Author: Terry Mancour
Date: 2021-02-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Magic; Anthologies; Fiction; Epic Fantasy
Description: “It is said by some sages that the Spellmonger’s exile to the Magelaw left Sevendor, the City of Magic, unprotected in his absence. That would be untrue; for though the mightiest mage of the era was forced by law and custom to refrain from visiting his realm in Castal, he had left behind a significant body of learned and dedicated colleagues to continue his policies and see to the protection of the magelands. “These were not all warmagi, nor even High Magi; indeed, the strength of Sevendor depended on magi of all types and descriptions. As Minalan fought against the darkest foes in the West, h

The Wizards of Sevendor

A Spellmonger Anthology

(Spellmonger Series 12.5)

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © February 2021

Dedicated with admiration, respect, and love to

Sonja Yegel

The best kind of neighbor:

Mother of the Mountain

Friend to All Creatures, Great and Small

A Grandmother We Didn’t Know We Needed

Faith, Spirit, and Pride in a

Small but Irresistible Package.

Contents

The Beast Of Cargwenyn

The Incident At Ramoth’s Wood

The Wicked Monk of Hameron

Ketta’s Lily

Matters Of Regional Concern

Secrets At The Two Lanterns

“It is said by some sages that the Spellmonger’s exile to the Magelaw left Sevendor, the City of Magic, unprotected in his absence.  That would be untrue; for though the mightiest mage of the era was forced by law and custom to refrain from visiting his realm in Castal, he had left behind a significant body of learned and dedicated colleagues to continue his policies and see to the protection of the magelands.

“These were not all warmagi, nor even High Magi; indeed, the strength of Sevendor depended on magi of all types and descriptions.  As Minalan fought against the darkest foes in the west, his lands in the east were protected by his vassals, allies, and friends.  Their powers varied, as did their stations.  But they were uniformly devoted to Minalan the Spellmonger and the land he had wrought.  They kept watch against secret incursions or hidden dangers against the realm while the Spellmonger’s strength was elsewhere.  Whilst he grappled with the fearsome minions of Korbal the Necromancer, his magical land was well-warded by the famous Wizards of Sevendor.”

From the Heeth the Arcanist’s History of the Magelands

The Beast of Cargwenyn

“We’re needing your eye on this, Sire Cei.  It took a hive last night, my lord,” the hivewarden dutifully reported, shaking his head sadly.  “Just tore through the wall and destroyed it.  I’ve got my lads trying to salvage it, but it looks dire.”  The man’s appearance at breakfast was telling; usually, the hivewarden was busy until noon, checking all of the beehives of the estate.

“What took the hive, Garun?” Sire Cei asked, confused.  He wiped his hands on a towel, after pushing away the last of his breakfast.  The late spring sunshine splashed through the open door and into the hall of Cargwenyn, promising a beautiful day despite Garun’s anxiousness.

“That’s the thing, my lord . . . I don’t know.  None of us do.  Never seen a hive get burst like that.  And that’s the second one, too,” he added.  “One of the new hives, over on the ridge, it was broken a week ere you arrived.  It’d been a few days, and it was right ruined.  Thought it might be faulty clay – that happens, sometimes, with a new hive,” he admitted.

“What makes you think it wasn’t?” Sire Cei asked.  He’d trusted Garun to oversee the hives for years, now, and trusted the man’s expert knowledge of beekeeping the way he’d trust a Master of Horse to know horsemanship.  “If it has happened before, due to weak clay . . .”

“But this time it was purposeful, my lord,” Garun insisted.  “This was in the pasture near the creek, and the ground around it was tore up a sight.  And that wasn’t new clay.  Something broke into the side of the hive, and it’s stood there more’n twenty years, now.  Broke in and had their way with the honey.”  He sounded wounded, with good reason.  Honey was the liquid gold that kept the estate afloat, financially; it was Cargwenyn’s only real source of income.  More than a hundred people depended on keeping the honey flowing.  Garun treated the hives like a farmer doted over a prized milk cow.

“Surely there are pests who prey on the hives,” Sire Cei reasoned, as he gathered his mantle and hat, after buckling on his longsword.

“Oh, aye, the honey-foxes try their luck every now and again, and there are other beasties who like it well enough.  But we’re fixed for that,” Garun declared.  “I’ve been hivewarden for nine years, now, and I never saw no honey-fox who could rip open good crockery like that.”

“Perhaps a bear?” Sire Cei suggested, as they left the manor house and headed toward the pasture.  He didn’t bother with a horse.  On an estate as small as Cargwenyn, getting from one side to the other didn’t take very long.  “Bears have a legendary fondness for honey.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Garun disagreed, “but there isn’t a bear closer to the estate than the baron’s hunting wood, seven miles north and beyond a river.  Unless one has taken residence without notice, I can’t fault a bear for this.”

“What about brigands?  Poachers?” the knight asked as his long legs strode purposefully down the lane.  He racked his mind, trying to imagine what predator might be stealing – and ruining – his honey.  All around him thousands of his bees were flying through the air to reach the wildflowers that grew on the estate and fed their hives.  It was the beginning of the honey season, and a danger to the hives was a danger to the estate.

“Oh, no one near would consider such a thing,” Garun assured.  “Might be some outlanders, but why break the hive open when they could have lifted the top?  Nay, our honey thief was a beast, not a man,” he proposed.  “A whopping great beast, to crack through three inches of crockery.  Which is why I wanted your eye on it, my lord.  It might still be lurking down there.  My purview is over insects,” Garun reminded him.  “You have more experience with whopping great beasts than I do, my lord,” he chuckled.

Sire Cei smiled at the jest, but didn’t respond.  When your moniker was “the Dragonslayer,” people’s expectations of you grew, he reflected.

The broken hive was among a long, staggered line of great earthenware structures that ringed the pasture.   The busy bees collected their bounty from the abundant wildflowers that were Cargwenyn’s only real crop.  While there were fields and gardens in the estate, they fared poorly even in good years.  The rough ground and stony soil was ideal for hundreds of varieties of wildflowers, however, and the ancient lords of the estate had carefully exploited the floral abundance as a resource for generations while the manors around them produced grain and vegetables in more plentiful quantities.

Sire Cei had come only recently to the business of honey . . . and bees.  In his native Wilderlands only a few cultivated hives were used, mostly in monasteries or the larger southern estates, like Honeyhall.  Most honey in the Wilderlands was harvested from wild hives by daring freeholders.

Here in the Riverlands, small estates like Cargwenyn were the norm.  Honey production was an industry, not a hobby.  When he’d taken control of the estate upon his marriage to its lady, there had been more than a score of hives already in operation.  With his further investment, that number had tripled.

Yet it took time for bees to collect honey, enough to make it worthwhile to harvest.  While the newer hives on the ridges were producing, it would be a few years before their large terra cotta structures would be full enough to warrant collection and begin to repay his investment in earnest.  The older hives, here in the bottomlands, were still producing the greater share of the estate’s stock-in-trade.

Sire Cei could see immediately where the damage had been done.  It was a bit shocking, to see the carefully built structure ruined so casually.  The broken hive stood out like a shattered tooth among the other gigantic red pots in the field, its top edge stopping well short of its fellows.  A casual glance demonstrated the violence with which the hive had been assaulted.  Large shards of crockery were strewn almost ten feet away from the ruined hive, while a few hooded beekeepers – and plenty of bees -- worked to scoop the remaining honey from the bottom of the hive.

There were thousands of bees in the air around their lost home, Sire Cei noted; like their keepers, they were also attempting to salvage the dregs of their stolen bounty.  A wooden barrel had been placed nearby, where thick slabs of ruined honeycomb were being stacked.  Though not yet an expert, Cei could see that perhaps thirty or forty pounds of the golden liquid was missing.  That was worth quite a bit of silver.

“Perhaps a hood is in order, my lord?” Garun suggested gently as the knight prepared to examine the damage more closely.  “Some of the little brothers are still upset and might take offense.”  He held out one of the distinctive hoods for the knight.

“Agreed,” Cei said, as he hung his hat upon the spellpost warding the field and began donning the protective gear.  The leather hood with the loosely-woven linen that allowed him to see and breathe without being stung was commonplace.  The spellpost was a novelty, among beekeepers; indeed, it was rare to have any kind of magic involved in the trade.  But Sire Cei had seen what the benefits of the arcane could provide to many matters, and bee husbandry was no exception.  The snowstone pillar had been a gift from Baron Minalan, along with a swath of spells to keep the bees safe and orderly.  Apparently the Spellmonger’s castings had not included protections from . . . whatever it was that had attacked this hive.  He would have to speak to Minalan about that, Cei decided, the next time he visited the exiled magelord in Vanador.

“It looks as if something punched its way in,” Sire Cei decided, after examining the hive and the shards around it.  “You’re right.  Whatever it was ignored the lid.  Something struck it with blunt force, which cracked it, and then it peeled the rest of it off like a nutshell.”

“And then ate two casks of honey?” Garun observed, frowning.  “My lord, even the hungriest bear could not consume that much.  Not all at once.”

“You said there were tracks?” Sire Cei asked.  Garun grunted, and led the knight across the field toward the creek.

“Here,” the hivewarden indicated, as they came to a muddy bank.  “I walked the perimeter this morning, while the lads were working, and saw that.”  Along the game trail that led down to the tiny stream there were many prints left in the mire.  Most were common creatures Cei was familiar with, although a few belied his experience – he’d rarely had time to hunt here in the Riverlands and become familiar with its animals.  But among the many marks there was a clear – if partial – print in the mud that was fresh, and stood out due to its sheer size.

Whatever made the print was huge, Sire Cei saw.  Not only was the apparent diameter of the imprint wider than Sire Cei’s hand, it was also deeply made, sinking a full finger’s length into the soft soil.  He’d never seen its like – save perhaps in the battlefield.

“This is the only one?” Sire Cei asked as he studied the print.

“The clearest one, my lord,” Garun conceded.  “The others have been obscured.  Apparently, it was a busy night at the creek.  Perhaps a spring ball?”

“From the signs, you wouldn’t be far wrong, Garun,” he agreed, as he continued to examine the bank.  As he went toward the water, he could see it crisscrossed by a number of tracks . . . many of which had been overtrodden by other creatures.  There was no match for the larger print, Sire Cei could see.   A troop of early rising rabbits and late-night racquiels had obscured much of the bank, and there were raccoon tracks in abundance.   “What are these signs?” he asked, when he came across another print he’d never seen before.

“My lord?  Never seen those, neither,” the hivewarden admitted, when the strange three-clawed print.  “Not a honey-fox – too narrow and not enough toes.  That’s an odd pattern,” he agreed.

“I’ve never seen the like,” Sire Cei agreed.  “But it’s not the print I feared.  That large one at the edge resembles ones I’ve seen in the Wilderlands, and in Gilmora.  They resemble the tracks of a Fell Hound,” he pronounced, grimly.

“A Fell Hound, my lord?” Garun asked, his eyes wide with fear.

“Great mastiffs bred by the gurvani and their master to their service in the darkness of the Umbra,” Sire Cei affirmed, grimly.  “The smaller goblins ride them like horses.  But they fight like ordinary dogs.  Vicious beasts,” he pronounced, with a curl of his lip.  “But the closest one cannot be nearer than Gilmora.  Hundreds of miles from here,” the knight explained to the commoner.

“Goblins?  Riding dogs?” the man asked, in disbelief.  “They do that?”

“They are too small to ride horses, and they seek to ape our cavalry,” Sire Cei explained.  “I’ve faced them in battle many times.  But to see one so far east . . . if that is, indeed, what this is . . .”

“Do they like honey, then, my lord?” Garun asked, curious.

“No more than any other canine,” the knight admitted.  “Nor can they punch through crockery like that.  No, I don’t think we are facing a Fell Hound, Garun.”

“Then what, my lord?” the hivewarden asked, deeply concerned.

“I don’t know,” Sire Cei confessed.  “But regardless of what it is, it is my duty to inform the Hivemother.”

***

The ancient goddess Noapis had arisen on the broad, fertile plains of Merwyn centuries before.  A temple and religion obsessed with the lives of bees, the cult enjoyed a small but prosperous patronage, largely from those who depended upon the product of the hives for their livelihoods.  Meaderies, honey merchants, confectioners, chandlers, and physicians all contributed to the tiny temple in antiquity.  After the Conquest, Noapis was one of a handful of Imperial gods who enjoyed a transition to Narasi worship with little change of liturgy or mission.

It was not military conquest but colonial expansion that brought Noapis and her many children to the Bontal Vales.  Settlers from the lower Riverlands and northern Remere both brought versions of the religion into the region.  The eastern version favored folk tales surrounding the Queen of Gold and her busy court, while the southern cult preferred a more philosophical and scholarly perspective revolving around the spiritual importance of labor and its reward associated with bees and beekeeping.  After a century, the two sects had melded into an uneasy syncretism that continued to enjoy a small but dedicated patronage.

The Temple of Noapis at Cargwenyn was modest, by most standards.  A long, low complex comprising a single residence hall, a small library, and a temple sanctuary inhabited the little lot near the road that the estate had granted it, decades before.  Next to it was the workshop where wax – another important commodity for the estate – was rendered and purified before sale to chandlers and temples, where the premium wax was desired.

Across the lane was the newer, larger hall containing the Cargwenyn Meadery, funded entirely by Sire Cei.  Almost half the village worked the brewing establishment, preparing the honey harvested from the estate’s hives for refinement into the sweet, deceptively strong beverage.

Five years ago, the estate had been at the edge of penury, Sire Cei reflected as he led Garun past the meadery to the temple.  Only a dozen beekeepers had toiled in the hives, each of them barely scraping by on the wages the estate could afford to pay.  Now, almost every villager had a job on the estate.  Wains full of honey, mead, and wax regularly departed the village complex, and the accounts of the manor were – finally – beginning to justify his investment.  The popularity of the mead, especially, had put coin in the coffers – many wanted to sample the Dragonslayer’s mead.  Yet Sire Cei knew that providing a position for so many was a worthy enough return, in his mind.  It wasn’t about the money, it was about seeing the people he was responsible for prosper.  The Temple of Noapis was instrumental in that new prosperity.

Yet the inclusion of the Hivemother in the economy of the estate also meant that she enjoyed more power than Sire Cei was comfortable with a member of the clergy possessing. That was fine, when it came to keeping the artisans and peasants in line.  But twice, now, the priestess had confounded his attempts to run the estate.  Twice he had capitulated, at her insistence, on subjects involving how the hives were run and harvested.  There was a great deal of ritual involved with beekeeping, he had learned, and while he might not understand the woman’s religion, he did realize that her knowledge of the subject was vast, compared to his, and he deferred accordingly . . . even when it all seemed but silly superstition.

Sire Cei did not mind, at this point; he was a pious man, and would no more foreswear the Hivemother’s ruling on honey than he would a Huinite priest’s decision about grain.  But while officially a patron of the sect, he understood very little about the cult’s complex liturgy and philosophy. Its rites were not well known to outsiders, nor was its clergy eager to share the secrets of their sect with those unsworn to the Sweet Mother.

Still, if there was any problem with the estate’s hives, the hivemother had to be informed, by tradition and courtesy.  Indeed, she might prove to have insight in the matter, he hoped, as he was at a loss.  Sire Cei arrived at the temple midmorning, Garun in tow, to beg an audience with the wizened old woman who oversaw the precious bees.

Hivemother Kallis had been in charge of the temple for as long as anyone could remember.  She wore the distinctive habit of the order with the pride of a queen, and her wisdom extended beyond mere bee husbandry.  She was revered by the peasants and artisans of Cargwenyn above all others, himself included.  But age, and perhaps her devotion to her sect, gave her an eerie, preternatural air that made the knight a little uncomfortable in her presence.  Nonetheless, he could not neglect his duty.

“There is a monster about, Mother,” the knight informed her, once her novitiate ushered him into her chamber and offered him mead.  Though early in the day, he took it with all due reverence and dutifully returned the old woman’s blessing.  “A monster who consumes entire hives.  Two, it has taken, so far.  I have come to let you know,” he added.  He wasn’t at all certain that the ancient Hivemother was entirely coherent.

“The little brothers have already informed me, at the Sweet Mother’s behest, my lord,” the old priestess assured him.  “Further, they have assured me that the lord of the manor shall contend with the problem,” she added, as if it was no great concern.  Sire Cei, of course, doubted the bees had told her anything of the sort, but one did not openly contest the supposed powers of the clergy if one was wise.  Being told that he would handle the matter in such an assured way when he had no insight on what the threat might be was disconcerting.

“I . . . I have investigated, Mother,” Sire Cei conceded.  “But I see little that I can do to protect the hives.  There are so many, now, and it would be impossible to guard them all.”

“The hives that were chosen were not accidental,” the wrinkled old woman declared.  “Indeed, their attackers were drawn to them.  Look closely at the larger one on the same row,” she suggested.  “The next attack will come near to it,” she said, confidently.

“How can you know that, Mother?” Sire Cei asked, politely.

“Because the Little Brothers know that, and they tell me,” she told him, dismissively.   “Do you think that thousands of Little Brothers can ignore the damage done their home, or the threat to their queen?  Or fail to know how it will be resolved?  Or why they were chosen, and not another hive?  The bees know all,” she confided in him.  “They see everything, everywhere.  What they see, they tell me.”  She spoke with absolute assurance, as if it were natural law.

“Could they have possibly mentioned just what beast attacked them?” Sire Cei pressed, frowning.  “It might be helpful if I knew what I was facing.”

“Does it matter?” snapped the priestess.  “There is a threat to the hives, my lord.  The queens themselves are worried.  You have an obligation to protect them, as much as they were fields of wheat and barley.”

“I do not foreswear my duties, Mother Kallis,” Sire Cei insisted, a little irritated at the old woman for her insinuation that he might shirk them.  “But if I am to protect the hives, then it stands to reason that any information they could provide me would be beneficial in that endeavor.”

“The Little Brothers say it was big, and ravenous, and strong,” the hivemother said, after a long, reflective pause.  “Not a beast they’ve seen before,” she added.  “It had a powerful, consuming hunger within it, a hunger that compelled it.  A power that continues to compel it.  Them,” she corrected.

“Them?” Sire Cei said, immediately.  “Plural?  There was more than one beast?”

“At least two, if not more,” the priestess conceded.  “But only one with the strength to break the hive.  That is the one that will return, at the least,” she declared.

“You  . . . you have a Sight?” he asked, curious.  According to legend, as related by his beloved wife, the hivemothers had the power to compile the various reports of the thousands of bees who allegedly visited them and use it to foresee events in the future.  It was not quite prophecy – according to the wizards he knew – but a vague kind of foretelling that did not, quite, violate the old Bans on Magic.

“Nay, not as you consider it,” the old woman dismissed.  “But I’ve heard enough buzzing to know when a champion will rightfully defend the hives against threat.  If you can slay a dragon,” she pronounced, “then you should be able to abate this threat with no great difficulty.”

“So you say, Mother,” Sire Cei conceded.  “Yet I face an unknown beast with unknown capabilities.  I do not fear such things,” he quickly added.  “But in order to do my best, it would be helpful to gain some intelligence on the foe I face.”

“It will come at night,” she finally decided, after a long moment’s pause.  “It is nocturnal.  And not tonight.  It has fed, and fed well,” she related.  “It will be two days before hunger compels it to again seek the Sweet Blessing.”

“It will come at night,” Sire Cei repeated, dully.  “In two days.  It will come at night.  Is there anything else?”

“And you will meet it there,” the priestess crooned, approvingly.  “Take your greatsword, Dragonslayer.  Not your cavalry sword.”

Though he rarely bothered to take militaristic advice from the clergy, the knight was not so irrational that he would ignore it, when offered.  Sire Cei had an arsenal of weapons he’d collected over the years, both here and at Sevendor.  He was certain he could find a suitable weapon.

“Any other advice, Mother?” he asked for the sake of completeness.

“Take a couple of sausages, too,” Mother Kallis decided, finally.  “I don’t know why.  Just take a couple of sausages.”

“I defer to your divine wisdom,” the Wilderlord said, giving the priestess a deep bow.

“You’re being patronizing,” complained the old woman.

“Would you act differently, in my position?” he challenged.

“Me?  By the Great Queen, no!” she cackled.  “I’ve no idea what’s molesting our precious hives, Dragonslayer.  I just know that it is a dangerous threat to all of the sacred hives.  I’ve given you what I know, but I’m perplexed.  The only thing I’m certain of is that you will, indeed, face this challenge.  And that it is different than you are prepared for.  And that you will, alas, face mortal peril.

“But, then, it is the duty of the aristocracy to risk their lives to protect the clergy,” she reminded him.  “I can offer you a blessing, but no more counsel upon what you face than I’ve given you.  So, will you accept my blessing?  Though you are skeptical of its efficacy?”

“Mother, I will accept every blessing and spell I can,” he vowed.  “It would just be nice to understand the threat I face.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it would,” she snickered, as she prepared to bless the knight’s endeavor.  “But then, such missions are a bitch, aren’t they?”

***

“You hunt a beast, my husband?” Lady Estret asked, alarmed, as she watched Sire Cei practice in the garden with his greatsword.  “A hive-eating beast?”

“I do, beloved,” the knight acknowledged, as he re-acquainted himself with the two-handed greatsword.  Though he had neglected the small arsenal at the estate, since his appointment as Steward of Sevendor, he had managed to find a greatsword within its small inventory.

It had been a gift, he recalled, a present from Master Andalnam to celebrate his investiture as Lord of Cargwenyn.  Though it was of impressive size, it lacked much in ornamentation, which suited Sire Cei just fine.  He disliked weapons that were too pretty.  The famous enchanter had acquired the oversized sword somewhere and experimented upon it with his craft with the Dragonslayer in mind.  Now, when the mage knight grasped it, he could use his meager Talent to activate a few of the basic spells cast upon the plain steel blade.

“Would not your warhammer be a more powerful weapon, my husband?” Lady Estret asked, hesitantly, as she watched him.

“Power is not always the priority in battle, my wife,” Sire Cei countered, as he passed the long blade through the air with as much precision as he could muster.  “The warhammer was designed to challenge a siege beast or dragon, not . . . whatever it is that menaces our hives.”

“You do seem fairly well-acquainted with the blade,” Estret conceded, after watching for a few minutes before.  Sire Cei was learning the balance of the strange sword the only way a warrior could, through drill.  “I can only imagine the power of the blow you would strike.”

“The greatsword is more widely used in the Wilderlands than in the Riverlands, and I studied it for years as a squire.  The power means nothing, if it isn’t astutely applied,” the knight said, through clenched teeth, as he maneuvered the long sword through his practice regimen.  “I know not what beast I face: Fell Hound, bear, or . . . something else.  But Mother Kallis recommended that I take it, based upon what the bees told her.  And some sausages,” he added, with a sudden smirk.

“Sausages?” she asked, confused.  “Why sausages?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Sire Cei admitted.  “Neither did she.  But she was insistent on that point.”

“Well, one should respect the pronouncements of the Hivemother,” she agreed, after a pause for consideration.  “She is well-known to have the power of foresight.  Though I wish she had been more helpful in telling you what you face.  I prefer the idea of a bear, my love,” Estret assured him, as he whirled and slashed at the air in a sudden lunge with one hand, the other thrown behind him for balance.  “I cannot imagine any ursine able to challenge so valiant a knight.”

“Well, ‘bearslayer’ seems a worthy moniker, even among ‘Dragonslayer’,” Cei conceded with a chuckle, as he whirled around again and slashed in the opposite direction, the sword in both hands.  “Somehow the ursine seems a more . . . personal threat,” he decided.  “Yet I would prefer to face a Fell Hound.  I’ve faced those before.  I’ve never fought a bear, even while hunting in the Wilderlands.  I know how to fight Fell Hounds.”

“You know how to fight everything,” Estret assured him with the smile that had originally captivated Sire Cei’s attention at the Spring Fair, that fateful day.  “Never have I seen a more capable knight than you, my beloved!”

“You are sweet to say so, my wife,” Sire Cei affirmed.  “But every foe has distinctive strengths and weaknesses.  And any knight could fall to a blow he does not anticipate.”

He whirled around and cut the air with such force that the blade produced a kind of whistle.  “I will give my life, to protect what the gods have entrusted me to ward,” he continued, never taking his eyes off the point of the blade.  “Especially the woman they have delivered to me to wife, worthy beyond my most fervent prayers.  But when I do not know the manner of foe I face, I fight at a disadvantage.”

“Your wife and daughter will pray for you, my lord husband,” Estret informed him, as he continued his practice.  “If our grace has any effect, we will find you victorious.”

“And if I am not,” Sire Cei agreed, delivering a devastating slice to the shoulder of some imagined foe, “then I have left you a son to avenge me.  Someday,” he added, whirling in an entirely different direction.  Estret watched with rapt attention.

“I cannot fault your dedication, my lord husband,” Lady Estret assured, breathlessly.  “Indeed, your passage at arms inspires . . . all sorts of feelings,” she informed him, as she watched him effortlessly hold the heavy sword in place with one hand.  “Yet as deadly as the foe might be, it consoles me that it is – likely – not a dragon.”

“Nay, my lady,” he conceded, “it is unlikely to be a worm who is pilfering our hives.”

“I feel so relieved,” Estret confided, softly.  “So . . . thoroughly relieved.  So relieved, I feel a sense of celebration coming over me.”

“Celebration, my lady?” Sire Cei asked, curious, as he swung the mighty sword again with purpose.  “Is that prudent, before the battle is even fought?”

“Indeed, my husband,” Estret agreed, her voice a feminine purr.  “So much so that I feel compelled to display it, by Trygg’s holy grace.”

Sire Cei stopped, holding his sword in midair.  “My lady?  Do you think it is an appropriate time for such thoughts?”

“My husband, considering the grave, grave danger you face,” she said, softly, “how can I fail to express my . . . my gratitude . . . at your diligence in our defense?”

“You had a particular means in mind?” Sire Cei asked, quietly, bringing the sword to rest in guard in front of him.

“I see no one haunting the planting shed, my husband,” she replied.  “And even if they did, Trygg protect them from my wrath if they should disturb me.  Perhaps you should retire there for a moment.  At once.”

“My lady?” Sire Cei asked, his blade drooping in his hand.

“Don’t make me ask twice, my lord,” Lady Estret said, her voice stirred to purpose as she descended to the practice yard.  “That would be an unkind burden to place upon your wife.  Considering the danger you face, how could you compound the risk by failing to comply with such a reasonable and wholesome request?”

“I would be no knight if I failed to fulfill your expectations, my wife,” Sire Cei conceded, with a chuckle, as his wife took him by the hand.

“Then let’s be quick,” she insisted, intently.  “I don’t intend to deny you one more moment of practice than you require.  Just . . . start stripping off,” she said, as she dragged him toward the shed.  “Quietly.  No need to upset the servants.”

***

For two long days, Sire Cei practiced alone or with one of the local lads in the garden.  He drilled in full armor, as was his want, plying the overlong blade of his greatsword with increasing efficiency against the boys, who used sword, staff, and other implements to give him a range of opponents.  It helped that the two-handed blade was favored by Wilderlords from antiquity.  As effective as the sword-and-shield mode the Riverlands knights preferred in battle, Sire Cei could well appreciate the efficacy of almost five feet of well-forged steel could accomplish in the hands of a man who knew how to use it.

Once, his ancestors had tamed the Wilderlands with such blades.  Indeed, most Wilderlord families had extensive examples of greatswords in their ancestral armories, left over from the bloody pacification of the Alshari Wilderlands.  Greatswords like this had conquered native tribes, the gurvani, and had even challenged barbarians like the Pearwoods clans and the Kasari.  Considered archaic by the Riverlords knights he found himself associating with, Sire Cei could appreciate the power of a great sword like few his Riverlord peers.

Nor was the blade he practiced with mere mundane steel, he reminded himself; Master Andalnam had enchanted it with several useful spells that Sire Cei, with his nominal rajira, could actually use, and find useful in battle.

With a word, the Cat’s Eye spell would activate, if the sword was in his hands.  Another mnemonic produced a flash of light, and another yet would make the blade glow with the light of five lanterns.  There were a half-dozen spells laid upon the blade, and while that was a limited number, compared to the great weapons his master, Minalan, and his fellow wizards used, it was enough to convince Sire Cei that he was capable of facing any beast.

At last, night began to fall, and it was time to go face the foe that Mother Kallis had predicted would strike again.

He took a good strategic position in the meadow, on the second day, just at dusk.  Lady Estret and his stepdaughter Faresa had ridden out in the evening with a packet of sausages and ensured that his encampment was as cozy as possible, before retiring back to the manor house once they had given their blessing.  Garun had insisted upon accompanying him in his mission, staking out a quiet portion of wood above the meadow with a shepherd’s bow in hand.

Sire Cei could not deny the hivewarden the right, despite the potential danger involved in the mission. The man had proven his dedication to the success of the estate.  He had instructed the hivewarden to wait in readiness and come only at his call.  He was unarmored and had no experience in combat, and Cei wanted to avoid allowing the man to be injured.  But he admired the hivewarden’s willingness to take up arms, regardless.  Sire Cei appreciated bravery, regardless of the class of the man who displayed it.

Soon, the gloom of twilight gave way to darkness.  The moon was low in the sky, and nearly absent, the waning crescent of the celestial body giving little light to the mage knight as he waited near the hives. He had elected not to erect a tent or pavilion, as his Riverlord peers might have done.  Instead, he awaited the foe on a simple bedroll, in full armor, his sword at the ready.

Despite his preparedness, there was little company that night, save for the opossums, racquiels, and raccoons that haunted the pasture.  The hives stood vigil silently, their   daytime hum muted under the stars, while Sire Cei waited patiently through the night.

He used a few of the tricks of the class he now served to fulfill his tactical obligations. During that long night he often wondered at the startling new arcane abilities to which he was now privy.  The night of the Snow That Never Melted had left him permanently scarred by his own latent rajira, a Yule gift from the gods he continued to doubt the wisdom of.  The “sport Talent” he was blessed or cursed with allowed him little mastery of spells beyond the basics . . . yet those basics now permitted a host of options he’d never anticipated, before.

Sire Cei was no wizard.  While he used the great sword’s Cat’s Eye spell to see the meadow more clearly, that was the extent of the magic he employed.  He was a knight of the Wilderlands, removed by Fate or the gods to the Riverlands, where he enjoyed fame, fortune, and respect in measures abundant enough to satisfy his chivalric needs.  The sudden manifestation of his magical powers had not dulled his abilities as a knight, nor had it tempered his carefully cultivated virtues.  It was those he relied upon, not his magic, to sustain him through his watch.

Sire Cei had developed patience when he’d learned to hunt in the great forests of the Wilderlands. He had the fortitude to hold completely still, from his concealed location, doing naught but watching the bank.  Boredom loomed, of course – here he was, a knight and lord, crouching in full armor in wet grass at midnight with a pocket full of sausages.  But he also reflected that oft was chivalry filled with such banal moments, more than the glory of battle or the honor of good service.  He waited.  For hours.  The crescent moon rose and stretched toward its zenith before there was any real activity to note.

Then a succession of creatures began issuing from the creekside on their nightly journey to the meadow.  All of the small mammals he’d seen tracks of were there, a veritable parade of nocturnal rodents, lagomorphs, and marsupials who fed from the grasslands.  For a few moments, Cei enjoyed watching the antics of the animals as they chased each other, hunted, and played.  The night side of nature was one he’d rarely experienced in such detail.

Nor was his observation idle; for, as the moon reached its peak, he witnessed the little racquiel closest to the bank freeze – and then tear headlong into the meadow, away from the bank.  Similarly a skunk who was rambling by arched its back and turned tail at the detection of something sinister in the darkened creek.

Sire Cei tensed, and his fingers flexed around the long hilt of his greatsword.  He suspected a Fell Hound, perhaps a lone scout wandered far from his home . . . or, worse yet, a hound with a gurvani rider.  Cei couldn’t conceive of why such a thing might have come to Cargwenyn, but that was what the evidence suggested.

He did not expect the dark, lumpy shape that emerged from the bush.  It was certainly no canine, he could see, though there was little he could distinguish about the beast, despite the Cat’s Eye spell.

It kept itself bunched up, its limbs held close to its lumpy body.  Its wide, flattish head bore long ears at each end, and the snout of the beast was almost ursine in presentation.  Sire Cei was going to identify it as a bear, as had been suggested, when the creature stood up and revealed a tail far longer and heavier than any bear.  That’s when Cei also spotted a second, smaller set of arms below the first.

Callidore was home to a number of six-limbed mammals and reptiles, Cei was aware.  The natavia species who shared the trait seemed related, by Nature’s grace, and the Wise assured him that they sprung from some common origin.  Yet he had never faced one this small.  The great Siege Worms employed by the dark armies of the west had six legs, as did the southern Wilderlands predator called the ilek.  But the ilek was reportedly slender and swift, while this specimen was thick and lumpy.

While Cei watched the unknown beast, it pushed itself slowly up the bank and into the meadow, its wide eyes searching while its mouth lolled open, revealing a long black tongue . . . and a row of viciously sharp teeth.

Sire Cei did not know what strange god had concocted such an animal, but it apparently hadn’t been concerned with aesthetics.  The beast was as ugly as a nightmare.

It surveyed the hive it had ruined two days ago, sniffing at the broken crockery with its snout while all four arms searched for any trace left of the golden liquid it craved.  The great tail lashed slowly behind it, side to side, the way a dragon’s might.

While it was thus employed, Sire Cei readied himself.  When its head was thoroughly inside the ruined hive, he saw his opportunity.  As quietly as possible, he sprang to his feet and charged the beast, his greatsword swinging at its exposed back.

“For Cargwenyn!” he bellowed at the last second, as the great blade descended upon the shoulder of the creature.  Had he been facing an honorable opponent on the battlefield, he never would have struck from behind, without warning.  But this was pest eradication, not a contest of honor.

Yet, as mightily as the blow was struck, the foul tail entangled his legs and knocked Cei out of balance, twisting the greatsword slightly enough to prohibit its sharp edge from slaying the beast on the spot.

Instead, it opened up a jagged wound that ran from the peak of its shoulder down its back.  Dark, hot blood sprayed over his face as he fell.  It was a grave wound, but not vital . . . and it enraged the surprised creature.  With speed he had not anticipated, the angry beast whirled and began striking at Cei with ferocious determination.

He wasn’t unprepared for the contest, but he had underestimated his foe’s capacities.  It moved with much more speed, and with far more strength than he had thought, based on how slowly it had emerged from the creek.  Suddenly, its club-like arms were flailing at him from every direction, and the beast’s great maw was inches from the face of his helmet, snarling and roaring.  The tail was no longer lashing, Cei noted – it was planted firmly, giving the creature incredible leverage for its relentless attack.

Cei’s armor was strong – crafted by magi from the scales of the dragon he’d help slay.  They were more than proof against the club-like fists that banged against them like four maces.  Nor was he too startled to take the initiative.  He pushed back bravely against the beast, smashing its snout with the wide guard of his sword before hacking again against its already-wounded shoulder.

The second strike was truer than the first, and saw the great limb nearly severed.  The wound inspired a howl of rage and pain that filled the meadow with a ferocious, alien sound.  As it attempted to move away from the harm with a twist and a pivot, it brought Cei within range of the opposite leg.  He took the opportunity to stab at it with the modest point of the greatsword as he recovered.  The creature bellowed in pain from the dual wounds, and its three good arms grasped wildly at him.  Cei resumed his guard pose, the blade held in front of him, as he sought to draw the thing away from the precious hives.

He was gratified to see it stumble toward him, and away from the tall terra cotta structures, and he prepared to attack it anew.  But then he heard a fateful thud from an unexpected direction, and heard it too late before he was bowled over from behind.  While his armor protected him, it felt as if he had been charged by a bull.

The creature has a mate! he realized, too late, as he was sent sprawling.  The hivemother’s warning of more than one of the beasts came back to him as he fought.

Alas, as he lost his footing on the dew-wet grass, he also lost grip of his great sword, as he struggled to keep upright.  The moment it left his hand, so did the helpful spell that allowed him to see.

Nor did he have a chance to retrieve it before the mate was upon him, its thick and heavy body slamming into his breast and head as its great limbs beat at him.  He fought back as viciously as he could, punching any available opening with his mailed fists.  But the beast kept him from grabbing the broad dagger at his belt, or other weapon at hand, so furious was its attack.  It was everything Cei could do to defend himself.  Blows flew at his chest and head, blows hard enough to smash him to a pulp if he had lacked good steel and dragonhide to protect him.

When he had the opportunity, he rolled out from under the flailing beast, which gave him at least some leverage against it.  As he had no recourse to a weapon, instead he grasped one of the middle limbs in his mailed fist and gave it a mighty twist as he pulled against it with his shoulders.  He felt the bones and sinews within separate, causing the horrible beast to give a gratifying howl, before he kicked at it with his boot.  The strike was enough to push the creature off of his legs, and in a moment he had his dagger in hand . . . in the darkness … and he was standing, his long, broad dagger clenched in his fist.

He could not see more than the gloomy shadows in the faint moonlight, without the spell.  The fight had smacked his head enough to disturb his vision; though it had done no real injury, it added to his disorientation.  He attempted to correct that at once.  He knew where the hives were, where the creek was, and where in the meadow he was in relation to them.  But the dark, lumpy beasts lurked at the edges of his perception.  He could distinguish them only by the injured noises they were making.

That was enough.  He identified roughly where each of his foes was located in relation to him, in the darkness, and he prepared to receive their assault.  He was torn between maintaining his defense and searching for the greatsword, but he knew any distraction in this situation could prove fatal.  Nor did he have the mastery and focus it took to manifest magesight, as a normal wizard would do.  It took him great effort to utilize the spell under ideal conditions.  Doing so while in the midst of a struggle was impossible.  He would have to fight in the dark.

He’d taken no more than five breaths when both beasts charged him at once, from different directions.  The knight was ready to receive them.  Cei stabbed with the wide-bladed dagger as viciously as he could, striking deeply into the body of one creature while he fended the other off with his left hand.  Facing so many opposing limbs, and two powerful tails, it was a hot and bloody contest.

Cei put all thought of defeat out of his mind.  He knew that a moment of self-doubt could spread across his spirit like a crack in a hive.  He was resolute, even as he lost his footing again.  He stabbed, he slashed, he punched, he grasped, and he even kicked at the beasts with his heavy boots, when he was able.  He continued to fight fiercely even as the jaws of one of the creatures locked on his left forearm, penetrating through the gap in his armor where his vambrace met his elbow.  The sharp teeth scratched a small wound in his arm, but it was not serious, merely painful.  But it angered him.   In his fury he pulled the beast by its jaws into line with his armored knee and drove it into its throat as hard as he could.  It let go, but left the sting of injury behind.

The knight continued to fight in the gloom, even as he was overwhelmed by both his attackers.  He used his helmet, his fists, and the bloody dagger as adeptly as he could.  But any observer who happened by would see at once that the knight was overmatched by the combination of his foes.

Sire Cei, himself, did not pause in his fight until one of the flailing limbs flew against his helm so hard it rang his skull like a bell, sending him senseless for a fateful moment.  As he began to fall, stunned, he finally admitted to himself that – just maybe – he did not have the capacity to finish the fight.  The first beast he’d wounded sought revenge by leaping on his chest and attacking his face and neck.  The crescent moon, overhead, chose that moment to be obscured by clouds, rendering the entire meadow in complete darkness.  Perhaps, an idle part of him considered, she didn’t want to witness his death.

Before the ignominy of such a scandalous end could unfold in his imagination, however, another force intervened.  Just as one of the beasts moved to tear out his throat, a great shadow shot out of the darkness and threw itself into the fray.  Cei was too stunned at first to realize what was happening, but in an instant the great weight that had borne down on him was gone, and the flailing fists of the beasts were abated.

The mysterious thing that had saved him tore into the creatures with fury.  Indeed, a chilling growl matched the shrieks of the four-armed intruders in volume as the fight progressed.  While Cei could not identify the new player in the darkness, he knew it was as large as a horse or a bear and had great snapping teeth.  It bit first one of the lumpy beasts and then the other, chomping at arms, legs, tails and throats with equal speed, force, and determination.  Cei’s vision cleared enough from his wounds that he could see in a frozen moment that his savior was twice the size of his attackers, as the moon reappeared from behind the clouds for a second.

That moment of clarity gave him hope, and something more – the glint of metal in the grass.  Realizing that it could only be his greatsword, Cei did not waste the opportunity, nor let his wounds delay him.  He scrambled for the blade as quickly as he could, grabbing its pommel in his gauntlet as he pushed himself back to his feet.

“Illume!” he commanded it, as his fingers twisted around the hilt.  Instead of providing him with superb vision in the darkness, Cei had activated the spell that caused the greatsword to glow with a bright light.  Though it threw crazy shadows over the meadow, the sword gave him more than enough light to pick his foe and attack.

With no distraction, he summoned the strength his arcane Talent gave him.  Through practice and drill he had gotten much better at manifesting it, at need, though it took some concentration still to ensure its effect.  But when he saw he had a shot at one of the creature’s backs, he steadied himself, let the power flow through him, and visualized it coalescing on the sweet spot of the greatsword.

When Sire Cei the Dragonslayer struck that time, the blow was sufficient to rend the creature instantly in twain.

Its mate was at the end of its struggle with the new beast, Cei saw – its great jaws had locked around the throat of the lumpy monster and was shaking it so vigorously that it was only a matter of time before its spine shattered.  It dropped, lifeless, from the massive maw of the newcomer.

In the light of his greatsword, in the shadowed meadow, Sire Cei stared in the eyes of the true Beast of Cargwenyn. But not for the first time.

And, suddenly, the sausages made perfect sense.

***

It was dawn by the time the Dragonslayer returned to Cargwenyn Hall from his mission, after seeing Garun to his own cottage after the battle.  His armor had been battered, and his eyes were a bit unfocused.  Blood stained his vambrace and wrist.  His face was covered in dirt and blood and hair, under the rim of his helm.  But he strode back to the manor hall on his own two feet, great sword over his shoulder, no more grievously wounded than if he’d been unhorsed in a tournament.

“My lord!” Lady Estret exclaimed at the sight of him at the gate.  Clearly his wife had been anxious at his return, and the sight of blood alarmed her.  “Are you wounded?” she asked, concerned.

“Barely a scratch, my lady” Sire Cei dismissed, displaying his bloody vambrace.  “More blood than wound, to be honest.  A single bite and a knock on the head.  I’m fine,” he insisted.  “Nor did we lose any more hives.”

