And he didn’t try to kill either of us.  In fact, he demonstrated a remarkable amount of restraint, comparatively.  Perhaps he is maturing a bit.”

“More like his father forbid any action,” I proposed.  “Rard knew I was up to something, but he didn’t push it.  He knows I have the kingdom’s best interest in mind.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was using me to keep his son in check.”

“Stranger things have happened, in ducal politics,” Anguin agreed.  “So, Spellmonger, now that I have faced down my cousin, what do I do now?”

“Whatever you like,” I said.  “But if I were you, I would plan on continuing the pilgrimage.  I wasn’t wrong about what I said to Tavard.  That sort of thing gets noticed in places where you need to be noticed, if you’re going to re-build your duchy.”

“It’s a superior course of action to finishing out the tournament season,” he agreed.  “But it doesn’t seem very ambitious . . .”

“Patience, Anguin,” I counseled.  “If you want to do the wisest thing you could to restore your duchy, then I advise you to go to the White Bridge Inn and seek out an Alshari man there named Count Angrial.”

“Count Angrial?  To what end?”

“To play a game of Rushes, your Grace,” I suggested.  “I think you will find it quite instructive.  And along the way, you may learn a few things of value about the man you play with.”

He studied me carefully.  “This isn’t going to be one of those times when you’re actually just going to come out and tell me why I’m doing something, is it?”

“No, your Grace,” I chuckled.  “As I’ve said, wizards are known for subtlety and deception.  But you’ve proven your intelligence.  I have confidence that once you start playing, you will understand my reasoning.”

“Very well, Spellmonger,” the young man said, nodding his dark head firmly.  “I have put myself into your hands and you have no failed me, yet.  I will go play some Rushes with this man, then, if you think it will be to my advantage.”

I had one more bit of business the next day in Wilderhall.  I left word for Brother Hotfoot to join me that afternoon at the Charvelane Abbey, without explaining why.

Abbess Parsily barely spoke to me when she saw me enter her sanctuary, but she had become used enough to my ways to immediately dismiss the noviates.

“My girls are coming back?” was all she asked me, an edge in her voice.

“Safe and sound,” I promised.  “Their virtues – mostly – intact,” I added, thinking of a couple of priestesses and a couple of Kasari rangers who had taken long walks, a few times.  While the priestesses were technically sworn to chastity, Briga didn’t worry about it much, from what I understood.  And not all Kasari rangers had Arborn’s strength of character.  “They’re only a few days up the road.”

“Are you going to call . . . her again?” she asked, suspiciously.

“That’s why I’m here,” I agreed.

“You need me?” she grunted.

“No, not really,” I decided.

“Good,” she sighed with disgust, dusting off her skirts and heading toward the inner sanctuary.  “Nothing but trouble, you bloody wizards,” he muttered as the beaded curtain closed behind her.  “Run this place right, we could, if it wasn’t for the bloody gods!”

I killed time studying the fire, reminiscing about my recent fever dream, and its unlikely result.  I actually welcomed my “house arrest” by Prince Tavard.  It would give me ample opportunity to study the thing.  Something that was molopor-ish sounded intriguing and fascinating, and I couldn’t wait until this quest was over, and I could go home and enjoy my punishment.

About ten minutes later, Brother Hotfoot entered.  Despite the coolness of the late summer day the monk had beads of sweat on his tonsure.

“What can I do for you, Spellmonger?” he asked, gamely.

“Did you find a spot to encamp the march?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, a big temple to Orvatas, just north of town,” he agreed.  “They’ve got two big meadows they aren’t using for anything more pressing.  I got a good bargain on it, too,” he added, pleased with himself.  “So why did you want me . . .?”

“I wanted the chance to thank you for all of your hard work and dedication to the march,” I said, warmly.  “I could not have done it without you.  And I do not say that lightly.”

“It was my pleasure,” the monk dismissed.  “Really, it’s been a magnificent adventure.”

“That doesn’t mean that thanks are not in order,” I countered.  “When such great assistance comes unlooked-for, one can only suspect the gods themselves are involved.”

“And some of us are,” came a familiar, if unearthly, voice from behind me.  “Sorry,” Briga said, not sounding sorry in the slightest as she materialized in front of the ceremonial hearth, “but I got tired of waiting for you to invoke me.”

“You have no sense of the dramatic,” I sighed in disgust.  “Brother Hotfoot, may I present Briga, the Narasi goddess of fire, magic, poetry, inspiration, smithcraft, magic, baking, fosterlings, vengeance . . . am I leaving anything out?”

“A couple,” she shrugged.  “You got the major ones.”

“And Briga, this gentleman happens to be . . . Herus, Narasi god of travelers, messages, crossroads, thieves, commerce, magic . . . am I missing anything?”

“Gambling, liars, storytellers, benevolent assistance, shoemakers, and a few others,” the monk acknowledged, reluctantly, instead of being scandalized by my blasphemous accusation.  “Actually, we’ve met.  A few times.  So, what gave me away?”

“A couple of things.  First, there was just happening to find someone who could sell us ten thousand leaves of parchment,” I offered.

“I knew a guy,” he shrugged.

“And then there was how smoothly the march went, after you joined.  Far too smoothly.  We didn’t have a tithe of the deaths I had anticipated, nor disease, and don’t tell me your visitation didn’t speed us along our way faster than mortal feet would have carried us? I’ve been in a lot of outfits, Herus, and you simply don’t move than many people that many miles that effortlessly.  Not even with magic.  We had divine help,” I accused.

“Was I supposed to just let you stumble through on your own?” he chuckled.  “People moving is my business.  That many people moving to purpose, with that much magic involved, nearly guaranteed I’d be summoned, somehow.  Eventually. But even that could have been coincidence, or sheer good luck.”

“I tried to retire to the one village in the Duchies that was destined to be the first to fall to a massive goblin invasion,” I reminded him.  “I don’t have that kind of good luck.  Not like that.  And then in my dreams when I was ill, you appeared and helped me in a tough spot.  You were the only other one, besides Briga, who wasn’t killed or maimed in some horrible way due to my mistakes.  I suppose I started to really suspect you, then.  I barely know you, personally, and that was just far too vivid and real to be pulled from my own mind.  It had to be divine.”

“I needed to help guide you back to life,” Herus agreed.  “Thanks to my sphere of control, that’s under my purview.  Well, I hope no one else figured it out.  I took great pains to be a simple monk, this manifestation.”

“But what sealed it, so to speak, was stealing the Duke of Alshar’s signet back,” I explained.  “There was no way a mere mortal thief could have done that, not without some professional help.  Some divine help.  Not from the hidden treasuries of Wilderhall.  Those are warded by very, very tough magic.  In addition to locks, gates, bars, doors, walls . . .”

“I have a coreligionist at the palace,” he shrugged.  “He owed me a favor.”

“I’m sure you do.  And I owe you one, now,” I told the monk.  “Or, rather, I owe Briga one—”

“One?” my goddess said with amused skepticism.

“—and I am quite happy to pay it.”

“I was curious when you mentioned something about a favor . . . ”

“I have developed the capability to ensure the permanence and autosustainability of the enneagramatic pattern that maintains its cohesion as a unique iteration of its divine nature,” I explained.

“Uh . . . I’m a god of peasant magic,” he reminded me, after a few moments of confusion.  “Dice, finding lost coins, that sort of thing?”

“He does that all the time,” Briga snorted.  “Assumes everyone else knows what he’s talking about.  It comes across as a bit pompous.  You’ll get used to it.”  Ouch.  I thought that was a little harsh, for divine judgment.

“So what does he mean?” the god of travelers asked.

“Herus, he can make you, this iteration of you, permanent,” Briga said, a little excitement in her voice.  “That is, when you discorporate, you’ll be able to retain your present memory and have conscious control over your form.  You’ll have continuity of experience,” she explained.  “You won’t have to introduce yourself to the other gods all over again, each time you meet them!”

“You . . . you can do this?” he asked me, surprised and a little shaken by the idea.

“I did it for Briga,” I agreed.  “It’s actually not hard, if you have the stones for it.  So to speak.  So far it’s worked out pretty well.  For everyone but her priestesses,” I amended.  “Are you interested, Herus the Hotfooted?”

“Oh, I am,” the divinity agreed, breaking into a big grin.  “You have no idea how much of a relief that would be!  Especially for me!  I manifest quite a bit, and re-establishing myself all over again takes time and energy.  Oh, I knew it would be a good idea to materialize when you invoked me!”

“Wait – I invoked you?”I asked, confused.

“Well, you did name a tower ‘Traveler’s Tower’,” he reminded me.  “You built a shrine there.  You made an offering and invoked me.  That’s all of the invitation I needed to harness the collective energy of everyone in the march and manifest.  Each additional marcher brought me more power and control, as long as we keep going.”

“So what happens when we reach the end of the road?” I asked, curious.

He shrugged.  “Usually, I just fade away until some other traveler needs me.  But you’re suggesting I may actually have control over that, now?”

“Oh, yes!” Briga agreed, happily.  “You’ll love it, little brother!”

“You two are related?” You learn the oddest things, on the road.

“She’s my half-sister,” Herus agreed, blushing a little.  “Different mothers.  Dad . . . got around.  Uh, what other divinities have you done?” he asked, changing the subject.  Could the gods get embarrassed about that sort of thing?  Apparently yes.

“Just Briga,” I admitted.  “I’m being kind of choosy, actually.  But it’s not like I come across gods every day.  I figure I’ll use the same sort of standard I use in gauging whether a man is ready for a witchstone.  Are they dangerous?  Do they have control?  Do they piss me off?”

“If I happened across a promising one, would you consider it?” Herus asked, chewing on one finger in thought.  “I get around a bit.  I actually run into more of them than most, because of my sphere.”

“I would be happy to consider any candidate you thought worthy,” I promised, taking the stone out of my pouch.  “Though I have a short list of questionable gods that I might refuse, on general grounds.”

“I assure you, my list would be longer,” Herus chuckled.  “I know more gods better.  But if you do this, I think it will be the beginning of a very important relationship.  One that would assist both of us,” he said, catching Briga by eye, “in the fulfillment of our mission.”

My turn to snort.  “The gods have a mission?”

“Oh, yes,” Briga eagerly agreed.  “We’re here to protect humanity.”

“From what?  Each other?”

“From the rest of this world,” Briga supplied.  “Callidore is a dangerous place, even more dangerous now than when humanity first arrived.  This world has tried to make you extinct repeatedly, but with the help of the gods you have persevered.  Survived, at least, when the odds were against it.  Our mission to guard you has been a qualified success.”

“So if the gods have a mission . . . who gave it to them?” I asked, confused.

“You did,” Briga pointed out.  “We spring from the collective minds of humanity, manifesting when the need is greatest.  That means the gods change and adapt as humanity is forced to change and adapt, but our mission is always the same: protect and guide humanity on this world.  Considering the powers we contend with, we’re not always successful.”

“Not even mostly,” Herus agreed, sourly.  “We can manifest, do some impressive things, but then when we fade away . . . well, to be honest, your folk usually screw it all up again,” he sighed, frustrated.  “Every now and then someone will come along who understands the greater picture, but for the most part . . . well, if you have any issues with the divine, then start by blaming the human minds who brought us into existence.  If we’re sloppy at our jobs, it’s only because you’re sloppy with yours.”