“Then your hunt was successful, my lord?” she asked, as she began stripping the vambrace off his arm right there in the courtyard.  A servant went for bandages and cleansing spirits, without being asked.

“Indeed,” Sire Cei assured her as she tended his wound.  “A pair of them, actually.  Though I’ve never seen the type of creature, before.  I went by to show the Hivemother their heads, however, and she had some insight.”

“Not bears, then?  Or honey-foxes?” she asked, as she gave him a quick kiss after removing his helm.  Lady Estret hated the latter pests for the damage they did to the hives.

“Nay.  The creatures are apparently called helwyrmel by the Wise,” he said, pronouncing the strange word he’d just learned from the old priestess.  “A distant cousin of the Westlands Ilik.  Mother Kallis was quite disturbed by them.  According to her lore on the subject, they are native to the Kulines.  It is highly unusual – perhaps unique – to find them so far south.  Particularly south of the Bontal River,” he pointed out, as she poured a liberal amount of clear spirits over the puncture on his forearm.  “According to legend, they are magical in nature, though the means of their powers was not explained in her scrolls.  But they are known to the Alka Alon.”

“Were they aggressive?” she asked, as she cleaned the wound on his arm with a linen soaked in spirits.  It stung, but Sire Cei did not flinch.

“Vicious,” Sire Cei conceded.  “They’ve four arms, two strong above, two smaller below.  Though they possess no claws, their fists are bony, and as hard as rocks.  And they have a face like a bear who has been poorly shaved and then beaten by a log.”

Lady Estret paused, looking alarmed.  “And you slew them both, my lord?” she asked, surprised and impressed as they entered the hall.  Sire Cei placed his greatsword on a peg, and set his helmet on the table.

“Just the one,” Sire Cei said.  “I had some timely assistance with the other.  But both are slain and the threat is abated.  We ranged the creek bed and saw no more signs of the creatures.  Our hives are safe.  Their heads now decorate the altar of the temple,” he added, pleased.

“Thank Noapis!” Estret agreed.  “And thank you, my valiant lord husband, for protecting them so diligently.  A lesser man might cede the right to a few common fellows with crossbows, but the Lord of Cargwenyn stood in defense of his domain, himself,” she said, proudly.

“It was my duty, my wife,” he assured her.  “The hives are our bounty.  They must be protected and nourished.  That is what I swore to do, when I married you and assumed the title of Lord of Cargwenyn.”

“And it is my duty to reward my stout defender,” she said, a hint of sauce in her voice, as she finished binding the wound.  “I do hope you are not too overwhelmed from your lengthy night of service . . .” she said, sitting back on her haunches expectantly.

“As to my reward, my wife,” Sire Cei said, chewing his lip, “if it is in my power to name it, I have an idea in mind.”

Lady Estret looked confused.  Ordinarily, Cei had no hesitation responding to her wifely overtures.  But the look on his face took her by surprise.

“And what would that be, my husband?” she asked, curious.  “Name the boon, and it is granted.”

“Come with me,” Sire Cei said, instead of explaining himself, and grasped her hand.  He turned and led her by her dainty fingers out into the courtyard, the large walled garden that was oft the center of activity at the manor.  Lady Estret gasped as soon as she saw what he was leading her toward.

“Great Queen of the Hives, what is that thing?” she gasped.

In front of her was the beast who had intervened in the fight the previous night, saving his life.  It was, indeed, worthy of her gasp: a great, shaggy-looking dog the size of a horse was sprawled between the raised garden beds of the courtyard, its massive tongue lolling out the side of its great mouth, dripping drool like rainwater.

“That, my love, is actually an old friend,” Sire Cei admitted, sheepishly.  “She intervened in a timely manner last evening, and kept me from getting my throat torn out.  She was one of the many hounds the magi transformed a few years ago for the famous chase up the frozen Poros River.  Minalan and Ithalia chose them for their strength and endurance from all of the dogs of Gilmora, and then made them . . . overlarge.  They pulled the great barges turned sledges up to the cursed city of Olum Seheri . . . though I suppose it was still Anthatiel, then,” he conceded.

“I recall the tale, my lord, but what exactly is it doing here?” she asked, perplexed, as she stared at the giant hound in awe.

“Looking for me, I’d imagine,” Sire Cei proposed, stroking his chin.  “I am near certain that this was the beast who hauled me out of that awful lake, once Lady Pentandra ended the spell that kept it frozen.  My armor was dragging me down – likely to my doom,” he admitted, casually.  “Then I was hauled back to the surface and dragged to the shallows by . . . this magnificent bitch!”

“This giant dog saved your life?” Lady Estret asked, astounded.  “And then spent two years tracking you down?  Only to save your life again?”

“We took her back to Gilmora, after the battle, but that was the last I’d seen of her.  The Kasari took some of the great hounds back north with them, I’d heard, and even breed them there, now.  But this noble lady apparently became . . . attached to me,” he said, self-consciously.  “I can only imagine the tale she could tell of her tracking me down across half a continent!” he said, in wonder.

“It would be an epic,” his wife agreed.  “Gracious, she’s . . . large!”

“But of sweetest disposition, when she is not shaking a helwyrmel like a rat,” Cei said, stroking the great beast between the ears with his unwounded hand.  “Indeed, the moment our combat was done, she . . . she licked my face like I was her lost pup!” he admitted, sheepishly.  “That’s when I understood the Hivemother’s advice about sausages.  She was famished.  And terribly grateful to be fed such rich fare after the fight.”

“She truly seems gentle,” Lady Estret admitted, warming to the dog.  “She has such beautiful eyes!”

“As to my reward, my lady wife, if I had a choice of anything, it would be to take this mighty hound into service,” he said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage.  “Can we keep her?” he added.  There was just enough boyish plea in his request that Estret burst out laughing.

“I said anything in my power, my love, and I was sincere.  Of course we will keep her,” she decided.  “To reward such faithful diligence and such timely rescue – twice! – that would be ignoble of us.  Though how we will feed such a beast is beyond me . . .”

“Just imagine her being an entire kennel, unto herself,” reasoned Cei.  “And I care not for the expense.  Her service to the hives has demonstrated her utility to the manor.”  He stopped petting the great dog, who immediately pushed her big nose under his hand to insist that he continue.

“It appears that she has found a home with us, then,” Estret sighed.  “She is, as you say, magnificent.  And she seems as gentle as a lap dog,” she conceded.  “I’m certain the children will love her.  But she needs a bath!  She smells like she’s been ranging across two duchies!  Once your own wounds are tended, please have her taken down to the springhouse and thoroughly washed, before she’s allowed inside!”

“We . . . we can let her inside?” Sire Cei asked, hopefully.

“The great hall, at least, and perhaps our chamber,” Estret said, fondly.  “If we can find a door big enough to allow her entry, I would guess.  Indeed, from the affection she clearly bears you, I would guess that she would not permit you to be separated again.  Nor do I think our hall is strong enough to deny her, if she had a mind.”

“No, I can imagine her digging her way through the stone and wattle, if she so desired,” Cei mused, admiringly.  “But what shall we call her?  The ‘Beast of Cargwenyn’ is an ungainly name,” he pointed out.

Estret considered.  “Simel,” she finally decided.  “Simel was one of my ancestors, a great-great aunt or something.  Her fierce protection of her family and the estate was legendary.  There was some dispute over accounts with one of the larger estates, and she was determined to collect.  In the records, she was known for arguing with one of the Lensely noblewomen so doggedly that the woman eventually relented.  Indeed, there are three or four notable stories in the histories of Cargwenyn.  Lady Simel was tough, tenacious, but also loving and affectionate.  She would be a fitting namesake for this hound,” she decided.

“Simel she is, then.  Are you Simel?  Simel?” he repeated to the dog, using both hands to scratch her head vigorously.  He received an answering kiss that soaked his face in response.

“Apparently she is,” Estret giggled.  “Now, my lord husband, while you are enjoying your reward, perhaps you should also consider . . . just who is going to clean that up?” she asked, gesturing to a fresh, though unpleasant, addition to the gardens.

The Incident at Ramoth’s Wood

The Chepstan Spring Fair was not much of an attraction for Magelord Olmeg the Green; his tidy little estate provided most of what he needed, and the Sevendor markets were lush with what he didn’t.  Ordinarily, he would have begrudged the time in the important verdant season: garden plots to be turned, fields to be plowed, spring blooms and sprouts to be gathered, and a thousand other things he was responsible for, as Sevendor’s Greenwarden.

But the truth was, he had a staff, deputies, and a burrow full of industrious Tal Alon to see to his wishes and follow his orders.  After so many years, they knew the spring routine as well as he, and he had to entrust it to them at some point.

What brought him to the fair was not need of goods, but need of news.  Since the Spellmonger was exiled from his home, Sire Cei had imposed upon all of the wizards of the domain to be particularly alert, in their baron’s absence.  The Steward of Sevendor wanted them to search for any sort of dangers that might come against the barony while Minalan was away.   While that could mean dragons from the sky – again – or a horde of marching undead, there were also more mundane dangers, Olmeg was aware, that needed to be watched for.   Hence the need for news.

Sire Cei imposed upon the greenwarden to lead the domain’s delegation to the annual fair this year, thinking it important for Sevendor to be represented.  There was already a caravan loaded with locally produced wares, particularly common enchantments popular with the folk at the fair, and other delicacies only Sevendor produced.  Several estates had sent wains full of their surplus, in an effort to secure good prices.  Sir Festaran was leading the commercial delegation, including an extensive shopping list.  Olmeg was along to speak to the lords of the other nearby domains and learn the news of the Bontal Vales.  He’d brought only a packhorse and his Tal Alon servant, Purslane.

Though it was not a mission he was well-suited for, he was certainly capable.  He was also appreciative of Sire Cei’s attention to such details; he knew full well that parasites could destroy a tree as easily as a windstorm.  Little things mattered, and to ignore them was to invite disaster.

Thankfully, the news from Chepstan was peaceful.  Indeed, folk were still speaking of the horrible dragon attack last year, the defeat of Sashtalia, and Minalan’s exile more than anything else.  He had to repeat the story of the horrific hour the worm descended to several lords who had yet to hear it, or wished to hear it again from one who was there.  Olmeg patiently indulged them, reliving that terrible day over and over in slow, practiced words.

He spared them the tales of the cries of the dying, the mourning of the families, the bitter shock of the attack on the folk of the domain.  He kept to the magi’s heroic response, the magnificent role the Sky Riders played, and the valiant service of the Sevendori in the aftermath.  It was more impressive and less depressing that way.

As Sire Cei’s representative, Olmeg had a list of encampments he had a duty to visit and speak to, a mission he did not mind.  Speaking casually to the men in charge of the manors surrounding Sevendor told him much, even when his questions were confined to crops and vegetables, insects and pests.   He made a point to inspect any produce they brought to the Fair.  Olmeg could tell more about an estate by its onions than most men could perceive on a walking tour.

The tall, perpetually barefoot wizard was always well received as his reputation was well known in the Bontal Vales.  He’d made several trips across the new domains under Sevendor’s control, and beyond, in pursuit of his craft.  He’d made friends several places as he helped improve the agriculture and horticulture of the barony.  There was nearly always a small gift and an open bottle involved in his visits.

He accepted their hospitality in moderation, all too aware of just how quickly a man, even of his stature, could succumb to strong drink in such a circumstance.  And he had many stops to make.

He was in the grand pavilion of Baron Arathanial, speaking to one of the castellans from near the Birchroot, when a strange, well-dressed man approached him, glancing at his pointed green hat, his staff, and his bare feet.  His eyes passed over quite a bit of Olmeg in between.  Olmeg knew his size cold be intimidating.  It was clear the man wanted to speak to him.

“Is there some service I could offer you, Goodman . . . ?”

“Sir Gamman of Ramoth’s Wood,” the man corrected, proudly with a note of offense in his voice, as if Olmeg should have known his rank, somehow.  “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Alas, no, my lord,” Olmeg said, apologetically.  “I do not go often from my home, and when I do, ’tis on most specific errands.  But you did seem to tarry, as if to engage me . . . ?”

“Ah, yes,” the man conceded.  “From what I understand, you are the wizard known as Olmeg the Green?”

“Magelord Olmeg the Green, of Hollyburrow,” the wizard replied, not minding using his title, for once.  He guessed it would impress the man, though it did not impress Olmeg.  “I am, indeed.”

“Then I have a question to put to you, my lord,” the man continued, adjusting his tone to fit Olmeg’s station.  “I understand that you are an expert in the, uh, handling of these . . . Tal Alon?” he asked, hesitantly, glancing pointedly at Purslane.

“Most of my estate staff are Tal Alon,” he agreed, patiently.  “My most loyal staff.”

“Ah, of course, the domesticated variety do have a reputation for loyalty,” the knight agreed.  “At least, by reputation.  But you have some sort of command over them?” he asked, curious.  “Some magical spell that compels them?”

“Why would I need such a thing, sir?” Olmeg asked, with as little resentment as possible at the unsavory implication.  “I pay good wages for good work done.  I need no spells to compel my servants.”

“No, of course, I meant . . . you know how to speak with them, don’t you?” he asked, nervously.  “They listen to you?”

“When I have something of use to say,” Olmeg decided.  He was uncertain just what the man was implying. “May I inquire as to the purpose of this discussion, Sir Gamman?” he asked, directly but politely.

“It’s just . . . well, I was going to go all the way to Sevendor, but I’ve recently heard the famed Spellmonger had been . . . called away on other duties,” the little knight said, diplomatically.  “But upon further inquiry, I learned that you, Lord Olmeg, were among the most knowledgeable wizard in the lore of these . . . creatures.”

“They do speak Narasi, some of them,” Olmeg pointed out.  “They reason as well as any man, once you seek to understand them.”

“I have heard that,” the man agreed.  “And I take no issue with their intelligence.  It’s just . . . the tribe, or clan or . . . what I mean to say is—”

“Yes, I would be gratified to hear what you mean to say,” Olmeg agreed, evenly, as he got out his pipe.

“It’s just that I have this problem,” the knight began, with a comical sigh.  “My domain, Ramoth’s Wood, though small, is tidy.  There is a streamlet that flows through a portion of them, and as winter fell and spring rose, as the seasons are wont to do in their gloriously eternal transition, the sacred cycle brought more than spring buds and blossoms, in my little land.  A band of spuds took residence in the bend of my river,” he reported, indignantly.

“A band of . . . ?” Olmeg asked, pointedly, pausing his motions to give the man a stare.

“The Tal Alon, my lord,” Sir Gamman assured.  “At least thirty or forty of the furry little spuds.  Like your friend, here, but . . . wild.  Undomesticated. They wear no clothes.  And they are reluctant to be moved, you see.  They carry little sticks . . . well, they’re sharp, and they discourage the peasants from driving them away.  And the dogs.”

“You are setting dogs on the Tal Alon?” Olmeg asked, alarmed.

“Oh, not me, my lord, but some of the ignorant peasants!” Sir Gamman assured.  “I am a peaceful man, when war beckons me not.  But my gamekeeper happened across them while seeking a fox, and . . . well, there was an incident.  Bloodshed.  My man escaped, with most of his dogs, but . . . well, that bend is occupied by the rogues, now!” the knight said, angrily.

“Were you using it for anything?” Olmeg asked, as he lit his pipe.

“Using it?  It’s part of my wood,” the knight insisted.  “I’m using it as my wood!  Ramoth’s Wood!  The problem only begins with that,” he continued.  “The little furballs have begun sallying forth at twilight and pillaging local farms.  Chickens, milk, corn, anything that isn’t nailed in place.  My peasants are starting to grumble,” he added, darkly.  “Muttering peasants are never a good thing!”

“I could not agree more, my lord,” Olmeg said, stiffly.

“I’m glad we agree,” the knight said, failing to observe the sarcasm in Olmeg’s voice.  “So you see why I need a wizard’s help with this problem.  My folk want me to go slay the lot of them for their petty crimes, but I am not that bloodthirsty.  I do not see it as a justice, even in light of their crimes, and I am dedicated to justice, as a knight!” he said, proudly.

Olmeg could not help but feel that the knight’s attack of conscience likely had more to do with his apparent squeamishness than a dedication to the codes of chivalry, but he did not say as much.  Indeed, he wondered if the knight had the mettle to slay anything, anywhere.  He had long learned the valuable skill of holding his tongue when his social superiors made outlandish statements.  Olmeg found the talent was just as helpful with his new social peers.

“I appreciate your devotion to justice, my lord,” Olmeg said, nodding.  “Nor would such a slaughter be seen in a good light, at the moment.”

“Just as my adoring wife said,” the little knight agreed.  “She finds the things . . . horrid,” he said, apologetically, as he glanced at Purslane.  “So wild, unkempt, and . . . and the odor,” he said, his voice low.  “She thinks of them no better than talking rabbits.  And, sadly, she has a low enough opinion of that noble animal.  Yet she, too, mislikes the idea of slaying them out of hand, as she thinks that the neighboring estates will judge such a course harshly.  There would be gossip,” he added, leaning in to confide to the wizard.

“I am sympathetic to your plight, Sir Gamman, but I am confounded by why you have sought me out,” Olmeg pronounced with a shrug.

“Why, because it is well known that you wizards have a knack with such things,” he explained.  “Indeed, my lady wife suggested – nay, demanded! – that I secure some arcane assistance with the pestilence.  She suggested I invite Sir Tyndal of Sevendor to our estate, as she has met the man and professes confidence in his abilities.  By her account, the warmage is a strong and vital master of his craft,” he said, admirably.

“Sir Tyndal is, indeed, a resolute knight mage,” Olmeg conceded.  “Yet he has taken service with the Spellmonger in the Wilderlands.”

“As I learned myself, not an hour ago,” the knight sighed.  “Yet she will be livid if I do not secure some assistance in this matter.  That’s when it struck me!” he concluded, appreciative of his own insights.  “If not the brave Sir Tyndal, perhaps one of his wizardly fellows would do.  Indeed, the one most familiar with these . . . creatures.”

“I do, indeed, manage the estate of Hollyburrow,” Olmeg agreed, reluctantly.  “The Hollybush Clan has made their home there.  One of the more peaceful varieties of the species,” he informed the knight.  “It sounds as if your little land has attracted a more . . . active strain.”

“Active?  I dare say!” the knight agreed, fervently.  “Would you consider a commission to come . . . eradicate the pests?” the knight proposed.

“I do not . . . eradicate,” Olmeg grumbled.  “Nothing more than weeds.”

“Well, then, weed these irritating pests from my lands, my lord,” the knight begged.  “I will pay you good silver for the commission!  I am reluctant to slay them, as they are Trygg’s creatures, too.  But they are simply ruining my lands.  I care not what you do with them, but keep them from raiding my peasants’ gardens bare!”

Olmeg considered.  He had not taken on any independent work since he’d become Sevendor’s greenwarden and lord of Hollyburrow.  He did not really have the time, the inclination, or the financial need.  Indeed, his little estate provided him with far more money than he could spend.  Olmeg valued a simple life, not the usual aristocratic indulgence in excess.  Baron Minalan may have gifted him a title, but that had not changed his essential nature.

Yet, he could tell by the man’s story that if something wasn’t done about the errant Tal Alon, there would, indeed, be bloodshed.  Likely the tribe were refugees from the west, either from the Wilderlands, as the Hollyburrow tribe was, or perhaps dislocated from a Riverlands estate further west.  That happened, from time to time, he knew.  If a Riverlord who’d taken a tribe in service felt they were overbreeding their lands, often he would turn out a tithe of the poor buggers to reduce the population.  The Tal Alon, as nonhumans, had no recourse if that happened.  Under Castali law they had no more right to appear in court than a dog.  The lowest serf had more rights than the poor Tal Alon.

“I . . . I will consider your proposal,” Olmeg agreed, finally, after consideration.  “Indeed, I will accept the commission, if it doesn’t take long.  I will have a few days’ time, soon, and will spend it on this.”

“And may I ask what fee you would charge?” the knight asked, hesitantly.

That stumped Olmeg.  His field of specialty was plants; as one of the better Green Wizards in Castal, he set his fees based on acreage, variety, and work expended to grow it.  He had no idea what to charge for this sort of service.

“Let me survey the situation, and then we can come to terms,” he decided.  “If the matter is easy to resolve, I pledge not to charge you more than you can bear.  But I cannot set a price until I see what I am working with.”

“Fair enough,” the knight conceded.  “I will be away at service to the Baron, for the next few months.  But my lady wife will be in residence.  Since our daughter’s wedding, she has clung to our estates rather than pursue social engagements.  Present yourself to her,” he suggested, “and she will be thrilled to show you the problem.”

“Sorry about that, Purslane,” Olmeg muttered to his servant, when the knight had strutted off like a bantam rooster.

“What, him?” the Tal replied in perfect Narasi.  “He thinks we smell?  He hasn’t bathed in a month!” the Tal servant said, in his high-pitched voice.  “Don’t forget, our noses are better than yours,” he reminded Olmeg, not for the first time.

“Just the man’s attitude,” Olmeg said, finally.  “He treated your folk as no more than beasts.”

“The feeling is mutual, my lord,” Purslane assured.  “I find no more joy in the man’s company than he does in mine.”

Olmeg smiled at that.  Purslane was among his most intelligent and devoted servants at Hollyburrow.  He took orders graciously and carried them out efficiently.  Yet, he did not defer to Olmeg’s mastery graciously, as an obsequious human peasant might have.  He had an admirable gift for candor.  Purslane had no trouble telling Olmeg what he thought about humans, in plain language, often with open disbelief that humanity was so odd to his sensibilities.  But he also had the wits to understand his social position in the Bontal Vales – or lack thereof – and keep his mouth shut about such things until he was alone with master.

Olmeg left the meeting with the knight bearing a disturbed feeling about the task he’d accepted.  He consoled himself by reminding himself that there were innocent lives at stake.  He had grown to love his diminutive, furry little subjects.  His few years overseeing the Hollyburrow colony had exposed him to facets of the primitive, yet vital culture the Tal Alon practiced, and he had become an admirer.  And watching them grow new roots in strange soil was fascinating.

He had observed with interest as the nonhuman gardeners considered and then either accepted or rejected the customs and manners of the humans around them over the years.  Most had mastered Narasi, though in a diminished form and with a number of Tal Alon words mixed in.  Almost all of his Tal now wore clothes, some human cast-offs, some custom-made for the furry folk.  A few kept beasts as large as a sow.  A very small number – Purslane among them – had learned to read and figure with human-style letters and numbers.

Yet the burrow was also skeptical of other human customs that were available for adoption.  They had a different attitude toward work, marriage, and family than most of the Sevendori peasants did, nor did they seek individual acclaim as much as advancing the status of the entire tribe.  There were exceptions – those who had taken service in the Castle, or had become Sky Riders at Dara’s Mewstower – but most Tal seemed utterly content to be assigned a scrap of garden, a shovel, and a mission to grow potatoes.

Purslane was exceptional, in many ways, he reflected.  Olmeg had an eye for intelligence, and when he had found the young Tal puzzling out some of the words on the scrolls and books he used back at Holly Hall, he had begun to teach the furry lad to read and made him his aide.  It was a decision he’d yet to regret.  Purslane was resourceful, cunning, and intelligent.  Had he rajira, he would have made a good wizard.  He genuinely liked his overlarge master, and included Olmeg in his general loyalty to his tribe.

Olmeg preferred to view himself as an advisor, rather than an overlord to the Burrow.  He had found it best to allow Hollyburrow Tribe to manage its own affairs and only intervened when invited by their little council.  In his interactions with them, while he would gently correct them at their duties or in their language, he treated them with respect, which was a novelty for the clan.  As a result, he was treated with grave deference by most of the Tal Alon.

Except for Purslane.  In private, his furry little aide was bitingly sarcastic and even snide.  He often took issue with Olmeg, when he felt the wizard was in error.  It was a good-natured opposition, and in the end, Purslane was always obedient, but he was never silent.  Olmeg found he valued the Tal’s candor and wit.  Especially since he’d been ennobled.

“You’re really going to go to that idiot’s land and chase down a bunch of wild spuds?” he asked, skeptically.

“If the alternative is their deaths, then yes,” Olmeg agreed.  “I don’t have to like a client in order to render him service.  Indeed, I’ve disliked most of my clients,” he reflected.  “And, if you recall, your folk were a ‘bunch of wild spuds’ only a few years ago.”

“There are twice as many of us, now,” Purslane reminded him.  “We don’t have room for many more.”  The population boom among the Tal after they settled in Sevendor had been concerning.  Historically, the Tal Alon tended to reproduce to the very limits of their prodigious ability to grow food.  A relatively early maturity, a short fertility cycle and a preponderance of multiple births made the matter a concern.

“We have the room,” Olmeg assured him, unconvincingly.  “Besides, we haven’t even met them, yet.  We may not like them.”

“When have you ever met something with fur you didn’t want to adopt?” accused Purslane.  Olmeg snorted.  He had a reputation for bringing strays to the hall and “seeing to them,” much to the consternation of his staff.

He was distracted from the topic by a surprising encounter with one of Baron Minalan’s other vassals.  Olmeg knew that many of the smaller domains sent parties to the Chepstan Fair to secure supplies and sell their surplus, independent of the baronial delegation.  But he hadn’t expected to run into Lord Lorcus the Crafty.  Or Cunning.  Or whatever he was calling himself, this week.  He ruled a tiny domain known as Amel Wood, just west of Sevendor domain.

The Remeran warmage was leading a small delegation of his peasants along the main concourse, where hundreds of barkers and brightly colored stalls competed for attention and coin.  The man looked well-fed and content, constantly pointing out intriguing sights to his men, making jokes, and laughing at the performers who added their din to the excitement.

Olmeg watched him listen to one musician who was busking between two stalls, playing a well-known melody on a tavern fiddle, then had one of his men pull out his own fiddle and burst into a more complex – and decidedly superior – rendition of the same tune.  The crowd erupted in applause and cheers at the conclusion, but the Remeran graciously tipped the busker for upstaging him before he saw Olmeg and moved along.

“Well met, my tall friend!” Lorcus declared, beaming as he approached.  Olmeg suspected that he was more than half drunk . . . but with Lorcus, it was hard to tell.  He seemed half drunk most times.

“Well met, Lord Lorcus,” Olmeg bowed, grinning.  Despite the uncouth nature and infamous reputation the warmage had garnered in Sevendor, Olmeg liked the Remeran.  He felt the “wild” man brought a sense of unpredictability and innovation to the barony that more traditional magi lacked.  “What brings you to the Chepstan Fair?  Not to see the shoemaker, I’d wager.”

“Potatoes,” Lorcus said, with utmost seriousness.  “Great, heaping piles of potatoes.  I blame you,” Lorcus continued, a trace of guilt in his voice.  “If you hadn’t convinced my peasants that potatoes were preferable to barley, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“A mess of potatoes?” Olmeg asked, surprised.  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“My people aren’t hungry,” Lorcus conceded, with a sigh.  “Indeed, they’ve had full bellies all winter long, and with plenty to get them through spring.  You said that our crappy soil might grow them well.  But they grew so prolifically that we now have an abundance.  Enough to sell . . . if anyone is buying,” he shrugged.

“Potatoes don’t often find their way to market,” Olmeg agreed.  “They don’t keep long enough.  Still, you may find a market for them, here,” he suggested, optimistically.  “Several new lords in old Sashtalia are seeking some staples to get their folk through to the summer harvest. Perhaps if you offered to cast a spell to delay rot . . .”

“Aye, aye, that’s a keen idea you have,” Lorcus nodded, enthusiastically.  “Mayhap tossing in a simple preservative will open their purses!  That’s why I like you, Olmeg!  You’re a cunning bugger!”

“It’s one of the more common spells in herbomancy,” Olmeg pointed out, congenially.  “I’ve often thought that it would make a good enchantment.  Potatoes have so much nutritional value, and take so little work, compared to grain crops.”  He’d made that argument often enough across Sevendor, so often that it came to him automatically.  The peasants took to it grudgingly, at first, but soon realized the relative value of the humble tubers.

“Ah, if only you had a bush that could grow villagers,” Lorcus sighed.  “My lot at Amel Wood are still recovering from Sashtalia’s foul attack.  They’re merry, but few.  And now a tithe of them have moved to Sevendor in search of the coin that seems to grow so plentifully there,” he complained.  “A good thing we grew potatoes, this year.  I doubt I could have put enough men in the field to harvest a decent crop of barley.”

“Oh, you have a stout little land, my friend,” Olmeg countered.  “And with the abbey so near, you’ll draw more folk to settle.”

“The abbey’s the other problem,” Lorcus groaned.  “Since Minalan’s endowment, they’ve been putting in more halls. That new baron in Taravanal is building a chapel,  And that’s attracting more new novitiates to the temple,” he said, as if he was speaking of a pestilence.

“Trygg’s holy sisters deserve our support for the blessing of service they do us,” Olmeg nodded, reverently.  “And with all of the young women who are pregnant, the birthsisters are needed for their midwifery.  How could that be a problem?” he asked, confused.

“It wouldn’t be, if only the ones who wanted to become midwives and nurses were ugly and haggard,” muttered Lorcus.  “Goddess bless them all the more.  But for some reason the girls this abbey attracts seem uncommonly comely, for a bunch of holy sisters!” he said, accusingly.

“Why would that be a problem?” Olmeg asked, shrugging his great shoulders as they walked.

“Because when they find out that my merry hall is but the next ridge over,” Lorcus confided, quietly, “and they hear what a splendid fellow I am, and of my legendary good looks, generosity, and extreme humility, some of the lonely girls, Trygg bless their homesick hearts, have been known to find their way up the hill, so to speak.”

“Why, certainly you assist them in returning to their chapterhouse,” Olmeg suggested.

“Oh, aye, of course I do!  As soon as I see the first sign of their habit, I know just what to do – nay, what it is my duty to do, as a lawful lord.  I see them securely back to their abbey, within the safe confines of temple walls . . . eventually,” he added, as an afterthought.

Olmeg halted.  He thought he sensed the nature of the problem.  “Lorcus, just how long do these young priestesses tarry at your hall?” he asked, calmly.

“Why no longer than they desire, I assure you,” Lorcus insisted.  “If they stumble into my village one evening, I’ve always promptly returned them to their holy cell before the next dusk.  No harm comes to them, and no vows are broken – they do not take a vow of celibacy until they become full sisters,” he informed Olmeg.  “Yet . . .”

“And yet . . .?” Olmeg prompted, when the Remeran mage trailed off.

Lorcus took a healthy swallow of the bottle he was swigging.  “And yet the bloody Abbess, Trygg bless her bitter old heart, is taking exception with the practice.  She fears that it will become custom to take the pilgrimage, so to speak, and pretends it will affect her mission,” he said, with a certain sense of pride.

“Does she really?” Olmeg asked, amused by the situation.

“She had me in her solar three days ago, when we stopped by for a friendly visit before our journey.  Just pulled me in and then dressed me down like I was in temple school.  Said she didn’t want a trip to Lorcus’ merry land to a bite of the ol’ worm before their vows to become an abbey tradition,” he said, sounding a little hurt at the admission.  “As if that would in any way diminish her precious abbey!  Indeed, it could become famous far and wide, if she played it right,” he considered.

“My friend, consider that the holy abbess has many sisters to keep under discipline, and that our good baron has robbed her of some of her best people, in his exile,” he reminded the warmage.  “If she is taking on new novitiates, then I can imagine that it could be a challenge to keep their minds on their holy offices when such a . . . valiant and entertaining lord lies so temptingly near,” Olmeg pointed out, reasonably.

“Ah, but you see, that’s an advantage,” Lorcus reasoned in return.  “Should a lass with a weak calling fall prey to such temptations, then perhaps the challenge to her faith will keep her from making a vow she does not wholeheartedly believe in.”  He sounded terribly convincing, Olmeg observed.

“While I appreciate the special divine role the gods have given you, should that be the case, I also appreciate the holy mission the abbess is charged with in the instruction of her novitiates.  It is only right that she challenge any distractions they might be subject to . . . regardless of how divine those challenges might be.”

Lorcus sighed, puffing out his cheeks.  “Perhaps you’re right, my large friend.  Yet, when they appear out of nowhere, garbed in those delightful little habits, tears in their eyes and lust in their hearts, it works on a man.  Can I help it if Ishi and Trygg war for the right to a maiden’s heart?”

“No, but you needn’t be so eager to reward the victor,” Olmeg murmured.

Lorcus stopped.  “That’s just what the abbess said!” he declared.  “Only she used a lot more profanity than one would expect a holy Birthmother might know.”

“You inspire us all to improve ourselves,” Olmeg conceded, diplomatically.  “But you must be able to see how distracting you are.  And how disruptive you’re being to Holy Hill’s function.”

“I’m doing naught but being myself!” Lorcus insisted.

“Perhaps try a little less of that,” Olmeg suggested.  “Or, perhaps, you can spend more time in Sevendor.  Or elsewhere.”

“I . . . well, perhaps,” Lorcus conceded with a sigh.  “I’ll consider it, my friend.  Thank you for your counsel.”

“It is my pleasure, Lorcus,” Olmeg agreed, patting the shorter man – though nearly all men were shorter to Olmeg – on the shoulder.  “Let me know how it goes with the potatoes,” he added.  “If the Shashtali – pardon, the Taravanali – are in the market, perhaps I can find some surplus at Hollyburrow.  We have a goodly supply, ourselves.”

“Him, I like,” Purslane said, as the warmage stumbled off, followed by his rustic retainers.  “Thing is, Master, I don’t understand why you like him.  He’s . . . he’s not particularly tidy,” he said, diplomatically.

“Lorcus is more than untidy, he’s a whirling cyclone of chaos blessed with eager testicles and a keen mind.  When the testicles don’t get in his way, his mind is brilliant,” he explained to the Tal.  “Despite his complaints, he’s done incredibly well with his little mountain estate.  He’s a valued vassal to Minalan, and he respects the Dragonslayer at a time when loyalty is key.  Lorcus has a low and cunning mind, but a good heart . . . mostly.  And he amuses me,” Olmeg confessed.

“All the more reason to like him, then,” Purslane decided.  “You’re growing dour, Master, now that Minalan is gone,” he observed.

Olmeg sighed, unwilling to argue the point.  “Dragons and undead will do that to you, my little friend.  That was bad enough.  But losing our magelord, too?  I suppose that has made me a little melancholy,” he admitted.

“You and the other big folk,” nodded the Tal.  “Aye, the little folk, too.”

They continued walking in silence.  To that, there really was no good reply.

***

Olmeg did not find the time to make the journey to Ramoth’s Wood for weeks; indeed, Sir Gamman went so far as to send two messages of increasing urgency reminding Olmeg of his agreement, including a detailed description of his wife’s growing ire at the situation.

At last, propelled by guilt and compelled by his staff’s increasing frustration with his moodiness, Olmeg set off across the Bontal Vales to see to Sir Gamman’s problem.  He took with him Purslane, for his perspective and insights, and only agreed to take a cart and horse on the journey out of respect for his valet’s little legs.  Olmeg would have been just as happy walking overland, cutting through fields and forests instead of following the roads.  Purslane, he’d noted, had a particular joy for the human-made roads and enjoyed civilized travel.

It was a pleasant trip through newly peaceful lands.  The war that had conquered the Sashtalian Confederation and carved it into a legitimate barony had made wealthy men of the winners.  Many of the domains they crossed through Sendaria enjoyed the spoils brought back from their southern neighbors.  Their meadows were bulging with sheep and their pastures were filled with cattle and horses.  The rich grain fields were already reaching skyward, and the rains and sun had been unreasonably cooperative.

Better, the sense of urgency and expectant crisis that hung in the air at even the rumor of war was gone, he realized the third day of their journey.  Folk were more relaxed and friendlier, now that their sons and husbands had marched back, victorious.  That was a relief, after the last few years of strife.

It was also good to be in new country.  His many errands across the Bontal Vales, over the years, had yet to bring him this far west in Sendaria.  The geography of the country was different than the Vales farther east.  Instead of foothills and fertile river valleys, there were more sandy dales and boggy marshes.  The geography affected the plant life, of course – the forests here were of a much different nature than those in Sevendor, or even eastern Sendaria.  The grasslands were richer, more lush, even if the fields tended more to barley and maize than wheat and oats.

As they approached Ramoth’s Wood, the countryside got even boggier.  But the village sat on enough of a rise to remain dry.  Olmeg stopped at a tidy little inn with the sign of a comically pugnacious rabbit to ask directions, before heading down the lane toward the manor house of Ramoth’s Wood.

“It’s not a very impressive place,” Purslane observed, as the cart rolled through the village and back into the woods.   There was ample sign of the rabbits woven into Ramoth’s Wood’s heraldry on either side of the road.  Indeed, even for spring, the place seemed unnaturally thick with them.

“Not unless you’re a hound,” agreed Olmeg, as a trio of coneys was startled out of the hedge at their approach.  “Nor is it as productive as it could be,” he pointed out.

“Must you criticize every pumpkin patch and cabbage garden we pass, Master?” complained Purslane.

Olmeg shrugged, unbothered by the comment.  “I cannot help it any more than you can drink an ale uncritically,” he countered.  “When one has mastered the subtleties of herbomancy, every bud and flower tells a story.  Every root and branch,” he said, philosophically.

“So does every ale,” Purslane countered.  “Sometimes you have to hear it twice.  Or thrice.”

Ramothswood Manor was a modest hall of an older design, replete with ostentatious spires and unnecessary decoration.  Much of it featured Sir Gamman’s arms, a hare over a chevron, and much of it was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint.  Even the whitewash on the hall looked in need of attention . . . though, in this damp climate, he conceded, keeping any whitewash free of moss, mold, and mildew would be a challenge without magic.

Nor was the place particularly well manned.  Only a few servants seemed to be about the manor when they pulled up, that afternoon.   Whereas back at Hollyburrow he would have been mobbed by curious Tal retainers, and likely a few human servants, Ramothswood Manor seemed reluctant to welcome visitors.  Olmeg had to call, to get someone to finally come out to greet them.

“Who shall I say is calling?” the tired old butler asked, once Olmeg informed him he was here to see Lady Kresdine.

“Magelord Olmeg the Green, of Sevendor.  Sir Gamman retained me to see to your Tal Alon problem,” he replied.

The man looked Olmeg’s large form up and down, and then glanced at Purslane.  “I can see they sent the right wizard.  Already got one of ’em, do you?”

“Purslane is my valet and my translator, if needed,” Olmeg explained, patiently.

“Lady Kresdine will like that,” chuckled the man, humorlessly, as he went to inform his lady.

In Sir Gamman’s insistent letters, he’d referred often to his wife and directly quoted her, as if she was a font of wisdom and grace.  As a result, Olmeg expected a much older woman than the comely matron who appeared to greet him in the Great Hall of the little manor.

Lady Kresdine had once been a real beauty, Olmeg could see, but her years had spent themselves in weariness as much as matronly grace.  She appeared in a more formal gown than the occasion demanded, and a style that, to his inexpert eye, suggested it was cut and fitted to a younger form.

“Ah! You must be the magelord my husband promised me,” she said, as she descended the stairs.  “Olmeg the . . . Green?” she asked, hesitantly.

“As a token of my specialty, my lady,” Olmeg agreed, bowing.  “I am an herbomancer.  I specialize in the magic of plants,” he explained.

“Yet we are not beset by vegetables, but by spuds,” she said, just as she saw Purslane at Olmeg’s knee.

“I have many Tal Alon tenants in my estate,” Olmeg informed her, gently.  “Their facility with herbs and roots is helpful to my work.  I’ve come to know them well.  Sir Gamman thought I might have useful insights on your situation.”

“Well, this one appears civilized enough,” she decided, as Purslane bowed to her, his cap in hand.  “Nor does he seem ready to pillage our chicken coops.  And you do appear to be a formidable man, for a wizard, she said, casting her eye to study him more closely.  “A very . . . large . . . wizard,” she nodded, approvingly.

Olmeg ignored the comment about his size – he had gotten used to them, over the years.  But the lady’s gaze was disconcerting.  Suddenly, Olmeg realized what a carrot must feel like when he studied it.

“I believe I am up to the task, my lady.  Can you tell me exactly how the problems started?” he asked, quickly.  It was best to keep things businesslike, when dealing with the nobility, he reflected.

“Of course, of course,” Lady Kresdine said, absently.  “But first, some wine.  Wine!” she commanded, loudly.  The aging butler scurried off to retrieve two battered silver goblets and a local red of modest vintage, while another man brought two ancient chairs to the fire.  Kresdine treated it as if it was fine Cormeeran.

“Now that we can discuss the matter like civilized folk,” she said, assuming a relaxed and mildly provocative pose.  “The problems began this winter, after my husband and I returned from our daughter’s wedding – to a fine young knight who was given tenancy of a lovely estate in Basgar – that’s in the new barony of Taravanal,” she added, as if that was news to Olmeg.  “Our new son-in-law was one of Baron Arathanial’s squires, before he was knighted.  From a good family, who hold—”

“The Tal Alon, my lady?” Olmeg prompted, before he got the knight’s entire pedigree.

“Ah, yes.  Well, after we returned from Basgar, things seemed to . . . well, without my daughter in Ramoth’s Wood, I took a bit of melancholia,” she admitted.  “I took to walking along the riverbank at the end of the estate, in the woods, where only a few sturdy woodsmen ever roam.”

“Oft the grace of nature complements our grief and brings some solace,” Olmeg offered, sympathetically.

“Of course.  But as I was taking my processional along the bank, that afternoon, I came across two . . . two . . . well, two of those creatures, fishing in the stream.”

“Fishing, my lady?” he asked, surprised.  The Hollyburrow clan had shown little desire for the practice.

“Fishing, Master Olmeg, though they did not have leave to do so,” she agreed, indignantly.  “They had already poached a dozen perch, or more, and seemed bent on relieving the entire river of fish, when I intervened.”

“Intervened?  May I ask how?” he asked, adopting a mask of professionalism.

“Why, by running to the nearest cottage and raising the woodmen to chase the rascals out of our wood!  Apparently he’d had a run-in or two with them, himself, and was driven off.  They were gone when I returned with help, but the woodsmen saw their tracks.  They followed them until they disappeared in the stream.

“Nor was that the last encounter,” she continued, enthusiastically telling the tale.  “A few nights later, two of our coops were raided.  Two hens were taken, and all the day’s eggs.  Another raid saw a churn full of milk taken right out from a goodwife’s nose.  Another saw root cellars pillaged.  Every few days another report comes, another angry artisan or irate peasant, demanding justice.  Justice, my lord, as if those creatures were subject to the constable’s grasp!”

“And you are certain it was Tal Alon, my lady?” Olmeg inquired.

“They certainly weren’t gurvani!” she sniffed.  “Their fur was brown, not black, though no less matted and caked in mud and filth.  Small ears, small eyes, they were like great badgers or racoons or something.  They chittered at me, like chipmunks, and then tore off, their poached fish in their tiny little paws.  Tal Alon,” she pronounced.

“That sounds like us,” conceded Purslane, with a guilty sigh.

“And they were naked, not decently clothed like your smart little fellow,” she admitted.  “They wore hats, alone.  Just big hairy rodents.  With hats.  And now they’re looting Ramoth’s Wood nearly every day.  I’ve had two delegations from the village this week, alone.  They’re expecting us to do something.”

“I am happy to examine the situation, my lady,” Olmeg assured her.  “Likely without bloodshed.”

“I don’t much care how you do it, just see it done!” Lady Kresdine insisted, folding her arms under her imposing breasts.

“Do you have someplace where I can unpack my gear?” Olmeg asked, pleasantly.  He took no notice of her discomfort.  Ignoring her disdain was his best course, he knew.  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

***

Despite his great size, Olmeg did not have any difficulty concealing himself near the bend in the river closest to its approach to the village farms.  Associating with warmagi was fraught with danger, but also opportunity, he mused, as he cast the kind of unnoticeability spell his martial friends employed on patrol, or during an infiltration.  It wasn’t a particularly complicated spell, and he’d picked it up quickly enough.  It was surprisingly useful when he was surveying the animals of a region, as its power extended to cover most mammals – but not insects, he’d noted.

He picked a small rise overlooking a bend in the stream where the gravelly bed of the river allowed an easy crossing.  Most Alon disliked getting their feet wet, he’d noticed, from the regal Alka Alon to the common Tal.  Though the Tal Alon were the most tolerant, they still preferred shallow fords to wading across even the mildest of streams.  He’d never seen a Tal Alon try to swim.

Olmeg knew he’d guessed correctly near midnight, as the gibbous moon reached its height in the early summer sky.  He watched by magesight as a line of little shadows shambled their way to the ford and began to unartfully splash their way across.  These Tal Alon were different from his beloved Hollyburrow friends, he noted: they were far more wiry and less rotund, indicative of a long period of wandering, he reasoned.  Their fur did not have the well-brushed luster of the Hollyburrow clan, either.  That indicated a poor diet and a lack of protein over an extended period of time.

A few of the Tal had bandoliers bearing crude satchels, or small rucksacks made of sackcloth and rope. A few others wore belts, or small cloaks made out of human-made cloth.  Some were completely unclothed.  The only garment they shared in common was a kind of shapeless, vaguely mushroom-shaped caps that shielded their eyes with a short brim.

There were nine of them, he noted, each sneaking to the bank in the darkness, searching both directions carefully, then daintily trying to cross the stream without disturbing it.  The care and caution the group displayed told Olmeg this was a raiding party, not merely foragers.  There was no fishing gear evident, nor gathering baskets, as he’d seen the Tal employ.  But there were multiple burlap sacks among them.

Olmeg was certain the furry little raiders had not scented him, though they passed within ten paces of his spot.  When the last of them passed by, he was ready to quietly follow, and see where necessity was leading them.  Something halted him, for a moment, and he paused.  He didn’t know why.

But then a tenth figure appeared along the game trail the Tal followed.  And that shadow was decidedly human, in the perspective of magesight.

Olmeg stopped himself.  He was unsure if the follower was an ally or enemy of the Tal.  He just knew that it was human.

And arcanely active.  That startled him.

It was a subtle thing to detect, and one that most inexperienced magi might miss, if they did not check.  But Olmeg could tell at once that the pursuer was not merely human, but a human with active rajira.  The traces of their spellwork haunted their step like the hem of a cloak, he saw.  There was some enchantment that concealed them from common sight as much as his own spell did.

Olmeg stiffened.  He did not like the idea of someone hunting the Tal Alon, no matter their petty thievery.  Yet he watched, before he intervened, and saw that the pursuer took care not to tread too closely to the last Tal in line.  Whoever they were, they did not want to be detected.

Olmeg followed himself, once the shadowy figure was almost out of sight.  He took great care not to disturb the ground or otherwise leave a token of his passage.  His bare feet trod only lightly on the moist earth of the game path.  He paused frequently to ensure that the pursuer was unaware that they were pursued.

The game trail came first to a little meadow, and thence to a lane between hedgerows that led into a cluster of peasant farmsteads.  The little raiding party quickly split up and stealthily headed for the storehouses and root cellars of each holding.

They were surprisingly efficient in their approach, Olmeg noted.  In parties of three, the group split up and systematically pillaged each farm, carefully avoiding the attention of dogs and geese while they quietly liberated eggs from chicken coops and milk from pails.  One enterprising group looted two big spring cheeses where they were ripening from the farm’s springhouse – the Tal did not share the other Alon’s dislike of cheese or dairy products.  From what Olmeg could tell, anything a Tal could chew and swallow was an acceptable foodstuff.

It only took ten minutes for the raiding parties to grab their loot and silently reassemble back in the lane.  A few had liberated garments drying on clotheslines and wrapped tunics around their necks like cloaks.  Their arms were full of potatoes, onions, eggs, and butter.  Others had filled their sacks with beans or spring peas, still in their pods and set out to dry.

During the raid, the shadowy mage who followed them lingered on the edges of the farmsteads, watching but not intervening.  The mage was acting as a sentry, Olmeg realized, not a predator.  He wasn’t close enough to determine more about the mage, but the attitude of the stalker was one of watchfulness, not menace.  The pilfering Tal had a protector, he realized.

He watched with interest as the group scurried back through the meadow and down the game trail, back the way they came.   Then he followed.

The triumphant Tal were less cautious on their way back into the wood.  Once they crossed the river, they began chattering amongst themselves, though in voices too low for Olmeg to follow.  Nor did they seem overly concerned if they were being followed.  Olmeg realized why, once he’d quietly followed them through the stream.  The mage had constructed a spellfield on the opposite bank designed to discourage both careful inspection and serious suspicion.

He studied the glyph with magesight for a few moments of professional appreciation.  It wasn’t traditional Imperial magic, though there were standard Imperial runes used in the casting.  The structure was novel, and he suspected Wild Magic.  Whoever cast the spell had some sort of formal training, he realized, but then they had some natural Talent, too.  He wasn’t enough of a thaumaturge to discern much more than that, but he noted the glyph did not include any sorts of wardings.  He continued through them without incident.

The remainder of the trail wove deeper into the wood, sometimes disappearing completely in a bog or a sand pit.  The underbrush became increasingly thick, and little hummocks and the occasional boulder field broke the monotony of the hardwood forest.  Olmeg’s toes squished, as much as they brushed the dirt.  And he had to be cautious about disturbing the underbrush overmuch, lest he alert the little folk – and their magical protector – to his presence.

He managed to get close enough to secure the knowledge of their encampment.  The band had taken residence in the boll of a large, hollow willow tree within a grove of mangroves and holly.  The shrubs were thick enough to screen them from casual view, and the little grassy dune on one side shielded it from direct sight from the path.

Olmeg halted his investigation there.  He could see that the encampment was enwrapped with spells to protect it and warn those within of any who crossed their bounds.  Hardly warmage-grade magic, but sufficient, he suspected, for a dozen Tal Alon hiding from the haywardens.  Bursting in on them in the middle of the night would be unseemly, to his mind, and had the potential to provoke panic that could ruin his commission.

Instead, he marked the spot with a sigil of his own, a magical beacon he doubted the other mage would note.  It was a Green Magic enchantment, and very mild.  But he would be able to find his way back to the holly bush he cast it upon if he was on the other side of the world.

Satisfied, he made his way back to Ramothswood Manor by the setting moon.  He knew where the errant band was nesting.  On the morrow, he would return and contend with them.

***

“You found them?” Lady Kresdine asked, suspiciously, at breakfast the next morning.  “In one night?”

“It was not a difficult task, my lady,” Olmeg assured her.  “One merely had to think as a hungry Tal Alon.  I think that I can reason with them, if my valet and I can get close enough.”

“I can summon the bailiffs and have a score of men surrounding the place by this afternoon!” she assured him, adamantly.

“There is no need for such heavy-handed tactics, my lady,” Olmeg said, calmly.  “Indeed, that might prove calamitous.  I detected some unusual activity, along with the raiders,” he said, purposefully inserting a worried tone into his voice.

“Unusual activity?” Lady Kresdine asked, her eyes wide.  “Whatever do you mean?”

“I know not.  Not yet,” he added.  “I think that a daytime expedition may answer that question.  Including the peasantry in the matter could complicate things for all,” he warned.

“I defer to your judgement, of course, good wizard,” Kresdine sighed.  “I merely seek the abatement of this invasion.  Complete your task, but do it expediently,” she ordered.  “My neighbors are beginning to murmur about my predicament.”

“I will do all I can to allay the gossip, my lady,” Olmeg agreed, gravely.

Purslane accompanied Olmeg, after breakfast, and the two odd-sized fellows returned to the meadow, and thence the path, and thence the ford before following the trail toward the hidden warren.

“You know there’s a chance I won’t be able to speak to them,” Purslane warned, as they walked.  “There are a lot of different dialects.  Entirely different languages, if the lore is to be believed.”

“I trust in your ability to communicate,” Olmeg countered.  “You are a clever fellow.”

“Not clever enough to avoid this bog,” Purslane complained, as the path crossed through another muddy patch.  “How can you stand to have mud between your toes, when you could be wearing shoes?  That’s the most sensible thing you humani ever invented,” he suggested.

“I can tell a lot about a land by the way the soil feels between my toes,” Olmeg explained, as they came within a bowshot of the holly grove.

“Can your toes tell you how many of my folk are under that tree?” Purslane asked, in a quiet voice.  “Because my nose can.  There are at least two score,” he insisted, taking another sniff.  “Maybe more.”

“That’s a lot of Tal Alon,” agreed Olmeg.  “Perhaps an entire clan.  No wonder they’re raiding for food.  They couldn’t forage enough in this murky place to survive.  Do you think you can get close enough to talk with them?”

Purslane snorted.  “Do you jest, Master?  I’m not a Big Folk.  I’m like one of their long- lost cousins,” he assured.  “Just wait for me to give the call, and then you come and introduce yourself.”

“You think that will work?” Olmeg asked, skeptically.  “Remember what I tell you: they have a witch or a wizard of some sort with them.  Perhaps even Wild Magic.”

“Of course it will,” Purslane dismissed.  “I’m quite charming.  Just bide.”

Olmeg sighed, and hid himself while his valet waddled off down the path.  He waited patiently, imagining Purslane pushing himself through the hedge of holly and stumbling into their midst.  Then he envisioned his persuasive aide introducing himself, and explaining that he was an emissary of Olmeg’s.  Then he imagined that the Tal were deliberating about whether or not to trust the stranger with the smooth tongue and the smart-looking waistcoat.  They would be rightfully skeptical, Olmeg mused.  But they would also consider his proposals carefully, and would debate allowing one of the Big Folk into their lair.

Olmeg’s mind went to other places, after that.  But soon it became apparent that whatever Purslane was doing in the hidden warren was taking entirely too long, even for a long-winded Tal.

He was starting to suspect that something had gone amiss when he felt a sharp pain in his side, near his right kidney.

“Move and I’ll impale you,” an insistent voice promised.  A female voice, he noted, idly.

“You’re able to reach pretty high, for a Tal,” Olmeg remarked, as he raised his hands and stood to his full height.

“I’m no Tal, as you well know – no, no, don’t turn around,” the voice insisted, as it jabbed the point of whatever weapon it was harder against him.  “I want to know how you found us.”

“I followed you,” Olmeg assured her.  He wasn’t particularly afraid of her thrust – if she’d meant him harm, she would have struck before warning him, he reasoned.

“Impossible,” the voice countered.  “There was a spell laid on the trail!”

“So you’re a witch?” he asked.

“I didn’t say I laid the spell,” the woman reasoned.  “But you should not have been able to follow our trail!”

“I suppose I’m a better wizard than you, then,” he suggested.  “Or whoever is responsible for casting that spell.”

“You’re a wizard?” the woman asked, skeptically.  The pressure of the blade did not subside.

Olmeg used one of his outstretched hands to point to his tall, green pointed hat.

“Anyone can wear a hat,” dismissed the woman.

“Can anyone follow a trail that has been enchanted to discourage it?” Olmeg asked.  “Please, my lady, I mean you no harm.”

“I cannot say the same,” the woman said, sulkily.  “Here you are, stalking us, sending in your lackeys to spy upon us—”

“You have Purslane?” he asked, sharply.

“Yes,” the woman said, triumphantly.  “Talkative fellow.  He speaks Narasi as well as I do.”

“Better, likely,” Olmeg corrected.  “He’s a fair reader, too.  Lady Witch, I am tasked with contending with the raids your little folk have conducted on the local farmers,” he explained.  “I was hired to get rid of them.  Should I fail, I am assured that more aggressive measures would be taken.  Therefore, I prefer not to fail,” he pointed out.

“All so you can collect a fee?” she sneered.

“All so I can avoid a slaughter,” Olmeg countered.  “If you will lower your blade and allow me to turn around and explain, I’m certain we can do so.”

“I am not accustomed to abandoning an advantage I’ve fairly taken,” the woman said, a frown in her voice.

“Then allow me to—” he began . . . and then whirled quickly to his left, grabbing at the weapon with his hands and wresting it neatly out of the woman’s hands.  “Allow me to address the imbalance,” he said to the startled woman, who backed up a pace as he displayed the crude peasant’s knife she’d threatened him with.  “Now you don’t have an advantage to abandon, and we can discuss our affairs like civilized folk.”

“I’ve had little favor in dealing with civilized folk,” the woman said, accusingly, as her eyes narrowed.

She was a slender, wiry woman with a sharp face.  Her cheekbones protruded achingly under her eyes, a sign of malnutrition early in life Olmeg had seen all too often in his days.  The hair under her hood was tangled and unkempt, a dark brown mop that spilled out from under her hood like a bough that had fallen unexpectedly across a path.

Her clothing was as plain as she was.  The woman wore a peasant’s mantle of undyed wool, rough homespun only the poorest of villeins used.  Under it she wore a dress of simple brown, faded with age and ragged with continual use.  She wore shoes, of a sort, though they were mere bags of leather held together with thongs and tied to her ankles.

But she was no crone.  The eyes that stared accusingly at Olmeg were green, and they were young.  Indeed, the witch – for witch she was, Olmeg confirmed at once with magesight – was no more than a maid.  If she were more than twenty, he was no judge of mammals.

“Might I begin with an introduction, Lady Witch?  I am Magelord Olmeg the Green, of Sevendor, Greenwarden to the Spellmonger, Baron Minalan of Sevendor.”

“Magelord?” she asked skeptically.  “No lord I’ve met walks around with bare feet,” she pointed out, gesturing toward his muddy toes.

“It’s what I do,” Olmeg dismissed, firmly.  “Nonetheless, my lady, it would be helpful to our negotiations if I knew your name.”

“I am called Callwyn,” she finally offered, with a sigh.  “I protect this band.”

“From where do you hail?” Olmeg asked, conversationally.

“From the west,” Callwyn admitted, sullenly.  “Different parts.  We move around a lot.  We thought we’d be safer, once we crossed the Bontal, but . . . this is as far as we’ve gotten,” she said, with obvious disappointment.

“Wherefore do you travel?” Olmeg continued, without judgement.

“I don’t know!” Callwyn said, with a snort of frustration.  “I don’t even know where we are, properly.  It’s just better than where we were.”

“Then that must have been a sad place, indeed,” Olmeg guessed.  “Lady Callwyn, if you had no destination in mind, then what compelled you to make the journey?”

“Desperation?” the angular woman suggested.  “We were headed downriver a few months ago, and found ourselves in the same abandoned hovel as the Tal.  They call themselves the Rosehips clan, most of them, but there are a few other clans, as well.  They were turned out of their holding in the upper Riverlands.  Replaced by peasants from Gilmora, they said.  Or some such place.”

“Many moved east when the goblins invaded the cottonlands,” Olmeg agreed, handing the knife suddenly back to the witch.  She stared at it a moment before returning it to a sheath at her belt.  “I’m sure they sold their labor cheaply to the Riverlords.  More cheaply than the Tal sold theirs.”

“There was overcrowding, too, and sickness,” Callwyn agreed.  “But we couldn’t just leave them to languish in the woods.  They were starving.  Every farmstead they approached they get run off by dogs or angry peasants.  No one wants to pay them for their labor.  No one wants them to settle.  We thought we had a safe place, last winter, but as soon as spring came, they drove us across the river!” she said, accusingly.

“Folk in the Bontal Vales are suspicious,” Olmeg agreed.  “They have little experience of Tal Alon.”

“Yet you keep one as a pet,” she accused.

“A valet,” Olmeg corrected.  “A pet would not be so cheeky.  And far more grateful.  But Purslane is a solid fellow, and as cunning a Tal as I’ve met.  He is my friend and my valet, not a pet or a slave.  He serves me of his own free will.  And is paid good coin for it,” Olmeg added.

“So you’re a rich lord?” Callwyn asked, sharply.

“Only in herbs,” Olmeg decided.  “My estate is not terribly productive.  But I have a respectable treasury, as such things are measured.  I pay all of my staff.  Tal and human alike.  Indeed, most of my manor is made up of Tal.  The Hollyburrow clan, mostly of Wilderlands stock.  They’ve been my tenants for years, and our domain has prospered as a result.”

Callwyn eyed Olmeg critically, her mouth twisting in thought as she regarded him.  She then came to a decision.

“You truly wish to see us move on?” she asked.  “Then tell us where to go, Lord Olmeg!”

“That would be easier to accomplish if I knew exactly what I was dealing with,” Olmeg countered, reasonably.  “And if my valet wasn’t being held hostage.”

“Hostage?” she snorted, turning to lead him down the path.  “Once he discovered the crock of ale we liberated the other night, he started drinking.  They’re probably all drunk, by now.”

***

Olmeg managed to learn a few snippets about Callwyn along the trail.  She’d been born in the Upper Riverlands herself, in a remote fief that hadn’t seen a Censor in years.  When her rajira rose, her mother had apprenticed her as a hedgewitch.  That was about as far as he could get before they arrived at the encampment under the dead willow tree.  There was no sentry, and Callwyn passed through the wards with a wave of her hand.

Olmeg gasped, despite himself, when he entered the camp.  The entire space under the boughs and betwixt the holly and mangrove was covered with Tal Alon . . . at least two score of them.  Males, females, cubs, all crammed together until everyone had just enough room to stand, sit, or curl up in a ball, with just a bit of extra space left over.  Olmeg quickly filled that space by stepping into the camp.

“This is a surprise,” he related to the witch, as he was suddenly fixed by scores of intent little eyes.  “Hello, my friends,” he continued, keeping his voice gentle.  He quickly spied Purslane, in the middle of the group, passing a mug between himself and two of the larger males.

“This man is Olmeg the Green,” Callwyn announced to them all, in Narasi.  “Please tell everyone that he is . . . he means us no harm.”

“No harm?” Purslane called.  “He’s going to sort all of this out, just wait!”  He added a note in the twittering speech of the Tal Alon, and many of the little folk around him started to nod and grin expectantly.

“Is he, now?” came another voice, much lower pitched and decidedly more feminine than Purslane’s.  It was also far more skeptical.  “What have you done, letting a stranger in, Sister?” the woman accused.  “Why are you always so reckless?”

She was squatting near one of the females and her cub.  When she straightened, Olmeg noted that she was a bit taller than Callwyn, and her features were more round than hers.  But there was an undeniable resemblance.  Olmeg judged the new woman the older of the two.

“If we don’t take risks, we don’t progress,” Callwyn reminded her.  “He found us.  He says he can help.  Lord Olmeg, this is my sister, Caerwyn.”

“Callwyn and Caerwyn?” Olmeg asked, curious.

“They were sisters in local legend, where we grew up,” explained Callwyn, rolling her eyes.  “Our mother was nostalgic.  Callwyn was the pretty one,” she added, snidely.

“So much for legends,” snorted her sister.  “So you’re some kind of wizard lord?” she asked, skeptically, as she looked at Olmeg more closely.

“Magelord,” Olmeg corrected, “although that’s a recent development.  By trade I am a professional herbomancer, Imperially trained and licensed, and currently Greenwarden of the Mageland of Sevendor,” he informed her.  “I was retained by the local manor lord to . . . find some way to persuade your little band to move along and stop pillaging their chicken coops.”

“We only take what we need!” Caerwyn insisted, staring daggers at her sister.  The abundance of pilfered food, as well as the jug of ale, belied her story.  “Well, we’re supposed to!”

“I can’t help it if they’re getting better at knowing where the good stuff is in a human farmstead!” Callwyn countered, her hands on her hips.  “How am I going to tell a hungry lad not to take a couple of extra cheeses that were just sitting there, not doing anything in particular?”

“We are not bandits, we’re refugees!” Caerwyn insisted, her hands balling into fists in her gown.

“Unless we can resolve this matter, and quickly, you’re like to be prisoners, or worse,” Olmeg warned them, quietly.  “The manor lord is a tolerant man who is not fond of bloodshed, but his wife is another matter.   While he is away, she would not hesitate to send armed men to . . . to root you out.”

“Your friend says you can help,” Caerwyn said, after fuming for a few moments.  “How?”

“I’m hoping I can find you a new home,” Olmeg said, hesitantly.

“Master!  Let’s bring them back home to Hollyburrow!” suggested Purslane, with drunken enthusiasm.  “They’ll love it there!”

That’s what Olmeg was afraid of . . . and the fact was, the Hollyburrow settlement was already beginning to strain with the new wave of cubs that had appeared in the last year.  The Tal tended to reproduce beyond the limits of their resources, he reminded himself.  He had approved the building of small wicker huts, tiny cottages, really, for newlywed Tal, in an attempt to slow the problem.  Instead, the main burrow was being expanded for the third time as a fresh wave of babies was born.

“That might be problematic,” he said, with a small sigh.  “But that doesn’t mean a solution is elusive.  The Barony of Sevendor has many domains.  Perhaps I can find a place for your clan in one of them.  What do your folk do?” he inquired, politely.

He’d come to understand that while most Tal society was fairly uniform, certain clans specialized in knowledge and cultivation of particular plants, roots, fruits, or livestock.  The tribes that had comingled to become the Hollyburrow Clan had a knack for growing roots, but some of them were also adept at raising chickens.

“Mushrooms,” Caerwyn told him.  “And some flowers.  Most of the clan came from the peaty bogs in the upper Riverlands.  Some came from a manor where they were employed as gardeners in a manor’s flower beds.  There was . . . an incident,” she pronounced, her expression flashing.  “The details are sparse, but a dozen of our fellows have a long history hauling manure for flowers.  Hence the Rosehip Clan.”

“But they’re really keen on the mushrooms,” Callwyn agreed, encouraging Olmeg to sit on the ground in the only space available to his large form.  “If it wasn’t for their nose for fungus, we would have starved, a few times.  That’s why we came here,” she added, nodding to the decrepit old willow they huddled under.  “There’s some sort of mushroom that grows on a dead willow that they crave.  They found one, but expect more to bloom presently.  They’re supposed to breed again – or whatever mushrooms do – twice a season, they say.  So they’re reluctant to move along until then.”

“They’re willing to keep moving?” Olmeg asked, as three or four of the older Tal began assembling around the three humans.  Purslane sauntered over, an oversized crock in his arms, and pushed his way next to Olmeg.

“Oh, they’re quite ready to scupper off,” his valet agreed, with great authority.  He was clearly enjoying his role as ambassador.  “Apart from the mushrooms, there isn’t much to recommend this swamp.”

“But unless we have a place to scupper off to, there’s not much point to going, is there?” challenged Callwyn.  Olmeg noted how comely she was, when she threw back the hood of her mantle.  Even when she was angry.

“I can look into that,” suggested Olmeg.  “As I said, Sevendor has many lands.  With a little diligence, I think I can find an estate upon which your folk can tarry in safety.  How many, exactly, are their?”

“Fifty-five, counting cubs,” Callwyn admitted.  “It was fifty-nine, but we lost four in crossing the Bontal.”  It was evident that she felt guilty about that.  “That’s how many you’d have to find a home for.”

“And yourselves?” he challenged.  “What about the two of you?”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Callwyn said, defiantly.

“We’re both hedgewitches,” Caerwyn explained.  “We were taught by our mother and apprenticed with a hedgewitch.  We know how to survive.”

“I can’t help but wonder how the two of you got mixed up with the Tal,” Olmeg observed.

Caerwyn shrugged.  “Our mother died.  The landlord wanted our cot for someone else who’d pay more.  We had a . . . discussion about it,” she said, glancing at her sister.

“There was an incident,” Callwyn admitted.  “The man said something he regretted.  He should know not to talk to a witch like that.”

“My sister shot off her mouth, did something reckless, and there were consequences,” Caerwyn corrected.  “So we had to leave the only home we’ve known and take to the road.  To seek our fortunes!” she added, pointedly, as she glared at her sister.  She gestured around to the boggy encampment.  “Behold our riches and glory!” she declared, sarcastically.

“There certainly weren’t any fortunes to be had in Klarany Dale!” Callwyn shot back.  “I did us a favor, when I got us evicted!”

“My ladies, please!” Olmeg interjected, before Caerwyn could respond.  “This gets us nowhere closer to harvest,” he pointed out.  “What would it take to get your clan ready for departure?”

“More food,” conceded Caerwyn.  “They’re just now recovering from the journey across the Bontal River.  They expend a lot of energy, when they travel.”

“A cart would be helpful,” added Callwyn.  “For the little ones and the two pregnant girls we have.”

“A cart, I have,” agreed Olmeg.  “Food I can get.”

“And ale,” Purslane suggested, draining the last of the crock.

“We’ll forage some more, too,” Callwyn assured him.  “We’ll get enough mushrooms to get them by.”

“Allow me to speak to Lady Kresdine,” Olmeg proposed.  “I’ll see about persuading her to pause her efforts, and I’ll find a market nearby to procure supplies.  Hopefully, we can at least remove the immediate threat,” he reasoned.  “Meet me at the meadow tomorrow morn, and I’ll inform you of her decision.”

“This had better not be a trick,” warned Callwyn.

“Thank you, Lord Olmeg,” smiled Caerwyn.  “You are an unforeseen blessing.”

***

Lady Kresdine was reluctantly open to the idea of relocating the Tal Alon, once he’d explained the situation.  But she did not like the idea of essentially bribing the interlopers to go away, either.  Olmeg had to assure her that he would take her expense in consideration when settling their fee, which seemed to mollify her.

“It just seems . . . unseemly,” she fumed, pacing back and forth in front of the rabbit-shaped fireplace.  “One doesn’t pay ruffians to rob you!”

“I would say they are less ruffians and more akin to urchins,” suggested Olmeg.  “They do what they do to survive, not to enrich themselves.  If you could direct me to the nearest market town, I’ll secure the supplies needed to peacefully move them away from Ramoth’s Wood.  You may then take credit in front of your peasants for removing the pests,” he pointed out.

“Perhaps,” she conceded, seeing the wisdom in his words.  “Not that I care overmuch for their opinions . . . but they talk to other peasants, and those peasants speak to their lords,” she grumbled.  “Ramoth’s Wood market is for shyte, this time of year.  The nearest real market town is in Lensely.  It’s thrice the size of ours.  It’s not far,” she sighed.  “And their market falls on the day after tomorrow.  I suppose we can endure until you return.  But I shall not be here,” she decided.  “My neighbor has invited me to spend a few days at her estate, riding and carding with a few other ladies.  I hate carding wool,” she added, as if it was necessary.  “But she keeps a good buttery.  See that those things are long gone, when I return,” she commanded.  “Or at least on their way out.  My husband returns, within the week.  I would like to be done with this episode long before he arrives.”

Olmeg and Purslane woke early the next day and headed to the meadow where the game path came out.  He was unsurprised, though no less embarrassed, to discover that Purslane had “borrowed” a bottle of the sour local wine from the estate’s buttery, hauling it on his back like a porter.

To his surprise it was Caerwyn, not Callwyn, who met them.  He was not displeased – between the two sisters, he preferred the elder’s manners and grace.

“Good news, lady witch!” he called, as they approached.  “I have spoken to the lady of the manor, and she agrees to our plan.”

“And not too soon,” Caerwyn agreed, relieved at the news.  “The fungus . . . masters, I suppose you could call them, have pronounced that the willow-blooms will begin tonight.  Ask me not how they can tell – it’s some special magic of their own, I think,” she decided.  “They should be ready to harvest by tomorrow evening.  Then they will be ready to go,” she promised.

“What is so special about those mushrooms?” Olmeg asked.

“You don’t know, Master?” Purslane asked, surprised.  “They put starch in your turnip!” he proclaimed, with a wink.

“They are known as a particularly potent aphrodisiac,” agreed Caerwyn, blushing.  “Though they are delicious, on their own or cooked in a stew.  The little folk say that it is rare for them to bloom in such abundance, but that willow seems to produce plenty.  They are loath to leave it.”

“If they don’t, they’ll be buried in cubs in a month,” Purslane predicted.  “It’s spring, after all.”

“I’m going to leave my valet with you, while I head into Lensely to market,” Olmeg said, changing the subject to spare the witch further embarrassment from his bawdy Tal.  “I’m going to try to swap my cart for a four-wheeled wain.  That should be sufficient to bear the young, the pregnant, and the food all the way to Sevendor.”

“You have a place for us, then?” Caerwyn asked, raising one shapely eyebrow.

“I’m still working on that,” admitted Olmeg.  “One thing at a time.  But I purchased a few days’ time to prepare and secured a safe passage from this place.  If you will have the little folk ready, the day after next, then we should be able to get properly underway.  Sevendor is but a few more days travel, after that.”

“We don’t often take the roads,” cautioned Caerwyn. “There’s more trouble that way.”

“You will have no trouble in the company of a magelord,” he promised.  “Particularly this magelord.  It is well known that I employ Tal Alon as workers and servants.  I have safe passage through the lands we will cross.  Once I arrive with the wain, lady witch, your worries should abate.”

“I’m a witch,” she snorted, prettily.  “My worries never abate.  But I will get my folk ready,” she agreed.  “And I shall see you the day after next,” she said, reaching down to take Purslane’s little paw-like hand.

Olmeg strode back toward the manor, suddenly looking forward to the reunion far more than he would have anticipated.

***

Lensely was a busy little market town at the crossroads of a nearby domain.  It had fared well, after the recent war, as Lensely’s lords and even the peasants levied into battle had returned with an impressive amount of loot.  Farms were being improved with the unexpected windfall, and prices at market rose as a result.

Olmeg didn’t mind the expense.  He rarely concerned himself with the state of his treasury, because he had few personal expenses and most purchases were handled by the estate staff.  He arrived early enough to sell his two-wheeled cart and purchase a larger four-wheeled hay wain, at a premium.  He also purchased a dappled, sway-backed old mare with an amusing smile at a reasonable price.  Paired with his original horse, he had plenty of room to transport the clan and the team to pull it.

Food was even more expensive, he noted.  The town baker gave him a discount on a dozen loaves of maislan – cheap bread made with oats, barley, and wheat.  He purchased a sack of peas and a side of bacon, both at nearly twice as much as he would have paid in Sevendor, but secured five big wheels of cheese at a discount.  With the war over, the stocks purchased in case of siege were being sold off before they became inedible.

A few more silver pennies added a bushel of radishes (a delicacy, among the Tal) and a sack of early carrots to his load.  Another few bought a much-patched copper pot from a market tinker, and at another stall, a brace of wooden spoons and some salt.

When he realized he still had some coin jingling in his purse, he splurged on a couple of old quilts and a woolen blanket to cover the frail and the young.  When the wagon was loaded, he retired to the lone inn in the town for dinner, and while he waited for the soup he closed his eyes and used his stone to reach out, mind-to-mind.

Lorcus, it’s Olmeg, he began, once his target answered his arcane call.  He rarely used mind-to-mind communication, save at need.  He preferred speaking face-to-face with someone, but this was a situation where he could use another wizard’s help.

Olmeg! the warmage answered, enthusiastically.  Fancy hearing you in my head!

I wouldn’t trouble you, but I have a favor to ask, he began, knowing that he needed to attend to his business before the man got distracted by small talk and inconsequential things.

Anything for you, my large friend, Lorcus assured.  I’m just getting back to Amel Wood, after an extended stay in Sevendor, helping out a few friends.  I suppose I have time for one more.  Perhaps the abbess’s ire will have mellowed, by then.

It should be well-cooled, by the time I’m done with you, he pledged.  If you can be spared from managing your estate for a few days.

In truth, it runs better when I’m gone, Lorcus admitted.  All right, I’m game.  Did one of your shrubberies escape, and you’re hot on the trail?

Something nearly as interesting, Olmeg chuckled.  I have a situation where an additional wizard would be helpful.  Can you meet me in the village of Gosset, in Trestendor, in about three days’ time?

This sounds terribly mysterious and intriguing! Lorcus remarked, eagerly.  Are there any laws being broken?

Not quite yet, but it’s likely, he admitted.

Is there a chance of danger?  Of a scrap? Lorcus asked, excitedly.

Only if I mess things up or get exceedingly unlucky, Olmeg decided.

Ooh!  Is there a pretty maiden involved? he nearly begged.

Two maidens, Olmeg agreed, reluctantly.  Witches.  I’d rather not say more, he continued.  If Lorcus was intrigued, perhaps he’d be more prompt than ordinary, Olmeg reasoned.

My friend, I will depart Amel Wood at once, he promised.  Expect me in Gosset.

Thank you, Lorcus, Olmeg said, sincerely.  I figured you’d enjoy a bit of errantry.

Olmeg didn’t discuss his long-term plans with Lorcus because he did not want to contend with the questions that would arise.  Lorcus enjoyed mystery, and he reveled in intrigue, Olmeg knew.  Keeping back essential information was vital in securing his enthusiastic cooperation, he reasoned.

He took a bed in the inn that night, the innkeeper glad of the business.  The next morning he set off back toward Ramoth’s Wood, feeling more and more confident about his plan.

Along the way, he happened across a hayward pursuing an escaped pig and helped the man secure the swine with magic . . . just in time to see two more yearlings escape the pen.  By the time all three had been returned, and the fence mended, it was late afternoon.  Olmeg’s wagon did not make it back to Ramothswood Manor until after dusk.  And now he smelled like a pig.

He was startled to hear some commotion, just as he applied the brake to the wagon and tied the reins.  Once he dismounted the wain and opened the big door to the hall, he immediately saw where it was coming from.  The entire hall was filled with Tal Alon.

And they appeared to be stealing everything in sight.

Dozens of furry creatures wearing only hats were looting the pantry, stacking the loaves of bread like firewood.  A trio of young females were pilfering the dusty chests along the wall of the great hall, draping threadbare tapestries and table linens over their furry shoulders like elegant shawls.  A surprisingly efficient line of Tal Alon were hauling bottles and casks out of the buttery, while an equally determined group was running away with everything from spoons, knives, and roasting spits from the kitchen.

It was madness.  And in the middle of it was his valet, Purslane, vainly trying to keep order amongst his fellows.  The Tal was dead drunk, Olmeg could see from his eyes and unsteady footing, and every time he turned to caution a female who’d taken a fancy to a copper chamberpot an adolescent Tal was sneaking by with a pair of battered silver goblets.

The witches were nowhere to be seen.

Olmeg took three deep breaths while he evaluated the scene and chose his best course of action.  By the time he got to his third breath, he did something he was not often inclined to do, compared to his fellow professionals.  He made a scene.

With a murmur he uttered the mnemonic that signaled his intent, and the plain silver ring on his right hand manifested his baculus from the hoxter pocket anchored there.  It appeared with a completely unnecessary flash of light and loud crack designed to get attention.  Olmeg had rarely employed the spell, preferring the more common manifestation, and never in such a situation.  But Minalan had counselled him for its inclusion, as he’d guided Olmeg through the process of enchanting the magical staff.  It was so effective, indeed, that Olmeg startled at the effect.

But that did not stop him from grasping the tool in his large fist, and then slamming its steel butt against the floor of the hall, producing an even brighter flare, one that sustained long enough to cast his face in a menacing shadow.

For he held Deeproot, the baculus he’d spent a hundred hours crafting with the assistance of the most brilliant enchanters in Sevendor’s storied bouleuterion.  Made from a unique stave of vine-curled weirwood as its tip and endowed with a specially selected paraclete from the Grain of Pors, the baculus was plain, compared to that of other wizards in Sevendor.  But it was long, as suited the stature of the mage, and as thick as a hoe handle.  A few small magical gems resided within the curls of the head, which had been carved down at its very tip to resemble a taproot.  It was from one of these jewels that the light originated.

“STOP THIS AT ONCE!” he bellowed, his temper betrayed in his voice.  He was pleased that it had an instant effect.  Every Tal in the room froze and stared in terror at the sight of the wizard in the doorway.

“Master!  You’re back!” Purslane said, in an overly cheerful voice.  “We expected you . . . earlier.”

“Nobody move,” he directed, “and nobody speak, unless directed.  Everyone set down whatever it is you are holding and bide, until I tell you.”  His voice was low, and it rumbled through the empty hall like a clap of thunder.  “Tell them, Purslane!”

His valet chittered a few words to his fellows, who slowly allowed their pilferage to drop to the floor.  Scores of little eyes followed him, as he allowed the light from his staff to fade to a simple glow.

“Now, explain,” he prompted his valet, gesturing toward him with Deeproot.  The furry little servant straightened his waistcoat and attempted a dignified pose.  He was largely unsuccessful.

“Master,” he began.  “The two lady witches departed to a fresh farmstead with a small band to . . . acquire a few more supplies considered essential for the coming journey.  They wisely left me in charge to oversee the mushroom harvest which, as it turns out, didn’t take very long.  As the hours dragged on,” he complained, “I mentioned that it was a shame that we lacked any more ale.  As it was not on the list of essential supplies the sisters were to collect, it would be awhile before we would taste its sweetness again,” he said, mournfully.  “And that’s when I may have mentioned there might be a cup or two stored away at the manor house.”

“Did you?” Olmeg commented, evenly.

“I may have, Master, it’s a possibility,” the Tal admitted, solemnly.  “I might have also mentioned Her Ladyship would not be about, and that the servants were therefore most likely to be in the village tavern,” he suggested.  “I know I thought it, and it may have slipped out.”

“And so how does that admission lead to . . . this?” Olmeg demanded, gesturing with his great left hand over the cowering Tal.

“Well, Master,” Purslane said, sheepishly, “I proposed that we go investigate that very premise, is all.  Just me and a couple of mates, the leadership of the clan, as it were.  It seemed important intelligence to secure, before a clandestine escape.”

“You broke into the manor and raided the buttery,” Olmeg sighed, with audible disappointment in his voice.  “Of my client.”

“Well, we were her boarded guests,” Purslane suggested.  “It did not seem completely out-of-bounds.  It was just the three of us, having a friendly cup in the buttery, when . . . well, a few more mates arrived.”

“At which point it was a party,” Olmeg sighed.

“It had some possibilities,” Purslane agreed.  “But then a few more lads arrived, and started opening the wine, and someone found the pantry, and then we had snacks,” he related, reasonably enough.  “That’s when the maids arrived – they wanted to know where all the fellows had run off too.  After that . . . it gets a bit hazy,” he admitted.

“We will examine the logic of that decision at a later time,” Olmeg said, sternly.  “For the moment, I want everyone to put everything – everything! – back exactly where they found it.”

“That might be a bit problematic, Master,” Purslane proposed.  “I think—”

“Everything!  Every single thing!” Olmeg insisted.  Deeproot glowed a little more intensely.  “Tell them!”

Purslane didn’t try to argue – it was clear that his master was not in the mood.  Instead, he began ordering the vagrant Tal to the task attempting the same intensity and authority Olmeg had demonstrated.  He was largely unsuccessful.  But he got results.

Slowly, at first, and then with greater alacrity the raiders of the Rosehip Clan returned the bottles and kegs, spoons and knives, butter churns and chamberpots back to where they remembered stealing them from.  Soon they were working just as diligently as they were when he arrived, though in reverse, and with less enthusiasm.

“I have procured supplies and a wagon,” he explained to Purslane, patiently, as he oversaw a quartet of females spreading out the linens and tapestries and folding them relatively neatly.  “I have a route selected, and allies arriving along the way.  I had secured everything necessary for us to quickly and quietly leave Ramoth’s Wood without risking further incident.  In that chest, ladies,” he directed the Tal.

“But then I arrive to see the successful conclusion of my commission to find my faithful servant leading a pillaging party on our client and hostess,” he observed.  “That is not likely to reflect well on my professional reputation,” he reproved.

“I did urge them not to,” Purslane offered, lamely.  “I recall telling them it wasn’t a wise idea, Master.”

“Again, we’ll address that point at a later time.  Now we focus our energies on restoring this hall to order.”

“She’s going to know,” Purslane said, a moment later, as the last few items were returned to their chests and the Tal stood around expectantly.  Though the Tal Alon had successfully replaced everything, the cupboards and chests stood askew.  A casual eye might perceive a struggle had taken place in the dusty old hall.  “If nothing else, they dusted the place more with their tushes than the servants have managed in a year,” he criticized.  Olmeg could see he wasn’t wrong – the place was in a poor state even for its general shabbiness.

He sighed, and made a decision.

“You are correct, Purslane,” Olmeg agreed.  “Therefore we will repay our hostess – and our client – with a little free labor.  You were ineffective at stopping their thieving; we shall see if you’re more suited to direct their cleaning.”

“Oh, it’s not actually that bad, Master,” Purslane, countered.  “You can barely see most of the . . . filth,” he pointed out.

“Well, I can amend that,” Olmeg nodded, casually casting a trio of big, bright magelights and sent them to fully illuminate the hall.  For the duration of his spell, it was more brightly lit than even in full sun.  “Now you can see the dirt.  And you can scrub every bit of it as a penalty for betraying our hostess’ hospitality.  Considering the damage done to the estate, I think it’s the least you can offer in contrition.”

“I . . . I think . . . Master . . .” Purslane stumbled, attempting to find some compelling reason why they should not.