“That’s helpful to know,” I agreed.  “And it gives me some ideas, especially considering the big glittery snowflake I now have in my cellar.  Making more of you permanent would be in our mutual best interest, I understand.”

“Then also understand that if we are to do so, we must proceed with the utmost discretion,” Herus nodded, sagely.  “The powers who would oppose such a move to strengthen our role – and our ability to defend humanity – would be threatened by it.  Best we move cautiously, quietly, and with great deliberation.”

“A secret cabal of gods and wizards,” snorted Briga.  “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Oh, this will be great fun!” the god of unforeseen adventures said, clapping his hands eagerly.

“All right, shall we get started?” I asked.  “Because those kids will be marching up that road any time, now, and once they arrive we aren’t going to have time to get anything productive done.”

*                            *                            *

I almost wish that things were more exciting after Wilderhall, but the fact was that the rest of the march into the Castali Wilderlands was relatively uneventful.  We faced no goblins, no angry local lords, no natural disasters along the way to deter our course.  The road from Wilderhall to Lemsiddons was peaceful and lightly traveled, and quite well-tended until we reached the depths of the Wilderlands.  There were inns along the way.  And alehouses.  It was not a difficult journey.

The weather cooperated beautifully, and a warm, fairly dry late summer watched over us as we made the last few hundred miles in remarkable time.  There were few accidents, few illnesses, and no deaths.  Of course our divine shepherd may have had something to do with that.  There was a certain excitement, mixed with poignancy, that took over the march.  Brother Hotfoot enjoyed the last few days of our journey with songs and stories every night around as many campfires as he could visit.

The transformation of the children was remarkable.  The two-thousand Kasari who had begun the journey had prospered along the way.  Three months of exhausting exercise and good food had caused many young lads to fill out their shoulders, while the young women who had made the journey had developed exceedingly strong limbs themselves.  They had found the march enriching in many ways, they told me as we made the last leg of it.  I made a point of asking many of them about their favorite parts, and even asked them all to write an account of their journey for me.

The refugee children of Alshar had prospered even more, by comparison.  The ragged, scrawny little urchins from Vorone, or the forests of the uplands, or the ruined villages of the Penumbra had gotten stronger under our care.  Kids whose bones could be seen through their skin when they’d first made it to our camps were now well-muscled and fit – still skinny, for the most part, thanks to all of the walking with a load, but not unhealthy.

Some of them had been half-feral, when they’d chanced upon our march.  Their parents dead or taken, or merely lost, they had struggled to survive harder than the adults.  They’d frequently been victims of betrayal by their own kind, as well as hunted by the gurvani.  Yet now they walked proudly, spoke confidently, and acted like real boys and girls, not animals.

Their skills had certainly improved from when they’d started.  Including social skills.  The desire to belong, to be a part of something, had infected the refugees like a sickness.  The refugee kids’ eager enthusiasm to be included had made some of them even more adamant about the Kasari ways than the Kasari were.

By the time we were down to the last thirty miles to the frontier with Kasar, in the beautiful midst of the gently rugged Castali Wilderlands, nearly every child, no matter how new to the march, struggled to make themselves into Kasari as best they were able.  Many had little understanding of the meaning and significance behind the costume, but they put on neck cloths and fashioned broaches of sticks, and borrowed needles to stitch wild patterns into their clothes in imitation of the complex Kasari embroidery.  The feeling of expectation was growing daily as we approached the forested foothills where their most sacred groves were contained.  Everyone wanted to be ready.

For their part, the Kasari were ready.  It had taken a lot of negotiations, with Arborn riding ahead and meeting with the council elders, but they had reluctantly agreed to take as many of the children in to the camps as wanted to come, if their upkeep was paid for.  I’d made that pledge without properly knowing how I would fulfill it, but with the gods on my side I was hopeful I’d figure out something.  After the rigors of the march, just paying for something seemed lavishly decadent.

It was hard to believe, but one morning dawned that would be the last of the march.  The brass horns that had wakened me every morning in the field sounded for the last time.   It was misty and cool during inspection, with the first full gust of autumnal winds blowing from the west, but it was still warm enough to be pleasant.  Every child in my patrol had done everything they could to show themselves the perfect Kasari.

They wanted to put on a good showing, when they marched into the only real town the Kasari had.  They were nervous, which was adorable, and I spent my time during inspection lecturing them about how proud I was of their achievements over the summer.  I promised everyone in my patrol that they were always welcome in Sevendor.

After I made my tent disappear into my staff, I made a quick trip back to Sevendor to retrieve Alya and a few other interested parties while my patrol got into formation on the road.  I was bringing Gareth, for one.  The lad looked positively exhausted after his long and harrowing stretch as our manciple, but I praised him profusely for his efforts and his dedication.  He may not have been slogging along with us but he had been there in support of every step we took – he deserved to be there at the end of the trail.

Alya wanted to be there in support of me.  Her occasional visits to the camp along the way had been a kind of novel holiday for her.  They also gave her an appreciation for the magnitude of the task I was attempting.  She wanted to share my victory with me on the last day, and I was thankful for that.

It was a joyful and tearful morning, and once breakfast was served, one last time, we were ready to make the last leg.  We were three miles from the frontier and ten miles from the Kasari town of Lemsiddons.  We’d be there by noon.

The feeling of excitement mounted as the kids realized that they were at the end of the journey. It grew even more as whispered tales of the miraculous nun that lived near the town’s outer precincts spread.  She had been telling people what their truest talents were, and it had been changing lives.  The exact nature and purpose of her pronouncements wasn’t always understood by the unsophisticated mind of the children, but they were all very excited about speaking with her.

The last morning’s march was almost like a military parade.  The hempcloth uniforms of the Kasari were revealed under their thrown-back travel cloaks.  The staves of thousands of adolescent pilgrims helped keep the lines orderly as we marched.  Each troop – and there were twelve formal troops and dozens of informal ones – did its best to show off their precision as we marched up the last hill toward the town.  For the last few miles the troops belted out their favorite marching songs.  Each troop competed as they marched to sing the loudest or the most beautifully.

I marched the whole way, the most walking I’d done since my illness, Alya on my arm and Trailblazer in my hand.  It felt good, though I was still a bit tired.  Just as we began the final leg, hoof beats came up from behind us as Tyndal and Rondal joined the head of the group.

They both looked solemn and disturbed.

“About time you showed up,” Dara complained from the third row back where she marched next to Festaran, Frightful on her shoulder.  The rest of her wing was making lazy circles overhead in honor of our Kasari hosts, but Dara wanted to walk the last bit herself.   “I’m almost afraid to ask what took you so long in Wilderhall.  Were they pretty?”

Rondal ignored her.  Tyndal slowed his mount to a walk next to our column.

“We had business,” he said, simply.  “Now it’s done.”

“What kind of business?” asked Festaran.  “I thought that we had everything we needed for the march?”

“Personal business,” Rondal answered, gruffly.  “Nothing to do with the march.”

“My, isn’t that mysterious?” Dara continued, clearly feeling sassy in the excitement of the day.  “I can’t wait until I’m senior apprentice and can be intriguing like that!”

“You don’t have to,” Tyndal said, with the smallest of smirks.

“As of now, you are senior apprentice,” affirmed Rondal, a little grimly.

“What?” Dara asked, her eyes wide.  “What happened?”

“Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal both sat for their certification examinations with Master Hartarian, while they were at Wilderhall,” I explained to my remaining apprentice.  “The Royal Court Wizard was quite happy to extend the special consideration to me.  As well as administer the tests personally.”

“Min, that’s a big step!” Alya said, finally recovering from the shock.  “You had them sit for their exams?”

“It was past time to let them be their own men,” I answered.  “This march was their master’s demonstration for me.  But I saw enough to know they were ready to sit for them.  Without their witchstones,” I added.

“And they . . . failed?” Dara asked, noting their downcast manner with confusion.

“Failed?” I snorted.  “They had near perfect scores on the written examination and passed all of their oral and practical exams with highest marks,” I said, proudly.  “Master Hartarian was nearly concerned with cheating, they did so well.  But their performances in the other areas convinced him and his staff that my apprentices apparently really have mastered their craft.”

“ ‘Mastered’ might be overstating it,” Rondal said, guiltily.

“So . . . you aren’t Master Minalan’s apprentices anymore?” Dara asked, shocked.

“No . . . but you are,” Tyndal reminded her with a smile.  “Senior and only, at the moment.”

“Then why are you so . . . despondent?” she asked, confused.

“Because now they do have to be their own men,” Pentandra chuckled.  “And that is a very frightening thing for a man to face.  Following orders is easy, compared to figure out what to do on your own.”

“So what are you going to do, now that you’re free?” Arborn asked, curious.

“’Free’ might be overstating it,” Tyndal said, with a half-smirk, half-scowl that only his face could manage.  “We got our journeyman’s papers.  But we’re still sworn knights magi of the Baron of Sevendor.”

“Of course, since you’ve rendered good service to me for the last few months, I’d say your feudal obligation is fulfilled, for now.  Which returns us to the question . . . what do you plan on doing?”

“We’ve been talking about that,” considered Tyndal.  “Ron and I are going to go back to Estasi Hall for a little while to take care of a few things there.  But then we plan on traveling down into lower Alshar.  The rebellious part,” he reminded me.

“Good gods, why?” asked Pentandra.  “I can think of thousands of other places I’d go, if I were you two!”

“We have some unfinished business with the Brotherhood of the Rat,” answered Tyndal, in a low voice.  “We’re going to track down a couple of them and make them squeal.  We’re concerned that they’re working with the gurvani, now, and we have other reasons to hunt them.”

“And there’s a kid from there we want to look up,” added Rondal.  “A sport, I think, that we met in the Scarred Lands.  Smart kid.  Brave, too.  But he had a talent for working with enneagrams.  After our experiments this summer, we want to see about recruiting him.”

“It’s a little early in your careers to take on apprentices of your own, isn’t it?” asked Festaran.

“We wouldn’t teach him!” Tyndal snorted.  “We’ve got things to do!”

“But he needs evaluation,” Rondal continued.  “We just want to find him and let a responsible party determine the nature and extent of his rajira.”

“But mostly we want to poke the Brotherhood with something as pointy and nasty as one of those rat tails of theirs,” Tyndal finished.  “We owe them for . . . well, a couple of things.  And what better way to start our careers as free gentlemen knights magi than a blood vendetta with a powerful and sinister criminal organization?”

Despite their joviality, I could tell both of them were feeling depressed at the thought of leaving Sevendor, even if it was to pursue their own interests.  They would always have a home there, I’d told them when I had deposited them, speechless, in front of Hartarian’s office at Wilderhall.  But they needed the freedom and the space to be able to make a place for themselves in the world.  I could just give it to them, of course – it would be easy enough to grant them each an estate or even a domain – but they were young men of action.  They didn’t need real estate right now.  They needed experience.

“We will be staying for the opening of the Kasari rites, though,” Rondal mentioned.  “We have some friends who will be awarded their raptor ranks, after their quest.”

“No, we couldn’t miss the idol dedication,” agreed Tyndal.  “We worked too hard to find that thing, and harder to get it out of there.  I want to see it put where everyone can see the ugly thing.”

“What was it, exactly?” I asked, curious.  “It’s supposed to be quite old.”