“I think you’d best get started,” Olmeg suggested in a commanding tone.  “With all of you working together, it won’t take long.  And you’ve been around a well-kept manor for years; you know how things should be, to please human sensibilities.  I charge you to see it done . . . and quickly,” he added.  “I would prefer to depart Ramoth’s Wood as soon as possible.”

“Yes, that might be best,” Purslane sighed, before he turned and started barking orders to his fellows in his species’ tongue.

Olmeg sighed, and watched the tribe turn to reluctantly cleaning and dusting the entire hall from rafters to floor.  Purslane directed mops and brooms to be taken from their closets and deployed across the dirty slate floor.  Decorative rabbits that had long languished under layers of soot were washed and rinsed to display what luster they had left.  The giant hares who supported the mantlepiece were scrubbed and the potash removed from the fireplace.  Tapestries were rolled up and taken outside for a trio of Tal maidens to beat enthusiastically.  Purslane oversaw it all, like a captain among his troops, ordering his fellows about with the utmost urgency.

“What . . . is going on here?” demanded a voice from behind the wizard, as he watched the fireplace get restocked with firewood.  Olmeg turned to see both witches at the door, confused looks on their faces.

“Recompense,” Olmeg explained, when he got over his surprise.  “When I first arrived, they were looting the place like birds on ripe cherries.  I made them put it all back, and then got them started on cleaning, to repay the lady of the manor for her . . . forbearance, in this case.  And for the chattels that were liberated,” he said, nodding toward the squadron of Tal raiders behind the two sisters, their sacks full of corn and other loot.  “It’s the least you can do to repay the hospitality of the manor.”

“You are impressing these folk to labor like slaves!” objected Callwyn, angrily.

“I am employing them in a little light housekeeping to placate the anger of the woman you’ve aggrieved,” Olmeg countered, firmly.  “If the Rosehip Clan intends to live among civilized people, they must learn to act as civilized people.  Repaying a hostess for being a guest is proper.  And transforms this invasion into a misunderstanding,” he reasoned.

“They are not yours to command!” Callwyn continued.  “They are a free and—”

“Oh, shut up, Callwyn, and grab a damned broom!” Caerwyn said, rolling her eyes.   “Don’t you see he’s right?  This is the difference between being hounded out of the domain like bandits and leaving as . . . well, not bandits,” the older sister said, accepting a mop from one of the Tal.  “The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done!”

Callwyn started to complain again, but a strong look from Olmeg convinced her to reconsider.  She groaned but accepted a broom from one of the Tal maidens who was having difficulty with a tool so tall.  She went to a far corner of the hall and began to sullenly sweep.

Nor was Olmeg idle, during the cleaning.  Indeed, he was perhaps the busiest of all, casting cantrips to knock soot and dust loose from hard-to-reach areas, calling a gentle breeze to clear away the dust from the air, and performing other useful spells that speeded the cleaning.  Within two hours, the hall looked far more splendid than it had when he arrived.  Still a bit creepy, he decided, but a cleaner sort of creepy.

“Now, dinner under the stars,” he proposed, when he finally pronounced their labor done.  “I’ve a wagon full of food outside.  We can load it up afterwards, and depart before dawn in the morning.”

“And they won’t pursue us?” asked Callwyn, warily.

“For cleaning her hall?” snorted Caerwyn, as they retired to the courtyard.  “Let’s see her argue that before a magistrate.  “She’ll come home, we’ll be gone, no one will be that angry,” the older witch predicted.

“All for a couple of mushrooms,” Olmeg chuckled.

“Not merely mushrooms,” corrected Callwyn.  “They are incredibly potent aphrodisiacs; unlike most such herbs, they work on either male or female.  They are a rare natavia variety,” she lectured, “which only grows on dead willow in the right conditions.  I’ve only seen them one other time, and never in such abundance,” she admitted.

“Do they arise in the rotted wood, or merely the dry?” asked Olmeg, with professional curiosity.

Callwyn looked startled.  “What does a High Mage need with such knowledge?” she asked, suspiciously.

“I’m a wizard, we like to know that sort of thing,” Olmeg said, as the Tal started a fire and began to cook a few of the things from the wagon.  “I have all manner of herbs and fungus growing, back at Hollyburrow.  My moss garden is considered one of the best in the kingdom,” he added, with professional pride.

“They grow in the moist, rotten willow wood.  These mushrooms are highly prized, particularly among court wizards and apothecaries,” Caerwyn said, giving her sister a hard glance.  “For they are highly efficacious and potent.  The tiniest amount can arouse the ardor in any dotard or haggard old maid.”

“That makes them valuable,” agreed Callwyn.  “We’ve gathered enough to sell for forty, perhaps fifty ounces of silver, if we find the right buyer.”

“Enough to purchase a small farmstead, perhaps,” agreed Caerwyn.  “With the help of the Tal, we were thinking of establishing a practice, somewhere this side of the river.”

“I think that can be managed, if you maids will trust in me,” Olmeg suggested.  “Sevendor is ripe with such opportunities.  Particularly if you know one of the local officials.”

“You’d help us establish ourselves?” Callwyn asked, doubtfully.

“I’ve been making some inquiries,” Olmeg agreed.  “A friend of mine will be meeting us along the road.  He is one of the baron’s men, a warmage of repute.  Help me secure his aid, and I think we can find you sanctuary.”

“A warmage?” Caerwyn asked, troubled.  “You expect us to be . . . pursued?”

“No, my lady,” soothed Olmeg.  “But I would prefer our passage to be untroubled.  Magelord Lorcus will ensure that,” he promised.

The Tal Alon created a thick and delicious stew with the ingredients the wain provided, and devoured the maislan bread after toasting it over the flames.  At some point, someone produced a bottle of wine that had escaped notice in restocking the buttery, and a few sips each from the neck soon reduced the band to a merry, furry pile of joviality under the stars.  Purslane started a song in the rhythmic language of the Tal and all joined in.

The sight of so many lumpy, furry little bodies drunkenly singing was notable, particularly to the aging castellan and the other servants of the manor stumbling back from the Rampant Rabbit, near midnight.  Olmeg spoke a few comforting words and sent them to bed, assuring them that all was well and that he would not reveal their dereliction from their duties at the manor during their mistress’ absence.

He settled down under his cloak, quietly smoking his pipe as he watched the flames in quiet contemplation.  The singing had all but stopped, and the few Tal who had not already fallen asleep were descending into murmurs.  Callwyn had curled up with a Tal under her arm, asleep with her head on a sack of corn.

“Why have you taken such care to see us safely conveyed away from here?” Caerwyn asked, after a while.  “Your commission was to remove the pests from the wood, not adopt a band of refugees.”

“A wizard never suffers from just one job,” Olmeg commented, after a moment’s thought.

“Nor a witch from a solitary worry,” Caerwyn replied.  “I thank the gods that we were not driven away by violence.  That was my greatest anxiety.  Now I fear for our safety on the road, and you assure me of a protector along the way.  Then I concern myself with the future of my little clan, and you suggest that you have a provision for that.  For all my worries, you seem to have a response.”

“A good wizard is prepared for such things,” Olmeg mused, with a shrug.

“Yes, no doubt you are a good wizard, Magelord Olmeg,” Caerwyn agreed.  “But it is still a question of whether you are a good wizard, if you take my meaning.  I take it you have your scroll, and paid your fee?”

“I am, indeed, Imperially trained,” agreed the wizard.  He knew that hedgewitches and footwizards were often suspicious of their credentialled colleagues, fearful that they would somehow be reported to the hated Censorate.  “Yet, if you doubt my intentions, Lady Witch, what might I do to allay them?”

“Tell me your interest, then,” Caerwyn demanded, quietly, after a moment’s thought.  “Explain to me why you are doing this?  Why you are really doing this?”

Olmeg smiled around his pipestem.  “Why?  Beyond the fulfillment of my commission?  Because it suited me to do so, Lady Witch, and amused me to indulge in such an adventure.  A wizard needs such diversions the way a knight needs errantry.  It feeds our soul and keeps life interesting.”

“Is your life not interesting enough?” she countered.

“I thought so,” Olmeg decided, philosophically.  “I’ve spent years turning Sevendor and the lands beyond into as fruitful a place as I can manage.  I’ve made the acquaintance of these little folk, which has been interesting enough to write a book about.  I am in service to the foremost wizard in the land, and have duties and responsibilities many would covet.

“Yet,” he continued, “as eventful and fulfilling as my life is, I suppose everyone needs a bit of perspective.  As I said, such adventures keep life interesting.”

“And on the morrow?” Caerwyn prompted.

“At dawn, you and your sister will travel ahead, with the wain and the bulk of the clan,” Olmeg proposed.  “Purslane and I will catch up as soon as we settle with the lady of the manor.  Take the lane back to the main road, and then head east.  I shall meet you before you get to Gosset.”

“Where you and your warmage friend will clap us in irons and enslave my little friends,” Caerwyn amended.

“I’m afraid that would be far more trouble than it would be worth,” chuckled Olmeg.  “No, I’m merely finding a useful place for you and your folk.  That’s the sort of thing a good wizard does, too.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Caerwyn challenged.

“Out of my sense of amusement and diversion,” Olmeg countered.

“I suppose we shall just have to see,” Caerwyn said, still suspicious.

To that, Olmeg made no answer.

***

When Lady Kresdine returned, it was earlier than expected, but not before Olmeg was prepared.  When Lady Kresdine rode up the lane, ahead of her dull-looking maid and a servingman driving a cart, there was no sign left of the Tal Alon or the two young hedgewitches.  As directed, they’d departed at first light of day, after a quick breakfast in the courtyard.

As Lady Kresdine was helped down from her mare, she looked at Olmeg and Purslane suspiciously.

“Well?” she demanded, imperiously.  “I assume you’ve come to report your failure?”

“On the contrary, Lady Kresdine, the commission is entirely complete,” assured Olmeg, leaning on Deeproot.  “Your wood is clear of the Tal Alon.  I convinced them to move along.”

“Oh,” Lady Kresdine said, surprised by the answer.  “Really?  They’re really gone?”

“Not only gone, but in recompense for their . . . borrowing, I convinced them to tidy up your hall a bit before they left.  It was a simple misunderstanding, you see,” Olmeg explained, stretching the truth more than a bit.  “They were unaware of how the Riverfolk do things, and . . . well, I cleared up the misunderstanding.”

“And they just . . . left?” she asked, skeptically.

“Quite willingly,” he agreed, as he helped her down from her mount.  “You see, the thing which attracted them to your lands in the first place no longer held allure.  Once that was removed, they were easy enough to persuade.”

“And what was that?  Not . . . rabbits, I hope?” Lady Kresdine asked, looking at the tall stone effigies that flanked her doorway with clear distaste.

“No, my lady.  It was mushrooms,” Olmeg explained, patiently.

“Mushrooms?  They were after mushrooms?  Mushrooms grow everywhere, wizard,” she asked in disbelief as he opened the doors for her.

“Not this particular variety, my lady.  They have particular properties, of special value to the Little Folk.  And, perhaps, the Big Folk,” he added.  “Its name translates to the ‘rutting fungus’ for the intense erotic state it induces,” he explained, as if he was discussing the propagation of potatoes.

“Oh . . . really?” Kresdine asked, halting her course a moment as she realized the implications.  “I can see how that would be attractive to them.  My tenants often complain of reluctant bulls or boars, and the manor’s rams seem more interested in each other than their ewes,” she snorted, as she took off her gloves and handed them to her butler.

“By reputation, this fungus will inspire the passions of the most timid of either gender,” Olmeg informed her.  “I thought my lady may like a sample.”

Lady Kresdine caught her breath, as he produced the handkerchief and unwrapped it enough to expose some of the bright orange mushroom.  “Just a bit,” Olmeg said, his voice low and steady, “and any man or woman, beast or fowl will be driven into brazen lustfulness.  From what I observed in my time here, my lady, I figured you would know what best to do with such knowledge, and appreciate its value.”  The sudden shift in Olmeg’s tone caught Lady Kresdine by surprise, and she returned a thoughtful stare.

“It almost sounds as if you infer—” she began.

“Lady Kresdine, I am a wizard,” Olmeg interrupted, sharply.  “I trade in subtleties and discrete observations.  The state of your marriage is none of my concern, but that doesn’t mean it escaped my notice . . . or the implications,” he said, raising an eyebrow for emphasis.

“Master Olmeg, I do hope your professional discretion extends to such matters,” Kresdine said, her eyes narrowing.

“My lady, I do not discuss my clients’ cases,” Olmeg insisted.  “It would be improper.  But it was easy enough for me to deduce from an inspection of the manor that not only do you have several lovers, but that you hold your husband in contempt and that your daughter is not, as he believes, naturally his.”

“And you were able to tell that with mere casual observation?” she asked, alarmed.

“Believe me, my lady, your efforts to conceal the truth from your husband were sufficient to withstand mere casual observation,” Olmeg assured her.  “But they were the reason I gifted you the fungus.  Perhaps Sir Gamman will find more favor in your heart if a dose of the mushroom is administered.”

“To me or him?” Kresdine asked, exasperated.  “I like my husband best when he is furthest away, my lord.  Yet, since our daughter’s wedding he has been increasingly urging us to spend long, intimate interludes together.  In passionate embrace,” she declared, distastefully.  “He was a lackluster enough lover when we first wed; I assure you, age has not improved his pathetic efforts.  If I should chance to use this wonder, it will not be on that tepid rabbit!”

“As you wish, my lady,” Olmeg said, bowing his head.

“You disapprove?” she challenged.

“It is not my place to judge,” Olmeg shrugged.  “All creatures seek to mate; as the Ishites say, ‘all the universe is a sex act.’  No one is more aware of that than a green mage.  Use the fungus as you choose.  But if it pleases you, send word to Sevendor this time next year, and as a favor I will show you how to discover and harvest the mushroom.”

“If it performs as you suggest, I would count that a boon, Wizard,” she agreed.  “I assume you wish your fee, now?”

“It would remove any thought of indiscretion, my lady,” Olmeg agreed, quietly.  “And your expediency would be appreciated.  I have a cart to catch.”

***

“So that’s it, then?” Caerwyn asked, skeptically.  “We can just . . . ride away?”

“That is exactly what we do,” Olmeg agreed, as he strode next to the wagon, his staff in hand.  He was tall enough so that his face was nearly even with the two witches.  A long trail of mushroom-shaped hats marched behind it, Purslane in the midst of them, a bottle in hand.  “The quicker, the better.  Though the lady of the manor is placated, her peasants were not.  The sooner we are beyond the domain’s boundary stone, the easier our journey is like to become.”

“So what do you achieve from this, Wizard, beyond a fat purse?” asked Callwyn, suspiciously.

“The purse was not that fat,” Olmeg corrected.  “To be honest, I took the commission to keep my hand in commercial practice,” he admitted.  “Then I didn’t want to see these poor folk abused by circumstance.  Now, I’m enjoying a lovely walk in the country,” he observed.  “I find myself well-compensated for the effort.”  He took out his pipe and began to pack it from his pouch when he realized that there was a rider approaching from the other direction.

“I do hope you do, Master Olmeg,” Caerwyn said, giving her sister a disapproving look.  “You have been so kind to us, when we only gave you suspicion and doubt.”

“You were wise to be suspicious on the road,” Olmeg nodded, as he brought the pipe to life.  “For example, the approaching horseman is a dangerous warrior who has toppled entire domains,” he informed them, pointing at the man with his pipestem.

“He is?” Callwyn asked, her hand going automatically to the hilt of her dagger.

“He is,” Olmeg agreed, not slowing his step one bit.  “Hail, Lorcus!”

“Hail, Olmeg, the Oak Tree Who Walks Like a Man,” the Remeran mage called.

“I thought you would meet us in Gosset?” Olmeg asked, concerned.

“You said the witches were pretty,” Lorcus shrugged, producing blushes on both the girls’ faces . . . and, perhaps, on Olmeg’s, though his hat and beard obscured it.  “You were right,” he said, taking off his pointed hat and bowing.  “Lord Lorcus of Amel Wood, my ladies,” he introduced himself, graciously.  “I did not look forward to staying in Gosset, just waiting, and so I figured I would journey ahead and join you on the road.  Callwyn shifted next to her sister and kept her hand on the dagger.

“Keep your distance, Sir!” she insisted.  “We are but newly come to the Bontal Vales, my lord.  In our country, the women answer impropriety with steel!” she warned.

“Oh, I like this one,” Lorcus chuckled, giving the witch a thorough inspection before turning his attention back to Olmeg.  “Did you get the Rabbit Lord’s commission done, then?”  He turned his mount and rode next to the wagon on the other side from Olmeg.

“Here is the proof,” Olmeg said, indicating the line of Tal Alon behind the wain.

“What, this isn’t your lot?” Lorcus asked, surprised.  “I thought for certain I recognized old Purslane, there,” he pointed and smiled.  Purslane immediately waved, which increased his popularity with the other Tal.

“The rest are of a different tribe,” Olmeg explained.  “They were haunting the marsh.  Now they are in need of a new home.”

“Are they, now?” Lorcus asked, scratching his scruffy chin thoughtfully.  “And I just happen to have a half-peopled fief in need of some gardening.  You thought to settle them in Amel Wood?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d consider it,” Olmeg shrugged.  “It seemed a natural fit.  Once we clean them up, settle them in, and introduce them to Bontal customs, I think they might serve you well,” he suggested.  “They’re a merry lot.  I think you’ll like them.”

“My very own fuzzy wuzzies,” Lorcus chuckled.

“The Tal Alon are no one’s slaves!” Caerwyn said, resolutely.

“Nor am I in the habit of keeping slaves,” Lorcus said, amused at the thought.  “All the folk of Amel Wood are free, my lady.  And gloriously unoppressed.  If the fuzzy wuzzies want to stay, they’ll have to see to their own upkeep, and stay within the bounds of my land.  Other than that, they’re free to do whatever their fuzzy butts wish,” he shrugged.

The two witches were soon charmed by the loquacious warmage despite their caution, and by noon the four of them were chatting merrily as they rode.  They took lunch in a meadow just beyond the boundary stone, and continued through the afternoon at a leisurely pace.  The took a break in the heat of the day, enjoying an hour-long nap in a walnut grove before pushing on through dusk.

Olmeg found both young women enjoyable companions, now that they were out of danger and headed toward a brighter future.  He and Lorcus regaled them with tales of wondrous Sevendor, where they would journey first.

The enchanted snowstone, the hundreds of magelights, the eternal Everfire in the temple, and the wonders of the Magic Fair all painted a portrait for the sisters and inspired dozens of questions about the place.  As the afternoon wore on, Olmeg came to appreciate the wit and humor of both witches, though he found Callwyn’s sarcasm and quick temper mildly annoying.  Her sister, by contrast, had a gracious streak and a protective nature about her that Olmeg came to admire the longer he experienced it.

For their part, the sisters spoke of the dour land of their birth, and their eagerness to begin a new life.  They inquired about the customs of the land, and the state of their craft as it was practiced in the barony of Sevendor.

“We can make camp up ahead,” Olmeg proposed.  “There is a meadow near the road which is likely owned or rented by the croft nearby.  If Lorcus and Callwyn will make camp there with the Tal, Caerwyn and I shall secure permission for its use.”

“You don’t anticipate any objections?” Lorcus asked, doubtfully.  “Not many peasants in these parts are going to appreciate a pack of spuds in their meadow.  It makes people talk.”

“I shall be persuasive,” Olmeg proposed, with confidence.  In truth, he’d found his great size had always been a persuasive factor in his discussions.  “And Maid Callwyn has a kind and wholesome face.”

“I do?” the witch asked, surprised.

“I cannot argue with the judgement of a man who can tell whether a pepper plant is being rude to him or not,” Lorcus assured her.  “My lady’s countenance is as kind as a sunbeam and as wholesome as a maiden’s fart.”

That earned him a sour look from Caerwyn, who shook her head and headed the team toward the meadow after Olmeg helped her sister down from the seat.  Lorcus didn’t seem to be bothered by the expression, and launched into an improbable song that detailed the alleged wholesomeness of a maiden’s fart as he led the tribe to the meadow.  Olmeg could hear Purslane translating for the Rosehip Clan as they followed.  They loved it.

“Forgive his crudeness, my lady,” Olmeg urged, as Caerwyn fell into step beside him.  “He is a warmage, and he speaks as a soldier.”

“He does not offend – in truth, I think Callwyn is amused by him,” she said, shaking her head.  “She has always enjoyed low humor more than I.”

“Lorcus takes some getting used to, but he is a valiant fellow,” Olmeg assured, as they strolled down the lane between the hedgerows.  “As well as fiendishly clever.  Of all the magelords in Sevendor, he is the one I trust the most will see us back to Sevendor in peace.”

“One would imagine a man as large as you would be enough to keep any threat at bay,” Caerwyn countered.  “I cannot imagine any man challenging you.”

“Oh, I am large, but I am no warmage, my dear,” Olmeg said, without reluctance or shame.  “I am a peaceful man and have fought only when I’ve had to – thankfully, an infrequent occurrence, in my line of work.  Of course, things have gotten interesting, since I took the Spellmonger’s employ . . .”

“And to what end do you work for the great wizard?” Caerwyn asked, curious.

“Oh, for the opportunity, of course,” Olmeg answered, thoughtfully.  “Sevendor’s wonders provide me a wealth of new studies.  I’ve turned my little estate into a vast repository of herbs, and rare and exotic plants, and I have enchanted gardens and forests to care for.  And my Tal Alon friends,” he added, affectionately.

“Purslane seems very well-spoken,” agreed Caerwyn. “Though quite cynical, for a Tal,” she added, concerned.

“It’s his nature,” chuckled Olmeg.  “He is as intelligent as a human scholar, and better read than most.  Alas, his baser nature leads him to indulge his temptations more than is prudent, and he knows it.  It leads him to . . . adventure,” he said, diplomatically.

“But you keep him out of trouble,” she offered.  “That seems a great boon to one with such a strong wit and so little protection.”

“The Tal are well-respected in Sevendor,” Olmeg told her.  “But, it is true, that is largely because of their exemplary service to the domain and their dedication to the many tasks I set them.  Left to their own devices, I can see how problems in relations could arise.”

“A fellow like Purslane would get to mischief,” Caerwyn agreed, a little sadly.  “Before my sister and I came along, my little folk were much the same.”

“Perhaps we can tame them to human ways, though I wonder if Lorcus is, perhaps, the best example to give them,” he added, doubtfully.  “He’s only half-civilized himself, I fear.”

“He’s a fine enough fellow,” Caerwyn dismissed, as they came to the gate of the croft.  Olmeg had to duck down to walk through the rickety arbor, thick with green grapes.  “Just a few rough edges.”

“If Lorcus has a smooth edge, I’ve yet to encounter it.  Hail, Goodwife!” he said, waving to the sturdy old matron who was hoeing her garden in the last bit of daylight.  “Is yon meadow under your purview?”

It took Olmeg and Caerwyn only a few minutes to get the freeholder’s wife to admit to renting the meadow, and grudgingly agreeing to its use for the night for six pennies . . . which fell to four, once Caerwyn began listing the ways the woman had her garden laid out so poorly.  She gave a year’s full of good advice on the placement of her vegetables, fruit bushes, and herbs within the meager space, and offered counsel on where a pear tree would thrive, if tended properly.  Olmeg completed the bargain by casting a spell which would banish harmful insects from the yard for the rest of the season.  Though the price of the rental did not decrease further, the woman gave them a half-dozen eggs from her coop in her gratitude.

“That was well done!” Lorcus approved, when Caerwyn displayed the prizes back at camp.  The Tal had gathered deadfall for a fire and fresh grasses to make their beds, and were sprawled around the big cookpot.  The warmage had taken charge of dinner, making a thick stew with supplies from the wagon, and he’d produced a small barrel of ale from a hoxter pocket he said was a gift from the Spellmonger.  “A few wild onions and some bacon, and it’s scrambled eggs for breakfast!”

“He cooks!” Caerwyn declared, surprised.

“I was in the army, of course I cook,” the warmage snorted, as he tasted the stew.  “Not even a decent army, with camp followers to do such work.  I’ve always had a dab hand at culinary affairs.  I blame my mum,” he related.

“For a great many things, no doubt,” Callwyn said, a smirk on her face.  “I’ll not fault a man for taking up the art.  I’m only fair at it, myself.”

“She’s bloody horrible,” Caerwyn corrected.  “She’s always been an awful cook.  Awful at potions, too,” she accused.  “Our mother preferred my work for both.”

“And my work for wards and charms,” Callwyn shot back, hands on her hips, “because I’m so bloody charming!”

“Sisters,” Lorcus said, grinning as he handed Olmeg an over-sized bowl of the stew, and added a hunk of the maislan bread.  “Haven’t met a pair of them yet who wouldn’t argue over the color of the sky.”

“Witches, too,” Olmeg murmured, as he blew on the bowl.  The Tal lined up and were doled out a cup of the rich broth.  “I’m certain the arguments got quite interesting, in their household.”

“I’m seeing a lot of poisonings in their future,” Lorcus agreed.  “Ale?”

“Please,” Olmeg agreed.  “Walking is thirsty work.”

“The Tal are rationed to one cup each!” insisted Callwyn.  “We don’t want any repeats of the incident at Ramoth’s Wood!”

“What was this incident?” Lorcus asked, curious, as he dug into his own portion.  That required Olmeg to tell the tale, with occasional embellishments from Purslane, as well as comments from each of the young witches.  Olmeg finished the tale well enough to get Lorcus and the girls laughing uproariously.

The sisters continued digging at each other good-naturedly through the meal, with Lorcus egging them on to everyone’s amusement.  Purslane joined in with his own droll observations about the four humans, which seemed to get more and more raunchy with every iteration.  It was about that time that Olmeg knew that something was amiss.  Purslane seemed to be growing taller, somehow.

“This is really good,” Callwyn confessed, as she finished her bowl.  “I can never get the stuff to sort out properly, and it always tastes like glue.  What’s in it?”

“Yes, Lorcus, what did you put into the stew?” Caerwyn asked, suddenly, as she fished something out of her own bowl with her fingers and stared at it by firelight.

“Oh, just some mutton, a bit of pork, beans, potatoes, parsley, chives, garlic – great heaping loads of garlic – salt, pepper, a bit of red pepper I had stashed away for just such an occasion.  Onions,” he added, suddenly, as he recalled the recipe.  “Oh, and mushrooms.  There was a whole satchel of them, fresh freakishly orange looking things.  Exotic. So I threw a couple in the pot.  I thought it would add a pinch of sass,” he suggested, as he began to study his fingers intently.

“Mushrooms?” Callwyn asked, her eyes wide.

“Orange mushrooms?” Caerwyn moaned in horror, looking around at the Tal who had gorged themselves so heartily on the fare.

“Yes,” Lorcus said, tearing his attention from his fingers and smacking his lips far more vigorously than was called for.  “They smelled amazing, so I chucked a handful in when I sautéed the onions and potatoes.  I really do think it added a touch of class to the dish.”

“It certainly provided the pinch of sass you were seeking,” agreed Olmeg, as he set down his empty bowl, realizing what had been done.  The wizard heaved a great sigh, and looked up to the gorgeous sky for guidance.  It was suddenly far, far more interesting than it usually was, with the stars and planets twinkling in a disturbingly intriguing manner.  It took effort to return his attention to the issue at hand.

“Indeed, my friends,” he continued as he poured another cup of ale from the nearly depleted keg, studiously not looking at the stunned faces of the two young witches, “It appears we’re likely to have another . . . incident.”

The Wicked Monk of Hameron

There were many wizards in Sevendor.  Indeed, the place was thick with them.

There were wealthy enchanters who worked in the bustling bouleuterion, shuffling footwizards attracted by the rumors of work, student magi seeking masters or just mastery of their art, spellmongers seeking rare and special fare from the unique market, robust warmagi who prowled the streets in search of their next assignment, powerful scholars of ancient lore searching for scraps in the famous libraries . . . all had been drawn to the mysterious, magical white mountain and the first mageland it sat within.

But it surprised many visitors and newcomers to learn that a common, rustic hedgewizard enjoyed as much respect from the Sevendori people as great and powerful adepts from afar.  Zagor the Hedgewizard was universally esteemed by the common folk and the nobility of the magical land.  Often was his counsel sought by both in matters ranging from lost livestock to lavish spellwork of the highest order.

Sevendor had grown from a small village to a great town in a few short years, and even the surrounding villages had adopted a more urban aspect, as competition for lodging and opportunity had flowed from the town.  But Zagor had secured a largish cotyard in Boval Village, near to the Diketower, and built a modest Wilderlands-style hut upon it in the earliest days of the settlement.

To this day, it had remained largely unchanged, even as the huts around it had been improved into sturdy post-and-beam homes on proper stone foundations as the situations of his neighbors had improved. Only the size of his yard and the small sign with three stars indicated the man’s relative importance in the community.  Those unfamiliar with wizards might consider his garden untidy.

Zagor maintained a stock of herbs and roots common to his trade, and kept it according to Alka Alon traditions, which are less orderly, at first glance, than human methods.  That made the way his garden was planted seem haphazard to human eyes.  That perception was compounded by the various bits of junk scattered about that Zagor had taken a fancy to and brought home.

Across the chaotic garden everything from a broken beehive (which he was using to reduce a potion by evaporation) to a windchime made of broken thaumaturgic glass to a bleached skull of a giant wyvern mounted on a post near the gate, to the rib of a dragon he was training vine roses to climb contributed to the odd-looking yard.  Yet even casual passers-by felt compelled to stop and gaze at the homey, rustic-looking place, and note the number of customers who frequented it.

Zagor spent the day after every Market Day at his shop, dispensing potions, powders, charms, referrals, arcane advice, and pragmatic wisdom to any who sought him.  Other days he might be in the field, or fishing, or out on errands, but he’d been in his shop the day after market day since he’d opened it.  He’d chosen that day because he’d learned that was the best time for observing and prospecting good customers.

In a magically rich place like Sevendor, with wizards as commonplace as plowmen, there was still very much the need for the kind of hedgemagic Zagor performed.  Great and powerful enchanters or arcane merchants were unlikely to stoop to the sorts of spells a village needed for common problems.  Magelords did not concern themselves with rats, weevils, lost hogs, and mysterious ailments, in Zagor’s experience.  The common folk of Boval Village sought him out for those things, if they didn’t know another wizard they could impose upon.

As a result, Zagor was far busier here than he’d ever been in Boval Vale.  While that had also led to an increase in his purse, Zagor kept prices for his services unreasonably low, compared to other spellmongers in the villages of Sevendor.  He appreciated the rise in prosperity for his people, but he measured his success in a healthy practice, not in the number of coins he could stack up.  Though he charged a higher fee for those whose class demanded it, Zagor did more or less as he pleased, at reasonable prices.  A good hedgewizard’s focus was on the health of the community he served, not on the richness of his cloak or how grand his house was.

Occasionally, his services were sought by those outside of the domain, who’d heard of his skill, wisdom, or wished to trade on his relationship with the Baron.  Ordinarily, Zagor returned a politely-worded rejection of the business, often with a referral or a few words of advice.  He picked his clients carefully, and the farther they lived from his doorstep, the less interest he had in catering to their trade.  Sevendor was still recovering from the dreadful dragon attack, and he had plenty of work to keep him busy in healing the village from that awful day.

But sometimes the inquiry was too important for him to casually dismiss.  When an elegant message on pristine bleached parchment was delivered to him the day before market day, bearing the elegant seal of an inelegant badger on its wax, he knew at once he would be accepting this commission.  For entwined in the sweet-smelling wax was a subtle spell – not of clumsy Imperial-style magic, but of the magic of the Alka Alon.  The writer of this note would know when he opened it, Zagor knew.  That had all sorts of implications.

Zagor didn’t hesitate.  He knew his letters, though he was less comfortable with them than his Imperially-trained colleagues.  He broke the seal at once and carefully read the flowing, graceful script.

Lady Fallawen of Hosendor requests the pleasure of your presence at her hall at Tuervakothel on the third day after Luin’s Day.

That was all the slip of parchment said.  Zagor read each word again, just to be certain he understood the meaning of the message.  On its surface, there was little to misunderstand, but then Zagor knew that the Fair Folk were as subtle as an archmage when it came to their machinations.

He did not begrudge his former masters their indulgence in obscurity.  He had long learned to appreciate the special perspectives that long life – near immortality, from a humani perspective – forced upon the Alka Alon.  And while Lady Fallawen was, perhaps, the most Tera of the Tera Alon, she still had the perspective of an immortal.

A human woman would have added more detail, perhaps a plea or an explanation to speed his reply or ensure his appearance.  Indeed, a plea this sparse would scarcely merit a mention in the popular romances that filled the ears of the aristocracy.

Zagor’s familiarity with the Alka Alon told a different tale, however.  Lady Fallawen had a problem, a challenge, an issue that she needed human guidance upon.  And she was very hesitant to entrust the nature of that advice to writing.

The message implied a number of potential subjects, Zagor reflected.  Her recent marriage to the human Sire Ryff was a contrived affair, and though the knight loved the Tera Alon maiden passionately, her own passions had been slow to kindle for the mortal.  There was the matter of complicated human social customs, the sort of thing that oft confounded the Tera Alon, he’d noted.  Explaining things like a human maiden’s expectations, after a sexual tryst, or an artisan’s expectation of payment had been a frequent element in his practice, of late.

For Sevendor was awash in the Tera Alon.  Since the day the mountain in the east had disappeared, to be replaced by a lake, Sevendor was now easily connected with Hosendor; indeed, a spur of rock there had been transformed into snowstone, once upon a time.  More lately, the estate now known as Tuervakothel had arisen there, built by Lord Aeratas, himself, before his death.  Hosendor had become an outpost of the Tera Alon – those Alka Alon who, for whatever reason, had adopted the larger physical form of the humani.

Most, like that rascal Onranion, had blundered into scores of human taboos and solemn social customs that they just did not understand.  When they rose to the level of attracting the Steward’s notice, often Sire Cei called in Zagor to help settle matters.  His unique experience in the haven of Ameras gave him the ability to communicate between the expectations of the two races.

Many of the Tera Alon had eventually sought out his counsel, once it became known that he had a view into both worlds that neither could claim.  Of the Emissaries, he had consulted with Lady Ithalia frequently, when she was in town, and occasionally Lady Varen would descend from her stately tower of Lesgathael and discuss her affairs with the hedgemage.

But of all of the Tera Alon, Zagor never would have suspected that Fallawen would require his counsel.

Lady Fallawen was a noblewoman, as the Alka Alon accounted such things, the high-born daughter of the Farastamari kindred.  Her father, Lord Aeratas, was once lord of one of the most enduring realms in all the lands, fair Anthatiel, the legendary City of Rainbows.  No simple rustics, Aeratas’ people had been admired technicians and esteemed craftsmen amongst the Alka Alon.  Their knowledge of the mysteries of Callidore was deep, and their custodianship of the vast legacy kept under Anthatiel was seen as one of the noblest tasks of the day.  Even Zagor, in his youth as a stumbling student of spellsongs in a remote refuge, had heard of the glories of Anthatiel.

The fall of that fair city had compelled Lady Fallawen to wed the brave – but painfully mortal – Sire Ryff, at her father’s insistence.  After much deliberation and soul-searching, she had plighted her troth with the mortal, and received the gods’ own blessing for doing so.

A casual observer would consider such a deed well-done and noble; but Zagor had been a hedgemage long enough to sense when there was a threat to his clients’ domestic bliss.  He guessed the nature of her summons before he’d even read it.  No doubt she needed advice about her new husband.  Lady Fallawen might live for thousands of years, but the man she married – the very human man – was just as male and just as much prone to the frailties of that sex as any.

Zagor did not know how he guessed the nature of the problem from the terse note in his hand, but suddenly he was sure of it, regardless of what other errand the lady might request.  There was just something in the tone of the sentence that told him why the fair Emissary desired his counsel, as much as his service.  No doubt there would be some petty excuse for his attendance, but he was certain of why she’d written.

“Tell my lady yes,” Zagor said to the young messenger, as he rolled up the parchment and tucked it into his shoulder bag.

“‘Yes?’” the lad asked, confused.  “That’s all?  ‘Yes?’”

“That should be a sufficiency,” Zagor nodded.  “Good journey,” he added, passing the boy a penny as a tip.  The messenger wandered off, shaking his head.  Apparently, he was newly come to Sevendor, and was astounded by the strange town.

Zagor pondered the message for the rest of the day, considering all the various possibilities while he met with clients.  Mostly, they were mere consultations or follow-up visits concerning previous spells.

He handled a couple of cases of tendonitis, cured Goody Filma’s warts, cast a temporary spell of sharpness on a woodsman’s axe as part of a continuing deal, and used his hound, Blue, to seek out a lost dog for one of the waifs from the manor.  Boval Manor had become a kind of foster home for a number of children over the years, and everyone in the village was well-disposed to them.  Zagor did such little tasks and took no fee, counting it as his contribution to the manor’s good function.

The fact that he did not have more business was not troubling to Zagor – indeed, it proved to him that Boval Village was running well enough at the moment to spare him for a few days.  If Lady Fallawen needed his aid, then he could grant it without reservation. When the day came, after charging his hound Blue to watch the cottage, Zagor drew on his cloak and donned his pointed hat, and journeyed to Tuervakothel.

***

It was less than a day’s journey to Hosendor on foot, now that the mountain that had once separated the two domains and been magically removed.  He did not own a horse, and while he could have borrowed one from Boval Manor, he preferred to walk.  It gave him an opportunity to observe and examine his adopted land along the way, and contemplate the health of the domain.

As he passed by the gleaming white castle, he noted the towers in front of Minalan’s new fortress were starting to rise above the massive gatehouse where Sire Cei kept his quarters.  Zagor knew it wouldn’t be long before the vast chambers within the mountain were ready to house the people of the castle, and indeed some had already moved.  It was just one sign of the changes Sevendor had experienced since he’d come here.  The road underneath his boots was another.  When he’d arrived, it had been a mere path for cattle, barely enough to move a cart down.  Now it was paved with magically shaped cobbles and was wide enough for two carts.  Once, it led to Southridge Hold, and not much else.

But then Minalan had sold an entire section of ridge to the Sea Folk for the snowstone, and they had removed it in a fit of magic that had impressed even the Alka Alon.  Now a deep but narrow lake filled the gap where the mountain had been.

Zagor had mixed feelings about the bargain his friend had made.  By all accounts the Sea Folk rarely interacted with the land folk, and when they did it rarely went well for them.  He understood Minalan’s reasoning in making the deal, but Zagor suspected that nothing good would come of it, in the end.  In the meantime, the result was merely a pretty little lake with a pretty little bridge that allowed Sevendor and Hosendor much easier communication with each other.  There were benefits to that, he reasoned.

The long stone bridge spanning the lake that had replaced the mountain took a few brisk minutes to cross, saving a journey of two days by horse or three by foot from the old way.  The traffic in both directions was bustling, as nearby domains took advantage of Sevendor’s increasingly rich market and business opportunities, and the Sevendori merchants enjoyed the unexpected access to the neighboring domains.

The road to Hosendor was filled with all manner of folk, and far more exotic in variety than most domains could boast.  Plenty of peasants and pack traders crossed the span in both directions, seeking markets for their wares.  There were merchant carts delivering orders from far-flung estates rumbling across the sturdy span of stone.  Karshak masons traveled through on mysterious errands of their own.  Tal Alon servants hurried along its lengths to complete their masters’ tasks.  And, of course, the Tera Alon from Tuervakothel frequently crossed over the lake to enjoy Sevendor Town’s unique amenities and attractions.

Though Zagor was used to such exotic mixture of peoples, now, he still marveled at what his friend Minalan had achieved, both magically and mundanely, as he crossed over the lake and began the steep climb up to Lady Fallawen’s new home.  He could not imagine anywhere else where such a thing was possible as the magelands of Sevendor.  He had grown up appreciating what mighty things magic could do, with the Alka Alon’s example, but Minalan had managed more than mere wonders, in Sevendor.  He had built a unique society.

The path to Tuervakothel was easy to identify, thanks to a graceful Alka Alon pillar of snowstone on the road.  The once-rustic freehold had been transformed with the arrival of the domain’s new lady, Zagor noted, perhaps even more dramatically than Sevendor, itself.

To Zagor, the ascent to Tuervakothel was akin to returning to his childhood, after his rajira caused him to be fostered at Ameras.  Indeed, he passed several of the kodupur trees the Avalanti kindred favored for their homes along the way, most still in their sapling stage.  The songspells encouraging and accelerating their growth were bright, in magesight.  They recalled the fair land he’d come of age in, and seeing them made him both comfortable and wistful.

But there were other elements on his ascent he was less familiar with, the constructions of the Farastamari kindreds.  They resembled human cottages, in some ways, but they seemed far better constructed than even a mage-built home.  Some tapered to spired rooves, while others incorporated stately domes that were simple but elegant.  Elaborate gardens interspersed the dwellings, mixtures of Alka Alon herbalism and humani plants.

The greatest change occurred at the top of the rise.  A great snowstone arch had been constructed over the cobbled path to indicate the entrance to Tuervakothel, carved by the Karshak for the purpose.  A glance with magesight demonstrated that the arch was part of a gloriously elaborate warding around the estate.  Zagor guessed that it would prove a powerful defense of the site, in case of attack.

For Tuervakothel was a military outpost, not merely a settlement.  Indeed, there were several Tera Alon guards at the arch, armored in human style and carrying spears and bows.  Once he was questioned and allowed to pass, after showing his invitation, he saw the nature of the place in earnest. That dismayed a number of other travelers who were eager to enter, and were being denied by the guards.  The Tera Alon valued their privacy, and there were all too many humans with more curiosity than sense willing to barge into the affairs of the Fair Folk.

But the other side of the arch revealed a military camp more than a placid settlement.  Hundreds of Tera Alon of both sexes practiced swordplay in the yards of the place, under the shadow of the tower that served as keep and headquarters.  There were several butts that served hundreds more archers who were mastering the use of the large human bows their frames required.  There was even a listfield, of sorts, where human knights taught horsemanship and jousting to the Tera Alon.  Tuervakothel was awash in the noises of battle, a jarring counterpoint to the sublime architecture of the place.

The grand hall of Tuervakothel was a combination of humani and Alka Alon styles, warped to fit the size of the Tera Alon, which gave it an alien cast to Zagor’s eye.  The gleaming white spire could be seen over the treetops as soon as you crossed the bridge, but up close the details were impressive as he came to the great open door of the place.  Exquisitely carved floral decorations lined the doorway, and elegant abstract patterns were built into the design.  It was elaborate enough for a human temple, he judged, but barely considered art by the Alka Alon.

The sentries allowed him to pass without comment – no doubt he was expected.  He was met by a steward at the entrance to the compound and escorted to the courtyard of the stately hall, where Lady Fallawen was waiting.  In front of a pair of extremely large eggs.

The Emissary looked deep in thought, Zagor saw, and deeply troubled despite the expressionless nature of her face.  She wore her hair down, and without a cap or wimple, and was armed with a longsword at the belt of her gown.  Zagor waited a moment, respectfully, before he gave her a simple bow.

“My lady, I have come at your bidding,” he said in the language of the Fair Folk.

“Zagor, thank you for coming,” she said in Narasi, without bowing in return.  “I could think of no one better suited to the problem than you.”

Zagor glanced at the shells of the innocent-looking giant eggs and cocked his head.

“My lady, if dragons are your problem, then perhaps I can make a referral . . . for I am no expert at hatching eggs.”

That made the troubled lady smile, briefly, a ray of sunshine that interrupted her gloomy expression.  “Nay, Zagor, I did not summon you for that problem.  That is a challenge of an altogether higher order,” she revealed, as she caressed the shell of the great eggs.  “This was a great gift to us, from the Spellmonger.  The first dragon eggs seen in Alkan hands in lifetimes.  Alas . . . it may be moot.”

“Dragons seem a powerful force in the fight against the darkness,” he reasoned.

“Only if they can be persuaded to be hatched,” Fallawen said, frowning.  “Alas, while the gift was noble, the recipients were poor.  For we have . . . forgotten how to husband a dragon’s egg.”

That startled Zagor.  “My Lady?  But the Fair Folk remember everything!” he objected.

“Individually, yes,” she conceded.  “But no one has hatched and raised one since my grandsire’s youth.  Even in our long-lived race, memories die.  Lore is lost.  Particularly if it is dangerous and is wanted to be lost,” she pointed out.  “At the end of our wars, when the worst of our weapons were locked away from memory, included in that was all the knowledge of how to quicken the dragon eggs.  We know little of that process,” she admitted, studying the eggs.  “What we do know is half-remembered, or contradictory.  I fear for attempting the act without more knowledge.”

“I can understand my lady’s caution,” agreed Zagor, feeling a little relieved.  “My experience with eggs is limited to chickens and geese, with the occasional giant hawk,” he conceded.  “Dragons are out of my purview.”

“As I suspected,” Fallawen said, drolly.  “No, Zagor, I invoked your aid on another matter, entirely: an issue of human custom and law, and human weakness and tyranny.”

Zagor cocked his head with interest.  “I am listening, my lady,” he said, suspecting some treachery among Sire Ryff’s kin or other plot against the Tera Alon.  Not everyone was pleased with the incursion the Fair Folk had made into Hosendor.  Some had been very vocal about the matter.

“It’s about a neighboring estate,” Lady Fallawen disclosed, as she led him to a nearby bench carved with delicate and elaborate Alka Alon designs.  “It’s not the estate, exactly, it is who manages the estate.”

“Surely your lord husband will be willing to go riding off to lance anyone troubling you, my lady,” Zagor suggested.  “He’s quite fond of that sort of thing, from what I see.”

“In ordinary circumstances, that would be the answer to the problem, perhaps,” she said, making a face at the thought of arbitrary violence.  “Alas, Sire Ryff is . . . reluctant to take action, and has forbidden me to do so.  For this estate, known as Hameron, is owned by a temple and managed by a monk.  A most vile and wicked monk,” she began, her voice laden with contempt as she explained the issue to Zagor.

***

Hameron Estate was far from the poorest land in the domain of Hosendor.  More than three hundred acres of field, wood, and meadow sustained the nine families and four cottagers who lived on the estate.  Each had their own close of five or ten acres, in addition to the manor’s lands.  The soil was reasonably fertile, the stream that bordered the estate provided ample drainage in the rainy season and sufficient irrigation in the dry to nurse a decent crop of cereal crops, vegetables, and fruits.

But despite its relative productivity, the estate was one of the poorest of Hosendor.  The reason was simple: it was an ecclesiastic estate which had been donated in antiquity to the Temple of Zirnavas by a grateful patron.  Zirnavas was an obscure but important cousin to Huin, from the Imperial pantheon, the divinity devoted to millworks – particularly grain mills.

The temple devoted to the divinity was principally in charge of overseeing the education and moral integrity of professional millwrights, sanctifying their work when it met Temple standards, officiating over the installation, repair and retirement of a mill, and tending to the funeral rights, the disposition of the souls of its parishioners, and the tending of their widows and orphans.

It was not a particularly wealthy temple, Zagor learned, but it was quite important for the continued function of the Riverlands.  The nearest chapterhouse was no closer than the barony of Bocaraton, across the Bontal, and the nearest actual temple was far away in Drexel.  But it owned small estates scattered hither and yon across the Riverlands to contribute to the support of its facilities and its officiating priests.

Hameron was administered by one such monk, Gearbrother Lurlyr.  He was the only permanent resident of the estate from the Temple, and he was charged with both its upkeep and its maintenance as a lodging and place of respite for weary Gearbrothers on their way through the region – though this happened but occasionally.  Twice a year he journeyed to Bocaraton to submit the estate’s profits to the chapterhouse and present his accounts for review.

The rest of the time he reigned over Hameron with absolute tyranny.

Brother Lurlyr had himself been an inspecting monk for years, before accepting the charge of Hameron Estate.  He had enjoyed the power implicit in his office, but not the travel.  A gearbrother could impose an interdict on a mill and prohibit the miller from working, if he found fault with the way it was constructed or run, or if he felt the rites and offerings were being neglected.  That could imperil the local economy and imperil the revenues of the man who owned the mill.  That gave the priests of Zirnavas tremendous power in agrarian society.

The Temple had strict rules against accepting bribes outside of their customary fees, of course, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be influenced.  Some ancient Lensely lord had made the gift of Hameron to the temple for just that purpose.  Nor did a wise lord want a conflict with the usually obscure little cult.  Indeed, not many realized their existence, until there was a need for a new mill.

Brother Lurlyr had grown to enjoy the feeling of power and the sense of deference that even titled lords paid him, when he was riding his circuit.  He was ruthlessly efficient, garnering a reputation for strictness that even the exacting minds of millwrights found annoying.  His reputation had grown so great, in fact, that his superiors had granted him senior office . . . and a post where he could be called upon in cases of especial need.  Bringing that exacting nature to the management of an estate seemed a reasonable application of his skills.

Brother Lurlyr quickly saw the productive potential of Hameron and instituted changes to more effectively wrest a living from the land – and coin in his coffers.  A review of rents and fees at the manor’s ovens saw a readjustment of rates that made the villeins grumble.  So did the changes Brother Lurlyr demanded in planting and harvesting, and how the villeins fulfilled their obligatory service to the estate.  The first years had been hard, but good harvests had quieted some of the grumbles.

But then Brother Lurlyr began preaching.  Most ecclesiastic estates were run with some notice of the sacred nature of the work, especially if it was home to an abbey.  But apart from token services and observance of sacred festivals, peasants on ecclesiastic estates rarely suffered more religion than their fellows on secular estates.  Alas, Brother Lurlyr fancied himself an orator and insisted on evangelizing his peasants.

Brother Lurlyr began addressing the villeins collectively in the chapel the day after market day, and started using the metaphor of the sacred millwork to encourage them to improve their lives and better the production of the estate.  The Hameroni peasants endured the sermons on punctuality, predictability, order, and the necessity of regular spiritual maintenance with indifference, at first; that was merely the price they paid for their service being owned by the temple.  Some even found value in the sermons, and their attention to work improved.  After a few months, Brother Lurlyr got them accustomed to the practice.  But then he began holding them accountable for their attendance with fines and other punishments.

Grumbling increased even further when new rules were announced governing such matters as when and where a family could go to market, how much they could sell or buy, and how much had to be retained by the manor.  He preached for the efficiency that came with such orderliness.

The monk’s sermons became long diatribes chastising his villeins for their sloth, their tardiness, and their laziness.  To their dismay, he hired two stout men from Kest as his bailiffs, nearly ruffians in their demeanor.  They enforced Brother Lurlyr’s growing list of commands sternly and did not hesitate to refer offenders to the manorial court.

Hameron became a highly productive estate as a result.  Fields and flocks prospered, and harvests were bountiful . . . but a visitor would not have known that from the faces of the manor’s villeins.

They were drawn with worry and malnutrition, for the wicked monk ensured that the best part of the harvest was dutifully sent to the chapterhouse or sold at market for good profit, and begrudged every morsel that went into his peasants’ mouths as lost coin.  Preaching the sermon of austerity and efficiency, he carefully rationed the food his folk even grew for themselves.  He began to get a reputation across Hosendor for cultivated stinginess.  His precision with his accounts and his willingness to argue with those who traded with the estate soon made neighboring manors wary, as his debts were delayed while his insistence on payment in full were ferocious.

More troubling were the rumors of his interest in the personal lives of his villeins. Seeing the manor’s peasants as just another kind of stock to manage, Brother Lurlyr grew frustrated at the inefficient way in which his peasants had paired themselves, and the slowness of their issue.  Children, he reasoned, were future villeins he could work and fine at need.  Therefore he began encouraging his villeins to breed.

It was not the soft and gentle encouragement of Ishi, whose mastery of the human heart makes such liaisons a tender boon to the soul; Brother Lurlyr instead brought Zirnavas’ exacting standards to bear on the problem.

First, he began admonishing the goodwives of the villeins if they did not become pregnant for a year after giving birth.  He called the manliness of their husbands into question in public, and chastised them for their deficiency.  In some cases, when his frustration with a couple’s lack of issue was great, he commanded them to perform their marital rite under supervision of he or his rough bailiffs in midst of the manor hall.

Before long, he turned his attention to the maidens of the estate.  Some he forced into marriage with their neighbors, pairing old widowers with maids as young as thirteen to improve his peasant stock; but he soon ran short of bachelors.  Seeing an opportunity to increase his manpower, he began sending the girls of the manor on errands to nearby estates, instructing them to seduce whatever hapless bondsmen they could by whatever means they could, whether they had an interest in such a feat or not.

If a maiden could not persuade the man to marry her and come to Hameron with her, then she was to lay with him until she came with child.  Then Brother Lurlyr would don his habit and appear at the man’s manor and demand recompense for the disgraced maiden, using his ecclesiastic authority and belligerent temper to cow even his neighbors.  If the lord would not agree to send the man to Hameron to serve, then Lurlyr extorted a sizable sum from him before leaving.  Often, the same girl would be sent out to a different manor once she had borne a bastard to try again, while her looks were still comely.

Such a maid was not considered the most unlucky, in Hameron.  Among those were counted those poor women who did not conceive with their husbands, or with their paramours.  Brother Lurlyr took it as a personal slight and insult to the estate for a woman not to bear children.  It was said that he found other ways for them to compensate the manor for their lack of productivity.

When the Tera Alon had come to build Tuervakothel, Brother Lurlyr made no secret of his antipathy for the new folk, even as he did his best to profit from the development in various ways.  He was scandalized by the Tera Alon’s lack of a mill – the Fair Folk, even in their larger forms, eschewed bread as a staple, nor did they grow wheat or barley.  Nor did he appreciate their elegance and willingness to treat all humans more or less equally, regardless of their station.  Yet he was eager to take what coin he could from the tower when he could.  That is, until one argument too many with the Tera Alon’s agents had brought Brother Lurlyr’s wickedness to the attention of Lady Fallawen.

“This monk vexes me,” Fallawen said, her brow furrowed in severe consternation.  If she had been in her original native form, Zagor knew, her long ears would have been canted low behind her head.  “I know your people give the clergy great latitude, in exchange for their grace and service, but this monk Lurlyr braves the frontiers of those privileges,” she pronounced.  “This monk is a burden on all of his neighbors and is oppressive to his people.  Yet my lord husband, whose bravery compels him to charge into certain death, is afraid of challenging this monk.  He assures me that he is well within his rights and customs, and that nothing can be done.”

“You believe otherwise,” Zagor supplied.

“I believe that while the clergy represent the gods to man, when the problem is with man it’s more effective to employ a wizard,” she supplied.  “The magi and the clergy have been at odds since their inception.  And of all the wizards I know, you are the one least likely to defer to their social power.”

Zagor considered the matter, then sighed.  “What is it you wish me to do, my lady?”

“I leave that to your discretion, Zagor,” Fallawen said.  “The humans are acting up.  Please fix it.”

“As you wish, my lady,” the Hedgewizard bowed.

***

Zagor studied the situation for days, lingering near the environs of the Hameron estate, though he did not attempt to enter.  Instead he haunted the market village of Alandlik, the closest to Hameron.

He found two different places to frequent nearby, the public house known as the Badger and Boar, which catered increasingly to the travelers heading through the new pass to Sevendor, and then a cottage of an alewife that possessed no official name, nor license to sell to the public.  Widow Sanshi’s home-brewed fare was better, in Zagor’s estimation, and he quickly learned that her establishment was open to discrete patronage whenever she hung a red stocking on the bough of a persimmon tree outside her door.

Widow Sanshi’s cot was also better situation for Zagor’s needs; it was across the lane from the main entrance to the Hameron estate, and he could see the comings and goings of a good many of its people.  He found a discreet place to sit and observe, partially obscured by a stand of blackberry bushes in the yard.  He spent a few mornings there, sipping on the heady ale the widow brewed and just watching the road until it was time for luncheon.

Afternoons at the Badger and Boar were just as fruitful, as he lingered unobtrusively in the yard and watched the traffic on the main road nearest the estate.  He listened carefully and thoughtfully, and made a few acquaintances.  Footwizards and hedgewitches were frequent pilgrims to the Mageland to the north, so his pointed cap did not stand out as much as it would elsewhere.

He made no notes on parchment. He did not ask any nosy questions.  He simply observed all that passed before him.  He looked at the people who passed by on their errands, and he got to know them.

While Zagor was familiar enough with Imperial Magic to suffer through a basic spell, and he knew more about Alka Alon songspells than any mage alive, he employed neither in his work.  Indeed, what small magic he used was more an expression of his natural rajira than formal spellwork.  Unlike many wizards, Zagor preferred to use his mind before he used his power.

For six days Zagor prowled between one end of the road to the other, until he knew the steps betwixt his stations as intimately as his own cottage yard.  The folk who traveled the lane soon became used to him leisurely walking the route with plain staff patiently marking the way.

By Market Day, at the end of the week, he’d taken the measure of the estate without setting foot upon it.  Indeed, he knew more about the workings of the place than its monk did, he was sure.  He knew Lady Fallawen was only partially correct in her assessment of Hameron Estate.  He knew that the abuses of the monk went far, far beyond what they appeared.  When Zagor contemplated what he suspected the man was really doing, it disgusted him.

Market Day at Alandlik crowned his observations, as the local square filled with booths and stalls from the surrounding estates.  The many inns and taverns of Sevendor sent agents to procure supplies of eggs, vegetables, sheep, and chickens for slaughter in preparation for the town’s far greater market day, two days hence.

Nearby abbeys and temples sent their manciples to purchase the common items their estates did not produce themselves, and vendors catered to all from blankets or carts parked along the perimeter.  There were even a few Fair Folk in attendance, in their transformed bodies, mingling with the humani folk and occasionally buying something that they fancied.  Commerce, the way humanity practiced it, was still novel to the Tera Alon.

The market gave Zagor the last few bits of information he needed to formulate a plan.  In particular, he sought out the haywardens of the village, three men elected by their peers for their knowledge of the countryside and willingness to track down lost or stolen livestock.

Zagor was quite familiar with haywardens, as most hedgewizards were.  The two professional groups often consulted with each other.  Lost livestock spells were common fare for hedgewizards, and haywardens often had leads towards clients who were willing to pay for a spell.  Likewise, a particularly prized cow or pig might need magic’s aid, if the haywarden’s art wasn’t sufficient to recover it.  Though each village had different rules about how and when livestock could be returned, and for what fine or fee, the local haywardens were the custodians and judges of that lore, and their rulings were final.

His questions for the men were casually asked and easily answered.  Zagor knew every man enjoys flaunting his knowledge of his trade, and all three haywardens were quite willing to discuss the details of their craft and the laws that governed it.  He also discovered that all three men had uncomfortable encounters with Gearbrother Lurlyr and none had much favorable to say about the man.

Ecclesiastic law did not extend to matters of the Haymoot, the little court the haywardens ran at market to return stock and collect fees and fines.  That fact had apparently irritated Brother Lurlyr, when he had to argue for the return of his property in front of them, and he only reluctantly paid his fines and fees to the hard-working officials.  But rural life required that at least in matters of the Haymoot that no man enjoyed special privilege, regardless of his station or class.  If the Haymoot recovered a baron’s cow, he paid the same fee to them as a villein would.

By the time the bell rung, in the late afternoon, and the merchants began packing up their wares and counting their coin, Zagor decided he had everything he needed to come up with a plan to contend with the wicked monk.  He stopped back at Lady Fallawen’s estate on the long walk home and informed her as much.

“My lady, I come to report progress,” he began, when he was escorted to her in the garden.  The nightwebs were just beginning to emerge for the night, and the evening birds were singing from treetops across the immaculately kept close.  It was a serene garden, from a human perspective.  To the Alka Alon, it was a hollow mockery of the enchanted gardens they kept.

“The monk is gone?” she asked, surprised.

“Not yet, but soon,” Zagor stated, as a matter of fact.  “It will take me two or three more weeks, and the help of a friend, but by then he should be gone,” he assured.

“What do you need from me?” she asked, as she trimmed the stem of a marigold.

“Nothing, my lady, save for you to attend market at that time,” he proposed, after a few moment’s thought.  “There you shall see my commission filled.”

“Thank you, Zagor,” she said, offering him a rare smile.  As fleeting as a firefly, it was gone as quickly as it flashed.  He bowed and continued on his journey without another word.

***

Zagor returned in time for Sevendor Town’s market, and he prowled the impressive number of stalls and carts with purpose.  Usually, he just wandered around, greeting his clients and their families, his friends and neighbors, and occasionally striking up a conversation with an interesting-looking visitor.  This time, he was seeking something – someone – in particular.  Zagor spotted him through the crowd without magic.  By the wine stalls, of course.

“Zagor!” a tall Remeran exclaimed as he burst out in a smile when he saw the Hedgewizard.

“Planus!  Just the wizard I was seeking,” Zagor nodded, as Blue sat obediently at his feet, after sniffing Planus’ robes for anything of interest.

“Really?” Planus asked, surprised.  Though the men were technically colleagues, they could not have more different practices.  While Zagor tended to the arcane needs of the common folk for pennies, as a Practical Adept, Planus catered to a much broader class of wealthy and noble clients.

Indeed, the Remeran’s business interests spanned entire duchies.  While Zagor used the great power of his witchstone cautiously and sparingly, Planus used his lavishly, and to commercial purpose.  Perhaps only Banamor, or Minalan, himself, could vie with Planus in terms of sheer wealth.

Visually, they were starkly contrasted: tall, thin Planus, a native of hot Remere, kept his hair closely cropped and his beard neatly shaved into the shadow ringing his chin known as an “Imperial” cut.  He favored flowing robes more suited to his native climate. Zagor sported a healthy beard, his battered pointed hat, and the sturdy woolen clothes of a Riverlands rustic.

Yet the two had been friends for years.  Zagor had often noted that wizards of all types were at their best when they sought out not those who were most like themselves for counsel, but those with different perspectives.  Despite his wealth and social class, Planus shared the view, and had enjoyed Zagor’s pragmatic observations on the growth of Sevendor, the markets for magical materials, and the mind of the Spellmonger, among other matters.

For his part, Zagor found the Remeran’s friendly and inquisitive nature intriguing, and his ability to astutely observe the forces in the world in exquisite detail an impressive boon to their conversation.  Of all the Imperially-trained magi that Zagor had met in Sevendor, Planus seemed to be among the most subtle.

“Yes, I have a client with a problem,” Zagor said, simply.  “Wine?”

Planus looked immediately intrigued.  “I think I have time for a bottle,” he nodded, absently paying the merchant for the one he was examining.  “Shall we adjourn to the Alembic?”

“It’s close by,” shrugged Zagor.  “And quiet.  Won’t Banamor object to you bringing your own vintage to his tavern?”

Planus shook his head.  “I hesitate to call the Alembic a ‘tavern’,” he chuckled.  “But the Lord Mayor of Sevendor won’t object.  I’m a silent partner in the place,” Planus revealed.  “It makes it useful for such meetings.”

“You’re certain you have nothing more pressing?” Zagor asked, politely, as they began to walk toward the High Street.

“Me?  My crops are growing, my wines are aging, my clients aren’t any more of a pain in my arse than usual, and . . . well, to be honest,” he admitted, “things just haven’t been terribly exciting, since Minalan left.”

“After a dragon attack,” reminded Zagor.

“Yes, and during the Magic Fair, no less,” Planus agreed.  “I do hope this year’s entertainments are less vigorous.  But with Minalan in exile, things just aren’t plunging into chaos every few months.  That’s what makes visiting here so intriguing.”

“I thought you had business, here,” Zagor said.

“Oh, I do – a dozen different businesses I need to keep my eye on.  I’m here ostensibly to meet with Banamor about some seeds or something, but the truth is I keep popping up here on Sevendor’s market days hoping for a little excitement.” he shrugged.  “But there’s just nothing . . .”

“There are things happening,” countered Zagor, in mock defense.  “There’s going to be a dedication of a new cloister in Holy Hill, next month,” he offered.  “And the Temple of Briga is sponsoring a poetry contest, I heard this morning,” he grinned.

Planus made a face.  “Who knew that peace and prosperity would be so . . . tepid?” he complained.  “I’m not a warmage, but a man does need a little mental stimulation, from time to time.”

They came to the Alembic, which was only moderately busy at this time of day, and Planus led Zagor back to the secluded table Banamor had turned into the dark corner of choice for the leading wizards of Sevendor to repair to for consultation.

Zagor waited patiently for Planus to inspect the bottle, open it, make several critical remarks about it, and then tell an amusing anecdote while he poured them each a glass.  Zagor was growing used to such preliminaries, when dealing with Imperially-trained wizards.  He recognized it as a kind of ritual they preferred before discussing business.  Common folk preferred a more pragmatic approach.

“Now, tell me about this client,” Planus finally said, after both had toasted the exiled baron.

“The client has an issue with a nearby ecclesiastic estate,” Zagor explained.  “While not breaking any laws, the monk running the place is exploiting his position and affecting the other manors in the region.”  Zagor went on to explain every detail of the Wicked Monk of Hameron to the Remeran wizard, who listened as attentively and thoughtfully to the Hedgewizard as he would have to a wealthy client.

“These Riverlords are overly concerned with their laws,” Planus pronounced, when Zagor was done explaining.  “In Remere, among the common folk, the estates and barons can punish such behavior in a variety of creative ways. From blood feuds to charging an offensive person with ‘disturbing the accord’ – which carries a penalty of flogging and is a fancy way of telling someone that they’re officially an asshole.  We don’t endure such behavior!”

“My client is not, precisely speaking, a Riverlord,” Zagor observed.  “And they’ve decided to settle their issue by employing a wizard.”

“That does seem to be a uniquely Sevendori manner of settling such things,” Planus chuckled.  “So, my friend, what do you have in mind for this wicked monk?”

The two wizards talked for hours about the problem, draining the bottle and calling for a second as they thought through the various ways the abbot of Hameron could be constrained.  Zagor rarely drank that much wine, nor did he appreciate the subtleties in flavor that Planus insisted were present, but Planus’ enthusiastic manner encouraged him.

Thankfully, the Remeran adept’s mind worked better in terms of law and regulation than Zagor’s, who was more used to rural custom than the vagaries of ecclesiastic law.  He had some significant insights that Zagor had missed.  By the end of the second bottle, the two of them had concocted the rudiments of a plan.

“I think we only lack the funds to see this plan to action,” Zagor finally declared, his mind feeling pleasantly cloudy.  He did not drink wine often, but he found it helped understand Planus more.

“Funds?  My dear friend, I am wealthy,” Planus demurred.  “I’ve spent more on . . . on wine,” he said, raising the empty bottle as an example, “than this should require.  Here,” he said, waving his hand magnanimously over the table.  A hoxter pocket opened and a purse full of silver and gold fell out of it.

“That was flashy,” Zagor muttered.

“I saw Minalan do it, and I liked the effect,” Planus shrugged.  “Nothing impresses the rubes like producing gold and silver out of thin air.  I carry a dozen of these in my ring, just for expenses.  But coin is only half of what we need: we require a scoundrel,” he observed.

“I suppose we do,” agreed Zagor.  “I think I know the rogue for the role, too,” he decided, reviewing in his mind the number of itinerant laborers and ambitious fellows in town he knew, and which one would be the best suited.  “I’ll speak to him and see if he’s available for hire.”

“I’ll trust you to handle it,” Planus nodded.  “And I shall do my part, as well.  The novelty will be payment enough, I think,” he smiled, thoughtfully.  If he was feeling any effect from the strong wine, the Remeran didn’t show it.  “And, of course, I’ll want to be there at the conclusion.  That will be the really entertaining part!”

“I will set things in motion, then,” Zagor nodded, finishing his cup and standing.  “And I will see you at market.”

Zagor embraced his friend before taking his leave, only stumbling slightly as he and Blue made their way back to his shop.  It was still early evening, and the heat of the summer’s day was just beginning to abate as he finally made it to the lane in Boval Village on which his shop lay.

He’d planned on seeking out the rascal he had in mind, but as Fate or the gods often do, he encountered the man only a few hundred steps from his house.  Coming out of the door of a neighbor’s house.  Very quietly.

“Goodman Joppo!” Zagor called loudly, startling the man.  Joppo was a carter in service to the castle, but he had a reputation as a well-endowed lover, a reputation he was happy to spread.  Only Zagor knew it led him into trouble . . . like sneaking out of Goody Densa’s cottage while her husband was at market.  “Just the rascal I need!  And just where I need him to be!”

“Rascal, me?” Joppo asked confused, looking up and down the street to see who might be watching.  “I was just delivering—” he began to explain.

“I know full well what you were delivering, and to whom, and why you are suddenly nervous to be discovered,” agreed Zagor.  “But your lustful nature serves me, at the moment.  I need to ask you a few things, for one, and then I’ll require you to help me with a client.”

“Help you with a client?” the carter asked, confused.  He was not particularly bright, Zagor knew from experience.  “I am no wizard!”

“I have the wizard already, I need you to be a wizard’s servant,” Zagor explained.

“I am a wizard’s servant!” Joppo protested.  “I work for—”

“I know your situation, my friend,” Zagor said, in a friendly manner.  “Come with me to my shop, and I’ll explain what I need from you.”

“Will I get paid?” he asked, still confused.

“With the coin called silence,” Zagor assured, as he led the carter toward his cottage.  “For Goody Densa’s husband is a jealous man, and I was not the only one who suspects what you were delivering to her.  The good news is that my errand will require you to be elsewhere, for a while.  Which might be wise,” he advised.

“I . . . I see your point, Zagor,” Joppo agreed, as he noted a few other passers-by on the street.  Joppo might not be bright, but he understood gossip and revenge and the role both might play in his future.  “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to take your cart to the market of Alandlik, across the great bridge to Hosendor, on their next market day,” he said, as he pushed open his gate.  “I’ll explain the rest over a bite of bread and some cheese, I think . . . I’m not used to so much wine this early in the day . . . “

***

The next morning, Zagor rose and again went by foot to Alandlik, only this time he took his hound, Blue, with him.  The friendly dog delighted in the journey and sniffed everything every step of the way.  Zagor indulged him with a sausage from a vendor near the bridge before they crossed.  He came all the way to Widow Sanshi’s cottage with the hound at his heels.

But once he arrived at the entrance to Hameron Estate, he knelt and fixed his gaze on Blue, summoning just a whisper of power.  Then he leaned down, rubbed the panting dog’s head, and then touched his big black nose with his fingertip while he sang a spell under his breath.

In moments, the energy he drew from his witchstone enveloped the dog, and the spell took hold.  Blue suddenly shook himself, as if he’d just emerged from a puddle, and when he was done his fur had transformed in color from the mottled black and gray it usually was to a bright, nearly iridescent blue from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail.

“Blue in name, blue in color,” he chuckled, as the dog gazed up at him goofily.  Then Zagor knelt and whispered in the bright blue ears of his hound and pointed down the road.  With a final rub of his head, Blue bounded down the deserted lane and headed into Hameron Estate.  Zagor watched until the dog disappeared behind the hedges, then began the long walk back home.

For the next week Zagor worked as usual, seeing clients and tending to his work.  Indeed, he was quite busy.  Most of it was routine, the typical fare of a hedgewizard or village spellmonger.  That meant contending with a rash of ailments, arcane problems, and routine spellwork.

He freshened the wards on Boval Manor’s great storeroom.  He spent a few days covering for his friend Olmeg the Green in Hollyburrow, while the big green mage was away on business.  He fulfilled an order from the Mewstower for an herbal remedy to help compel a giant hawk to cast properly.  He had to remove several magical reflections left in the expensive glass windowpanes of the chapel of Huin, after a magically Talented girl visited the shrine.

Though he conducted himself cheerfully, Zagor missed his faithful dog, and found himself expecting to see him around his cottage though he knew better.  He’d always had a dog around him, and the lack of one was like missing his shadow.  Every few days he would sing a little spell that assured him of Blue’s continued health and well-being, but he still missed the beast.

Just after Market Day in Sevendor, Joppo the Root drove his cart to Boval Village to report to Zagor the results of his mission.  The wide-faced carter gratefully accepted a cup of ale after a hot ride in the sun, and then related to Zagor all he had seen.

“I stopped in the Alandlik market, just like ye’ asked me to,” the man revealed, “and saw the commotion.  Sure enough, there was a monk there with a dog on a leash.  A blue dog!” Joppo said, shaking his head.  “Bright blue!  As blue as the sky, only bluer!  Only in Sevendor!  Well, the sight of a dog like that drew quite the crowd, it did, quite the crowd.  Everyone wanted to pet the lucky blue dog, but the monk wasn’t having it!”

“Was the dog in good health?” Zagor asked, anxiously.

“Big wiggly tongue and a waggy tail,” Joppo assured, taking another large draught from his mug.  “Sniffin’ butts like he was in doggy heaven.  But that monk, oh, he was a mean one,” Joppo insisted, a grimace on his face.  “He had a whip – not for the dog, but to keep the gawkers at bay.  Said the dog was for sale, and only serious buyers could touch him.”

“That would be Gearbrother Lurlyr.  By all accounts a wicked man,” Zagor nodded.

“I can believe that,” Joppo agreed, nodding enthusiastically.  “He nearly spat at the haywardens.  All stock have to have their approval to get sold at market, of course, so they asked this monk where he got the hound.  Monk says he found him on his estate – though I heard later that it was actually one of his peasants who found him, and the monk claimed him on the spot.  Well, the monk argues that dogs aren’t stock, but anyone who ever bought a fine hunter knows the lie of that – dogs are stock by the ruling of the Haymoot,” he declared, as if it were a law of the universe.  “Everyone knows that.

“So what did the monk do?” Zagor asked, intrigued.

“Well, when the haywarden wouldn’t relent, he had to pay a fee – not to sell the dog, but just to lay claim to him.  Haywarden came back and said he could sell him after two market days, in case his true owner shows up.  He has to present the dog at market and wait a fortnight, just like any other man claiming a lost pig or sheep.  Only then can he sell him, for the standard fee.  That’s the rules of the Haymoot,” Joppo intoned, reverently.

“As I am aware,” Zagor nodded.

“Well, that wicked monk weren’t aware!” guffawed the carter.  “He looked like to split in two, so angered, he!  Not very reverent, either, calling on the gods to visit some unsavory relief to him in a very unclerical manner!  I’m not one to frequent temples, Zagor, but he called curses I never heard a soldier say.  He tried to drag that blue dog back home and was a bit rough in his treatment, but one growl from the cur and that was enough of that!”

Zagor winced, and felt anxious about any potential abuse the dog might receive from the wicked monk.  But while Blue was a generally happy hound, he was also ferocious in his defense of the cottage and his master, and would not endure any abuse without repercussions.  Big, toothy repercussions.

“Blue knows how to handle himself,” Zagor said, trying to assure himself as much as Joppo.

“That’s your dog?” Joppo asked, surprised.  “Your dog, Blue?  And he’s . . . blue?”  The humor of the situation finally dawned on the slow-witted man.  “That’s funny, there!” he laughed.  “So why is your dog all the way over in Hosendor?”

“It’s for a client,” Zagor shrugged.  “All will be revealed in time, my friend.  Next week I want to go back to the market, and I want you to bear a message to this monk: your master is interested in purchasing the dog, once it has not been claimed.  Tell him he will pay ten ounces of gold for the blue dog.”

“Ten . . . ten ounces?  Of gold?” Joppo asked, confused, as it was a considerable sum.  Enough to purchase a small estate.  “If it’s your dog, why don’t you just claim him?  Why pay ten whole ounces of gold just to get your own dog back?”

“Because the offer isn’t coming from me,” Zagor patiently explained.  “Pretend that it comes from Minalan,” he suggested.

“You want me to lie?  And get in trouble with the Magelord?” Joppo asked, horrified.

“No, no, no, Joppo, and I assure you that you won’t get into trouble.  Wizard’s promise,” he said, knowing no such thing really existed.  Joppo accepted the reassurance, though.  Zagor had cultivated a reputation as an honest man for a reason.  “I just need to make this monk believe that there is someone willing to purchase the blue dog.  And pay handsomely for it.”

“Handsomely?  That’s a bloody fortune!” Joppo swore.  “Well, I can do that, if you say I won’t get into trouble.  But what happens when he expects me to pay?” he asked, suspiciously.

“He won’t,” Zagor agreed.  “You will be outbid for the dog.  Trust me, my friend, nothing amiss will happen if you do this.  Indeed, the only one to find trouble in this affair is that wicked monk.”

***

Zagor took great pains to ensure that Planus did not forget to play his part in the plan the next week.  He even used his witchstone to reach out to the adept mind-to-mind, a spell he normally avoided, to remind him.  Zagor valued his privacy, and the idea of someone disturbing his thoughts, even another wizard, was annoying.  But he relented in this case to ensure that the Remeran would do as he was bid.

It was late in the day when Planus sought out Zagor in his shop, his flowing robes looking rather out of place in the humble cottage.  Zagor was preparing a meal of goat stew and leeks when the wizard arrived.

“How you did not strike down that monk at once is beyond me,” Planus confessed, after Zagor served him an ale and poured half of his stew in a dish for the man.  “I’ve known some irritating clerics in my time – you should see the lot in Remere, the pompous arses – but that man is detestable!” he said, with undisguised disgust.  “I watched him for two hours, before I approached him.  He managed to offend nearly everyone at that market.”

“You can see why he’s caused offense to my client,” nodded Zagor, as he tore a loaf of bread in two and handed on half to Planus.  “He depends on his position to shield him.”

“I can’t stand a monk who hides behind his habit,” agreed Planus.  “But I did as you asked.  I fawned over that hound of yours, and pretended to be enchanted with it.  Nice dog,” he added.

“Was he well?” Zagor asked, concerned.

“He was as annoyed with the monk as anyone, but he didn’t seem mistreated,” Planus reported.  “In fact, the monk told me that he had an offer of ten ounces of gold for him.  He made quite the show of how healthy the dog was, and demonstrated how the color was not paint or pigment, and would not wash off.  Of course I raised the bid tenfold,” he bragged.  “I told him I was a collector of strange and rare things and found the dog delightful.  The look on his face . . . that man loves gold far more than he loves the gods,” Planus condemned.  Zagor found that ironic, considering Planus’ own love for wealth.

“He accepted the offer?” Zagor asked.

“He nearly dragged me to the haywardens to register it so that I would not back out,” Planus agreed.  “He managed to annoy three more people along the way.  The man has an especial talent for it,” he said, with a mixture of admiration and disgust.

“And thus he fell into my trap,” nodded Zagor, between bites.

“I’m eager to see how this plays out,” Planus agreed.  “I’m equally curious as to who your client is,” he added.

“I cannot reveal that,” Zagor said with a shrug.

“Of course, it would be a breach of professional ethics,” Planus agreed.  “But that does not sate my curiosity.  It’s the sort of thing Minalan would do, though,” he added, slyly.

“I have not seen him since he went into exile, last year,” Zagor replied, simply.

“Oh, Minalan has larger matters on his mind than a rude monk, no doubt.  Nor do I think he’d hire someone to deal with him when he could do so himself.  But it is the sort of thing Minalan would do.  Gods, I miss him being in Sevendor!  He’s doing great things in the Wilderlands, but this place just isn’t the same without him.”

“You could visit him,” Zagor proposed.

“Oh, and I have!  But he’s too busy with this damnable war to socialize much.  Still, that begs the question of who your client really is, and what this monk did to annoy him enough to bring you into the problem.”

“Someone just became frustrated with his behavior, and decided to do something about it,” Zagor explained.  “Subtly.”

“It’s fascinating to watch your approach to the problem,” nodded Planus, with a belch.  “Far different from how I would do it.  Good stew!”

“It’s the garlic,” nodded Zagor, pleased.  “A Wilderlands recipe.  I will see you next week at market, then?”

“After what I saw today, I’m eager to see the monk get his comeuppance,” Planus agreed.  “It’s bad enough when the clergy just stand around and soak up tithes and don’t do anything.  It’s far worse when they’re actively malicious.”

Zagor just shrugged.  He’d grown up in a land that had no temples and few clergy.  He hadn’t seen how bad they could be until he had come to the Riverlands.  Some, like Sister Bemia and the local Huinites did good work, but there were entire clerical orders that didn’t seem to do anything particularly useful.

Zagor, himself, had little use for religion.  After growing up as a fosterling of the Fair Folk, human religion just didn’t have much of an appeal when he could see the powerful forces of Nature at play for himself.

***

“My lady, all is in readiness,” Zagor reported to Lady Fallawen, when he returned to Tuervakothel at the end of the week.  “If you would favor the market with a visit, tomorrow, then we can draw this matter to a conclusion.”

Lady Fallawen looked intrigued, as she invited the wizard to sit and join her for a drink.  She seemed preoccupied by some great matter, to Zagor, and it was if his commission provided some distraction from weightier matters.

“Yes, the wicked monk,” she snorted, softly, as she poured the wine.  “I was wondering how that was going.  I admit, I expected faster work or more excitement than this,” she said, fixing Zagor with a penetrating stare.

“It takes time for a seed to grow into a sapling,” he said, echoing an Alka Alon proverb.

“Yet Minalan would have seen the matter settled, by now,” she said, her voice critical.

“You did not hire Minalan, my lady.  You hired Zagor,” he reminded her.  “I work differently than a common humani mage.”  It was not said with overmuch pride or condemnation.  It was merely a statement of fact.

“I look forward to seeing your results, then,” she conceded with a sigh.  “In truth, I find this matter a distraction from my other duties.”  Zagor could tell at once that there was something she wished to speak of, but did not know how to approach it.  “I’ve spent weeks, now, questioning a Nemovort, and it is . . . trying,” she admitted, a look of anguish washing over her face.

“The duties of position often lead to greater worries,” he said, simply.  “This is why I do not seek position.  Is there no one else better suited to question this Nemovort?”

“It is my responsibility,” Lady Fallawen insisted.  “Minalan delivered her to me for the purpose.  She is high in the councils of the enemy and knows many secrets about their plans and capabilities.  As heir to Anthatiel, it is my duty.  She is the beast who killed my mother when I was a child,” she explained.  “And slew my father in the dungeons of Olum Seheri.  As . . . difficult as the process is, I will continue to question her until I have wrung from her all she knows.”  She said it so resolutely that Zagor had no doubt she was committed to success.

“Yet the process seems to have taken a toll on your spirit,” Zagor observed, quietly.

“I am not so weak that I will eschew my responsibilities to my house and kindred,” she assured him, defensively.  “I just find that I am not naturally disposed towards coercion, or the infliction of suffering.  Even on her.”

Zagor looked at her thoughtfully, searching her face.  “My lady, have you resorted to torture?” he asked, scarcely thinking such a thing was possible from one of the Fair Folk.”

“The Nemovorti feel little pain,” Lady Fallawen explained.  “Mere physical torture would not break her.  This one seems to delight in taunting me, even as I seek to compel her to speak.  She mocks me,” Fallawen reported.  “She has a strong will and parts with her information grudgingly.”

“Yet your will is stronger than hers,” Zagor suggested.

“That is the test,” she nodded.  “Mycin Amana was a sorceress of great power and subtlety, before she and Korbal and the rest of the Enshadowed were damned to their crypt.  Death is no threat to the deathless.  She possess a fanaticism that borders on madness.  To compel testimony from such a monster is difficult.

“Yet, I persist; and I have found some weakness to exploit in the contest.  There are things that the Nemovorti loathe, due to their condition.  But that is not your worry to bear, Zagor,” she said, when she realized she was burdening the wizard with cares above his station.  “Amuse me with how you deal with this monk, and it will give me some entertainment . . . and some hope for my own struggle.”

“I will do my best, my lady,” he assured her, rising.  “Tomorrow, then, at noon, in the market of Alandlik I will fulfill my commission.”

“Until then,” she nodded, dismissing him.  “I’m counting on you, Zagor.”

***

The Alandlik market was busy and full, the next day.  The season brought the first fruits of the small harvest into the stalls, and with it a rush of demand.  Zagor noted the price of eggs rising, the price of wheat falling, and the first of the cheese made with the springtime milk come to market.  Hucksters from nearby Kest joined in the productive commerce with a cart filled with river eels, a rare treat from the vales below the market in the mountains.

Zagor quietly hugged the perimeter of the market square, being unobtrusive as he observed the comings and goings of the merchants and vendors.  At midmorning he finally spied Joppo the Root’s cart – filled with cured leather hides from the Westwood, he saw – making a delivery to one of the merchants.  Joppo didn’t see him until after it was unloaded, but was smart enough to not greet Zagor.

Instead, Joppo purchased a mug of ale and began walking the market, waiting for the monk to arrive.  He studiously ignored Zagor in favor of flirting with the peasant wives who were selling eggs.

As the day stretched toward noon, Gearbrother Lurlyr finally arrived, leading Blue on a long leash and sporting a bandaged left hand that looked suspiciously like a dog bite.  The monk looked both vexed and triumphant as he shooed the curious away from his big blue dog.  Zagor watched as he passed through the produce section of the market to the corner where stock was bought and sold.  The haywarden on duty scowled as he saw the monk, but dutifully accepted the penny that allowed him access to the market.