“A bronze anthropomorphic ursine,” Rondal said, after a moment’s consideration.  “Wearing a hat.”

“And trousers,” added Tyndal.  “The Kasari are weird.”

Lemsiddons was unlike any other town in the Wilderlands.  For one thing it was ancient – older than the Magocracy, it was said.  Considering what Penny had discovered about the Kasari’s origin that was a lot more believable than it had once been.

About four thousand Kasari lived there in an un-walled settlement at the top of a broad foothill, the cliffs of the Kulines spread out to the north and west behind it.  A long, narrow lake curled around the base of the hill to the east and south.  The broad High Street that ran north through the center of the town was sectioned off with smaller streets at perfect right-angles.  The market square was wide and well-planned, well-cobbled and spacious.

There was no specific fortification evident but the walls of the homes and shops seemed thick and strong, made of dressed stone and thick cured oak logs.  That was a big difference from the post-and-beam, wattle-and-daub construction even the well-to-do Castali Wilderlords boasted.

The Kasari Elders of the Filmon Council had assembled to greet us.  Almost twice as large as the Bransei Council, the leaders stood at solemn attention as the Trek Master brought the column to a halt in front of them, displaying all of the troop banners at the front of the line.  There was a little ceremony as the Council officially accepted all of the candidates for the rites, and even a few jokes as the Elders mentioned repeatedly the eight thousand additional children they hadn’t planned on receiving.

Then the troops were dismissed, and the crowded square erupted in triumphant shouts.  The march was over.  The quest was done.  I felt profoundly weary and deeply satisfied at the same time.

It was time to say some good-byes, after I met with the council elders.  I saluted and dismissed my patrol and my troop for the final time.  Arborn pounded me on the back and called me a brother.  Pentandra hugged me just as tightly, before withdrawing with Arborn to submit her name for the autumn rites.  Rael, Lelwen, Ormar and Landrick, and every ranger there insisted on shaking my hand and thanking me.

Brother Hotfoot found me, after turning over the rolls of the march to the Kasari, and thanked me, knowingly.  He also blessed Trailblazer, which I appreciated.  Then Alya hugged me and cried, and then everyone else wanted to hug me.  I was solemnly saluted so many times it got confusing.

Dozens wanted to thank me for what I’d done . . . and at that moment, I felt I hadn’t done much at all.  They had.  One moment I recall seeing Brother Hotfoot smiling joyfully and cheering – he even caught my eye and gave me a knowing nod.  The next time I turned around he was gone, though no one recalls seeing him leave.

That night there was a grand feast, Kasari style.  Gareth’s kitchen at Timberwatch had prepared one last service, using the last of their stores before getting paid and moving on.  The Filmon Council had gone to great lengths to prepare dozens of roasts in firepits surrounding the town, and the hunters had brought back plenty of deer, moose, bison, and other game to cook.  Everyone got plenty to eat that night.

Tomorrow they would begin the rites. According to the agreement that we had carefully hammered out with the elders, the two-thousand Kasari would conduct their rites first, while the pilgrim children were organized into more remedial camps.  Then would begin the process of spreading them throughout Kasar, some into camps that hadn’t been used for centuries.

Feeding them would get expensive.  Eight thousand extra mouths was more than Kasar could comfortably absorb.  There was still a little gold rattling around from the march, and Prince Tavard’s generous donation had been more than enough to cover the hike through Castal.  The remainder would go into a fund to import grain and other food into Kasar to feed them, until I could come up with a more permanent solution.

That was a big change for Kasar, which had always prided itself on its self-sufficiency.  But the elders also recognized the opportunity at hand.  Not only would they get thousands of fresh adherents to the Kasari way, they would also be gaining a powerful political ally, something they had never had in their affairs with the Narasi.  Their economy was not built on agriculture as much as horticulture and hunting.  But you can’t feed eight thousand extra kids on squirrels and nuts.  They would adapt, for now, and become more involved in the wider world outside of their groves.

Not all of the kids would be staying.  A long line of them stretched in front of the tent that had been erected by the square, where the old nun who had been blessed by Briga dispensed her divine insight into the talents and passions of the children who presented themselves.

Some she counseled to pursue a career at arms, and so the Orphan’s Band gained a few hundred new young recruits.  A few hundred more were encouraged to take holy orders in one temple or another, and so were returning with the Sisters of Briga back to Wilderhall to be called to service at the many temples there.  Some were counseled to pursue a particular trade, and so a few dozen were returning to the summer capital to search for craft masters to consider them as apprentices.

But many others were given no solid advice on a career or a vocation.  Instead the nun’s words pushed the child to pursue a passion, like poetry or sport, or seek a life on the road somehow.  And to others her words were even more mysterious and intriguing.  Not all shared what was said in the tent with their friends, and some came out wide-eyed or tearful.  But none left it unmoved.

“Do you want to speak to the priestess?” asked a pretty young scarlet-robed noviate of Briga.  She was managing the line when some of us came by to investigate the miracle I’d arranged.  “I’ve been instructed to offer you the privilege of an immediate audience,” she smiled.

“That might not be a bad idea, for you two,” Pentandra pointed out to Tyndal and Rondal.  “If you’re going to ride off on your own, you had best know what direction would be prudent.”

When the next child emerged, the priestess ushered Tyndal in.  He wasn’t gone long.  He came out a few moments later with a silly grin on his face.  Rondal, on the other hand, exited the tent looking thoughtful and a little shaken.

“Will you speak to her, my lord?” she asked Duke Anguin, without realizing who he was.  The lad chuckled and strode confidently inside.  He was there longer than the others, but when he came out he looked neither amused nor thoughtful.  He looked determined.  Frightfully determined.

Pentandra went, and came out weeping before collapsing in Arborn’s arms.  Arborn went a few moments later and emerged smiling broadly.  Sir Festaran, Dara, Ormar, Landrick, each of my faithful warmagi took their turn hearing their rede read.   Then it was Alya’s turn.  She took perhaps five minutes and then came out from the flap with an expression that was a mixture of serene joy, fear, and amusement.

Then it was my turn.  I felt a little smug as I slipped past the sturdy hempcloth door, a faint smell of mildew clinging to it.  Inside there was a portly woman of late middle age, a wimple covering her hair, dressed in a more comfortable version of the orange and red robes of the senior Sisters of Briga.

“So you’re the Spellmonger,” she grunted, sipping ale from a mug.  “I’ve heard about you.  Some say it was at your behest that Briga gave me this talent.”

“I may have had something to do with it,” I shrugged.

“I got struck by bloody lightning, thanks to you!  And it’s been a bloody pain in my arse ever since!” she accused, angrily.  “There I was, ready to settle into a quiet retirement with a good man, and suddenly I can’t close my eyes without seeing what a man can do best!  Completely ruined my plans,” she spat, irritated.

“But the coin you could earn . . .” I suggested, half-heartedly.

“Oh, I could earn a nice bit . . . if I wanted to go back to the bloody temple!  Already have, if you want to know the truth.  That Duke fellow himself gave me gold,” she said, showing me a purse.  “But what use is that to me?  We’ve got our pleasant little cot, no taxes to speak of, a few goats and a cow . . . what do we need money for?  In Kasar?  Bloody bother, is all this is!”

“Uh . . . sorry?” I offered.  “I thought priestesses wanted to be touched by their deities?”

“Maybe some young idiots,” she snorted, “but the world works best when the gods stay put.  But what’s done is done, and now I have to paint a smile on my face and tell all of these kiddies what they should be when they grow up.  So step up in the light, Spellmonger,” she said, peering at me, “and let’s see the face of the man who made me miserable . . . and made all of these children so happy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I dismissed as she took my hands in her chubby fingers.  “I already know what my passion is: magic.  And I’ve already risen as high as a man might, so I doubt that you’ll tell me much of use.”

“Do you, now?” she cackled.  “Yet you have not yet achieved all you might,” she pointed out, after closing her eyes for a few moments.

“I’m the highest-ranking mage in the kingdom!” I protested.  “Oh . . . perhaps not,” I conceded.  “I suppose I could eventually get appointed to a higher position.”

“Indeed,” she said, evenly, regarding me steadily.  “Most who speak to me lead me to speak in only the vaguest possibilities . . . but you, Minalan the Spellmonger, your fate is so entwined with so many others, a simple answer would be worse than none at all.  Your talents, your intelligence and your wisdom are such that you will be called to serve your vocation at the pinnacle of its calling.  You are destined for greatness,” she shrugged.

“I suppose it is inevitable,” I grumbled, considering the inconvenience of moving to the royal court.  “Eventually Hartarian will retire, Rard won’t be able to convince anyone else to do it, and I’ll get drafted . . . again!”

“I can see more of you than most men,” she admitted, her hands clinging to mine.  “Your path will include several realms,” she continued, in a somewhat wavering voice.  “The gods, the Tree Folk, and powers darker than I can stomach to see will all strive to compel your attention.  Our very ancestors will speak to you from their graves, and you will hunt down the legend of the Forsaken.

“But regardless of the path you take, your destination is the same.  You are destined for higher position,” she said.

“This is dangerously close to prophecy,” I said, uncomfortably.  “And you don’t need to be a prophet to tell that I’ll likely be chosen by Rard to be next Royal Court Wizard.”

“Court Wizard?” the old nun snorted, amused.  “Nay, Spellmonger.  For you I foresee a higher position still.  For you, your talents and your passions, your insights and your wisdom, your follies and your mistakes all lead down the same road to the same destination.

“You, Spellmonger, are destined to become . . . the Archmage.”

The End

Thank you for reading!  Be sure to enjoy the next book in the Spellmonger series, the forthcoming novel Enchanter!

As always, please feel free to email the author at tmancour@gmail.com any time!

Afterword

Of the many formative experiences I had in my life, including science fiction, fantasy, drama, history, and such, my experience with the Boy Scouts, specifically Troop 486 in Durham North Carolina, proved to be among the most profound, long-term.

I understand the issues that some have with the organization, but I also understand that the value of Scouting reaches far beyond the ability of a few individuals to mess it up.  Scouting has been a phenomenal way to teach young people skills, morals, character, and self-development without consideration of their socio-economic background.  It has enriched the lives of millions of children, and more, it has enriched our culture immeasurably.

When conceiving of the Kasari, I wanted to examine a culture that had evolved with very little input outside of the Boy Scout literature.  It is not too much of a stretch to assume that our descendents would take this valuable institution with them to the stars, and spread the program originally conceived by Lord Baden-Power throughout our human colonies.

For those of you who are just too darn curious to wait, the Kasari of the Filmon Council in Kasar, the Castali Wilderlands, are descended from around 800 boys and 500 girls from the New North Wales Cultural Preserve, Prydain Island at the northern end of the Perwyn Archipelago.  When the Inundation was begun it was decided to leave the youngsters in safety at camp, since their home was sinking, and yet more young evacuees were sent deep into the interior of the continent until the emergency was over.

Of course, the emergency was never over, and as human civilization made the irreparable decline from post-industrial cosmopolitan society to preindustrial agricultural society, the children at the Philmont Scouting Preserve were forgotten about by the rest of human civilization.  Once air travel was lost, even knowledge of the children was forgotten.  Within a generation the beginnings of the Kasari culture had taken root in the Wilderlands as the abandoned Scouters did the best that they could to succor and support the children under their care.

Then about 700 years later . . .