Zagor was pleased to see Planus, too, arriving by a coach from Sevendor.  The adept looked especially wealthy, this time, his robe a beautiful golden silk of Remeran cut and his mantle an exquisitely embroidered example of needlework, in green.  Planus made a great show of his arrival, too, lavishly tipping a boy to lead his team to the trough and immediately attracting the attention of every greedy merchant or enterprising artisan in the square.

Zagor ignored his friend, and instead took an unobtrusive position near the stockyard.  He did not want to get too close to Blue, yet, lest the dog greet him and spoil his carefully laid plans.

Lastly, he was gratified that Lady Fallawen showed up with a brace of guards, one human knight and one Tera Alon maiden, both in full armor.  He gave her a single nod once she picked him out of the crowd.  She looked a little irritated at being in the crowded and noisy market.  Zagor knew the Tera Alon had a fascination with humanity; he also knew that, from an Alka Alon perspective, the kind of chaos involved in a typical human marketplace was an assault on their inborn sense of order and serenity.  Zagor also knew that nothing increased that kind of chaos like having a couple of astonishingly beautiful demihumans disrupt the usual cacophony of the market with their presence.

Lady Fallawen made a show of stopping and examining wares and produce at each stall, her guards trailing behind her.  She was, of course, treated with incredible deference by each merchant she spoke to . . . when she wasn’t being approached by obsequious barkers who insisted that the noblewoman examine their wares and appreciate their prices for the bargains they were.  Alka Alon did conduct trade, Zagor knew for a fact, and even commerce, in a way.  But the naked opportunism implicit in a country market was novel to their society.  Alka Alon just did not scream at each other or make outlandish claims when they traded for what they needed.

The scene unfolded for him more or less the way that Zagor had planned.  Though he was too far away to overhear what was happening, he could see everything from his vantage.

While Brother Lurlyr stood next to his placid blue dog, sweating under his habit in the heat of the summer sun, impatiently waiting for the livestock market to begin, Joppo pushed his way past the shepherds and cowherds and their charges to get to the monk.  Zagor watched as Joppo pressed his offer – ten whole ounces of gold for the blue hound – and saw how disdainfully the monk rejected it.  Indeed, Brother Lurlyr became surly when Joppo insisted, which caused Joppo to be surly in return, and the haywarden nearly had to intervene.

All the while Blue sat patiently, placidly, at the monk’s heel, his big pink tongue lolling out over his bright blue lips.

At last, the haywarden called the livestock market to order, and began overseeing the purchase of various cows, sheep, goats, llamas, and pigs to their buyers.  Each transaction had to be approved and the market fee paid, and each seemed to make Brother Lurlyr more impatient.  Twice he tried to get his claim moved forward, so that he could escape the heat.  Each time the haywarden rebuffed his rudeness.  Zagor knew, from his conversations with the man, that the market custom was to treat cattle sales first, then horses and donkeys, then llamas, goats and sheep, then pigs, and only then could sales of fowl larger than a loaf of bread or sales of dogs be considered.

In the meantime, Planus finally made his entrance into the livestock market.  His brightly colored robes and flamboyant manner was a stark contrast to the peasants and merchants he passed among; but the moment Brother Lurlyr spotted him, the monk’s entire demeanor changed from surly to obsequious.  That was, after all, a hundred ounces of gold – far more than his estate was worth – who was approaching.

The monk wasted no time in greeting the mage.  His bandaged hand kept tight hold of Blue’s leash while he bowed and gushed to Planus, assuring him of the dog’s health and excellent temper (despite his wounded hand) and his willingness to part with it for the agreed-upon price.  Planus made a great show of greeting Blue, petting him affectionately and checking to ensure that the blue fur was not, indeed, painted on.  When he pronounced himself satisfied and would proceed with the bargain, the monk pounced on one of the three haywardens to secure the deal in his presence.

That was key, Zagor knew.  Once the bargain was sworn, it was subject to the rules of the Haymoot – all of the rules of the Haymoot.

While Brother Lurlyr looked pleased, nay, elated at the achievement, Planus just looked bored.  As the various lots of livestock were sold off and moved out of the market, a small crowd started to gather around the unusual sight of a monk, a mage, and a big blue dog waiting patiently.

Finally, and a bit reluctantly, he saw, the haywarden finally approached the pair to witness their strange bargain.  As instructed, Joppo barged forward and made his own demand that his bid be respected, as he had made it first.  The carter did a magnificent job, too, of behaving like a hot-tempered, belligerent peasant who was certain his rights had been cast aside by his betters.  The performance was assisted, no doubt, in Joppo’s generous indulgence at the ale cart all morning.  His loud voice and red face inspired a vicious response from Brother Lurlyr, until only the haywarden’s sturdy staff kept the two from blows.

With a stern warning, the haywarden pushed Joppo away, no doubt reminding him that this was a found dog, thus no transaction could be sealed until the ownership was established.  Joppo stomped away, dejected, making a great show of how he felt he was cheated.  Zagor congratulated himself for finding the right confederate in the plan in Joppo the Root; the man might seem dim, but he was reliable.  The sneer on Brother Lurlyr’s face proved how convincing his act had been.

The haywarden reluctantly announced the sale of the blue dog, pending the establishment of ownership, and reported the unheard-of price of a hundred ounces of gold.  That, alone, caused a stir that brought dozens over to the livestock area to witness the unlikely event.  A hundred ounces of gold, after all, could have purchased half the domain, and people wanted to see it.

When asked to prove his offer by the haywarden, Planus made a great show of pulling a heavy sack of coins from a hoxter pocket, along with a completely unnecessary cantrip that caused a flash when it appeared.  While Zagor found such spells a wasteful indulgence, he had to admit that Planus’ sense of showmanship was helpful in this case.

“We have here, offered by Gearbrother Lurlyr of the Hameron Estate, one blue mongrel found and claimed.  May I point out to the good folk of the market that the dog is, indeed, blue, and is not painted,” the haywarden affirmed, solemnly.  “I examined the hair myself and could find no trace of pigment.”

“Where’d he get a blue dog?” someone from the crowd demanded.

“I found him!” the monk declared.  “I know not from where he came, but he was in my estate.  I own him,” he added, confidently.

“Yes, but why is it blue?” asked another man, confused.  “Dogs aren’t blue!”

“Hence the high price for such a rarity,” the haywarden pointed out.  “This magelord has offered to purchase it for a princely sum,” he added, gesturing toward the preening mage.

“I collect many such rare and unique specimens,” agreed Planus.  “Sevendor seems to spawn them, since the Snow That Never Melted,” he reminded them.  “And I’m willing to pay,” he added, hefting the heavy bag of gold.

“There doesn’t seem to be any credible claimant,” the monk announced, glancing at the bag.  “I don’t see why we should delay any further!”

“If you make an improper sale of an unclaimed stock, you risk a fine!” warned the haywarden.  “Such claims can be made until the close of market!” he reminded him.

“The millwork of fate has sent me this beast,” the monk insisted.  “It is mine.  It is only right that I be able to sell him.  Your delaying of the sale won’t change that!  And I remind you, I am not merely the yeoman of Hameron Estate, I am a member of the clergy!” he added, his beady eyes narrowing.

“The rules of the Haymoot apply to all, viscount or villein, priest or peasant.  They apply even to you, Brother Lurlyr, no matter your title or position,” the man scowled in return.

Zagor reflected on the lot of petty officials, like the haywarden.  And his friend Banamor, the Spellwarden of Sevendor.  Both were widely perceived as having power, in their communities, but few understood the aggravation involved of actually performing their functions. That was one reason Zagor had avoided any such appointments.  As a hedgewizard, he was free to sack his clients if he wanted to.  The poor haywarden had no such luxury.

“Then why was not my claim honored?” shouted Joppo, drunkenly.  “I offered ten ounces of gold for my master!”

“It was not a claim sworn in front of a haywarden!” Brother Lurlyr said, testily.  “Therefore it is not a legal claim.  We follow the law, here in Hosendor!”

“Aye, we do,” agreed the haywarden, glumly.  Clearly the man was irritated that the wicked monk was profiting so handsomely from his luck.  “We do follow the law here.  This magelord has a sworn offer.   If you wish to proceed with sale at risk, Brother Lurlyr, the Haymoot has no objection.  Unless . . . are there any higher bids?”

That brought a gale of laughter from the crowd.  Most had never seen even one ounce of gold in their lives, much less one hundred.  While the mysterious blue dog was certainly a curiosity, living so closely to Sevendor and its giant hawks and other wonders had made them used to such things.  The idea of paying such a handsome sum for a mere dog, of whatever color, was extravagantly perverse to the peasants and tradesmen of Alandlik.  They looked upon Planus with a mixture of pity and awe – a man who could afford such a whim must have wealth beyond their imaginations.

“I believe I have the highest bid, then,” Planus said, preening from the attention of the crowd.

“Agreed,” sighed the haywarden.  “If there are no higher, I pronounce the sale completed.”

Triumphantly, Brother Lurlyr held out his plump, unbandaged hand for his payment.  Planus obliged, dropping the heavy sack into the man’s greedy palm with such force it nearly unbalanced him.  Zagor watched carefully as the monk passed the end of the leash to the magelord.  The moment Planus took a grip on the rope, Zagor snapped his fingers.

Only Planus and Lady Fallawen felt the tiny tug of magic that resulted.  The moment that Zagor snapped, he ended the spell that had changed the dog’s hue.  Blue shook once again, as if he’d just come from a swim in a pond, and from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail his fur returned to its dark, mottled natural color.

A gasp went through the crowd as the monk began to stride away, his treasure under his arm, an air of triumph infecting his step.  Planus noted the change in the dog instantly, however.  He cleared his throat and knelt to inspect Blue’s fur, before quickly rising again.

“STOP!” he insisted, his Remeran accent pronounced in his anger.  “What is this?” he demanded.

Brother Lurlyr glanced over his shoulder at the mage and his new dog, and saw at once the scowl on his face.  His pace slowed, but he continued to move toward the market gate.

“I said STOP!” Planus repeated, angrily, and waved his right hand.  The monk was suddenly seized by a spell, his feet no longer willing to bear him forward.  This caused Brother Lurlyr to squeal in surprise and shock in a most undignified manner.  Planus turned to face the haywarden.  “I paid to purchase a blue dog, and this dog is no longer blue!” he said, pointing expressively toward Blue.  For his part, the hound sat happily oblivious to the commotion around him.

“Aye, you did,” agreed the haywarden, shaking his head in wonder.  “Gearbrother Lurlyr, a word?” he asked, cocking his eye at the struggling monk.

“Our business here is concluded!” insisted Brother Lurlyr, as he tried in vain to break away from Planus’ spell.  “Gold has changed hands!  All sales are final!  What have you done to me?” he added, as he pushed his shoulders forward, away from the accusing mage.

“I believe I’ve been swindled,” Planus informed the haywarden, reasonably.  “While a handsome beast, this dog is no longer blue.  I paid for a blue dog, not a common cur!”

“That dog was blue when I sold him to you!” the monk nearly shouted.  “It’s not my fault . . .” he continued, as he did his best to wrench his feet from the ground.  “You made a deal!  I delivered!”

“The deal was for a blue dog,” the haywarden said, resolutely.  “This dog isn’t blue.”

“That is not my concern!” the wicked monk called.  “I fulfilled my end of the bargain!”

“I believe this needs more discussion,” the haywarden said, as he stroked his chin.  “M’lord?  Would you be so kind as to . . .”

“Ah, of course,” Planus said, nodding.  He made a motion in the air as if he was snatching a fly in his fist and resolutely dragged the squirming monk back across the market, through the crowd, by magical force.  He continued until the man was once again before the imposing figure of the haywarden.

“Now, then,” the official pronounced, thoughtfully, “it appears we have a fraud upon the Haymoot.”

There was a gasp in the crowd as the realized the implications.  Brother Lurlyr, for his part, did not.  As livestock was not a frequent purchase for his estate, he wasn’t as familiar with the laws governing the Haymoot as his neighbors were.

“Fraud?  What fraud?” the monk sputtered.  “You paid for a dog, I sold you a dog!”

“I paid for a blue dog,” Planus said, reasonably.  “This dog is not blue.”

“Then paint him blue, for all I care!” dismissed the monk.  “But I’ll not give you back your money!”

“Well, I feel cheated,” Planus said, disappointedly.  “Master Haywarden, is there any redress for this?”

“Well, this is novel legal territory, for the Haymoot,” the man admitted.  “Yet there is precedent, of sorts.  If a man sells a cow he swears is a good breeder, and she won’t take, the Haymoot says that the seller must replace the cow with one who will.  You don’t happen to have another blue dog to replace this one with, do you, Brother Lurlyr?” the haywarden suggested, helpfully.

“What?  Of course not!  I don’t know where this one came from!  Let me go!” he said, his voice beginning to get desperate.

“Not until I’ve recovered what is rightfully mine,” Planus said, evenly.  “Well, if you have not another blue dog, can you turn this one blue again?  That would suffice.  Perhaps if you pray to whatever little cogwheel god you serve, maybe he will assist such a pious and devoted monk as yourself?”

“Don’t be preposterous!  Zirnavas concerns himself with millworks and waterways, not blue dogs!” Brother Lurlyr sneered.  “He is a god of mathematics and precision, not a god for ignorant peasants!”

“I am no mere peasant to be tricked at market, Brother,” Planus said, his voice soft but strong.  “I am heir to nine generations of adepts of the highest order.  My legacy extends back to the Imperial Magocracy.  I can read and write five languages,” he boasted.  “I paid for a blue dog.  I’m feeling cheated.  I suggest you pray to Zirnavas, or Huin, or to Ishi’s blessed fundament to turn this dog back to the color I paid for . . . or I might start to become impatient!” Planus said, his usually cheerful voice suddenly hoarse and icy.

“You will not!” squeaked the monk.  “I’m a member of the clergy!  It is improper to lay hands upon me!”

“I won’t,” Planus agreed.  “Indeed, I haven’t.  But I will hold you there, immobile, in the midst of this market . . . while I let this poor dog repay you for your hospitality,” he warned.  Blue, as if he understood what was being said, turned his head toward the monk for the first time and stopped his happy panting.

“You won’t!  That’s illegal!  I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll inform the nobility of your crime against a member of the clergy!” Brother Lurlyr shouted.

“A member of the nobility has been watching,” Lady Fallawen said, stepping forth from the crowd, her bodyguards looming behind her.  “Indeed, I’ve watched since you sold this mage a blue dog.  I’d say he would be well within his rights to punish you for this temerity.  If you can pray that dog blue, I think you’d better do it.  Or at least try,” she suggested.

“You’re no proper nobility!” the monk condemned, as he continued to struggle against the spell.  “You’re not even properly human!”

“I think my Lord Minalan would disagree with you,” Lady Fallawen said, her exotic eyes narrowing.  “As he is baron, his opinion counts for more than yours.  Nor does he tolerate abusive ecclesiastical authority in his lands.  If this wizard wants to roast you alive, I’ll be happy to testify to the justice of that course to the baron, myself.”

“Aye, let’s see a roasting!” shouted Joppo, who was enjoying the spectacle immensely.  “I never saw a man roasted to death, before!”

“There will be no unauthorized . . . roastings!” the haywarden bellowed.  Contending with a monk and a mage was sufficiently far outside of his normal duties already.  Adding the presence of a half-human – and astonishingly beautiful – local noblewoman had been enough to break his decorum.  “This is the Haymoot!  I alone am the authority here!”  he looked around at the crowd for support, and saw that there were plenty of nodding heads.  “Brother Lurlyr, if you can offer a prayer that will turn this dog blue again and satisfy the buyer, I think you should do so.  Failing that, the customary penalties for a fraud on the Haymoot will apply.”

“That’s ridiculous!” the monk shouted, desperately.

“I suggest you get to praying,” Planus said, shaking his head.  “I think my dog here might be hungry.”

The monk looked around for support amongst the market crowd, but found none.  Indeed, most of the faces he saw bore scowls or grins, and many of them were men and women he’d wronged over the years.  No one wanted to speak for the wicked monk of Hameron.

“I . . . I will try to beseech my god to grant this boon . . . but the Keeper of the Circles is a busy divinity,” he said.  “Powerful, so terribly powerful – and wrathful!” he reminded the crowd.  “But also very, very . . . busy,” he said, his words trailing off.  “Nonetheless, let it not be said that I was of insufficient faith to . . . to try to convince him . . .”  he cleared his throat nervously.  Doubtlessly the prospect of being roasted to death by magical fire to the cheering crowd of his neighbors had made the monk anxious.

Yet he could not dismiss the challenge to his piety, under the circumstances.  For perhaps the first time in his life, Brother Lurlyr looked skyward and began a devout and wholehearted prayer to his god.

“Oh, Master of the Great Cosmic Gear, around whose axis the entire universe spins in harmony, I, your humble and grateful servant beseech you for an especial boon to a favored adherent.  For though the very stars in their courses are kept in your sacred charge, and the grain that feeds the multitudes is ground under your glorious and watchful eye, there are those who doubt your great power . . . fools and disbelievers who do not understand the forces that are in your charge.  Nor the importance of your priesthood in sustaining civilized life in our world.  For we are but the grist for your divine millwork, our lives crushed and ground between the miracle of birth and the inevitability of death, sifted by our stations into our proper grind, and prepared for the ordeals of the oven for—”

“Ishi’s tits, it’s no wonder no one ever goes to your bloody temple!” complained Joppo, eliciting a laugh form the crowd.

“I . . . I beg of you, Divine Miller, to take attention with my plea and use your grace for a boon!  Zirnavas, I invoke you and your power for the instruction of your imperfect children!  Take notice of my boon, and prove your mighty power by . . . by . . . transforming this unfortunate cur  . . . into a blue dog,” he said, finishing weakly.

Zagor was generally unfamiliar with religion, but he supposed that such a request would be unlikely to be fulfilled by even the most indulgent of divinities.  The temples were full of tales of the gods manifesting in the world at the behest of their worshippers, but the results usually involved saving a harvest or granting the boon of a child or smiting enemies.  Turning a dog blue to prove a point and escape a punishment just did not seem particularly pious to Zagor’s mind.

The entire crowd grew quiet and stared at Blue, expectantly.  While his big pink tongue lolled out over his black lips, there was no other visible change to the hound.  Seconds dragged on, then a full minute.  Blue stubbornly remained his natural color.

“I’m thinking your god has better things to do, today, than save your arse from a roasting,” Joppo snorted.

“Well, then,” Planus nodded.  “Request for divine intervention made and refused.”

“Fine!” sputtered the monk.  “Fine, then!  I’ll give you your damned gold back!  But mark my words, wizard: the cogwheel of life goes around and around!  The ire of Zirnavas is legendary!  I don’t know how this happened, but you will pay for this!”

“Actually, Brother Lurlyr,” the haywarden said, before the wizard could speak, “simply returning the money is a start.  But you perpetrated a fraud on the Haymoot,” he reminded the man.  “There is a fine, for that.”

Zagor was so enjoying the spectacle he had engineered that he nearly forgot his own part.  He suddenly pushed his way through the crowd toward the center of the drama.

“Ah!  You found my dog!” he declared, as he rushed to pet Blue’s big head.  “I’ve been looking for this rascal for two weeks.”

“Your dog?” Planus asked, surprised.

“Your dog?” the monk asked, shocked.

“I just bought that dog!” Planus continued, accusingly.  “From that monk!”

“Why are you selling my dog?” Zagor asked Brother Lurlyr.

“What?  How did I know that was your dog?” the monk shot back.  “Indeed, if it is your dog, prove it!”

“Easy enough,” shrugged Zagor.  He turned back to the hound and whistled two notes.  Blue obliged by standing on his hind legs, his front paws waving in the air.  Zagor whistled again and Blue laid down and then rolled over on the market cobbles.  A third whistle and Blue began walking around Zagor’s legs in a circle until his leash got tangled up at his knees.

“I am satisfied that this is your hound,” the haywarden agreed.  “Why was he lost?  And why was he blue?”

“Oh, that’s right!” Zagor nodded.  “I am a hedgemage from Boval Village, in Sevendor.  I was in Southridge a fortnight ago when Blue caught a sniff—”

“Wait, your dog’s name is Blue?” the haywarden asked, incredulous.

“Yes, yes, that’s why I turn him blue sometimes.  It amuses the children while I work,” he explained.  “Only this time Blue got a sniff of some bitch in heat and ran off.  He’s like that,” he shrugged.

“What?” scowled the monk.  “This was just a wizard’s trick?”

“It is not a spell most human magi are familiar with,” admitted Zagor.  “But Zagor is known for his subtle magic.”

“So, the real owner has come for his dog,” the monk pointed out, disappointed but relieved.  “I will return your money,” he said to Planus, “and we can all go about our business without roasting.”

“I suppose,” sighed Planus, handing the long rope leash to Zagor, who immediately removed it from Blue.  The dog stayed at his heel, obediently.  “My money, please?”

“I, uh, I cannot . . . move my arms,” the monk explained, demonstrating by struggling against the magical bonds that held him.

“Ah.  Of course,” Planus nodded.  He released the spell and sent the monk tumbling to the ground, the heavy bag of gold slipping from one hand . . . and landing squarely on his bandaged hand.  As the monk howled, Planus extended a tendril of magic toward the sack and it disappeared.  “There.  I feel slightly less cheated.”

“Then we can all just go about our affairs,” the monk scowled, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

“No, no, I’m afraid not,” the haywarden said, leaning on his staff.  “You see, you tried to sell a man’s dog you did not have proper claim to.  I warned you that you sold at risk,” he reminded Brother Lurlyr.  That surprised the monk, and the man seemed prepared to argue, until he caught sight of Zagor’s expression.

“Fine!  I’ll pay the fine, if it gets me home sooner!” he finally snorted, when it was clear that no one was in the mood for more contention.  “How much?” he asked, digging his small purse off of his belt.

“The Haymoot’s fines are set by custom, to ensure all are treated fairly,” the Haywarden said, philosophically.  “Historically they have been seen by all as fair and just.”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re all very proper and equal in the law of the Haymoot,” the monk mocked, as he opened his purse.  “How much?”

“The customary fee for improperly selling an unclaimed beast is . . . twice the cost of the beast,” the haywarden intoned.  “Payable immediately.”

“What?” Brother Lurlyr asked sharply, his face shocked.  “The cost of the beast—”

“Was a hundred ounces of gold!” Joppo pointed out, his face split in a wide grin.  “I might just be an ignorant peasant, but I believe that means you owe two hundred ounces of gold!  Guess you should’ve taken my offer,” he added, with a howl of laughter.

“Two hundred ounces?” the monk said, his face wrinkled in disbelief.  “That’s preposterous!”

“That’s just the start,” the Haywarden said, nodding thoughtfully.  “Then you owe the fine for perpetrating a fraud on the Haymoot, which I was just going to say just before the hedgewizard claimed his cur.  That fee is thrice the cost of the beast,” he added, almost apologetically.  “One third of that to be paid to the Moot, two thirds to the aggrieved party . . . the magelord, in this case.  It appears as if you owe the Haymoot . . . five hundred ounces of gold.”

There was a chorus of gasps and cheers from the crowd while the monk’s demeanor went from horrified to apoplectic.  His broad, sweaty face became the brightest red, from his chin to his tonsure, and his mouth made noises that were not quite words.  He waved his arms around, desperately attempting to escape the jeers and shouts, the reality of his predicament settling in.

“What happens if the monk can’t pay?” Planus asked the haywarden, curiously.

“Oh, then his personal goods will be seized, including all of his stock.  If that isn’t a sufficiency, then his estate is responsible for his debt to the Haymoot.  If they can’t pay . . . . then his estate is forfeit, and he loses all market rights until his debt is paid.”

“It seems harsh to punish an entire estate for the crime of one man,” Zagor pointed out.

“According to custom, and a bit of mathematics,” the haywarden said, thoughtfully, “I would say his entire estate is forfeit.  Of course, he’ll appeal to the local nobility for justice –“

“As a representative of the local nobility,” Lady Fallawen broke in, “it is the custom.  I assure you he will find no friends in counsel.  This judgement stands,” she declared, loudly enough for the crowd to hear her.  While they cheered, the aggravated monk finally found his tongue.

“What is the meaning of this trickery?” he demanded, shouting each word as an assault.  “This cannot stand!  I am a member of the clergy!  I have ecclesiastic rights and sacred privileges!”

“Not in the Haymoot,” Zagor reminded him, gently.  “In the Haymoot, all are equal and subject to the customary law.”

“And we follow the law, here in Hosendor,” the haywarden reminded him, sternly.  “As you yourself said not ten minutes ago.  The judgement stands.  Unless you can pay immediately, your estate – the entire estate of Hameron – is forfeit to these gentlemen.  And the Haymoot,” he added.”

“How dare you!” Brother Lurlyr growled, his entire pudgy frame shaking in rage.  “The temerity!  How dare you?  Do you not know who I am?”

“The monk who just lost five hundred ounces of gold because of a blue dog?” Joppo asked.  “Because that’s who it looks like you are!”  The crowd roared with laughter at the jibe, but it only made Brother Lurlyr angrier.

“You dare?  Very well then, you peasants!  I call an interdict on all the mills of the domain!  All of Hosendor shall starve, now that you have angered my temple!  Not a cog, not an axel, not the smallest of pins may be set in this domain!  The Interdict of Zirnavas is upon you!” he pronounced in his gravest voice.  To emphasize, his bandaged hand scrambled to hold up the gilded cogwheel he wore around his neck.

“I don’t know how they do things in Castal, but in Remere a custodian of an ecclesiastic estate who lost that estate because of his own greed, avarice, and stupidity is unlikely to keep his post or position very long,” Planus said, conversationally.  “The temple that depends upon it for supply will likely want answers.  And testimony.  There is likely to be an investigation,” he observed.

“I will make sure of it,” Lady Fallawen nodded.  “I will be certain to testify, myself, if need be.  Either you produce the gold, Brother Lurlyr, or you forfeit the estate.”

“Forfeit?  I will do no such thing!” insisted the monk.  “I was tricked out of it by . . . by a couple of wizards!” he accused.  “You can visit nine hells before you will take my estate from me!”

“It is not yours, anymore,” the haywarden declared.  “I shall send for a lawbrother to write up the writs, but my judgement stands.  Produce, or forfeit.  That is the custom of the Haymoot.”

In the face of so many stern faces, enduring the humiliation of so much derisive laughter, the monk’s temper got the best of him.  He stomped over to where the two wizards stood and drew his whip from his belt and struck at Planus, first.  It was a feeble blow, hastily contrived and poorly delivered, and struck the wizard a painful but unharmful slap across his forearm.  As Lurlyr’s arm swung back to deliver a second blow, Zagor whistled three notes . . . and the monk fell to the ground, seventy pounds of snarling dog standing on his chest and growling in his face.

“I think it would be best for the man to be taken into custody,” Zagor said, mildly.  “Perhaps the constable can be summoned?”

“He did nearly attack me,” agreed Planus, rubbing his forearm.  “It was quite exciting, but completely uncalled for.”

“He has broken the peace of the market,” pronounced the haywarden.  “That violates his market oath, and earns him three days in the village stocks.  After that, he is free to return to his temple and explain his loss to his superiors,” he said, as the monk howled at the hound at his throat.  Though he made a great show of fearsomeness, Zagor noted that Blue had yet to bite the monk.

“While we explore our new estate!” Planus said, rubbing his hands together.  “I believe you get two-fifths, my Hedgewizard friend, as do I, while the third will be awarded to the Haymoot?  How does that work, exactly?”

“I did not want an estate!” Zagor protested.  “I just wanted my dog back!”

“Will someone get this dog off me?  You are under interdict!  May the gears of fate grind you to dust!” Lurlyr shouted.  “May the sacred cogs of life—"

“Oh, shut up!” Lady Fallawen snapped, and pointed at the monk’s wide forehead.  Instantly, he went unconscious.  “You were saying?”

“I was just wondering how we split up an estate under the circumstances?” Planus asked.  “Not that I really need one, but it is damnably close to Sevendor.  Yet delightfully rural.  I’m considering the advantages of such a property,” he admitted.

“Yet I do not need an estate,” dismissed Zagor, as Blue returned to his place by his side.  “I have a practice in Boval Village.”

“But you won it, fairly,” Lady Fallawen out.  “How about if you let Planus set it up, and then just send you your share of the profits, every year?”

Zagor shifted uncomfortably.  “A man cannot own a thing without being responsible for it,” he said.  “If I own it, I must tend it.”

“Are you so busy that you cannot see to a few families and enjoy a place in the countryside?” persuaded Planus.  “Really, Zagor, it will be no trouble to put a reasonably wise head in charge, and merely enjoy the benefits.  Joppo,” Planus said, tapping the carter on the shoulder with his staff, “how about you give me a ride up to the estate for a look around?  Perhaps stay a couple of days to help get things sorted out.  If you do well, perhaps we’ll put you in charge.  I’m sure you’d find it rewarding,” he added, slyly.

The question quite surprised the man.  “Me, m’lord?”

“It would be helpful to have our man on the ground, overseeing things,” agreed Zagor, reluctantly.  “You’re an honest man.  Better than the wicked monk, for the people of Hameron.  And I think you’ll find the widow at the end of the lane brews a fine ale, when she flies a red stocking on the tree in front of her cottage.  She’s comely, for her age.  And very lonely,” Zagor added.

That sold the carter on the prospect of a job.  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around,” Joppo conceded, as a couple of men dragged the unconscious monk away.  Clearly, the prospect of position, ale, and companionship appealed to him.

“This really was quite amusing,” Planus confided to Zagor, as Joppo went off to harness his team.  “I never expected to get rewarded for it, but this might prove beneficial to the both of us,” he proposed.

“I don’t need wealth,” Zagor dismissed with a shrug.  “I just need my dog.”

“Oh, it’s not about the wealth,” Planus assured him.  “It’s about opportunity.  Consider it in that light.  But thank you for including me in this little episode,” he added, before he turned away toward the coach.  “This is the most fun I’ve had since Minalan left!”

“Well, you seem to have fulfilled your commission, Zagor,” Lady Fallawen murmured, after Planus was out of earshot.  “What’s more, you did it with damned little magic and enriched two of your friends – and yourself – in its fulfillment.  You really are as subtle as your reputation suggests.  Had Minalan taken the commission, I’m certain we’d have far more bodies to contend with.”

“We each have our ways,” Zagor shrugged.  “But I am grateful you appreciate my work.  Most of my clients see my results, only, and do not understand the process.”  They began walking back toward her coach, her two bodyguards following and Blue running around them, sniffing everything he could.

“I’m not certain I do understand the process,” the Tera Alon noblewoman confessed.

“It was simple,” Zagor assured.  “I knew I could not come at the wicked monk legally, for he was protected by his ecclesiastic status – except in one way.  He was as subject to the Haymoot as any man.  From there, I merely had to construct a claim that would have him run afoul of the custom.  Then his own avarice betrayed him.  It was simple,” he repeated.

“You used a simple glamour,” agreed Lady Fallawen, “but your reasoning displayed great subtlety.  I’m impressed,” she admitted.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, with a bow, as they arrived at her carriage.  “I do hope this was a beneficial distraction from that . . . other matter you confided me with.”

“Oh, it has been,” she sighed.  “In truth, I grow weary of that ordeal.  I wish to be done with it, most days.  But last night I began to feel that my efforts were beginning to have an effect.  That evil bitch recoiled from me, when I drew her from her prison,” she said, with a measure of satisfaction.  “I can only conclude that she is wearing down from my efforts.”

Zagor looked at the Tera Alon woman thoughtfully – truly looked at her, though he did not use magesight.  He realized that he didn’t need to.  The signs were all there, and the reported reaction of the Nemovort told him the rest.

“My lady, perhaps it is not your fearsome visage that has inspired revulsion in your captive,” he said, his voice low.  “I believe some other factor has affected her.”

“Really?” Lady Fallawen asked, surprised, as the knight opened the door of the coach for her.  “And what would that be?”

Zagor looked at the bodyguards and then up to the coachman, and sighed.  He hummed a snatch of tune, and suddenly a magical envelope that suppressed the sounds around them covered them both.  No one could hear what he was about to say.

“I would suggest that your babies have grown enough to produce a vibrant field,” he said.  That was what the Imperially trained magi called it, he recalled.  “The lifeforce within you abrades the necromantic energies she requires to survive,” he proposed.

Lady Fallawen looked shocked.  “I . . . I’m pregnant?” she asked in disbelief.

It was Zagor’s turn to be surprised.  “Were you not aware?  All the signs are there, when I look closely.  In my practice I see a lot of pregnant women – humani women.  You bear all of the signs.  I just assumed . . .” he said, awkwardly.

It took Lady Fallawen a few moments to collect herself, and Zagor got to watch the eternal realization every new mother has play out in her expressions.  It was one of those things a good hedgewizard never grew tired of.

“Let me know if you feel ill, in the mornings,” he said, gently.  “I have herbs for such things.  If you begin vomiting, do not despair – it is normal,” he assured.  Alka Alon did not have morning sickness, he knew.  “Perhaps you should send for Sister Bemia, to help explain the details,” he suggested.

“Yes . . . yes . . . perhaps I shall . . . I’m pregnant?” she asked, again, in disbelief.  “How can I be – oh.  Oh!” she said, her eyes going wide.  Zagor did not know what she was thinking, nor did he want to intrude, but it was clear that Lady Fallawen was coming to terms with the news.  “I’m . . . I’m going to be a mother!  Oh, my lord husband will be so excited!” she said, smiling.  It was a genuine smile, Zagor saw, not affected for his benefit.

That brought the hedgewizard much solace.  Lady Fallawen’s reluctance to fulfil her vow to her father and marry his rescuer had been the talk of Sevendor, and it had persisted even after the gods themselves had blessed the union.  He had been anxious that the Tera Alon Emissary would never truly accept her marriage, or see its benefits.  Indeed, he’d suspected that to be the true cause of his summoning to her court.

But Fallawen’s entire manner changed, when she mentioned bringing the news to her humani husband.  She became genuinely joyful, which made Zagor very hopeful.  He never thought the two races would mix well, due to their differences, but she was doing an admirable job.

“But now that your commission is fulfilled, what payment can I make you?  I know payment is very important to the humani,” she added.  “Gold?  Silver?”

“Money means little to me,” he dismissed.  “If you wish, surprise me.  I trust your judgement to find the right payment.  I’m just happy to get my dog back – Blue!  Blue!  Get out of that!” he chided, as the hound began to roll around on his back, likely in something dead and decomposing.

“Wait,” Lady Fallawen said, as she leaned through the window of the coach.  “Did you say babies?  Plural?”

Ketta’s Lily

As the Lord Mayor of Sevendor Town, Banamor was often looked upon by the townspeople as a figure of respect and importance, as he went to council meetings and presided in important civic business.  Few understood that his most important job did not involve petty municipal regulation, or conducting hearings on grievances, or even attending banquettes honoring important members of the community.  For Lord Mayor Banamor, who had begun seeking his fortune as a humble footwizard, was also the town’s Spellwarden, the official who was officially in charge of the conduct of Sevendor’s large magical community.

Most of the work that fell under his auspices as Spellwarden was conducted by three young clerks – all magi themselves – who were posted at the three entrances to the domain.  Each was responsible for identifying and registering any magi who crossed the frontiers and instructing them on the rules and regulations concerning magic.  A fourth clerk worked at a small table on the first floor of Banamor’s warehouse and counting house complex on the High Street, where he was responsible for keeping the records and receiving complaints or concerns from the citizenry about various magi who had skirted the rules.  In addition, all reports of unusual magical activity that might be suspect were required to be cataloged and investigated.

It was this fourth fellow who had brought the initial concerns to the Spellwarden, and it was he who had conducted preliminary investigations as the number of complaints and reports grew.

Something odd was going on with Sevendor – more odd than, say, a dragon attack or a missing mountain or an unexplained orgy breaking out in the market.  The reports suggested that something more subtle was at play.  It was the kind of long-term problem Banamor actually enjoyed, particularly in the absence of his boss, business partner, and liege lord, Minalan the Spellmonger, Baron of Sevendor.  The last thing Banamor wanted was to have Minalan return from his two-year exile and see his beloved town in chaos because his spellwarden, Banamor, had let things go.

The former footwizard was genuinely intrigued by the reports.  Separating out genuine purposeful spells by registered (or unregistered) wizards from naturally (or supernaturally) occurring events was an intellectual and thaumaturgical puzzle the man could wrap his keen mind around.

Great and wondrous events happened in Sevendor all the time, from divine visitations to attacks by dragon, wyvern, and grisly undead, and there were powerful forces in the land available to contend with them.  Sire Cei the Dragonslayer’s hammer defended the town from his castle, as did the Hawkmaiden’s elegantly deadly Sky Riders from their Mewstower.  But smaller arcane problems were relegated to Banamor.

Some of the issues that arose in Sevendor and were reported to the Office of the Spellwarden were unmistakable as sport Talents, or singular manifestations of magic, some of which were unheard of before but were undoubtedly the product of the vast quantities of snowstone in the domain.  Over the years, Banamor had undertaken the investigation of scores of such tales and incidents, and he’d assembled quite a collection by the time of the Spellmonger’s exile.  It resided in a thick folio of the accounts in his private office, documenting the emergence of oddities and their resolution.

Most often, he had learned, it was the young who manifested the amazing – and sometimes terrifying – abilities, as they came in proximity to various spells around town and in the vales.  Each of them was subsequently tested for their level of rajira and the extent of their powers, and some were even recommended for training in the arcane arts.

Some of the sports of Sevendor were near tragic: a lad assisting the castle’s farrier developed the unfortunate ability of having his skin become translucent at times, particularly (for no good reason anyone could discover) during the waxing and waning crescent moon.  The poor boy had to conceal himself under a cloak during his spells, which frightened those who were not used to it.

Almost as bad was a girl nearby, who found out that her image became trapped in whatever pool of water, glass or mirror she happened to gaze in.  It remained for days or weeks, to the dismay of any who chanced to see it.  Thankfully, she was a pretty thing, though she was mortified at the lingering exposure her face made.

Another poor girl discovered she could not pass near an unsecured door or gate without it swinging open – an awkward situation, she found, when she passed the public privies of the town.

A fellow hauling clay from the pits developed the annoying habit of sending whomever he touched into a stupor of paralysis, such that they woke moments later with no memory of the spell.

One poor soul, a herdsman from Southridge, had manifested the unfortunate ability to cause much of the food in his vicinity to spoil within hours.  He spent a lot of time in the fields with the animals, away from the kitchens and storehouses after that.

Not all of the strange new Talents were harmful or frightening.  A burgher’s wife whose presence turned all flames green was a minor celebrity in town when the ability manifested.  And some Talents were quite beneficial to those affected.  One lucky lass learned she could making twinkling lights appear and dance over her head for a few moments, at her direction, and got quite good about leading the bright sparks around.  She was soon appearing on Market days to busk for pennies while she entertained shoppers.  She also performed at private parties.

One lad discovered that he suddenly understood any language he heard, much to his amazement as he discovered while translating for a pair of Calrom horse traders.  Though the ability left him too dizzy to stand afterward, he was routinely called upon for such service and made a prosperous living at it.

Another maid learned first thought she’d developed incredible strength, but after investigation the Spellwarden determined that, instead, everything within arm’s reach of the confused girl was slightly less attracted by the pull of gravity.

And a successful carter from Jurlor’s Hold found that he could bend iron to the touch like clay, which made him extremely popular around the smithies of town.  He could turn an ingot into a half keg of nails as easily as a baker makes biscuits.

Over the years, he had come to expect such unusual sights in Sevendor.  Compared to the powerful enchantments the bouleuterion was churning out, they were of minor interests to most wizards.  But Banamor was intrigued with that aspect of his job, as Spellwarden, and made a point of investigating nearly all such reports personally.

It was a regular portion of his position, like assessing youngsters with emerging rajira or investigating any unexplained magical outbursts – those, alone, would keep him busy.  So close to the snowstone, it seemed as if every fourth child born in Sevendor was producing some measurable amount of arcane ability, not the usual one in a hundred.  But the tracking and investigation of sports became a particular interest of the man.

Over the years, he’d come to recognize some intriguing patterns.  For one, the sheer number of Talented sports who arose along the Ketta.  The magical strangeness did not stop at Sevendor’s frontiers, he realized, though the effects were rarer and less pronounced the farther downstream one traveled.  But he had finally traced the explosion of such new manifestations of magic to the source: the bathhouse of Sevendor.

Every day the Karshak masons working on the great castle in the mountain finished their long shift of work deep underground and enjoyed an hour of unrestricted use of the great millpond near the castle – and on the way to the public houses and taverns of Sevendor Town.  The regular visits encouraged an enterprising townsman, Tonlade, a Bovali villager with an eye for opportunity, to secure the rights to build a bathhouse on the edge of the pond.

While such contrivances were often begun as a service to the community, Tonlade’s bathhouse was in Sevendor, a mageland.  Once he’d built the structure out of gleaming snowstone and imported granite from Sashtalia, he arranged with wizards, to provide enchantments that heated the water from the pond before spilling it into the bright tile basins he’d constructed.

With space for nine bathers at time (or as many as a dozen, if they were cozy) and no end to the hot water cascading from the tank bearing the heating stones, the tidy little bathhouse quickly became a popular site for relaxation after a hard day’s work.

Late mornings saw a number of bakers who wished to wash the flour off after an early morning bake.  During the day, those burgher’s wives who had the time and leisure to do so congregated there. Tonlade made additional coin selling them above-average quality wines and day-old sweet biscuits from the bakery.  He even hired musicians to play while they bathed to add to the sense of luxury.

In the late afternoons, it was the laborers and artisans who paid a penny for the privilege of a tub of hot water, a pebble of soap, a thick Barrowbell towel, and twenty minutes of aquatic indulgence timed by the elaborate water clock Tonlade had purchased.  The potters from Genly Pit, under the castle wall, were particularly grateful to wash the sticky white clay they worked with off their bodies every day.

But it was the rush of business at twilight, when the Karshak finally came to bathe, that things got really busy.  Tonlade’s bathhouse was so popular with the Stone Folk that he had to reduce the bathing time to ten minutes and insist on adhering to schedule to accommodate such an increase in trade.  He sold half-mugs of ale to the thirsty nonhumans as they rinsed the white dust of the deep mountain off their beards in the pools.  More than that, he’d found, dramatically slowed the time the dwarves lay immersed in his constantly-flowing baths.