There will be at least two more good Kasari stories, and then in Court Wizard we will see the marriage of Pentandra and Arborn for a more intimate look at Kasari homelife.

But I had a tremendous lot of fun developing and writing this book.  It was extremely gratifying, and lets me feel like I’ve managed to give back just a little bit of my experience in gratitude to my scoutmasters:

Clyde Thompson

Larry Strickland

Bill Kirby

Clarence Hilliard

Gilford Mooring

Mr. Elsworth

And, most importantly, my father, Irving Mancour, who as of this writing is still associated with Troop 439, Bahama, NC . . . where I am Assistant Scoutmaster and my two sons are Boy Scouts.  There’s more than one Silver Beaver among the above.  And I thank them all for informing the most formative years of my life.  It is largely to their credit that I am the man I am today.  And the Scout.

I’ve always been proud to be part of this grand movement.  I can only hope that this story can help inspire others to get involved with the remarkable world of Scouting.

Terry Mancour

March 15, 2015

Special Bonus For the Special Edition!

Thank you for purchasing this Special Charitable Edition of Journeymage!  Thanks to your patronage, a dollar will be donated to Troop 439, in Bahama, North Carolina, to help this small rural troop make the Scouting experience as fulfilling as possible!

To thank you personally, here is the full version of the short story Stonesinger, in its first Kindle release.  Enjoy, and thank you again for your support of both the Spellmonger universe and the Scouts!

Terry

Stonesinger

By Terry Mancour

(c) Terry Mancour 2014, 2015

A Spellmonger Short Story

(Chronologically this story takes place just after the events of Magelord,

in the Spring of the second year of King Rard’s reign)

I watched the Karshak Alon work crew move the last massive stone of the day into place, the foreman enrapt in the precise placement of the block in the fading light of the setting sun.  He’d been at it for over an hour, using shims and a small hammer to make the most minute adjustments to the massive white stone.  Finally, he exhaled, wiped his sweaty brow, looked up at the sun’s place descending over the western ridge, and stopped.

“That’s about as good as she’s gonna get,” he called in a hoarse, gravelly voice, adding a harsh word in the Karshak tongue that could have been a blessing or a curse.  Or both – the Karshak Alon, I had learned in my short acquaintance with them, saw no contradiction in such matters.  Master Guri wiped some sweat from his broad brow before it fell into his dust-stained beard.  “That’s the day, lads!”

There were relieved sighs and groans from the dozen other masons who were working at various jobs around the construction site.  Some were building wooden scaffolding to the next level of the structure, while others prepared the next foundation, while still others heaved the massive wooden crane around the top of the mountain like it was a toy.

The Karshak masons moved constantly, if not always quickly, working with a persistent efficiency that any human work crew would envy.   None of them were over five feet tall, but they hefted burdens that would stagger a man twice their size.  Only when the foreman, Guri, called for the day to be done did their coordinated effort cease.  They broke down into informal groups as they cleaned up the yard, put away tools, and got ready to head back to their lodge.

“I kind of expected you to break into a merry tune,” I cracked, as Guri crossed the yard to greet me.

“Not until we’ve washed the dust down,” he grunted.  “What are we, Alka?”

“Just a thought.  It looks magnificent,” I sighed.  The tower was only three stories tall, now, but already the base was taking shape.  It was a beautiful fusion of Alka and humani aesthetics, built with the attention to detail that only the Alka Alon could give.  It was representative of the new alliance between our peoples.

It was also built almost entirely out of enchanted snowstone from my private quarry behind the castle.  That was no small feat, as the castle quarry was over three miles away, and we were atop a tall hill or a small mountain, depending upon your perspective.  Guri had assured me he was giving the Alka the mediocre stone, keeping the better parts for the much bigger castle I wanted to build.

Since it was snowstone, the whole structure – rising eventually to a modest ten stories – the very fabric of the tower was going to make performing magic as easy as breathing, one of the reasons the Alka were so excited about it. The entire complex, when it was complete, would serve as the new quasi-official embassy of the Alka Alon (known to the common folk as the Tree Folk).  It certainly classed-up my little valley’s skyline.  It made my modest little castle in the distance look quaint and rustic in comparison.

I had plans to fix that – but one thing at a time.

“I anticipated your thirst,” I added, as I escorted him over to the foreman’s tarpaulin, where he kept his thick wooden chest full of parchment plans and schematics.  “I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and had a tun of ale brought to the foot of the mountain.  Courtesy of the Council of Hollyburrow.  To make up for any . . . misunderstandings.”

“That’s . . . that’s mighty generous of them,” he admitted.  “My folk didn’t mean no harm, mind – they just don’t like being pestered.  We like a good public house as much as . . . well, probably better than anyone, and the puds brew like gods.  But we won’t stand to be . . . adored,” he huffed.  “We’re laboring, damn it!  We don’t need to be worshiped!”

“As I explained to them,” I said, soothingly.  “After much discussion, Master Guri, it has been decided that the Holly Bush will be reserved for the use of your folk for one hour after the workday.  After that, if they’re still there, they get subjected to whatever adoration the Tal Alon decide that you deserve.”  I couldn’t hide the chuckle in my voice.  It wasn’t that I enjoyed the gruff stonesinger’s discomfort . . . but I also couldn’t deny it was adorable.  Master Guri was the earthiest Alon I’d ever met, as far from the elegant Alka Alon on whose behalf they toiled as you could imagine.  Yet the Tal Alon treated him and his folk with the same awe they reserved for the Tree Folk who now wandered around Matten’s Helm.

“I appreciate that, Min,” he said, with a sigh.  “I like the little guys, I really do.  I’ve used them as labor, sometimes, and they can work like beavers when they have the proper inspiration.  Hells, those little huts they build are pretty clever,” he admitted.  “But when they start squealing with glee at every single word, it’s more than a guy can stand.”

“They will henceforth maintain a respectful distance,” I promised.  “They’ve posted a sheriff at the door of the tavern to keep out the . . . faithful.”

“Splinters and shards, Min, we were never the ones who wanted all that stuff, I swear,” he grunted as he washed the stone dust from his broad face in a bucket of water.  While the skin of his face was clear, it turned his beard into a kind of cement.  “The Alka always wanted the bowing and scraping.  The Karshak have always tried to treat everyone fair.   But them puds, it’s like they can’t tell one from the other.”

“It’s more that they hold you both in high esteem,” I pointed out.  “They feel they are only giving you your due.  For your rank, if not your race.”

“Bah!  My rank?  I’m a competent stonesinger and a decent foreman, and my lodge doesn’t starve.  I’m just trying to build,” he dismissed.  “And not this decorative piece of fluffery!” he said, waving a meaty hand toward the tower he was building.  “It’s a pretty thing, but it’s as useful as a bloody festival cake!  Sure, it will stand up to dragonfire, but . . .”

“Remember, this is just your practice piece,” I reminded him, as I poured him a mug of ale from an earthenware jug I’d hauled up the mountain with me.  Well, that I’d had my new apprentice haul, much to her dismay – that’s what they were there for.

“Oh, I know, I know, Min,” he said, an eager gleam in his eye.  “I’m just putting this together out of scraps, clearing my way.  I’ve been studying that mountain the whole time.  I’ve started singing it.”

“And?” I asked, expectantly.   That was the reason I’d hired Master Guri and his lodge of Karshak stonemasons.  His ability to sing the stone of the mountain.

It was a magic particular to the Stone Folk, for obvious reasons.  If the Alka Alon were masters of magic on Callidore, then the Karshak Alon were the masters of mineralogy.  Some Karshak stonesingers spent their entire lives underground, I’d heard, never seeing natural light once in their lives.

Master Guri and his lodge were different.  He was a master stonesinger, but he was a builder first.  His aspirations seemed to be futile, in our day and age – the period when the Alka Alon built magnificent fortresses and grand cities was over, and even the Karshak Alon rarely attempted anything rivaling the greatness of their sires for their own benefit.

But I needed a new castle, a much bigger castle, and I had an entire mountain of magic rock to play with.  The original basalt, Guri had informed me upon his first inspection, was as sound as any other, despite its pale coloration.  It would make a fine material for castle walls, hard and resilient.   Then he had begun examining the mountain, and for two months straight he did little but climb up its slopes and burrow into its roots, singing bits of the rock in his ragged voice at a pitch so low it could barely be heard by human ears.  Mere cursory inspections, he’d said, before the beginning of the construction season.

The goal was to figure out the best way to proceed with construction – just how much space would need to be mined from the rock to furnish the walls and towers I wanted clinging to the mountain.  Guri had been impressed with the vague vision I had presented him, and he’d been preparing to begin the first real sketches of the proposed construction based on his findings.

“Well, Min, I think I can build you a whoppin’ big fortress,” he pronounced.  “I can turn the whole bloody mountain into a citadel.  It’s just a matter of how big, how deep, and how strong.”

“The first two will depend on the third,” I admitted.  “And the answer to the third is ‘as strong as your craft and mine can make it.’  I’ve given you some idea what we might expect, at some point in the future.  Gods willing, Sheruel will never make it out of the Umbra, but if our fortunes flag in the war, Sevendor may someday face the full force of his wrath.”

“You don’t pick common enemies, do you, lad?” he chuckled, cocking a bushy eyebrow.  “The last time something like that was built, it was the Alka Alon citadel of Anas Yatheran, in the Kulines.  Beautiful job.  Wasted on the Alka. My grandsires worked on it.  But you can’t see it, because it’s so remote from anywhere anyone with any sense would want to live that no one can see the bloody thing!  Now this,” he said, gesturing toward the white mountain in the distance, my little white castle crouched in front of it, “this will be seen by everybody and everything.  You humani might have the strangest mating rituals in the world, but you have a certain barbaric style,” he said, approvingly.

“So you can build it?  Build it strong?”

He started to say something, then stopped.  “Aye,” he said, after a moment.  “I still have a few more tests and trials I want to run.  There are some interesting pockets, particularly on the eastern edge.  Might be vesicles down there.”

“What-acles?”

“When the bones of the land rose, so long ago there aren’t numbers to count it, they were as solid as a warm berry pudding like those puds make so damned well.  Like a pudding,” he explained, patiently, “they develop cracks as they cool.  The environment within those cracks must have been quite interesting, alchemically-speaking.  It can form crystals, all manner of crystals.”

“And you think my mountain may have some?”

“I’d bet on it,” he said.  “If you knew my folk better, you’d know how strong a term that is.  We don't wager lightly.  Good ignious rock like this? I’ve just begun to sing the eastern slope of the snowstruck mountain, but from what I’ve seen so far, there has to be at least a few pockets in there.  I’m going to go sing it, day after tomorrow.  Really sing it.  At least get started on it, see what I’m working with.”

“What happens if there are some?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Well,” he said, slowly, “I can’t properly say.  But all of the other silica atomi in your mountain were transformed.  No reason why they wouldn’t be,” he reasoned.

“And what would that mean?” I prompted.

“Oh, hells, I don’t know, Min!” he grunted, taking a mighty swig from his mug.  “Depends on just how stable the crystalline matrices were when they formed and what role silica plays in its composition.  Temperature, alchemical composition, pressure, all of that could have played a role.  My best guess?” he asked.

“That would be appreciated,” I nodded.

“I’d say they’ll be weirder than hell,” he predicted.  “Might just be a big hole, with nothin’ at all inside.  Might be loaded with crystals like flowers in a garden.  That’s just the crystollagraphic side,” he nodded, sagely.  “Once you throw in all this arcane crap . . . well, I’m thinking weird.”

“Weird,” I nodded.  “All right.  And any prediction about just how this weirdness might manifest . . .?”

“. . . would be pointless and mere wild speculation at the very best,” he agreed, draining his mug.  “Unprofessional, to boot.  Let me go sing the far side of the mountain, lad.  I’ll tell you what I find when I return.  You have my bond,” he reminded me.  “You have nothing to worry about.”

That was no light matter.  A Karshak’s bond is sacred, as much as an oath on a sacred relic.  When Master Guri pledged his service and that of his lodge, to build my castle (and various and sundry other structures, as determined) until it was complete, the ceremony involved had been extremely involved.  The written contract had been long – ninety leaves of parchment, which had to be read aloud by both parties before the agreement – and while Master Guri had signed and sealed the agreement, human-fashion, he had also delivered to me a small chest that represented his bond on the matter. The chest was locked, and I had no idea what was inside.  But the act had strong significance to my relations with the Karshak, and the Master of the Lodge in particular.

He was my man – my Karshak, if you wanted to be particular – now, until his commission was fulfilled. That was what his bond signified. The contract was very specific on that: until the castle was accepted as finished, Master Guri and his lodge would be working in my interest.  Anything they found on my property would be turned over to me for disposition.  According to the Alka Alon, I could suspect the sun would not rise tomorrow before I’d found a Karshak lodge who would attempt to steal from their employer.

Of course, I was also paying them a pretty penny, too – or would, when the job was finished.  They didn’t want gold, thank the gods, they wanted snowstone.  How much would be based on just how much work they did for me.  Luckily, I had an awful lot of snowstone.

But the lodge who had built a long hall at the base of the cliff, out behind my present castle, required me to provide for them under very specific terms.  Every week seven or eight wagon loads of supplies, everything from rope and nails to barley, meat and eggs, would trundle into the lodge’s work camp.  It was expensive, feeding all those Karshak, and it would only get more so.  Each one could consume twice what a man of their size would, and they drank prodigiously.

There were more coming, too.  The few who had arrived already were a company designed to prepare the worksite before the main body of masons arrived.  From what Master Guri told me, when all of his folk had relocated, there would be over three hundred Karshak workers living behind my castle . . . and building my new one.  That would increase my bills tremendously, but I wasn’t worried.  Snowstone fetched a premium price.

I won’t say I forgot about Master Guri’s expedition to the far side of the mountain, but I was distracted for a few days with meeting a delegation of the clergy in my domain.  A priestess of Trygg, Sister Bemia, had found her way to Sevendor, and my wife Alya and the other ladies of the castle had imposed upon me to designate her the castle’s chaplain.

I had meant to do something along those lines for a while, but other matters seemed to be more pressing.  The recent battle with a dragon at Cambrian Castle had impressed upon me the necessity for good medical and spiritual resources, however.  I'd heard of one Talented nursing sister who had managed to bring Bendolan the Outlaw nearly back to life after the battle.  The dozens of wounds he'd sustained had assured his death, upon casual inspection, and his lifeless body had been laid out with the dead when the priestess had noted the glimmer of life and had rescued him from perishing.  He was recuperating back in Barrowbell, now, but was expected to make a full recovery and return to duty in the Penumbra soon.

That had been a particularly spectacular case of a magically-trained priestess using the warmage's own witchstone to fuel her spells and bring him from the brink of death, but it had also emphasized to me the sudden importance of good clerical and medical care.

While Trygg’s clergy’s medical vocation usual dealt with problems of a feminine nature, they were also adept at nursing the sick in general.  Sister Bemia was a devout, impressive middle-aged matron who had an easy-going nature and an earthy sense of humor, when she wasn’t acting in an official capacity.  She had recently left a teaching position at a convent school, ostensibly because her goddess had called her, but more likely because she had heard of Sevendor’s sudden affluence.

She had quickly become a fixture around the castle, and had even imposed on me to build a small chapel off of the Great Hall, so that she would have a place to conduct services.  But she was not single-minded in the pursuit of her cult’s success.  Indeed, she envisioned a ministry to the castle folk that would expand to include the entire valley.

To that end she had persuaded the five or six other respected clergy who made Sevendor their home to form a council – with her at the head, naturally – to more properly minister to the domain’s population.

It was an odd crowd – stately Sister Bemia, the humble Bovali Landbrother of Huin who ran a shrine in Boval Village, two woolbrothers  from Festan Abbey who had set up a small shrine in Brestal, and coinsister Ulana, priestess of Ifnia who ran the affairs for her order’s growing commerce in Sevendor.  The group petitioned for a number of boons and assurances, but agreed that more clergy needed to be attracted to the vale if my hope of a hospital, schools, and other services was to come to pass.

After three grueling days of pious maneuvering, we came to some important understandings, including pressing for the nascent Town Council to set aside a temple district within its growing limits, regulation of certain activities during feast days, clerical services the domain would pay for (and which ones I wouldn’t – if a man wants his cattle blessed, he can pay for the privilege) and the formation of a basic temple school (without, yet, the benefit of an actual temple) were all settled by the time we concluded.

I was in my tower workshop going over the agreements we had drawn up when Master Guri unexpectedly knocked on my door.

The Karshak was filthy, his rugged leather clothing streaked with dust, dirt, and mud.  But he had a strange expression on his face.  Admittedly, I had only a very brief acquaintance with the Karshak, and they were alien enough to make me second-guess such things pretty regularly, but the look of excitement and fear combined was a little disconcerting.

“You’re back,” was all I said, leading him to a stool.  “I was wondering if you’d fallen down a hole.”

“Aye, a couple,” he agreed, grinning tiredly.  “I took a couple of lads from the lodge to help me wiggle into some tight spots, but that was expected.”

“So did you find what you were looking for?” I asked, pouring him a glass of spirits from a bottle I keep in my shop for such occasions.  The Karshak drained it, gratefully, and I poured him another.  Then he was ready to report.

“We found three mineral deposits of note in our surveys,” he said, setting down a sack of rocks, each group in a smaller sack within.  He began unpacking them and displaying them on their bags.  “The first is pure quartz.  You have two veins of it, one milky, a smaller one crystalline.  The milky quartz seems to project a good low-density field in the less-than-half of one percent at a rough rate of five meters per gram of mass,” he recited.  “A half-kilo block of it will yield a zone of low magical resistance two and a half kilometers in either direction, with it tapering off rapidly after that.”

“Impressive,” I nodded.  “A bit of that at each fortress in the Penumbra would make them much harder to take.”

“Oh, aye,” he nodded.  “But that’s nothing compared to the crystalline quartz,” he bragged.  “That has a rate of almost twice as much, ten meters per gram.  And the density is, from what we can tell, more in the three tenths of one percent range.  Perhaps higher, depending on the clarity.  Still too early to tell.”

“That’s amazing,” I nodded.  “So what was the second deposit?”

“A small cache of almandine,” he said, proudly, displaying a hand ful of dull red rocks.  “Iron-heavy, not magnesium heavy.“  As if I knew the difference.

“So what do they do?” I asked, feeling like an idiot for not knowing.  I’m a thaumaturge, not an enchanter.

“This is kind of a trade secret,” he admitted, “but I guess you aren’t going to tell no one.  Almandine is normally paramagnetic – it’s antiferramagnetic.  When it is subject to a strong electromagnetic field, the fields of the atomi align and . . . well, magical things can happen.”

“What kind of magical things?”

“I really have no idea,” he admitted.  “Depending on the iron composition and the strength of the field, any number of things could happen.  It’s going to take a lot of experimentation, but so far we have several excellent specimens.  I took the best, of course, for assaying purposes, but there’s at least fifty to eighty kilograms of almandine.   Hundreds of stones.  But that’s nothing compared to these beauties,” he said, reverently, as he took a shiny – no, a glowing crystal out of a sack.

“What is it?” I asked, curious , my eyes locked on the brightly glowing gem.

“Apophylite,” answered the Karshak, conspiratorially.  “A near perfect specimen.”

“And that means . . . ?”

“Apophylite is . . . it has some interesting properties.  Beautiful crystal structure, and chemically complex.  They grow in the vesicles of basalt deposits.  That’s where I found these,” he explained in his coarse, gravelly voice.  “And these are not,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “your ordinary apophylite.”

“So what do they do?” I asked, patiently.

“They . . . hard to say in your language . . . they are anchors,” he said, after much thought.  “They exist both here and in the Otherworld, and perhaps even in other places.  But when the ancient Alka Alon built their first great civilization here, they used apophylite as a means of anchoring their transit spells.  That’s why the old pathways still exist, because there’s an artifact buried somewhere with an apophylite in its innards.   Thing is,” he continued, “you could only place those things somewhere that has a relatively low, what do you call it, etheric density.  Low magic resistance,” he said, sagely.  “That’s why half of the old Alkan settlements are where they are, because of their proximity to areas of low etheric density.”

“All right,” I agreed, “So these are . . . special how?”

“Apophylite has a fair amount of silicon in it,” the Karshak stonesinger explained excitedly.  “So the apophylite that was in the range of the snowspell was transformed, just like the quartz deposits we’ve found.  So these jobbers,” he said, brandishing the handful of shiny stones triumphantly, “carry around their own low etheric density with ‘em!  You can use them anywhere.  Big improvement,” he nodded, knowingly.

“So the Alka would find these . . . valuable?”

“Invaluable,” he corrected.  “I don’t know much about their transit magic, but it’s my theory that this stone would provide . . . well, essentially a portable means of using it.  This would be a considerably valuable resource.”

“How much of it is there?” I asked, my head swimming.

“In that one vesicle?  About ninety, a hundred kilograms.  But there’s at least two, three more nearby, perhaps more, so it’s possible there are many more.”

“And how much apophylite does it take to anchor one of their transit spells?”

“More a matter of crystalline integrity than mass,” he figured.  “But enough mass would make up for a lack.  Uh . . . perhaps ten grams raw, or one gram perfect?  Somewheres in between?”

“And what value would you place on such a thing?” I asked, carefully.

He looked at me thoughtfully.  “To the Alka Alon?  So valuable that to mention its worth in gold cheapens it,” he decided.  “But if I did have to put a price on it, I’d reckon it at . . . a hundred thousand ounces of gold . . . per gram.”

My head spun.  “How would you figure that in, say, irionite?”

He continued to calculate.  “Understandin’ that irionite is an organic, and outside o’ my lodge, so to speak . . . I daresay you could get three grams of irionite for every one of this snow-born apophylite,” he decided.  “Perhaps more, depending on the kindred you dealt with.  Among the samples I took are three of breathtaking clarity, the most beautiful crystals of the lot, and five nearly as perfect,” he said, reverently, “all a-growin’ in one cluster.  And one that is near-perfect, and as big as my thumb,” he said, holding one out for my inspection.  It was, indeed, beautiful.  Uncut and unpolished it was easily a hundred carats.

“Once I have a proper go at it,” he said, softly, as he examined the stone in the magelight, “it will be no less than a portable mountain of snowstone.  I still have to make some measurements, but . . . as near as I can estimate, this one little pebble will drop the etheric density to less than one tenth of one percent – as near zero as you could ask – for nearly a mile in all directions.  The other three will be slightly less, but . . . these are unique in the universe.”