The Karshak did not tarry long at the bathhouse, of course.  Most chose to spend their daily coin at several of the town’s taverns on far larger cups of far stronger ale and supper before retiring to their camps for rest and to rise before dawn.  Tonlade’s bathhouse was merely their first stop.  But they grew so enamored of the practice – and the hot water – that it became a nightly occasion.  At least two dozen of them trooped to the little stone hut every night, and they soaked away their aches, pains, cares, worries, and a powerful amount of dust.

For months, the establishment prospered, and for months the collective dirt and soil of the townsfolk and the Karshak masons was washed away into the pond, to be churned up by the antics of the water elemental the Spellmonger placed there.  The heavier sediment fell out quickly, of course, but there were many evenings where the entire pond turned a milky white as the elemental splashed and churned the water.

The outlets into Sevendor Town’s new system of fountains to supply the growing population were constructed to filter out most of the remaining sediment, so there was little of the snowstone particles to notice in the water the people of the town drank.  If it tasted richer, crisper, more . . . magical, only those newly come to Sevendor seemed to notice.

Most of the water in the millpond did not go into town, of course.  It spilled down a canal and into the Ketta, a streamlet the Spellmonger’s magic had greatly increased in volume since his rule.  The long, stony course of the stream caught much of the minute specks of snowstone, as did the big rocky expanse at the far end of Hollyburrow, the Tal Alon enclave.

But some had escaped.  And over time, Banamor had noted, it made its way downstream, as water tends to do, through the subjected domain of Bastidor, and beyond.

His meticulous records had demonstrated how odd things were happening along the route, and tales of them inevitably came to Banamor.  First, they arose in Sevendor Town, proper, though there were so many magi living there and so much spellwork going on that it was often difficult to tell from whence the wonders were coming from.  It was not unusual for an apprentice practicing his runes might futz a spell, or an enchanter of the bouleuterion would miscalculate in some working and produce an unexpected – and occasionally explosive – result.  Banamor or his deputies had to investigate every incident.

A year after their conquest by Minalan, the folk of Bastidor had begun to manifest similar magical sports in their small population.  At the bend in the Ketta in Bastidor the villagers who fished there began demonstrating a baffling array of strange new abilities the reports of which Banamor had accumulated in the Spellwarden files.  It was a strange mixture, as remarkable as the transformations within Sevendor, proper.

One goodwife discovered that her body was able to generate profound warmth in such degree that a wetted mantle placed over her head would dry in minutes.  A cooper developed the ability to stain any wood he touched bright orange, a color that would linger on his barrels for up to six days.  A young boy, after drinking from the stream, could maintain a burst of speed while running that astonished the entire village.  A girl found that she could command the attention and even direct the actions of frogs and other amphibians.  The effect did not extend to reptiles, birds or mammals, but she could conduct a chorus of frogs to sing, and would do so for a few pennies at the Bastidor taverns.  An alewife developed the ability to raise and lower the temperature in her vicinity when she became angry or was pleased by something.

Banamor and his men had collected and studied the accounts for years, since his appointment.  Though he had intervened and offered assistance to those who suffered the most from these unexpected manifestations, largely the spellwarden had been content to observe, although with a growing sense of foreboding.  Banamor had hoped that the effect would be temporary, or limited to a few spots where snowstone particles may have accumulated along the river.  But then came a report that not only captured his interest, but propelled him into the field in a rare excursion away from his beloved town.

Six months after the Spellmonger’s Exile, word reached Banamor of a new emergence of arcane Talent.  At another bend, in Kest, the next domain downstream from Bastidor, there was a small settlement in a marsh at the confluence of the Ketta and another stream, where apparently a significant amount of snowstone sediment had settled.  This marsh in Kest somehow produced a bumper crop of extraordinary sports.  One of the many magi who worked for the Greenwarden, his friend Olmeg, brought the tale to his office, where he reported to his new assistant, a lad named Ravalon.  It was said that a strange, dour warrior and a fair maiden with unique abilities had taken to the relatively distant, enchanted . . . swamp.  And they were drawing crowds.

“This came from a footwizard of cautious repute,” Ravalon began, that morning, “but I thought it worthy of your attention.  He relates that some sort of wood creature has taken residence in the marsh, and has been of late joined by a maiden who seems to have preternatural knowledge of the world.”

Ravalon looked the picture of clerkish efficiency in his doublet and hose, and he spoke as an educated man.  He was a graduate of Alar Academy, and came with many letters of recommendation when he applied for the position.  Banamor could not fault his willingness to work or his credentials.  He’d demonstrated himself a competent mage, and a bright young man.  Yet he was a poor replacement for Gareth, despite his education, efficiency, and attention to detail.

“Foresight?” Banamor asked, curiously.  He was wary of foresight — that skated dangerously close to prophecy, he knew, and while foreseeing the future and telling people about it wasn’t technically illegal, anymore, it was severely frowned upon by the reputable magi.  Not even the gods, it was said, wanted to know the future.

“Unknown, milord,” Ravalon admitted, “or at least unconfirmed.  But if so, it’s quite a limited gift.  The maiden reportedly admits she doesn’t know far more than she tells.  The warrior is the one I’d be concerned with.  His skin is as thick as bark, it is said, and he can barely move.”

“Poor bastard,” Banamor sighed.  “I suppose we should investigate.  You said there were adherents?”

“According to the footwizard, about a dozen locals have made pilgrimage to the swamp.  The pair have a small hut there, now, and they – well, she – takes their questions and tries to answer them.  She’s been right often enough to gain a following.”

“That could be trouble,” Banamor murmured.  “Perhaps she’s just a charlatan.”

“Not according to the report,” Ravalon said, shaking his head.  “The footwizard might just be a technician, but he uses magesight.  He said she lit up like a temple festival.  Wild magic,” he explained, with the little sneer most Imperially-trained magi reserved for anyone who didn’t learn magic the way they did.

“Then she might have the curse of prophecy,” Banamor sighed.  “Or she might just be confused about her powers and is a really good guesser.”

In his footwizard days, he’d seen how some poor, deluded souls had mistaken rajira, or the manifestation of a sport Talent, as a divine blessing or a sacred mission.  Such tales usually had a sad end.  Especially when they convinced others to accept their delusion, raised their expectations, and then failed to fulfill them.  While Banamor had no doubt that the gods did, indeed, bless some individuals with a modicum of their divine power, he also knew such occurrences were rare and exceptional.  It was usually just plain, ordinary magic to blame.

Yet Kest was in his purview as Baronial Spellwarden, and he had a duty to investigate and evaluate the effect.  He was about to order Ravalon to assign a man to go to Kest when he had a sudden urge to see to the matter personally.

“I think we need to make a little pilgrimage to see this swamp maiden, then,” he decided.  “You and me, both.”

“Both of us, my lord?” Ravalon asked, surprised.

“It’s been a while since I got out of the office – out of town,” he corrected.  “And it’s been far too long since I examined the Ketta issue thoroughly.  Things are pretty slow, at the moment.  Hire us a team for a few days, and we’ll go take a look at this prophetic swamp girl.”

Ravalon did not look terribly enthusiastic about the proposal.  “You really think it requires your personal attention, my lord?”  He glanced around at the numerous tables strewn with parchment, the result of Banamor’s many responsibilities.

“My intuition says it does,” Banamor agreed, after a few moments’ thought.  “Intuition saved my life more than once, when I was on the road.  It’s telling me to go see to this.  Go see if Joppo the Root is available, up at the castle,” he decided.  “He’s the right sort of fellow for this job.  We’ll leave in a few days.”

***

There was more to Banamor’s impulse than mere bureaucratic efficiency.  He was genuinely concerned with the spread of magic outside of Sevendor.  A morning meeting with Sire Cei, newly returned from his estates, had brought tales of strange creatures attracted to the entire Bontal Vale, ever closer to the magical white mountain and the town for which he was responsible.  But that was a symptom, he knew.  What he suspected was that the leeching of snowstone into the surrounding world was having a more profound and fundamental effect.

He was no thaumaturge. He was a businessman.  Magic was his trade, even if he wasn’t personally adept at the intricacies of the great spells that had filled Sevendor.  He had no pretensions of great arcane skill, nor the native Talent to pursue such skill.

But he recognized opportunity, when he saw it, and was keenly aware of dangers, both obvious and subtle.  Keeping his skin intact and his belly full had been his operating principal for years as a footwizard.  While he no longer feared the Royal Censors or missing a meal, the instincts he’d developed in his career on the road still informed his intuition.  It was telling him that there was both danger and opportunity bound up with this matter.

He frustrated young Ravalon with the frequency of his stops, once Joppo brought the team and carriage around.  Indeed, before they’d even left the domain Banamor insisted they stop at the Diketower to examine the stream.  He had the younger mage take readings with a savistator and record various species of plants growing in proximity to the Ketta and record them.  Thrice more did they pause along the course of the stream as it entered Bastidor to make observations.

“My lord, was it not the sport Talents you wished to study?” Ravalon asked, the fourth time they returned to the carriage.  “Why are we concerned with the plants and rocks?”

“They might not have taught you this at the academy,” he said, digging at the lad’s impressive education, “but water runs downhill.  Particles in water get trapped in the banks or bottom of a stream.  It’s all very complicated,” he added, sarcastically.  “The magical resistance readings show me how much snowstone has gotten trapped and where.  The variety of plants and types of animals show me how profound the effect is, and how far it extends.”

“And that tells you what, exactly?” Ravalon asked, confused.

“Nothing yet,” Banamor admitted.  “But it is knowledge.  Knowledge is useful, even if you don’t always know how it’s going to be useful.”

They tarried in Bastidor Town for luncheon, allowing Joppo to rest and feed the team while they supped at a popular tavern that catered to travelers.  Bastidor had grown significantly, since the rise of the Spellmonger.  That had started even before Minalan had conquered the domain in his first war as the traffic to and from the magelands had increased.  When he’d first come through the village when he first sought out the rumors of a magelord, Bastidor had been only slightly less-miserable than Sevendor had been.

Now it was prosperous, easily four times that size.  Cottages and shops lined the road for miles on either side of the town’s palisade.  The sorrowful little tavern that had once been the village’s only entertainment was gone, replaced by four larger and better-attended taverns and a large inn.  There was a temple under construction along the High Street, and shrines dotted the lanes.  The castle that loomed on the cliffs above the town was even larger, thanks to the improved fortunes of the domain.  The people were well-fed, well-dressed, and prosperous – quite a reversal from the sad little place Banamor had first seen.

During their meal, Banamor and Ravalon quietly interviewed several local Bastadori, casually inquiring about unusual magical manifestations.  They collected enough to fill an entire sheet of parchment, before they left, adding to the growing folio.

“Well, that was enlightening,” Ravalon complained, sarcastically, as he looked over the freshly-inked accounts.  “Two more sports and a pig that gives you temporary amnesia when you touch it.  That will prove useful, come butchering time.  A pity we missed the singing frogs.  I think I might have liked that.”

“If not enlightening, it was certainly informative,” nodded Banamor, as the carriage rumbled down the road.  “The pig was a new manifestation,” he added.  “It stands to reason, though.  If the humans who drink from the river are affected, why wouldn’t the animals be, too?”

“Animals don’t have rajira,” Ravalon said, shaking his head.  “Do they?”

“You’re the one who went to the fancy academy,” Banamor shrugged.  “You tell me.”

“They skipped magical pigs in thaumaturgy,” the younger mage informed him.  “Although the hams the cooks prepared for Ishi’s Day were close to magical.  They did them in a dried cherry sauce—”

“My point is that we only have the smallest understanding of rajira manifesting in humanity.  Perhaps it appears with the same frequency – or more – in some animals.  Oh, not so that they could cast spells, I suppose, but perhaps enough to develop some wild magic or appear in Sports, like the Piggy of Momentary Forgetfulness.”

Ravalon winced.  “Why do we give things such outlandish names?” he complained.

“We’re wizards,” explained Banamor.  “Who else is going to do it?”

They departed the main road just after crossing the frontier into Kest as they followed the Ketta.  Kest was far less hilly and rocky than Bastidor, allowing farming on a grander scale than the mountain domains.

Indeed, Kest was a model domain, in many ways.  Enjoying stable and wise leadership for several generations, and only lightly touched by the recent wars, the fields and groves of the land were abundant, if not bountiful.  The people were prosperous and well-fed.  The herds of sheep grazing in the pastures provided a warm and sturdy grade of wool highly prized both in the Bontal and beyond, and fetched a fair price at market.

But Kest had not escaped the flow of snowstone particles down the river.  Banamor ordered stops twice, before dark, once at a ford and once at a cascade, to evaluate the plants and animals once again.  The result confirmed his suspicions: there were definite signs that the Ketta had been affecting the plants surrounding the stream.  The varieties that Banamor had come to associate with a low arcane resistance were present in abundance, and some had grown either larger than usual or had displayed some other characteristic due to the thaumaturgic environment.

“It appears as if we have a magical river,” Banamor grunted, as they returned to the carriage just before sundown.

“Shall we call it the Winding Stream of Magical Wetness, perhaps?” Ravalon asked, sarcastically.

“I think we can trust folklore to supply any future nicknames for the Ketta,” Banamor predicted.  “Indeed, I’d like to avoid calling attention to this effect, if we can.  We already have pilgrims aplenty, coming to see the Everfire.  And wizards traveling here from all over the world.  I’m not sure encouraging people to try to drink the magic in this river is a good idea.”

“I thought you’d embrace the possibility of selling the water of the Ketta for a highly inflated prices to gullible tourists,” Ravalon suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Banamor admitted, after a moment’s thought.  “Especially if we used snowsand glass for bottles.  Maybe with a little glowing enchantment, just to be showy.

“But I’m more concerned with disrupting the lives of our neighbors more than we already have.  They’re already starting to feel the effects of having a neighbor like Sevendor.  The magical effects,” he emphasized.  “Relations between feudal domains are already dicey enough.  Magic just complicates things.  We’ve tracked the extent of the river effect to this point, and we’re already miles from Sevendor.  How far down does it go?  All the way to the Bontal River?”

“Ishi’s tits, we’re not going to trace this stream all the way to the sea, are we?” asked Ravalon, horrified.  “I’ve not prepared for that!”

“Unlikely,” Banamor said, absently, as he pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment from his lap desk and manifested a magelight in the growing darkness of the carriage.  “But we’ll see the extent of the effect on this trip, and plot the concentrations and effects along the way.  And document the sports, and the differences in plant life, like we have.  There might be something to see in those records.  Joppo!  See if you can find some field or meadow just off the track to camp in for the evening.”

“Not an inn?” the carter asked, his broad, round face looking disappointed.

“And waste money on overpriced fleas?” Banamor scoffed.  “There are no inns on this road for another seven miles.  We’ll camp, tonight,” he said, as he shut the door to the carriage.

“It is actually interesting,” Ravalon conceded, as he examined the records of their savistator readings as the carriage began moving. “The distribution of the field is uneven, according to this.”

“Is it?” Banamor asked his assistant, frowning.

“According to this,” Ravalon agreed, pointing to the neat row of numbers on the scroll.  “I mean, I would expect the effect would diminish, the farther downstream we went.  Perhaps not in a constant way, due to the unequal distribution of the snowstone particles along the course of the river.  But I would naturally expect the effect to be stronger closer to Sevendor and progressively weaker as we go downstream.”

“That’s reasonable,” considered Banamor.

“But that’s not what’s happening,” Ravalon said, rolling up the scroll.  “Not like I expected.  We’ve found three areas downstream of Bastidor Town that have higher readings than there.  Now, perhaps there are pockets of snowstone that are accumulating, but I’d think with the number of additional streams feeding the river and the seasonal floods that they would have been diluted into a lower effect.  It’s . . . interesting,” he admitted.

“Certainly worthy of further study,” agreed Banamor.  “You see why I look into these things?  Now consider how that might interact with naturally occurring energy nodes.  Back before I got my witchstone, we footwizards were constantly on the lookout for a good flow we could soak up for a couple of days if we wanted to get any work done.”

“I didn’t think anyone actually used elemental energy flows for empowerment,” Ravalon said, shaking his head.

“You do if you’re a footwizard,” Banamor related.  “In fact, you get a feeling for them.  Some fellows are adept at reading the world from the lines of elemental power.  Most of us could find and use one if we needed it.  Oh, I know,” he said, holding up his hand, “even a basic knowledge of Imperial Magic allows you more efficient methods of generating elemental power, but sometimes you don’t have the luxury of a classic education and days of loafing around raising power and you have to godsdamn work for a living.  Finding a good elemental flow can cut your preparation time for a spell in half.  It’s easier on your body and mind.”

“Your point, my lord?” Ravalon asked.

“Those elemental lines usually lay across the world in a way that suggests that ethereal density plays a role in their direction, disposition, intensity, and location.  Trust me, I’ve done enough magic out in the wilds to know,” he promised.  “Before I ever heard of a savistator I knew that a good earth line or water line usually had spots in it where it was significantly low density enough to work a charm better.  Hells, some fellows even build their homes in the middle of one, if they can, just to take advantage of it.  Minalan did that, when he picked his tower at the back of the castle for his home, when he came to Sevendor.”

“That . . . that actually does make a lot of sense,” Ravalon admitted, reluctantly.  “So what you’re saying is that the increased snowstone along the Ketta is increasing the drop in ambient etheric density which could, theoretically, change the naturally-occurring pattern of elemental energies across the Bontal Vales?”

“Essentially,” Banamor nodded.  “A lot of good rivers have lingering water elemental energy along their routes.  Sometimes they cross earth elemental lines, usually around waterfalls with a lot of big rocks, or along cascades when the two lines can run congruently.  Those are great places to find those spots.

“But what if the Ketta’s lower density begins to generate its own line, or attract others?” he proposed.

“That should be easy enough to determine,” agreed Ravalon.  “I have a couple of thaumaturgically minded friends over at the bouleuterion who might be able to help out, if the coin is right.”

“It’s government work, the coin is always right,” dismissed Banamor.  “I’m just considering the possibilities of a strong, stable flow of water elemental energy leaking out of Sevendor.  Along with a lot of snowstone-impregnated mud.”

“How is that useful to consider?” the younger mage said, stifling a yawn.  “It’s not even knowledge, it’s speculation.”

“Speculation is essential to enterprise,” Banamor pointed out.  “I don’t know how it’s going to be useful, yet, but it doesn’t hurt me any to consider the matter.”

Joppo halted the team on a grassy meadow next to a wheatfield where the Ketta turned a bit to the north around a small howe.  The two wizards stretched their cramped muscles while Joppo unhooked the horses and fed them.

“I suppose we’re sleeping under the stars, tonight,” Ravalon said, as he stared at the sunset.  “Thankfully it doesn’t look like rain.”

“You are welcome to, and it’s a fair enough night for it,” agreed Banamor, taking a wand from his satchel.  “As much as I enjoy Nature, I’ve spent entirely too much time in it, over the years.  I prefer a more civilized approach, now,” he chuckled, and activated the wand.

Instantly, a hoxter pocket opened and a small, well-crafted wooden shelter appeared in the meadow.  It was only twelve feet wide and as many deep, but it had windows, a pitched roof and a chimney in addition to the stout wooden door.  A painted wooden sign hung from a beam over the door proclaiming “SPELLWARDEN FIELD OFFICE” and bearing the badge of his position.  The three green stars, set in an equilateral triangle, points facing in, told the illiterate that, if nothing else, that there was a wizard within.

“You brought your own house?” Ravalon asked, amazed and amused.

“I lived long enough without one to want to ensure I never lacked one, again,” Banamor nodded, solemnly.  “I stole the idea from Minalan, of course.  Those ‘sudden fortresses’ he builds, and his luxury campaign pavilion.  So I made my own.  And charged the office for it.  In fact, I’ve had several made in various styles and offering different amenities.  I always carry a couple with me, just in case.  Occasionally, I’ll stash one someplace special,” he said, as he opened the door.  Immediately, magelights appeared both over the door and from within the small cottage.

“This is delightful, my lord!” Ravalon said, as he followed.

“Just the thing for a busy wizard who enjoys his privacy,” agreed Banamor, grinning.  “This was the first opportunity I had to try out the official version.  I’ve another for more permanent lodgings, one for romantic liaisons, and one for hearty adventure.  And then one full of books and comfortable furniture.  If Minalan can build magical field fortifications that can fight on his behalf, then I can build a portable get-away that can flatter my decadency.  I sell three hells out of these things,” he added.

“You sell them?” Ravalon asked, surprised.

“For sixty ounces each – gold,” he added.  That was more than a decade’s worth of Ravalon’s salary.  “My cost is less than a third of that.  But the magical nobility can’t get enough of them.”

“This cottage costs as much as a prosperous estate?” Ravalon said, looking around at the neatly-appointed furnishings with skepticism.

“For people with money, it’s not about the money,” Banamor explained, “it’s about the convenience.  And the status.  For me, it’s about security.  And comfort.”

Indeed, the cottage had two sturdy beds, a table, two chairs, and a tiny iron firebox instead of a fireplace.  Wood was already split and stacked, ready for use.  It needed no more fire than that, as the place was lit with magelights and a cooking stone provided enough heat to boil water, at need.

But there was no need for that, either.  Banamor owned the Alembic, one of the finest wineshops in Sevendor, and had had his cook prepare several meals which he’d stored in hoxter pockets in advance.  By the time Joppo came in from the team, the table had been set with a gigantic pheasant pie, bread, butter, peaches, and stewed carrots.  A large pitcher of ale was produced, along with plates and cups, and the three men set to their food hungrily.

“Try to find that at a country inn!” Banamor said, enormously pleased at the meal.  “My new pastry cook, that Tal Alon girl, Meadowsweet, she’s got real talent!”

“It was excellent,” Ravalon agreed, pushing away the remains of his pie.  “You should find a wife who cooks like that, my lord,” he added.

“A wife?” snorted Banamor.  “Why get a wife at all?  I can hire a cook and fire a cook, if I need to.  You can’t fire a wife.”

“Half o’ Sevendor’s widows are casting their eye on the Lord Mayor,” Joppo said, knowingly.  “All that room in his shop, the fine clothes, all that coin in his purse . . . they don’t even care much what he looks like.”

“Which is why I don’t need a wife,” declared Banamor.  “The last thing I need is someone telling me how I’m running things wrong all the time.”

“You don’t like women?” Ravalon asked, curiously, as he dug his pipe out of his pouch.

“Oh, I like them fine,” Banamor assured.  “I’ve got a few business partners who are women.  But a man like me needs the freedom to act without considering how it’s going to affect a wife.  And there are few women who would put up with how much time I devote to my affairs.  Believe me, I’m doing all women a favor by staying a bachelor.”

“Doesn’t it get . . . lonely?” Joppo asked, clearing his throat.  Banamor knew at once what the carter was suggesting.

“I spent years on the road by myself,” the former footwizard explained.  “In my experience a man can find comfort and opportunities to soothe his loneliness . . . but inflicting myself on some poor woman for the rest of her life just never seemed fair.  In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, with a grin, “I’m kind of an asshole.”

***

Just after dawn the next morning there was no trace of the magical cottage left in the meadow, and the carriage was descending the sloping road before the sun was visible over the trees.  The Ketta had gotten wider, as it spilled into the lower elevations, and a number of smaller streams fed into the river.  Banamor insisted that they stop and conduct more readings every half-mile or so, or if they came upon a cataract where snowstone particles might collect.

They came to a little hamlet midmorning, a half-dozen round wooden huts clustered around a small stone shrine on the riverbank that didn’t seem to be devoted to any of the major divinities Banamor was aware of.  A few inquiries to the peasants revealed it was an old shrine to the river goddess, but no one was really sure what her name was or who had put it there.

But they did have reports of strange happenings to share – a local man had the power to apparently encourage the growth of hair, if he touched you.  Ravalon dutifully recorded the incident, along with Banamor’s observations of plant life and the etheric density of the place.

“See?  The ratings are much lower here,” Ravalon pointed out.  “I think we’re coming to the end of the snowstone influence.”

“Perhaps,” muttered Banamor, as he studied the shrine.  “But while you were reading the savistator, one of the goodwives mentioned a nuisance: the girl in the swamp who can tell the future.  She wasn’t happy about it.  Apparently, her daughter keeps sneaking away to see if the prophetess can tell her who she’ll marry.  And her husband has been there, too.  She suspects the girl is offering other services besides the arcane.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened,” Ravalon reminded him.  “Half of the Calrom fortunetellers are also prostitutes, if you believe the stories.”

“I’ve known plenty of Calrom,” snorted Banamor.  “It’s actually only about a quarter of them.  But she told me how to get there.  We take a left at the next fork and then it’s down about two miles, where we’ll have to walk the rest of the way.  Apparently it gets quite swampy where the Ketta meets the Almanic River.  The carriage won’t make it through.”

If anything, the goodwife had been optimistic about how close to the swamp the carriage could go, and the wizards had to abandon Joppo and the team long before they came to the swamp, proper.  Though Ravalon was reluctant to trudge through the overgrown underbrush, Banamor plunged into the sodden land without regard to his expensive boots, calling out his observations to his assistant as they followed the path that clearly led within.

It was a well-trodden track, despite the moist conditions of the soil.  Banamor suspected that there was a spring or two adding to the wetness that fueled the lush growth of briers and tubers that lined the trail.  Clearly the prophetess had been attracting more traffic than most swamps enjoy, he noted, though there was no sign or signal that he could see that would direct people there.

But people there were, in the swamp.  By noon the two wizards stumbled upon the small, slightly-raised meadow where the swamp lady and her companion had set up shop, only a few feet from the bank of the Ketta.  It was not exactly an idyllic glade, Banamor decided, but it was certainly spooky and mysterious enough to warrant a swamp witch.

A half-dozen folk had already gathered around the tiny hut to await the appearance of the prophetess.  Nearly all of them were peasants, save for one chandler, and all had questions they desperately wanted the girl to answer.  They were even more impressed that two actual wizards were in attendance, as if their presence proved the efficacy of the swamp lady’s predictions.  It was telling of the popularity of the oracle that three more people arrived before she made an appearance.

Banamor did little to dissuade them – he wasn’t there to ruin their dreams, he was there to investigate.  He wanted to wait and watch for a while before he intervened.  He wanted to see what he was dealing with.  He did not have long to wait, thankfully.  When the murmurs in the crowd outside of the hut grew loud enough, the maiden of the swamp finally emerged.

When she appeared at the door of the tiny cot, there were gasps and cheers that belied her slender form or hesitant presentation.  Clearly a peasant girl, with dark hair under a mantle and comely blue eyes.  The girl was not unattractive –youth comes with its own beauty, and her tender years gave her grace that Banamor knew would eventually fade.

But he could see that it was the pure sincerity on her face that aided the allure that had attracted dozens to her hut.  Whatever else she might be, Banamor decided, she was no charlatan.  She truly believed in what she said.

“Well, she’s a pretty one,” Ravalon noted, in a murmur.  “I can see why the goodwife was suspicious.  But no sign of her companion, yet.”

“She can’t be more than fifteen,” Banamor dismissed.  “Old enough for rajira to emerge.  Too young to be cynical enough to be a cheat.”

“She doesn’t even charge, from what I’ve been hearing.  She just takes offerings,” Ravalon agreed.

The girl was scared, Banamor could see, but also excited that so many people had sought her out.  Like most young girls, he decided, she seemed to enjoy the attention.  She waved at some familiar faces, and then looked to see whom else had come, and even caught Banamor’s eye.  He gave her a faint nod and a hint of a smile before she moved on.  Finally, she addressed the crowd.

“I’m so glad that you all came here today to see me,” she began in a youthful voice.  “I know not if I can help you, but I’m willing to try,” she announced.  “One at a time, please,” she added, as she moved over to a spot by the fire.

Banamor studied her process closely, and focused his magesight on her actions.  One by one the petitioners came, spoke with her a few words in quiet tones, and then the maiden would dip her hand into the stream, close her eyes, and wait.  Sometimes for a few moments, sometimes longer, but eventually her eyes opened and she gave an answer. But not necessarily the right answer. The first two petitioners did not receive the responses they were looking for and went away grudgingly.

There was clearly magic at play here, magesight told him, but he was not satisfied with mere observation.  He needed more detail.  Banamor began casting spells by the turn of the third humble petitioner, an older goodwife whose face was an expression of concern.

The woman anxiously confided her question to the maid, then watched in anticipation as she performed the hand-dipping exercise.  The moment the girl’s fingers touched the water, the thaumaturgical essays he’d quietly cast told him that there was, indeed, true power in the girl, thaumaturgic power.  Wild Magic.

But the stream was somehow involved, too, he saw with magesight; that was quite interesting.  When the maiden’s hand touched it, there was a surge of power and a brief flash as the water under her fingers became engaged in the spell.  Not merely a portion of the stream, but all of it.  That was surprising.

As he watched the third time, the girl finally returned an answer that left the woman joyous, and the crowd gave an excited cheer in response.  She tearfully thrust a coin on the lass before she left.

The rest of the afternoon went similarly; most of the anxious questions asked of the girl were unfulfilled, while a few were satisfied with the answers she gave.  Somehow the rarity of the prophecies – or whatever she was doing – made her successes all the more appealing to the crowd.

Banamor waited patiently as each and every peasant who’d come to ask their questions of the swamp witch had spoken to her.  Only after the last one left did he approach her.

“That was a good bit of work for the day,” he said, sincerely, as he finally approached her.

“Thank you.  Do you have a question?” she asked, glancing at their pointed hats.

“Many,” Banamor agreed.  “You speak to this many people every day?”

“It would be wrong to turn anyone away,” the girl said, thoughtfully.  “Some of them have walked miles to get here.”

“And what do they find when they do?  What kinds of questions are they asking you?” he inquired.  That took the maid aback.

“They are personal,” the girl said, flatly.  “Each to their own.  One woman asked if her son had survived battle – I saw that he did,” she said, proudly.

“How did you know?” prompted Banamor.

“Because I saw his face in the water,” she explained, after a moment’s thought.  “Why do you want to know these things?” she demanded, impatiently.

“Forgive me,” Banamor said, realizing he hadn’t introduced himself.  “I am Banamor, a Magelord of Sevendor,” he said, bowing efficiently.  “I am the Spellwarden for the barony.  This is my assistant, the wizard Ravalon.  We investigate matters such as these,” he added.

“What ‘matters’?” the girl asked, nervously.

“Any magical matters that don’t fall in someone else’s purview,” he provided.  “I’m not a Censor,” he added, quickly.  “I’m not here to punish you.  I simply want to see what you do and why.  For instance, when did this ability first manifest Maid . . .”

“Glevenie, m’lord,” she mumbled, self-consciously.  “Glevenie of Pursell, that’s a manor up the road a-ways,” she added, casually.  “It didn’t start until I began my monthlies, last year.  When I washed in the river I could . . . I could see . . . all sorts of things!” she said, shaking her head at the memory.  “At first, I thought I was going mad . . . but after a while I learned how to sort things out a bit, and now I can see . . . well, whatever the river sees!” she explained, nervously.

“Well, Maid Glevenie,” nodded Banamor, “from your tale I must conclude that you have had an emergence of rajira – that’s the Talent to use magic.  When rajira first arises in a person, there’s usually a natural expression of the raw potential associated with one of the elements – in this case, water.  But I’ve never seen this sort of ability manifest before,” he admitted.

“You’re a wizard then, m’lord?” Glevenie asked, he curiosity just managing to overcome her shyness.  “This is magic?  Not a gift from the goddess?”

“I’m afraid I cannot speak to that,” Banamor admitted.  “Not my field.  But I can assure you that this is a perfectly normal thaumaturgical expression.  An unusual one – most water-affiliated wizards produce ice or steam when they interact with water in an arcane way.  This is far more complex.”  He realized that he needed some credential other than his title to impress her.  “My dear, have you heard of the Hawkmaiden?  Lady Lenodara of Westwood?”

“Oh, aye, m’lord, everyone has heard of her!” Glevenie assured him with an enthusiastic nod.

“Well, I happen to be the wizard who first examined her for rajira, after the Snow That Never Melted,” he reported.  “If you will permit, I would like to run the same simple essays on you.  It won’t hurt,” he promised, hastily, “but I might ask you to do some things that make you feel rather silly.  Can you contend with that?”

Her eyes darted from Banamor to his assistant and back again.  Glevenie took a deep breath and nodded.

“Well, let’s get started then, shall we?” Banamor said, as he manifested his baculus from a hoxter pocket enchanted into a ring.

It was a bit shorter than other such devices, but exquisitely crafted.  It was constructed of a particularly dark hue of weirwood provided its shaft, and an intricately wrought head of argentium, encasing several powerful jewels, made it an impressive rod. Banamor had the thing built by the bouleuterion to his exact specifications.  Appraisal, he’d named it, for it was designed for use in managing his abundant commercial affairs.

Even with the assistance of his baculus the simple tests still took an hour to perform. Ravalon scoured the clearing and took many savistator readings while Banamor ran the tedious battery of examinations, with Appraisal’s help.  For someone untrained in classic Imperial Magic, Banamor had gotten pretty good with the assessment protocol, as he had often been called upon to test potential new wizards in Sevendor.  The paraclete within his baculus was growing ever-more adept at the task, he’d done it so much.  By the time Ravalon had finished his observations of the river, Banamor had his answer.

“You, my dear maiden, have a great whopping load of rajira in you,” he pronounced, finally setting Appraisal aside.  “More than enough to qualify you for apprenticeship and training.  If you have the wit to learn,” he added.  “Your Talent skews heavily toward the element of Water, of course, but there are other elements within the expression of your rajira that make your Talent more exotic.  Like doing this trick with the river,” he said, nodding toward the Ketta.

“I thought I was blessed by the goddess,” Glevenie said, sadly.  “You say it occurs naturally?  Oh, I feel such a fool!” she said, distraught.

“Don’t feel bad, my dear,” Banamor assured.  “That’s a common mistake, among those raised in households unfamiliar magic.  That’s why I came here to see you.  And it’s a good thing I did.  There’s still time to train you properly.”

“Train me?” Glevenie asked, surprised.  “To be . . . to be a wizard?”

“Yes, although with your level of Talent there are more paths open to you than the common wizard.  You should come to Sevendor,” he requested.

“Me?  Come to Sevendor?” she asked, confused.

“You and your companion . . . where is your companion?” Banamor asked.  “We were told you had a companion.”

“Oh, you mean Ricken,” she nodded.  “Ricken doesn’t like to linger where there are a lot of people,” Glevenie explained.  “He doesn’t like how they react.  He hides in the swamp until they’re gone.  I sent him out to the deep swamp this morning, before they started to come.”

“Can you summon him?” Ravalon asked.  “We hear he is more afflicted by his effect than you are.”

“Aye, he’s miserable,” she sighed, her voice full of pity.  “I only found him because I was washing clothes upstream and saw his face in the water.  It was so very sad, and the river seemed to tell me to find him.  That’s when I came here,” she said, waving at the clearing.

“He was a wretched thing, before I came along.  All he ate came from the swamp.  He can’t go to market, looking as he does.  I brought him food from the manor, until people started asking me questions.  He’s the one who built this hut.  I began seeing for people, and they’d pay me a penny or more if the answer was right.  That’s enough for us to live on,” she said, proudly.

“As a wizard you can make far more than that, once you are trained,” promised Ravalon.  “And there might be ways to help your friend, if we can see him.”

She looked at both men with a trace of suspicion.  “Ricken doesn’t usually like strangers,” she said, cautiously.

“Then perhaps you’ll introduce us,” Banamor said, confidently.  “Then we won’t be strangers anymore.  I assure you, Maid Glevenie, we mean your friend no harm.  We merely wish to examine him, as we examined you.”

“All right,” she sighed.  “If you think you can help him . . .”

The girl led the two wizards over a log that lay across the river, and then through a dense patch of underbrush.  For a quarter-mile they trudged carefully through the swamp, their every step sinking into the saturated soil.  Soon they came to another small hillock that afforded at least a dry place to sit.  That’s where they found poor Ricken, his hands around his knees, looking for all the world like a stump.

For the man’s skin had turned thick and knobby, and was splotched with patches of brown.  His face was misshapen and asymmetrical with his affliction.  His head had no hair, and his chin no beard.  It was impossible to know his age under the cover of the lesions or growths or whatever the nature of the condition turned out to be.  He was shirtless, and his leggings were tattered and torn.  His misshapen feet could wear no shoes.  His face was stretched toward the sun, his eyes closed as they approached.

“Ricken!  Ricken, I have brought friends to see you!” Glevenie called, as they approached.  “They’re wizards!  Don’t worry!  They’re here to help!”

When the man opened his eyes and turned toward her, Banamor paused.  They were the most expressive, sorrowful eyes he had ever seen on a creature.  If the rest of his body resembled a monster, Ricken’s eyes were the most human the wizard had ever seen.  They reflected a misery and suffering that moved his heart the moment he saw them.

“Good day, m’lords,” he said, barely moving.

“Good day, Master Ricken,” Banamor said, moving into the patter he had developed as a footwizard as a defense against his own pity.  “I am Magelord Banamor, the Spellwarden of Sevendor, and I’ve come a long way to see you and Maid Glevenie.”

“Why?” the man asked, skeptically.  “What have we done wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he assured him.  “This is my assistant, Ravalon.  He’s also a wizard.  We’d like to examine you, and see if there is anything that can be done about your condition.”

“Wizards,” snorted the unfortunate man.  “I’ve prayed to the very gods every day for two years, and they have not helped me.  What can a wizard do?”

“That remains to be seen,” agreed Banamor.  “But when gods fail, magic can often find a way.  If you let me proceed, I hope to discover the nature of your condition.  With study, there may be a remedy,” he proposed, optimistically.

“You want to poke and prod me like an animal at market,” Ricken accused.

“Hardly, my friend,” Ravalon assured.  “Ask the maiden: the protocol is unintrusive.  Why don’t you come back to the hut with us, and we can discuss it more over supper?”

Banamor couldn’t blame Ravalon for wishing to return to the place; despite the hillock, the vegetation was thick and wild in this part of the swamp.  Birds and bugs were thick in the air, and there was a constant rustling in the underbrush that could be any manner of creature.

“We can even do the supper part first.  I can promise you a good meal out of it, at the very least,” agreed Banamor.  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, cast a few spells, and ask you to perform a few simple tasks, but that is the extent of the boon we ask.”

“It really isn’t any trouble, Ricken, I promise,” urged Glevenie, tugging on the man’s thick-scaled hand.  “And you haven’t eaten yet today.”

The afflicted man sighed, sorrowfully.  “That is true.  I will go with you.”  Watching him rise from his seat was painful, as his joints were covered with the same thick skin, and it clearly had impeded the poor man’s dexterity profoundly.  He moved slowly, and while he did not seem to be in pain, he was obviously uncomfortable in his movements.

“That’s it, my friend, let’s get back to your camp and see if we can’t sort this thing out,” Ravalon said, adopting Banamor’s encouraging tone.  “There might even be some previous case of this sort of thing in the archives, if we search.”

“It is the punishment of the gods,” Ricken grumbled.  “I know not what I did, but I have been cursed for it.”

“It was more likely magic, not the divine, is the cause of this,” Banamor suggested, pushing through the underbrush a bit to give the lumbering victim room to descend the hillock.  “If magic is the cause, it might also be the cure . . . oh!” he said, as he noticed something on the riverbank behind him.  A leaf.  It was a leaf he recognized instantly.

And it shook him to his core.

Banamor was familiar with thousands of leaves, of course, both personally and professionally, but he knew that there were some leaves that had especial meaning.  For magi, the sight of an unassuming small six-lobed, shiny green leaf that looked as if two stars had collided had significant meaning.  Indeed, he sucked in his breath at the sight.

Mindwort.

Banamor knew it for certain, as he’d seen it before, not just heard about it or seen drawings in a book.  Mindwort was legendary, and thought a myth by many.  But Banamor knew better.  Mindwort was every bit as real as it was rare.

There were many things along the road that a footwizard learned to fear . . . and many things he learned to seek to make his fortune.  There were rare, or at least uncommon substances that had to be foraged for, or prospected from nature and harvested.  There was a steady trade between footwizards and more established magi in such items.  That had kept him eating, when he was a traveler on the road.  Sympathy stones were one such item that was highly coveted, and he’d made a fortune upon them.

There were others.  Weirwood, suckleroot, caverny shells, crystals, andrimony flowers, all had a market amongst the hedgewizards and spellmongers of the world.  Banamor knew the footwizards of the Westlands frequently made forays into the gravelly desert to search for ancient bits of fossilized corals that could sometimes be found there.  It had a ready market among the spellmongers and adepts of the eastern cities.

There were fungi and lichens that arose in secluded vales in the Wilderlands, where his more rustic fellows foraged them to sell.  Discovering a wild stand of weirwood could feed an enterprising footwizard for a year, if he was shrewd about it, and returning to coppice the growth could supply a man with a steady income if he wasn’t too greedy.

But Mindwort was the near-mythical grand prize of the road, the perpetual lure that called to the foot-weary magi who roamed the land.  Finding Mindwort could secure a man’s fortune for years, or provide him enough to purchase a small estate, perhaps, if he secured a mundane partner.  Mindwort was worth five times its weight in gold, or more.

“You all return to the camp, I’ll be there in a moment,” he suggested, dragging his attention back from the plant for a moment.

“What?  Why?” Ravalon asked, confused.

“Because sometimes a man needs a private moment in the swamp,” Banamor said, pointedly.  “Without a crowd around.”

“Oh.  Oh!  All right, I’ll set things up for the second test,” the younger wizard conceded, assuming that it was biological necessity that compelled his boss.

“And summon Joppo to the clearing,” Banamor said.  “Tell him to leave the coach and bring the horses.  He won’t want to miss supper.”

Once they were out of sight, Banamor crept closer to the plant, almost as if he was afraid it would run away.  As he came within inches of it, he became certain that it was, indeed, Mindwort, and not some other herb.  It was just as he remembered, there could be no mistake.

Satisfied, he drew his baculus and proceeded to cast a number of spells on the as-of-yet immature plant.  He would be able to find this precise location, now, he knew, and the wardings he placed around the specimen would keep it from both discovery and molestation by the animals of the swamp.  Including any human foragers.

Once he returned to the camp, he felt more cheerful and hopeful than ever, and proceeded to mystify Maid Glevenie and Master Ricken by producing first his magical field headquarters, and then a magnificent supper out of hoxter pockets.  They enjoyed a meal together at twilight, under magelights, on a trestle set between the two cottages. There they listened to Ricken’s sorrowful tale.