“What mighty spells could be wrought with these,” I breathed, as I realized the implications.  “And there are more vesicles?”

“Aye,” he nodded, “although this seems the largest, so far.  But it could be that you own as much as five hundred kilograms of it.”

My head spun.  “But valuing it in gold cheapens it,” I mused.

“Not sure there’s enough gold around to be able to,” he admitted.  “Min, that thing is amazing.  Unique.  That’s my point, lad, there are simply no stones like this . . . anywhere else.  Trying to come up with a value in any means of exchange just isn’t practical.  The question isn’t what is it worth . . . it’s what would you accept in return for it?”

“So I shouldn’t have any problem paying off your contract?” I joked, weakly.

The Karshak got serious.  “Min, I think we can work something out.  I was going to have you pay us in snowstone, but this changes things.  We may have to augment the contract.”

“Why?  Do you want these gems instead?”

“Damn right I do,” he said, gruffly.  “You don’t understand . . . when you sing a stone, it sorta sings back to you.  It’s a technical thing, I guess, but each stone has its own voice.  These pretties,” he said, gesturing to his samples, “sing so gorgeously and so flawlessly that it’s . . . it’s . . . “

“Sublime,” I supplied.

“Precisely the word,” he snapped.  “It’s religious, I guess, the way some of you humani go on about your gods.  But if I was to be fair,” he said, scratching his chin through his great beard thoughtfully, “I would say that my lodge could build your entire castle, tunnel out your mountain, and build every peasant in your domain a palace for the value represented by just a few apophylite stones.  Or a few kilos of crystalline quartz.  You are that filthy rich, Min.”

“But I wouldn’t even know that, if it wasn’t for your surveys,” I pointed out.  “Nor would I have any idea of what to do with them.  So I am fairly dependent on your good will and generosity in this, Guri.”

“I gave you my bond,” he shrugged.  “I’m just working for you, here.  But to answer your question, no, you won’t have any trouble paying off the lodge’s fee.  In fact, I’d recommend that you augment our contract to include lapidary services,” he advised, nodding sagely.  “I got a couple of cousins I could bring in who know more about that end.  I’m a builder, not a rock polisher,” he snorted.  “And it ain’t like you can’t afford it.”

“If you think I need them, get them,” I decided, my head spinning.

“Oh, aye, you need them,” he assured.  “There’s no telling what some of these stones will do.  That damn Snow That Never Melted screwed with them at the quantum level.  There are still vesicles deeper in the mountain that I could not reach.  We won’t be able to get to them until we start the major excavation, and all manner of excitement could be awaiting us there.  So, yeah . . . you got yourself a lodge.  I’ll build you as big a castle as you want, walls, towers, spires, and I’ll make it as perfect as you wish.  For just a tithe of those crystals, you have the Karnaug Lodge on retainer.”

“Thank you,” I sighed.

“Just doin’ my job,” he said, digging out his pipe.  “There’s one more thing . . . I’d like to bring in my grandsire.  Master Azhguri, known in the trade as The Resilient.  He was a stonesinger for four hundred years, but he’s retired, now.  I’d like to bring him here and have him sing the mountain in its entirety.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing?”

“Oh, I’m singin’ like a budgie, all over the place.  I want him to come and do it all at once.“

“All at once?  The whole mountain?”

“He’s one of the few who could do the whole mountain,” Guri affirmed.  “That takes skill beyond my ken.  But it’s more a favor to him than you.  I want to give the old guy a chance to sing this.  It’s just too majestic to pass up, not for a stonesinger who’s had a career as rich as his.  He couldn’t not see this mountain, were it on the other side of the world.  With your permission . . .”

“Granted,” I agreed.  “Whoever you want to bring, Guri, you bring them.  I trust you.”

“I appreciate it, Min,” he grunted.  “Not all your folk are so kind to my people.”

“Few of my folk would even recognize a Karshak, much less know enough about them to know how to respond.  But I’ve become very fond of your lodge, Guri.  And I can’t fault you for the job you’ve done.”

“Oh, we’re just getting started, Min,” he grinned.  “Now that I know you can actually pay me what I’m worth . . . this is going to be a long and profitable relationship for both of us.”

*                             *                             *

Karnaug Lodge was a mobile household that moved from place to place as the job dictated.  As most construction jobs take years or even decades to complete, that essentially meant that the Lodge tore down and re-built their hall everywhere they went.

There were a full score of them who arrived in the late winter, twenty heavily-cloaked figures with bushy beards protruding from their deep hoods.  Each one bore a gigantic pack filled with tools and supplies.  A pack train of llamas and donkeys, followed by three massive wains pulled by teams of oxen, arrived with another ten Karshak the next day.  They spent the first night in the Great Hall, which nearly shook with the force of their combined snoring.

The next day they began working on their camp, selecting a site at the base of the tremendous cliff behind the castle.  By day’s end an elongated structure of poles was erected and covered with canvas.  A week later, most of the Hall had been completed.  Eighty feet long and two stories in places, the squat hut seemed as temporary as a tent, but was built far more solidly than most of the new homes in Sevendor Town.

Guri offered me a rare tour, before the rites sealing the Lodge to outsiders were in place, as a courtesy to me as Lord of the domain.  I was fascinated.

The far end of the Hall was made of a cunningly-contrived kitchen, with three iron stoves and two ovens that could be disassembled and moved.  A great wooden cistern, lined with canvas and beeswax, was erected next to the kitchen and water was pumped into it into a massive basin for washing or cooking.  The cook, Farf, was a grotesquely fat Karshak with a short beard (the rest had burned or hacked off over the years, he informed me in halting Narasi) but he knew his craft.  There was a cauldron of stew going over the fire when I toured the place.  From what I understand, Farf’s main job was to keep this perpetual pot of stew going constantly, in addition to cooking four gigantic meals a day.

The dining hall, comprised of two rows of trestle tables down each side, had an aisle in the center to allow for serving.  Beyond that were the dormitories, long lines of simple wooden cots with straw ticks, each with a small chest of personal belongings at the foot.  Each section was curtained off for privacy, but there was very little personal space.

The near end of the hall was the Lodge Room, a large open expanse in which a fire – in a cunningly-designed wrought-iron stove in the shape of a dragon’s head – was constantly burning.  There were stools and lamps everywhere.  This, explained Guri, was where his Karshak would rest in the evening, sharpening tools or working on individual projects around the fire.

Connected to the Lodge Room was the Master’s Shed, a well-constructed wooden shell that housed Guri’s private bedchamber, office, and pay chest.  To the other side was a similar shed, known as the Toolmaven’s Shed, wherein the common tools of the Lodge were kept, along with records not under the purview of the Master.

Outside a number of workshops had sprung up: woodwright’s shop, blacksmith, stonecutter’s yard, as well as a large pavilion designed to shelter the scaffolds and cranes the Karshak lodge required for larger jobs.

By the time of my tour, the Karshak had assembled a perfect little village designed to be able to build anything from a cat cage to a castle.

Over the weeks more and more of the Lodge trickled in, in ones, twos, or sometimes wains of four or five.  Each was brought to my castle for introductions and a meal before they were given leave to join the lodge – some tradition I wasn’t aware of.

But I didn’t mind the Karshak at all.  For one thing, they loved to drink, and on their weekly payday they spent a large amount of their coin in Sevendor Town’s taverns.  They favored ales and meads above all else.  While there were the occasional fights, they didn’t last long.  One blow from a Karshak would usually flatten a man.

Once they began work on the Alka Alon embassy, however, such incidents ceased altogether.  The Karshak arose before dawn, conducted their strange rites, then marched in a double line to Matten’s Helm where they split into teams and began work.  Apart from two short breaks during the day, they continued until dusk . . . and they accomplished a tremendous amount of work during that time.

The only other issues I’d had with the Karshak had been when they had started frequenting the Holly Bush, the Tal Alon taproom in Hollyburrow at the base of the mountain.  Unlike the humani in Sevendor Town, the Tal Alon didn’t give the Karshak a respectable berth.  They waited on them with understated adoration that bordered on worship.  If it hadn’t been for the exquisite quality of the Hollyburrow brews, the Karshak would have skipped the place altogether.

But a roof a comfortable space over their head and a wildly delicious nutty brown ale the furry little nonhumans had concocted had been too much of a lure.  Eventually the obsequious Tal had crossed the line, and I’d had to intervene.

*                     *                             *

One thing I hadn’t considered, when deciding to build a new castle, was how much sitting around and just discussing obscure matters such as famine and disease and how they might relate to the architectural design would be involved.

“The good news, lad,” Guri told me during one of those late nights in the Great Hall, over a mug of beer and a pipe, “is that the backside of the mountain is nigh inaccessible, save through one or two easy-to-control trails.  And even if your enemy could get behind you, what good would it do?”

“I’d rather not contend with that,” I decided.

“No reason you should,” he agreed.  “But we’re putting a shaft virtually through the entire mountain, first.  We can run it all the way,” he proposed, making a quick sketch in charcoal on a double leaf of parchment, “and have it come out here, in the back.  There’s a shallow little blind valley there that would be a good spot for a second entrance.”

“I do like the idea of a back door,” I agreed.

“Then we tunnel back from the main shaft in the northern end,” he continued, “clearing and expanding the plateau here, here, here, and here,” he said, drawing out the area from memory.  “We take the stone from excavating the hall to build the outer part of the hall, the inner fortifications, the gatehouse, and the spire.”

“That seems like an awful lot of stone,” I remarked.

“Oh, aye, a great whopping mountain of it,” he agreed, amiably.  “But it will work out fine.  The eastern wing will be barracks, workshops, and the like.  Western wing will be the Spellmonger’s residence and chambers.  Your palace,” he reiterated.  “I chose the western side because we should be able to excavate all the way to this little ledge, which will have quite the view over the Westwood.”

“I do enjoy a pretty sunset.  That seems like a lot of space,” I noted.  “Do I need all of that?”

“Let’s see, your private bedchamber, your study, your library, your workshop, your lady’s room—”

“What, does Alya need a room?”

“Min, you’re building  the biggest castle of your era,” he said, slowly, “and you aren’t going to grant your wife one room of her own?”

“Good point,” I agreed.  “And then the rooms for the children,” I agreed.

“You got three apprentices, and you’ve got your Castellan and his family.  You’ve got to have a formal dining and meeting area.  And then all of the servants not actually involved in defense, they’ll be needing places to sleep.”

“You’re right,” I sighed.  “I suppose we do have a large staff now.”

“And it ain’t gonna get smaller,” he warned.  “We’re building something here that will serve for five or six of you humani’s puny excuses for a  lifespan.  The interior spaces of the mountain will be at least seven stories high, and nine on the west side.  The battlements and towers directly outside the mountain will be ten stories.  The spire, if I can pull it off, will be seven stories or more above that.  I’m thinking,” he envisioned, cautiously, “that if we do it right, we can get the thing about three stories above the crest of the mountain behind it.”

“That . . . that would make it huge,” I said, puffing on my pipe absently.  “Guri, that would make it bigger than Darkfaller Castle!”

“Yes,” he said, a little scornfully.

“Or Relan Cor!  Or Castabriel itself!”

“Min, we’re building into a mountain,” he reminded me.  “Why limit yourself?  You understand how wealthy you are, now?  If you can afford it, you should.  Particularly with that . . . that thing out there,” he said, warily.

The Karshak didn’t even like acknowledging the existence of the Dead God, though they had a few mines near his cursed valley in the Mindens, from what Guri had told me.  The Karshak rarely got along with gurvani, even under good circumstances.  They saw the former servant race as a crude mockery of their own culture, and looked down upon them as unskilled miners and workers.  For their part, while the gurvani did not bear the Karshak the same enmity they did the Alka Alon, they were not friendly.

But once you added in the specter of Shereul, the Karshak got positively anxious.

“No good will come of this war, I warn you, Min,” Guri often told me when we got on the subject.  “The sooner that big green ball gets crushed to powder, the better for us all.  The Alka Alon should be taking care of this.  They’re being irresponsible!  This is their job!  They should be dealing with that abomination themselves, not subcontracting it out to some idealistic race of ephemerals.  No offense.”

I couldn’t argue with that much, and I didn’t take offense.  The Alka Alon had been cautiously supportive of my rise, but they had taken little direct action in the course of the war.

Of course, once Guri discovered the crystals under the mountain, I started to realize that I might have some leverage to convince them otherwise.

*                             *                             *

When the Karshak Alon travel through human lands, they tend to try to disguise themselves to avoid attracting attention.  As they are the most human-like of the Alon, that usually works.  A party of cloaked Karshak looks like any other party of travelers from a distance, unless there’s something around for scale.  Then they just seem a bit short, for their girth.  The Karshak had adopted many of the humani accouterments – such as clothing and shoes – that the other Alon disdained.

When you get closer to them, however, the differences quickly become apparent.  Their bone structure is different from ours, and they move differently.  Their barrel-like chests produce a much deeper voice than you’d expect, and understanding even clearly-spoken Narasi from a Karshak throat takes a little patience.

When Master Azhguri, retired Grandmaster Stonesinger of the Karnaug Lodge, arrived in Sevendor, there was no mistaking his entourage for human.  The cart he rode in was as strange a contraption as had ever rumbled down Sevendor’s roads, a two-wheeled affair pulled by four burly, shaggy llamas.  Four younger Karshak rode in escort, in addition to a Karshak woman (one of the first I’d ever seen) driving the llama team.

The escorts rode ponies as shaggy as the llamas, but they were not mere miners or masons.  Each had at their belt a deadly-looking axe or adze or mattock or whatever the Karshak call their distinctive weaponry.  And each carried a crossbow of intricate design in their laps, cocked and loaded.  All four of the escorts wore dark blue cloaks with long pointed hoods, with sturdy armor under.

Master Guri had alerted me to the arrival of his grandsire, and for the first time in our acquaintance I saw the Karshak stonesinger nervous.  He arrived at the castle that morning in what I suppose was Karshak formal wear, and when the normally confident mason repeated himself and stuttered twice in the first few moments of our conversation, I knew this was an important occasion.  I had Dara fetch my more formal mantle and a gaudy-looking staff I used when I wanted to impress someone.  Alya, of course, always looked good.  But Sire Cei, seeing my preparations, made a point to change his own tunic and mantle for the one he used on state occasions.

The little cart drove all the way to the castle yard before the back of the wain was opened, and a stout little figure descended the cleverly-contrived staircase from the rear.

It was a Karshak of great age, I could tell by the length of the mane (the Karshak, unlike the Alka Alon, grow a luxurious mane around their head and face, similar to a human beard.  It’s a distinction that they’ve made into a point of cultural pride).  It was silver-gray, but had once been tawny, I noted, and was plaited into a huge but elegant braid that ran down the front of his broad chest.

His eyes were ancient, deeply sunk into his wrinkled face, and seemed to stare past us, as if he did not see people at all, only the rocks around them.

“Grandmaster Azhguri, I bid you welcome to the Mageland of Sevendor,” I said, giving him my deepest bow.  “Master Guri has told us much—”

“Be silent!” the old Karshak rumbled in sharply accented Narasi.  “The mountain speaks to me!”

Ordinarily, I would have taken grave offense to being spoken to in that manner, and Guri looked at me with an expression of horror and shock, his loyalties torn between his family and his employer.  You just don’t speak to half-civilized barbarian humani war chieftains like that and get away with it.

But I was appreciative both of the Grandmaster’s position of respect among the Kashak and deferent of his great age.  Besides, it didn’t take long to see that he was enrapt in an experience akin to religious awe.  I motioned around me for silence, and Sire Cei , Alya, and even Dara nodded gravely in return.

We waited a few moments while Azhguri just listened, before he finally spoke.

“We are near the center of the effect,” he said, just above a whisper.  “I have heard it calling to me since I came within a hundred miles of it.  I must see the centerpoint,” he declared . . . and strode off into my hall.

I followed behind him, barely beating his guards inside.  The Karshak strode – okay, more like waddled – through my hall like it wasn’t there, seeking for the source of his obsession.  He found the stairway behind the great fireplace and entered my tower like he lived there, and while the human-sized steps were a bit of a struggle for his short legs, he managed to get up them quite quickly.

Then I was standing in my bedroom with a strange old Karshak and our frightened Tal Alon maid, Daisy, who looked far more uncomfortable than I did.  Indeed, she dropped her furry little body to the floor and looked upon the old Karshak with near-adoration in her eyes.

“This is where it happened,” he said, ignoring the Tal and staring intently at my bed.  “This is where the effect was triggered, was it not?”

“The event was the birth of my son, Minalyan,” I agreed, trying to focus on the thaumaturgical element of the meeting, not the political or social.  Here was an acknowledged master of magic, in his own way as important and potent as an Alka Alon Aronin or a human Adept.  Social propriety was secondary to professional interest.  “He was resisting the birth, magically, somehow.  Wild magic, and the wildest I’ve ever seen.  I improvised a spell on the spot and broke the natural enchantment, and when I did the resulting after-effect was the snowstone.  From here outwards, just shy of two miles in every direction.”

“Amazing,” he said, shaking his massive head.   “Three natural currents of energy flowing near, I see.”

“I moved them around a bit when I arrived,” I agreed.  “My workshop is directly above this room, and the natural energy flows augmented my spells.  Before the snowstone,” I reminded myself.  “Now raising energy is as easy as breathing.”

“A crude but effective remedy,” he nodded.  “If I am not mistaken, there was an element of the human divine involved?” he asked, looking at me suspiciously.

“There may have been,” I agreed, cautiously, impressed that he had caught on to that.  Most of the human magi who had studied the effect of the Snow That Never Melted had focused on the purely thaumaturgical mechanism of the spell.  Only I was aware that my invocation to Briga, the Narasi fire goddess (who was, coincidentally, also a minor goddess of childbirth and magic) had played a role in the spell.

“It would almost be required,” he nodded.  “And there was irionite involved?”

“A large sphere of it,” I agreed.  “A recent augmentation from my original stone.  But yes, I used a great deal of power.”

“I look forward to calculating just how much,” he said, amused.  “It would be an interesting study of the capacities of the humani system.”

“We’re fairly resilient,” I said, a bit defensively.

“And there was also a reproductive component to the effect,” he noted.  “Birth.  That invokes powerful forces in all creatures.  In my own race, the women experience a kind of trance in which they commune with their ancestors.  It can take days,” he said, wrinkling up his nose.  “No doubt why we replace ourselves so slowly.  Then there is the other reproductive component to the spell.  This is where you lie with your mate?”

I hesitated acknowledging my marriage in such rudimentary terms, but I tried to remember that this was a member of another species talking about it.  “Yes, this is my marital chamber,” I agreed, diplomatically.

He sniffed.  “And an active one, too.  That likely contributed to the context of the spell’s effect.”

I was tempted to be offended, but I was professionally fascinated.  I was also a bit confused.  “I thought that stonesingers weren’t interested in something that . . . biological.”

“Young man,” the stonesinger said, sharply, reminding me of my father for a moment, “I have lived on this world for over five hundred years.  One cannot know the stone unless one also comes to understand the instrument regarding the stone.  My grandson is still young.  He’s focused on the stone, still.  He will learn, in time.  Such things do matter, however.  May I see the mountain, now?”

“By all means,” I agreed, escorting him back out of my bedchamber.  That sniffing bothered me a bit.  Perhaps Pentandra, my colleague who specialized in sex magic, could manage not to take that sort of thing personally, but I was still a relative newlywed.  I don’t know how the Karshak do it – nor am I certain I want to – but if you don’t need to towel off afterwards, you didn’t do it right.

Azhguri did not dwell on my sex life further, not when the mountain of solid snowstone beckoned.  He returned to the yard and gazed up at its rounded peak.  Then he walked directly to the base of the cliff without taking his eyes off of the peak.  At some point he began a hum, so low that I didn’t hear it until it picked up in pitch.  It was a jaw-clenching tone, the beginning of the process of singing the stone.

I had only a vague idea what stonesinging entails, magically.  I was fascinated by the process, as it was entirely different than the Imperial and Alka Alon magical systems I was familiar with.  It wasn’t even akin to gurvani shamanism.  When a Karshak stonesinger sings the stone, something entirely particular happens to the magical shroud surrounding the singer.

I watched as carefully as I could, with magesight, eager to gain any insights into the practice.  But it was in vain.  While I stared in wonderment at the elegantly complex whirl of energies and forces around the stonesinger, I had no idea what any of it meant.  The tendrils of each vortex reached out to caress the mountain, some arcing hundreds of feet up the face of the cliff, but I had no context for what type of force it was, or what it was intended to do.

More, the stone itself seemed to respond to the magic with tendrils of its own.  If I gained nothing else from my observations, it was the way the stonesinger was able to invoke the involvement of the stone in a way I would imagine only a living entity might.  Inert matter reacts, it doesn’t answer your call the way a puppy does.  But that was how the stone reacted, thaumaturgically speaking, to Master Azhguri’s song.

Beyond that, I had no idea what he was doing.  It was like listening to a poem masterfully delivered . . . but in a beautiful language you had no hope of understanding.

Eventually the ancient Karshak leaned against the cliff, both hands splayed on the rock with his forehead bent upon it in reverent reflection.

And there he stayed.  For two days.

I got worried, but Guri calmed me.  Apparently this was not uncommon, to spend hours communing with the stone as you sang it.  “I’ve seen him go as long as nine days before, as still as a statue,” Guri assured me.  “Singing this mountain is like . . . like the perfect gingercake,” he said, smacking his lips.  He had discovered the treat recently, when I had them served at a meal, and he had become enchanted with them.  The Karshak bake breads, after a fashion, but they have little talent for fine baking.  “You just want to gobble it up, all at once.  If I know my gran, he’s going to want to savor this over a long period of time.  In smaller bites.”

When the old stonesinger finally did end his opening song, he was weeping.  This, apparently, is almost unheard of among the stoic race.  He was helped into the lodge hall, overcome with emotion, his guards looking around suspiciously.  Master Guri hurried anxiously inside, and I was tempted to follow . . . but under the terms of our contract, the Lodge Hall was forbidden to all but members.  Not even Master Guri could lift that rule.

He explained what had happened the next morning in the Great Hall.

“He . . . he was overcome,” he confessed, guiltily.  “Four hundred years at the trade, and this is the . . . well, there was . . . but this is different.  He told me . . . he told me he saw stone as it was – as it really was – for the first time.  Stuff I couldn’t even see, and I’m damned good at what I do but . . . well, he’s better,” he said, as if the admission was painful.  “He saw things I never did.  In those two days, he saw things he had never seen when he was singing stone, and . . . and he saw what might come of it.”

I swallowed.  I was afraid that this might happen.  “Is he . . . is he unhappy that I plan on carving up the mountain?” I didn’t want a revolt on my hands, but that was my damn mountain.  I could imagine what would happen if the old geezer suddenly declared it a Karshak holy site.

“I was curious about that myself.  He said . . . he said it didn’t matter whether or not we excavated.  He said that you should enjoy it while you have it.”

That stopped me.  “What did he mean by that?”

“Well I have no bloody idea, do I?” Guri said, exasperated.  “The old guvah was in a stone trance!  Talking out of parts of his mind that don’t usually see daylight!  I’ve been right addled myself, after singing stone, but he went deep, Min,” he said, with particular anxiety.  “You can go easy or you can go deep, when you sing stone, and my gran went deep . . . as deep as I’ve ever seen a singer go!”

“He was only there for two days,” I reminded him.

“It isn’t a matter of time,” he said, shaking his shaggy head.  “It’s . . . well, it’s a matter of how involved you get in the stone.  He went as far as anyone ever has.  I was . . . I was worried,” he confessed.

I could tell Guri was confronting something novel in his existence, and I felt for him.   “Will he be okay?”

“Aye, he seems to be coming around, now,” he agreed, grudgingly.  “I’m going to check on him after end of day.  He was resting in the lodge.  I’ll keep you informed.”

Sister Bemia saw the Karshak leave the Great Hall, head hung, as she left the chapel after lauds.  I was still getting used to having the priestess around, but Bemia had a keen eye and seemed adept at certain human interactions.  And, as I learned, some non-human interactions.

“Oh, that one is troubled,” she clucked in earshot as the butler closed the door behind him.  “It’s never a good thing when a lad feels he’s competing with his sires.”

“But . . . he’s not,” I said, confused.  “Master Guri already has this job.”

“But will he keep it?” she wondered.  “Perhaps I don’t know the Stone Folk, Magelord, but I know fathers and sons.  Every priestess of Trygg does.  That one had the look of a boy who knows he’s going to lose his favorite toy.  If I had to guess, he’s considering turning over the whole thing to his grandfather.  It’s killing him, but that’s what he’s thinking, Trygg knows.”

“You think?” I asked, considering the matter.  “I think he’s just worried about an old man overtaxing himself.”

“We shall see, Magelord,” she conceded.  “But I’d bet my next stipend on it.”

As it turned out, the priestess was correct.  Master Guri returned that evening, just after dinner.  His expression was a mix of frustration, anger, and resignation, and he spoke through clenched teeth.

“Grandmaster Azhguri is awake, alert, and hale.  He expressed his gratitude with the Magelord for the opportunity to sing his mountain.  He’s also saying that . . . that he wants to stay.”

“Stay?”

“Here, in Sevendor,” the stonesinger emphasized.  “On my job.”

“Oh,” I said, realizing what might have been bothering Guri.  Sister Bemia had been right.

I could only imagine what it must have been like, when he’d been approached to build the new castle out of the snowstone mountain.  The Karshak lodges were few in number, in this part of Callidore, because there just weren’t very many clients left here.  The glory days of the Alka Alon were past.  They were not building any more grand citadels or majestic palaces.  They were eschewing the types of structures the Karshak built for the elegant simplicity of arboreal life . . . and that didn’t leave the Karshak lodges much in the way of clients.

Humani were just too short-lived, and had too little vision for the Karshak’s tastes.  Nor could we often afford their services.  While the Stone Folk grudgingly acknowledged that some of our constructions were not absolutely laughable – and, indeed, we built most alike to them in design and aesthetic – they would ever consider us untalented amateurs compared to them.  Few human lords could afford the price or understand the value of what they got with a Karshak lodge.  From the Karshak’s perspective, the humani just didn’t know how to build right.  We were slightly more talented than the Tal Alon or the gurvani.

Giving a young, talented Karshak with a small lodge the chance to design and build something like the new Sevendor Castle – and be allowed to do it the way he wanted – was a dream job for Master Guri.   As stonesinger and Master of the Lodge, the opportunity to work with snowstone was the chance of a lifetime.  Inviting his grandsire to see the mountain had been a token of respect and a way of showing off for the retired grandmaster.

Only instead of praise and support, old Azhguri wanted the job for himself.  And Guri was honor-bound, by code or by filial piety, to step aside if the old master wanted the position.  As humiliating and disappointing as it would be, Guri  felt obligated to allow the better stonesinger to lead the construction job.

Only I could foresee all sorts of problems if that happened.  And I still wasn’t over the whole sniffing incident.  I had to deal with this, I knew, and suddenly I realized just how to accomplish that.  I hardened my face into a frown.

“But I hired you as stonesinger, not him.”

His big bushy eyebrows shot up.  “But Azhguri is a far, far more experienced stonesinger than I am.  He’s led hundreds of crews on dozens of projects.  He’s sung more stone in his first century than I—"

“I hired Master Guri of the Karnaug Lodge,” I said, stiffly.  “Not Master Azhguri.”

“You . . . you don’t want him to work on the job?” he asked, confused.

“Look, Master Guri,” I said, affecting a lot more formality than I’m used to, “I hired you to build my castle.  Your lodge.  I was very specific.  I have your bond, if you recall.”

“Oh, I know, but if—”

“If you think I’m going to let you weasel out of our deal so you can substitute some worn out, aging replacement to keep your costs low—”

“But . . . Min!” he gasped, scandalized at the suggestion.  “I’d never—“

“Don’t you try to equivocate now!” I said, raising my voice, ever-so-slightly.  “You think I haven’t heard about the sharp-dealing Karshak?  If you want to hire yourself an assistant stonesinger, that’s your business,” I snapped.  “But you do it from your existing funds, because that wasn’t specced-out in the contract, was it?” I demanded.  I actually did not recall if there was such a provision or not, but apparently either there was not or Guri did not remember, either.

“I – Min, no, of course not—”

“Then you go tell that old geezer that if he wants to work on this job, it will be under your direction, as your subordinate!” I snarled.  “When I took your bond I was assured of a first-class, professional construction crew!  I don’t need any half-senile old coots getting themselves hurt on my job.  Do we have an understanding?” I asked, folding my arms judgmentally across my chest.

Guri looked at me blankly, trying to comprehend what just had happened.  He’s not the most socially adept Karshak – or maybe he is, I really don’t know – but he finally straightened and looked me in the eye.

“Yes, Magelord Minalan, you have made yourself as clear as crystal,” he admitted, nodding firmly, as he realized just what I had done - and the boon I just granted him.  “I shall inform the Grandmaster of your intractability on the matter.”

“And I trust you shall be able to do it in such a way as to spare any lingering resentment?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, aye, Min,” he chuckled, breaking the tension a bit, “I’ll just explain to him what a right flaming arsehole you are, a typical barbaric humani warlord who has no proper understanding of who he’s speaking to . . . old Azhguri can understand that.”

“That wasn’t quite—”

“ 'The client is the client',” he said knowingly, as if quoting some professional proverb.  “You should hear him go on about what bloody twits the Alka Alon were, back in his day.  But he did the job the way the client wanted, and honored his bond to the last.  So . . . yes, I think I can work with your utter, pigheaded ignorant mortal barbarian obstinance, and still get you the benefit of Azhguri’s experience.  Without him pulling the mountain down on you in a snit.”

“That would be appreciated.  I value his contribution.  But I like your style more, Guri.  And you’ve never said anything about how my bedchamber smells.”

Guri looked at me apologetically.  “Well, in truth, it’s never really come up . . .”

“Don’t you have some bad news to break to a haughty old Karshak?” I reminded him.  “And for future reference, my bedchamber need never come up.  We pigheaded ignorant mortal barbarian warlords are touchy that way.”

*                             *                             *

And so it came to pass that Grandmaster Azhguri removed to Sevendor, with his small entourage of aides and servants.  As there could be only one Master of the Lodge in residence, a cozy little cottage was built nearby the lodge in an out-of-the-way section of the yard.

If Azhguri was put off by the forcible demotion, he didn’t let on.  I have no idea what words were spoken of in the sanctity of the Master’s Shed, but in the days that followed the old stonesinger seemed to relax into a kind of advisory role on the site.  He still commanded the utmost of respect and deference from the other members of the Lodge.  But he publicly deferred to his grandson several times, in my sight, as the work crews were heading out to Matten’s Helm.

If he was upset with me, he did not show it.  On the contrary, he was quite polite and respectful as I stopped and inquired as to progress.  In the weeks that followed I often stopped by the job site on Matten’s Helm or the yard behind the castle and encountered the old Karshak, and he was never anything but charming to me.

It wasn’t until a few weeks after he’d settled into his new role, when he was helping instruct a small group of novices in the lodge in basic stone-shaping, that I found out what he really thought about the situation.  I had come by the Lodge to deal with some supply issues and I got to watch the old Karshak at work.  I watched with interest as he taught the novices to ply their sharp-edged hammers on blocks of the milky-white basalt properly, giving them pointers about the angle and force and other professional minutia.

I was discussing something with Guri on the other side of the yard, when one of the younger masons struck a poor blow and sent the hammer flying out of his hand, nearly striking a fellow novice.  No one was hurt, but I was amused by the reaction.  Master Azhguri, his finery packed away and replaced by a threadbare tunic and well-worn leather apron, slowly fetched the hammer for his student.

I couldn’t resist – I was wondering just what words of wisdom the stonesinger was passing on, so I cast a quick Long Ears spell to listen in.  I figured they’d be speaking Karshak, but to my surprise they spoke Narasi (I learned later that they rarely use the speech outside of the Lodge or a Karshak homeland).

“. . . the next time you want to slay one of your classmates, you gurvani-fingered idiot, do so in a proper duel,” Azhguri was lecturing.  “But for the Lodge’s sake, don’t do it at lessons, and don’t do it in front of a respected master of the craft, but most importantly don’t do it in front of the fucking client,” he said, passing the hammer back to the sheepish apprentice.  “That’s unprofessional and bad form under any circumstances.  But in some cases it can be worse.”

He looked up and noticed my eyes on him.  He broke into a big, beard-splitting grin and waved his thick-fingered hand at me.  I smiled and waved back.

“Because if you screw up in front of a regular client, that reflects badly on the lodge.  If you screw up in front of this client,” he said, shaking his head, still smiling and waving, unaware I was listening in, “well, you’ll never hear the end of it.  Biggest phallus-headed flaming bloody arsehole of his whole short-lived miserable little race.  We’ll be building a palace for pigs, and he’ll harp on every little detail and demand the moon and stars before we’re done.  Drives the master bloody mad with his impetuous ways and his quick temper, he does.  No, don’t cross the Spellmonger, lads,” he said, finally turning away from me.  “You stick to the plans and build it the way he wants.  The client is the client,” he stated.

“The client is the client,” they all repeated, by rote, their hammers flying in perfect unison.

“And he’s a bloody arsehole!” Master Azhguri affirmed with a last smile for me before returning to berating the apprentices.

I didn’t take it personally.  In fact, I found I didn’t mind at all.