Ricken proved to be a poor tanner of nearly thirty years old who had frequently washed his hides in the Ketta over the years.  It was a hard life, but he had endured it.  Until three years ago, when the change in his appearance began in his hands as he was washing and pulling tanned hides.

He had seen several doctors and priests for the solution, but none had counsel for him save prayer.  The effect transformed his skin into the thick, dark covering that he endured now, creeping up his arms, across his chest, and over his face.  In a year, he was afflicted from head to toe.

Ricken’s increasingly grotesque appearance was not the worst part, he related.  The pain from his condition was constant, and the loss of mobility he suffered made even simple tasks a trial.  Bright sunlight enflamed his pain, he found, and the only comfort he could find was when he was nearly submerged in cool water or thick mud, under a shady canopy.  He retired to the swamp to facilitate those remedies.

From there, his life had become a daily torment.  No longer was he allowed in the market at the local village, nor at the manors nearby, and few farmers wanted to sell their cowhides and sheepskins to a man who looked like a monster.  Eventually Ricken had to flee to the swamps and forage for his living like an animal, until Glevenie came along.

The tests the wizards conducted on Ricken after dinner were conclusive.  While Banamor oversaw the protocols for establishing Talent, Ravalon conducted tests on the poor man’s skin.  Just as Glevenie did, he possessed rajira, though in lesser amount than his friend.

“What does that mean?” he croaked, when Banamor told him the news.

“It means that it is unlikely that you have adequate quantities of magical Talent to become a mage,” Banamor said, apologetically, “but that doesn’t mean that you cannot be trained in some useful arcane field.  Many good dowsers and water wizards have less rajira than you and still make a fine living.  A friend of mine is a mage knight with just a bit more rajira than you, and he can estimate how many grains of wheat are in a bushel with startling accuracy.”

“Yes, there are plenty of positions for which a mage of low rajira can prosper,” agreed Ravalon.  “Especially in Sevendor.  Nor do I think your skin condition is beyond remedy,” he said, encouragingly.  “The essays I did on you reveal that your skin is reacting with some element or compound that is producing this effect.  A kind of magical allergy, if you will.”

“Allergy?” the former tanner asked, dully.

“That’s when your body reacts to something poorly,” explained Banamor.  “Like pollen or a particular type of food.  Sometimes it just gives you a rash, or makes you sneeze or swell.  Sometimes it’s more serious.”

“This is decidedly more serious,” agreed Ravalon, nodding somberly.  “I don’t know what agent is acting on you, Master Ricken, but I think that with some further tests we can discover what it is, and perhaps how to counter it,” he proposed.

The man’s soulful eyes were still skeptical, but Banamor thought he saw a glimmer of hope appear.  “You really think you can help me?” he asked.

“I think we will try everything that we can,” soothed Banamor.  “But to do that, we need to study your surroundings a bit more.  You and Maid Glevenie are not alone in your transformations.  I’d like to stay here a few days and make a special examination of this swamp before we return to Sevendor.”

“I cannot walk all the way there without scaring people,” Ricken sighed.

“Of course not,” agreed Banamor.  “You’ll ride in our closed carriage with me.  We can be there in just a day, and spare your feet.  Don’t worry, my friend; once a wizard is on the case, you can expect something to happen.”

Ravalon looked surprised at Banamor’s intention to linger in the swamp.  He discussed it the first time he got a moment alone with him.

“So we’re really taking these two unfortunates back to Sevendor?” he asked.

“I am,” Banamor agreed.  “I want you to stay behind and conduct further tests before you join us.”

Ravalon nodded, although he did not look pleased by the assignment.  “There is one thing I have a question about, my lord: how did you know that the maiden wasn’t making prophecy?” he asked.

“Because she was neither speaking in mystic riddles, which is a hallmark of the art, for some reason, nor was she making prophecy for every petitioner,” Banamor explained.  “All of the questions put to her that she successfully answered concerned the river.  She sees the entire length, from what she explained to me.  Anything the river ‘sees’ . . . I wonder if that holds true for tributaries?”

“I wonder if it holds true for other rivers,” Ravalon offered.  “My lord, there’s no wonder she can ‘see’ through the Ketta . . . the snowstone dust from the pond is making its way down here.  It has to be,” he insisted.

“Of course it does,” Banamor agreed.  “Water flows downhill.  And takes a bit of everything with it.  But there’s not much we can do about that,” he said with a sigh.  “Indeed, it appears the damage is done.  The Ketta will be a magical stream . . . whatever that means.”

“It would be interesting to determine the degree of change in etheric density around the Ketta, compared to an uncontaminated stream,” Ravalon mused.

Banamor nodded.  “I’m so glad you think so!” the Spellwarden agreed, enthusiastically.  “I do think it would be interesting.  And informative. See to it at once, personally,” he continued.

“You . . . you want me to take readings all along the Ketta?” Ravalon asked, with a good deal less enthusiasm.

“Well, it was your idea, I couldn’t deprive you of seeing it to its conclusion,” Banamor demurred.  “Take a savistator and a notebook, and record the etheric density of the Ketta from the point at which there is a negligible effect all the way back to its source,” he suggested.  “Every hundred yards or so.  That should give us enough information to determine the extent of the problem.”

“Every . . . hundred . . . yards?” Ravalon asked, his eyes wide.  “The Ketta is miles long!  That will take weeks!”

“Not more than a few days, more likely.  It’s mostly good weather,” Banamor reasoned.  “If you get an early start on it tomorrow morning, and persist in a diligent manner, you should be done well within a fortnight.  Perhaps slightly more,” he conceded.  “But the information will be invaluable.  And you’ll meet people,” Banamor encouraged.  “Perhaps a girl.”

Ravalon blanched.  Like his predecessor, Gareth, he was far more dedicated to the study of magic than of human nature, and he preferred the world of regulation and definition to that of conversation and discussion.  Introverts made great academics, Banamor had frequently mused, but there was more to being a wizard than could be learned in books and scrolls.

“That is a lot of walking,” Ravalon said, shaking his head.

“It will do you good, lad,” Banamor soothed.  “You Imperially-trained magi spend far too much time indoors and by yourselves.  When I was a footwizard, that was half of the fun of the job: meeting new people.  And, occasionally, fleeing from them,” he added.

“Fleeing?  Why?” Ravalon asked, even more pale.

“Ignorance, mostly,” Banamor recalled.  “When you’ve been hired to ward a tenement against vermin and fire, and you wander around the walls waving your arms and muttering under your breath all afternoon, your average peasant isn’t necessarily going to be understanding.  Indeed, they can be downright hostile.  To him, you’re just another creepy madman from out of town.”

“That sounds terribly unpleasant,” Ravalon said, his nostrils flaring a bit.

“It’s how you meet people,” Banamor repeated, stressing the verb.  “And meeting people is how a wizard improves his state, more than his spells.

“Had I not met a man in a tavern and chanced to introduce myself, I never would have heard of the Spellmonger of Sevendor, and never made my way there,” he related.  “Along the way I talked to more people and really listened.  By the time I got there, I had a fair idea of how to talk my way into the Magelord’s presence.  All because I met a man on the road and took some initiative.”

Ravalon was clearly not pleased at the reminder.  “But I’ll have proper credentials and such, won’t I?”

Banamor sighed.  “I suppose – though I think your task would be more interesting if you went without them.  There was a day when the Spellmonger sent his warmagi pupils out into enemy territory on a mission of espionage, and forbid them to even use magic.  Much less bear his credentials.  A day when renegade Censors still prowled the frontiers of Sevendor, seeking to strike at Minalan and the rest of us any way they could.”

“Well, that sounds horrid!” Ravalon said, his expression grim.

“It kept us all on our toes.  The challenges you receive in life are blessings disguised as curses, if you’re the right kind of wizard.  The gods never give us a problem without a gift concealed within.  It just takes the wisdom to see it.”

***

After Banamor wrote up the credentials his assistant would need and provided the lad with a horse, a savistator, and a purse to speed his way, Ravalon continued downstream, and promised to report back as soon as his investigations were done.

Once Banamor returned his magical cottage to its wand and had Joppo pack up the meager belongings of the two, he escorted his new charges back to Sevendor the next day inside the comfort of Joppo’s carriage.

It was a merry ride, and Banamor got to know both much better along the way.  Neither had ever been out of Kest, much less in a grand carriage, and both were eager to take in the sights as they rode.  If they were impressed by Bastidor Town’s expanse, they were overcome by Sevendor.  Both were wonder-struck at the magnificent town that had grown up in the shadow of the white mountain, and Banamor was pleased at hearing their gasps of awe as they saw some new feature or novel delight.

Once they arrived at his shop, he had to secure housing for them both.  Maid Glevenie he installed at the Sevendor Inn, one of the nicer establishments in town, until he could find a more permanent lodging.  Ricken, on the other hand, he brought directly to his shop before sending for wizards better equipped to study his malady.

In his absence, of course, Banamor’s other businesses and positions had developed issues that required his attention, and apart from having luncheon with Glevenie at the Alembic a few times, he spared little time to check on the two.

Instead, he plunged into the accounts, which he’d neglected for too long.  Though he’d hired two coinsisters to keep his account books and they did a remarkable job, Banamor still liked to keep abreast of his various enterprises.  A man who ignored such things long soon lost them.

As Spellwarden, Fairwarden, and Lord Mayor of Sevendor Town, Banamor had come a long way from his days as a footwizard, trudging from hamlet to hamlet selling his spells for bed and board.  His lucrative partnership with Minalan the Spellmonger had seen his station improve from clandestine footwizard to Magelord, with title, wealth, and power greater than his humble ambitions had envisioned.  He was still no great and powerful wizard – there were a hundred magi in Sevendor who could best him in a contest of power or skill at magic.

But Banamor knew what few of the so-called “wise” had understood: a wizard’s greatest power was making things happen because you knew something someone else didn’t.  Possessing a great store of rajira and a witchstone could make you a mighty warmage, an enchanter of incredible power . . . but that kind of power was ephemeral.  Banamor knew that a man using his mind, not his magic, had a better opportunity to thrive.

He’d proven it a dozen times already, to the point where piling up coin for its own sake held little allure anymore.  He had a great fortune and had ensured that – no matter what the circumstance – he would have security.  A lifetime of paranoia on the road had trained him to make provision for any situation.

Power, too, had been a heady drug, when he’d first enjoyed it as mayor . . . but then the responsibilities soon overwhelmed the satisfaction power brought.  He’d indulged his curiosities about the pure arcane with the finest enchanters in the world at the bouleuterion, and he’d filled his shop with a variety of the most intriguing enchanted items.

Now his interest was more focused on keeping Sevendor running, in the absence of his patron.  Despite the relative quiet, after last year’s disastrous dragon attack, Banamor was all too aware of the dangers that the barony faced in the absence of its master.  He’d labored for years to grind Sevendor into its present shape and good economy; he was wary of anything that might impede its success.

Issues like the Ketta, and its bathhouse, were the sorts of things he looked after.  Most of his businesses ran themselves, at this point, and apart from monitoring accounts he didn’t interfere much.  But he was always looking for new opportunities, and though he didn’t quite know how yet, the issue of the Ketta seemed to be one.  It lingered at the back of his mind while he tended to other business, and Ravalon undertook the laborious task of charting the stream’s etheric density.

Two weeks later, his hapless assistant Ravalon returned – sunburned and exhausted.

Indeed, he had almost forgotten the mission he’d sent his deputy spellwarden upon until the man returned looking just a bit road-weary.  No doubt Ravalon counted his time in the field as an exhausting adventure, but Banamor knew that the exercise had done the lad some good both physically and personally.  He also knew that a few weeks stomping around in the brush during the middle of summer was nothing compared to the punishing life on the road he’d endured for years.  At least the man had boots to wear and coin in his pocket.

“So, how fared the experiment?” he asked, lightly, after pouring two glasses of wine.

“I’ve collected the readings you asked for,” Ravalon reported, after taking a healthy sip.  “And I collected samples from up and down the length of the river.  The good news is that the appreciable effect of the snowstone in the Ketta seems to fade almost entirely just before the frontiers of Kest.  Our problem is only a few miles long, so far.”

“But it will only grow, as long as the river flows.  And likely grow in strength, as well.  Any areas of especial note?” Banamor asked, casually.

“I discovered that the most profoundly affected area runs from the mill pond down to a hamlet called Frilinsy, about nine miles downstream,” he dutifully reported.  “It falls about one point every three quarters of a mile.  But . . . I think it’s going to expand all the way down to the Bontal, eventually, if nothing is done.”

“That’s likely,” Banamor agreed.  “Did you see any unusual arcane activity along the way?”  The expression on Ravalon’s face was answer enough, but the lad was good enough to expound.

“Unusual arcane activity?  I couldn’t go ten steps and not see some,” he declared.  “Most of it was subtle – arcanely sensitive natavia plants and fungus, a few unusual creatures attracted to the stream.

“But then there were pockets of sediment where I can only assume snowstone particulates were prevalent.  It was in those catchments that the effects were most dramatic.  In particular, where the accumulation was sufficient, a more extensive ecosystem has developed.  It is in those little estuaries that the most . . . unusual activity resulted.”

“How so?” asked Banamor, exceedingly intrigued, though he was good at concealing the level of his interest.

“Three things, of note,” Ravalon continued, as he took out a scroll of notes.  “First, in each of these nodes the local folk have spoken of ‘unseemly’ or ‘unearthly’ encounters . . . including one goodwife who was assisted in doing her laundry by an exceedingly helpful band of beavers who apparently knew the gossip of the entire hamlet and spoke to her of it in detail,” he said, referring to his notes.  “They were quite thorough.  The beavers, that is.”

“Interesting!” Banamor grunted.  “Continue.”

“Secondly, each littoral node of sediment manifested one or more regularly manifesting thaumaturgic events or conditions,” Ravalon said, unfurling another scroll of notes.  “In one pool, telekinetic activity became ridiculously easy to perform – reports indicate that even the non-Talented population experienced sudden unexplained movement of rocks, sticks, and other objects in the area.  I, myself, managed to manipulate things there far in excess of my normal capabilities, as if everything in the place was laced with knot coral.”

“Fascinating!” Banamor agreed, making some mental notes.  “How far did the zone extend?”

“About thirty feet from the pool, and a bit downstream,” Ravalon replied, moving on to the next portion.  “In another sediment basin, at night the node glows with arcane light and the moths and nightwebs perform a kind of . . . dance.  Somehow, the event produces a low-level euphoria in mundane observers and even more pronounced effects in the Talented.”  Banamor was certain there was more to the experience that the lad wasn’t telling, but he didn’t push it.

“It sounds like a reason for further study,” he agreed, making a note, and gesturing for Ravalon to continue.

“The swamp in Kest was, of course, highly affected.  But the most truly interesting effect was not our maiden in the marsh and her stumpy-looking friend, but actually a small ford a mile farther down the road.  It sporadically produces an interesting time-dilation effect.”

“‘Time dilation?’  What do you mean by that?” Banamor asked, skeptically.

“I mean, my lord, that at various times, for no reason I can discern, when one crosses the ford one may indeed arrive on the other side up to an hour before you left,” he reported, his face troubled.  “Conversely, you may arrive an hour later than one would suppose crossing a twelve-foot-wide stream would entail.”

“Either an hour before, or an hour after?” Banamor asked, his pen recording his thoughts as quickly as he could make it.

“Or some fraction thereof – I made nine crossings, and it never delayed or . . . propelled me into the future more than an hour.  Sometimes it was only a few moments.  Nor did it happen every time.  Twice, I crossed to see myself in different directions.  It was very confusing,” he confessed.

“No doubt!  How many of these . . . accretion zones are there, along the Ketta and its subsidiaries?” Banamor asked, suddenly.

“Nine, perhaps ten,” Ravalon revealed.  “Some are more potent than others.  And there are other places where they may emerge in the future,” he predicted.  “But that brings me to my third find, my lord: this,” he said, pulling a cloth wrapping from his pouch.  “Do you recognize this?”

As he unwrapped the specimen, Banamor’s eyes went wide with understanding.  It was a leaf.

“I wasn’t certain if this was—” Ravalon began.

“It is,” Banamor interrupted, quietly.  “There’s no mistake.  I’ve seen it before,” he said, casually.  “Mindwort.  It’s unmistakable.”

“You’ve . . . seen it?” Ravalon asked, surprised.  “I thought it was a legend, or only found in the vales of Vore, but—”

“Oh, it grows beyond the eastern valleys,” Banamor assured him, gingerly rewrapping the leaf.  “And it is real, as is its reputed powers.  If anything, they are underreported.”

“You’ve experienced the effect?” the lad asked, mystified.

Banamor nodded, not looking at him.  “Indeed.  This little leaf comes from a natavia lily, an unassuming little weed that occasionally – only occasionally – takes root in ponds or streams in some places.  It can grow unnoticed for months and months, until it blooms, usually in late summer but not always.  Then the little red flower – it looks like a red flame made from flower petals, it really is pretty – gets pollinated.

“If you’re lucky enough to be in the vicinity, the pollen of the flower is known to cause severe premonitions akin to prophecy.  Or to understand the speech of insects, that was never too clear.  But a few weeks later, after the flower has died, a pod of six shiny black seeds the size of your thumb grow on top of the pad.  Each one, when properly harvested and dried, can be ground up, mixed with just a bit of alcohol, and brewed.  The resulting potion has profound thaumaturgic effects on the one who takes it.”

“I’ve heard stories,” nodded Ravalon, solemnly.  “I’ve read a few accounts . . .”

“It was . . . glorious.  Until I came to Sevendor, it was the most profound thaumaturgical experience I’ve ever had,” he said, reverently, as the memory of the event came to him.

“There were three of us, back then, three footwizards stomping about, nearly ten summers ago.  In the northern Bontal Vales, Bocaraton, actually.  We were running the old Amesly-Narsa-Fingo route, that year, bringing back weirwood staves from Fingo to swap with a band of fellows from Narsa for makra shells.  Every fellow on the road has a plan like that,” he smiled, fondly, at the memory.

“Anyway, we were camping in a forest meadow along a stream in the wastelands, away from prying eyes, and we came across a flower just as it faded.  Blazing red, like it was painted by some gaudy goddess.  A good thing, too – another day and we would have skipped right past it.

“Once we realized what we had, well, we settled in and waited for it to come to fruit.  Weeks, we waited,” he recalled, “almost starving to death in the process.  None of us trusted the others alone with the plant, and we didn’t want to lose it, so we huddled around that little plant like it was a fire in a blizzard.

“We talked about what we would do for days.  What riches we could acquire, what luxuries we’d indulge in, which women we’d court – I’m sure you’ve had similar dreams,” he said.  “Everyone does.  But then the other question came to mind just as often: what power did the seed possess that compelled such a high market price?” he asked.  “What could that humble little seed do that would make a man part with enough gold to buy a manor?”

“We discussed that possibility for days, long after the idea of riches ceased to be novel.  You can only talk about fine clothes and plump whores so many times before it grows stale.  But the arcane possibilities presented an endless topic for discussion.

“Finally, half-starved and half-mad, the fateful day came.  The outer leaves grew dry and peeled away, revealing the seeds.  Despite our best intentions, each of us took two of them, congratulated each other on our patience, and promised each other we’d meet again when we were rich and famous.”

“What did you do?” Ravalon asked, his jaw dropped.

“I ate one, the first chance I had,” Banamor admitted, with a guilty smile.  “In a little village inn called the Three Bells, in Bocaraton.  Squalid little place, but I was safe from the Censors, there.  I’d planned on hopping the ferry to Sendaria the next day and start selling those seeds, but temptation got the best of me.  I mixed one with two drams of bad plum brandy and waited, kicking myself for doing it.  When I finally sipped the potion, I remember thinking, ‘this is what it is like to drink an entire estate’.”

“Was it worth it?” Ravalon asked, aghast.

“Well worth it,” Banamor affirmed, without hesitation.  “It’s hard to describe, but once the drug took effect, my ability to discern the thaumaturgic world was increased to the point where all the world was a vibrant string, pulsating with arcane power,” he said, lost in the image in his memory.  “The slightest thing hummed with every detail of its magical existence.  I could reach out and touch a . . . a cat,” he said, gesturing toward one of the several who claimed the shop as their home, “and know everything about it.  Everything.  How many littermates it was born with, who its mother was, how high it could jump, how good a hunter it was, whether it was feral, whether it was grumpy, whether it had aspirations of world conquest – far more common than you might expect – and where it saw itself within the universe.”

“All of that?  From a cat?”

“Or a mouse, or a person, or a dish, or a taper – everything was laid bare to me.  The simple enchantments I had up were revealed, exposing complexities and nuances of the spells I’d never imagined.  I saw the result of Wild Magic, both human and natural, in traces around the inn.  You have no idea how many old spells we wade through on a daily basis, even outside the magelands,” he assured.

“I have no doubt that footwizards and hedgewitches—”

“Oh, I’m not speaking of formal spells, but the natural or unconscious use of magic.  There are still remnants of Alka Alon spells cast before we came to this world lingering around.  But the human perspective was more telling.  My innkeeper, as it turns out, had a way of convincing people to go away that seemed a product of her personality . . . but under the effects of the seed, I saw she was casting a kind of natural Wild Magic charm to repel people.  One would think her stew would be enough for that, but the residue of her work was everywhere.  A woman with no detectable rajira,” he added.

“Was that the extent of the effect?” Ravalon asked, interested.

“Oh, no, that was just the beginning.  I could look at someone and see if they had rajira,” he reported, solemnly.  “Even the slightest bit.  More, I could usually tell the value and variety they possessed.  And it was a lot more folk than the Censors ever suspected,” he promised.

“Really?  That seems unlikely,” Ravalon said, thoughtfully.

“Unlikely or not, I saw folk with shrouds that pulsed like Archmagi, and who never expressed the slightest manifested Talent,” Banamor assured.   “Plowmen with the potential power of adepts, milkmaids with magic nearly crackling, just outside of their awareness.  It was . . . it was glorious.  Magesight?  Magesight was nothing, compared to this gift.

“The entire arcane world laid bare, like being in the Otherworld, only it was here, in this plane.  ‘This ragged, mortal plane, bereft of all wonder and elegance,’ if you’ve read Astrine the Sage, only it wasn’t bereft.  It showed every mortal, mundane thing enwrapped in arcane energy, each entangled with thaumaturgical force like a twisted skein of yarn.  It was the secret heart of the world laid bare,” he pronounced, reverently.

“You seem remarkably well educated, for a footwizard,” Ravalon observed.  “Where in three hells did you read Astrine?”

“The privy of the Censorate commandery in Drexel, actually,” Banamor grunted.  “Interesting story.  But for a day and a half under Mindwort, every secret of the universe was laid bare.  It was a revelation, different from any magic I’ve known.  A manor?  That experience was well worth the price of a barony.”

“But you sold the second seed,” Ravalon suggested.

“That was my intent,” agreed Banamor.  “After the Three Bells, I went forth into the world a changed man.  I had purpose, direction, and ambition.  With what I’d seen, and with what I knew about Mindwort, I knew I found my fortune – hells, I thought I could charge the thrones of the gods and change the godsdamned universe!” he said, with self-directed derision.  “I was a fool.  Before I came to the ferry at the Bontal, the feeling and effect had worn away.  The plans I had were dashed, for the memory of the Mindwort was as ephemeral as a maiden’s promise.”

“So you sold the second seed,” Ravalon repeated, confused.

“No, actually,” he chuckled.  “Once I got to Sendaria, I found that one of my mates had gotten there before me and sold one of his to the only buyer with both the desire and the resources to purchase it.  It had made him reasonably wealthy, though he made but half of what it was worth.  The witch threatened to rat him out to the Censors – I could have told him as much, but he took what he could from the transaction and moved on.

“But me?  When I saw I couldn’t sell it in Sendaria, I started skulking between domains, trying to figure where best to make my sale.  Yet the allure of that second seed was powerful.  It gnawed at me.  Every place I stopped, every night I possessed it, I stared at it for hours before wrapping it back up.

“I was finally in a mountain shithole known as Trestendor, plying my trade quietly to the peasants when I finally succumbed.  I mixed the second seed with a bit of mead, and when I finally indulged, I repeated the experience.

“Only this time I saw that the hills around me were filled with nodes of powerful magic, just under the red clay.  Hundreds of them.  Falohaudi stones,” he explained.  “I dug a few that were near the surface, enough to keep me eating through the winter.  It was a meager prize, compared to Mindwort, but it kept me going for a couple of years . . . until I came to Sevendor.”

“That is . . . I thought . . . you’ve actually tried Mindwort?  Twice?” Ravalon asked, in disbelief.

“So I know better than perhaps anyone you’ve known how potent a plant it is.  So potent that when it is discovered, virtually no seeds have ever been used to cultivate the plant.  The seeds are too rare and too valued to waste them thus.  So, if you have found one, my lad, the possibility for potential riches is looming,” he said, enthusiastically.

Instead of enthusiasm, Ravalon sank wearily into the chair behind him.  “Alas, my lord, I have not found a Mindwort lily.”

“What?” Banamor asked, confused.

“I found seventeen separate Mindwort lilies, along the Ketta,” he confessed.  “Sometimes in clumps of two or three.  Whatever arcane benefit the waters grant seem to favor the wort, and if I am not mistaken, they may be propagating liberally along the stream.”

“Well, now,” Banamor said, as the implications of the report began to weigh on him.  “Well, now.  I . . . I thought it a mere stroke of luck, but . . . seventeen?  Really?”

“I drew two sketches and part of a third, but I am sure,” the young mage agreed.  “I mapped out the locations in my notes.  If I understand what you’re saying, it appears that you have lucked into another fortune.”

“Luck has little to do with it – it’s magic,” sighed Banamor.  “And yes, there is a fortune in those seeds.  But, more importantly, there are discoveries to be made with them, discoveries about the very nature of magic,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Already Sevendor is filled with the brightest minds in the kingdom when it comes to magic – I’ve gotten letters from the academies complaining that our opportunities are luring away their finest people.  But with Mindwort, those gifted magi will be able to push beyond the limitations of magic as we know them.  That is why those seeds are important,” he concluded.

“Well, this should certainly stir the kettle down at the Staff and Sword!” Ravalon sighed, leaning back in his seat.

“No!” Banamor said, suddenly.  “No, tell no one about this.  Absolutely no one.  Not yet.  No, we have to handle this very, very carefully,” he said, shaking his head.  “Otherwise every half-wit in the barony will be disturbing the Ketta, looking for those lilies.  If I can harvest enough, I’m hoping to cultivate them.  Just the sort of thing Olmeg would excel at.”

“All right, I can keep a secret,” Ravalon dismissed.  “But I also wanted to inquire about our two guests, and how they are faring.”

“You’ll be happy to know that I entrusted Maid Glevenie to the adepts at the Secret Tower, where she is learning elementary instruction.  At my expense,” he added.  “Actually, it’s coming out of the spellwarden’s general account, but . . .”

“And our stumpy friend Ricken?” Ravalon asked.

“He is being tended to by Zagor the Hedgemage,” Banamor assured.

“Zagor?” Ravalon asked, confused.  “We have a town full of trained adepts and you’re letting that poor man be treated by an ignorant village spellmonger?”

“Anyone who regards Zagor as such is a fool,” Banamor chuckled.  “Don’t let his clothes or his rustic shop fool you,” he warned.  “Zagor knows more about the nature of magic and how it affects the nature of man and beast than a dozen Imperially-trained adepts.  He apprenticed with the Fair Folk,” he revealed, “and he has one of the largest witchstones of any mage in Sevendor.  And the only one that was possessed without taking the oath from Minalan.  No, Zagor was the right man for the job.”

“So, has he had any success?” Ravalon asked, skeptically.

“Actually, yes,” Banamor smiled.  “Your hunch about an allergy was borne out.  Zagor discovered that the man’s skin reacted to the tannins he used in his tanning.  The river water somehow made him far more sensitive to it, and also caused it to transform in response.  He’s being treated with a salve Zagor made up, and kept away from leather and oak and such.  He’s already started to regain some of his feeling, and the lesions are beginning to fade.  He’ll never be a handsome fellow, but he has found some relief and has every reason to expect more.”

“Zagor,” nodded Ravalon.  “I never would have suspected.”

“Of course not,” chided Banamor.  “You’ve been taught that all the magic you’ll ever need can be found in books, scrolls, and lecture halls.  But that’s not all the magic there is,” he lectured.  “Zagor has been practicing for years, and has an intuitive understanding of his cases.  That’s the sort of thing that cannot be taught, although it can be learned from experience.  For this particular case, his insights proved more valuable than a registered adept.  You’ll find that’s often the case.”

Ravalon snorted.  “If that’s the case, then I suppose all those years at school were a waste!”

Banamor shrugged.  “Depends entirely what you do with it.  They aren’t a waste, but they are merely a place to start.  Poor Ricken would have languished, if I’d tried to get a more educated mage to see to his care.  Zagor knew at once the sort of spells and treatments he needed.  Alas, he’s lost his old trade for good.  Zagor says he cannot even wear leather shoes or a belt, ever again, much less tan hides for his living.”

“So what will come of him?” Ravalon asked, genuinely concerned.

“I’ve proposed that once he recovers sufficiently that he join Joppo the Root in his carting business,” Banamor said, with a small smile.  “He’s strong enough, and as long as the load isn’t made of leather he should be fine.  He’s willing.  He feels as if he’s a burden, a useless, cursed man.  I think that accompanying Joppo on his rounds would give him some purpose.”

“And Glevenie?” Ravalon asked.

“It is still uncertain if she has the wit to be trained, formally, even if she has power in abundance.  Perhaps you should go visit her, and see if you can discern what kind of life she can make with her Talents,” he suggested.

Ravalon looked even more confused.  “Me?  Why me?”

“Because she’s asked about you every time I’ve seen her,” chuckled Banamor.  “Indeed, the last time she stopped by it was to inquire if you’d returned from your errand.  I’d say she’s developed an interest in you.”

“She is rather pretty,” conceded Ravalon.

“She is,” agreed Banamor.  “More importantly, she likes you.  Certainly, she’s an ignorant peasant girl.  But ignorance can be cured.  With magic, she has a chance at a great life here in Sevendor.  Especially if she gains an advocate such as yourself.”

“I . . . I think I will,” Ravalon decided.  “Just because . . . well, I feel responsible for her, I suppose.  Does that ever happen with you?”

“Perpetually,” agreed Banamor, after a moment’s thought.  “With every living thing in Sevendor.  All of this is my responsibility, while Minalan is away.  Even you.  Now, go get yourself cleaned up, before you go see the fair maiden.  I’m thinking a trip to the bathhouse is entirely in order.  Tell them to charge it to my account.  Just this once.”

***

As summer waned, and the Magic Fair approached, Banamor was beset with duties related to the great gathering of wizards and common folk.  This year’s event would be muted, compared to previous occasions, thanks to the lack of the Spellmonger overseeing it.  Indeed, for the second year in a row there would be no award of a witchstone for the victor of the Spellmonger’s Trial.  That would see lower attendance, Banamor knew, but after the excitement of the dragon attack the year before, that had already been sluggish.

Most of his responsibilities involved hiring and briefing a squadron of fairwardens to do the actual organizing, at this point.  Most of his staff was returning, so there was little beyond enlisting them and giving them instructions and then approving expenditures.  That was followed by a terribly long planning session, after which he reported his progress to the Sevendor Town Council at the monthly meeting.  It was routine, at this point.

But as soon as he was certain his staff had the Magic Fair under control, Banamor took the unusual step of having his horse saddled and taking leave of the town for a few days.  For it was harvest season for Mindwort, and he did not want to miss the opportunity.

It was a bit nostalgic, traveling alone again.  He’d done so for so many years that he thought he’d regret it, but having a good horse and a full purse made the experience far more comfortable than he remembered.  The solitude also did him well.  While he liked people, his many responsibilities had made his interactions tiresome.  Time spent alone with his horse on the road was a good tonic for the wizard.  It recalled a time with fewer responsibilities, even if it meant fewer meals.

When he arrived at the swamp in Kest, he made camp at Glevenie’s abandoned hut, though he produced his own dwelling soon enough.  The hut, he saw, had started to lose part if its roof, but it was still sound enough and dry enough to attract an itinerate cat who had taken residence in it.

Banamor retraced his path back to the lily with ease, using the wards he’d cast around it as a beacon.  Fearful that it had somehow been disturbed, he hurried through the brush with determination, only to discover that the little plant had been left alone.  Indeed, the signature bright red flower blossomed atop the green stalk like an arcane torch.

“There you are, my lovely!” he said to the plant as he knelt and examined it closely.  He saw that the seed pods below the stalk were full and abundant, and their shells were already beginning to dry as the seeds within grew.  In a day or so, they would be ready for harvest.

Whistling happily to himself, he spent the rest of his day following Ravalon’s map to the other seventeen sites where the plant grew.  Most of them were likewise in flower, but the one farthest downriver proved to have already lost its bud; it was ready to be picked.

It wasn’t the largest specimen by far; the six shiny black little seeds he popped out of their parchment-like shells were smaller than his thumb.  But he held them in the palm of his hand with reverence, before heading back to camp.

Banamor resisted the temptation of indulging in the Mindwort that evening, knowing that once he was in its grip that he may forget all about the other plants entirely.  He could not risk that.  Instead he spent his time reading and enjoying the rare moment of quiet, occasionally sharing his meals with the stray cat.

It was a large, tawny tomcat that had clearly seen a few things, Banamor decided, based on the scars around his ears and wide face.  At first the animal had taken to sitting and glaring balefully at Banamor while he puttered around camp, his tail occasionally lashing.  The beast was decidedly offended at the man for invading his territory.  The stare was impressive, the kind only an irritated cat can cast.

His attitude changed dramatically once Banamor conjured his dinner: smoked river fish and a bean and bacon porridge.  Suddenly, the cat transformed into the picture of kittenish affection, rubbing against his ankles and meowing until Banamor parted with the head and tail, as well as a portion of the porridge.  The resulting purr was impressive, filling the swamp with the ecstatic throbbing drone of a cat enjoying his meal.

Banamor had to chuckle at the change in the beast.  He had several cats back at his shop, unaffectionate strays who prowled the warehouse for rodents who manage to slip past his wards.  While he liked cats, the strays who had taken up residence there had mostly ignored him, and he had responded in kind. They were not pets; they were employees.

But this big fellow was more approachable, after dining.  It endured Banamor’s casual touch before deciding he enjoyed it.  Then he demanded it.

After seeing to the horse the next morning, Banamor made the rounds to the remaining Mindwort plants, finding two more ready to harvest.  He indulged himself in making a quick sketch of the plant in his journal – he’d always been good at drawing, and he wanted to record the lily as accurately as possible.

He also spent a few soul-cleansing hours with a pole, line and hook, fishing for the tasty river fish that lingered in the deeper parts of the river.  He’d done that often, back in his footwizard days.  Sometimes it was his only chance at a meal.  Once again, he split his catch with the tomcat, giving him the viscera and fish heads while he roasted the rest over a fire.  The cat was so appreciative that it curled up in Banamor’s lap that night, purring sedately.

Over the next two days he was able to secure nearly all the rest of the Mindwort seeds in a small wooden box, his anticipation growing.  When the last one was deposited, he realized that his anticipation was over.  He could once again experience magic as he once had.

That night after dinner he chose one of the smallest seeds, ground it thoroughly, and then wetted it with an ounce of Cormeeran brandy he’d gotten as a gift.  It certainly made the concoction more palatable, once he got it over his tongue.  While the taste was not strong, it was distinctive, and it instantly recalled memories of his earlier experiences.

The feeling came on quickly, but easily.  His fingers tingled, and his feet became restless as he sat in his camp chair.  There was no discomfort from the potion, save a natural anxiety.  But within ten minutes, the world around him began to change before his eyes.  The patterns of arcane force he saw with magesight around the swamp became far more detailed and elaborate, as the Mindwort revealed to him a reality beyond what his senses could ordinarily bear to regard.

This was natural magic, he knew.  The magic so subtle that it was glossed over by mage and Alka Alon alike.  Interweaving patterns of energy, infinitely complex, spread out from every living creature and plant in the glade to touch every other one.  Across that simple web of life ran stronger currents, he saw, as the creatures of the night danced their pavane of predator and prey, harvester and harvested.  The stream bank lured plenty of creatures to drink and dine.  Hunters slithered, crept, or lay in wait for their quarry, or they lingered in the lower branches of the trees that all but blocked out the stars.

Bright flashes of energy indicated where that power became concentrated, he saw.  The aggregate surges of vivant power from the grand web of life were punctuated by strong pulses when that life was taken abruptly, then more simmering energy once the decomposition process set in.

This was a layer of magic that few wizards understood, he realized.  All that they had accomplished in the arcane was ultimately built upon this thaumaturgical foundation.  Only when the energy had become thick in a place did it even enter the awareness of a wizard’s magesight.  Obeying rules of nature that were poorly understood at best, the natural power in the land around him waxed thick, in places.  At a certain density, it began to flow.

Banamor was awed anew by the revelations his eyes showed him – not just his eyes, but every part of him experienced the magic around him in a new way.  He could not resist reaching out with his magical will and toying with that power.  At his direction it coalesced and moved, compliantly flowing at his command.  He giggled like a boy as he pushed and pulled it like taffy.  It was just like he’d experienced magic years ago, an unfettered delight.

If the magical underpinnings of the swamp were a revelation to Banamor, examining the stream – thrice as wide and twice as deep as it was back home in Sevendor – confirmed everything he and Ravalon had theorized about the Ketta.

The river fairly sparkled with magic, and the whisps of elemental energy that arose within rushing water hung in irregular clumps over it like mist.  Along the streambank were long tendrils of such power combining with the vibrant energy from the swamp.  But compared to the lackluster aspect of the tributary that joined with the Ketta, the magical river glowed with magical potential.

It was breathtaking to see such a thing in such a way, and Banamor spent many minutes just admiring the complex, complicated wild flow of natural power.  It was a wizard’s dream, a banquet of thaumaturgical possibilities.  He recalled that feeling from the very first time he had tried Mindwort, and he also recalled his ultimate inability to make much use of that knowledge, at the time.

Only, Banamor realized, now he had tools that he lacked, all those years ago.  When he was a lowly, half-trained footwizard he could use the power the Mindwort revealed to him only modestly.  Now he had resources far beyond what he could have imagined, then.

He drew Appraisal from its hoxter and was immediately entranced by the incredibly powerful forces churning within its weirwood shaft.  Tendrils of intention immediately began surging from the baculus, well below the threshold of his notice under normal circumstances.  Ordinarily it was just a magical stick.  Now he saw the questing intelligence invested in the staff, the remnant of some long-dead sea creature.

Likewise, he brought out his witchstone – one of the lessor stones from Minalan’s collection, but he prized it above most of his treasury.  The arcane amber nearly burned with complex energies, under Mindwort.  It might have been a minor stone, in terms of its relative power, but compared to the resources he’d had during his last experience with the herb, it was a mighty fountain of thaumaturgical energy.

With the power of the stone, Banamor realized, and the sophisticated spells in his baculus, along with the revelations the seed of the lily provided him, he could perform magic like never before in his life.

But . . . what to do?

He spent several minutes in quiet contemplation, surveying the river, his mind trying to settle on a goal – any goal – to give his arcane ambitions purpose.  There was no particular spell he wanted to cast, exactly, but his mind urged him to take full advantage of his situation.  Reasoning that his intuition likely knew best, he sighed, closed his eyes, and began working the power without a specific direction in mind.

In moments he was using his baculus and his witchstone to refine the natural constructs that were already present in the river.  Like digging a trench, Banamor willed Appraisal to create a channel that, he saw, would draw and concentrate the elemental power of the river along a direct route.

The effect was immediate, like dragging a lodestone over iron filings.  The flow of energy became more defined along its length.  Giddy with his control, Banamor walked along the bank carving the arcane potential into the bedrock of reality, drawing the baculus’ along and using it to secure the spell as he went.  The enneagram within Appraisal was eager, to his mind, as he gave it direction and purpose.  Feeding it with power from his witchstone ensured a complete conduit that would not fade for years, he supposed.

He walked for hundreds of yards through the dead of night to sculpt his creation, though he had no idea to what purpose he did so.  Wherever nodes of earth energy intersected the river he incorporated their terrestrial power into the spell.  After all, rivers were not just water flowing – they were water flowing over earth.  By necessity you could not separate the two.

After trudging nearly a mile, he realized that while he was having a great effect, the nameless spell would require such work in both directions from the swamp, and he returned to camp.  Along the way he turned his attention to the land around the river, tying in more naturally-occurring nodes into the tapestry of magic he was weaving.  Each one acted as a tributary to the literal stream of power.  By the time he made it back to the hut in the swamp there was a powerful flow along the river, far more powerful than it had been before he started.

He paused only long enough to stop and pet the cat.  The moment he did so, a flood of images and knowledge engulphed him.  He learned as much about the animal as the animal itself knew, perhaps more.  It was, he was certain, every bit as cynical, opportunistic, and fickle as he suspected, and the tomcat also had a great dose of belligerence for the world.

When are we going to eat? it asked him, when he stopped petting it and absorbed the information he now had.

“What?” Banamor said, aloud.

I’m hungry, and this is the time of day when you usually eat, the cat said to him, calmly.

“Are you . . . are you talking to me?” Banamor asked, surprised.

Of course I’m talking to you, the cat replied, annoyed.  I’ve been talking to you for days.  You only listen a tithe of the time, but the food is good, so you are forgiven.  When do we eat?

“I . . . you’ve been talking to me?  How?” he asked in disbelief.

The same way I’m doing it now.  You just rarely listen, and almost never talk back to me.  That’s rude, in my experience.  The tawny beast took a moment to lick his own chest for no reason that Banamor could see.

“I’m not known for my courtesy,” chuckled the mage, wondering if he was going mad.

Neither am I, agreed the cat.  I’m known around here as kind of an asshole.  Say, what changed? the cat asked, suddenly studying the man intently.

“It’s a . . . it’s a magical potion,” Banamor explained.  “It allows me to see things no one else can see.  And hear things no one else can hear.  And, apparently, talk to cats,” he observed.  “That is, if I’m not going mad.”

That’s really not for me to say, the stray agreed, sitting up and wrapping its tale around it.  I’ve known a few mad cats.  I’ve not known any mad men.  Not that that concerns me.  Fish, now, fish concern me.

“This is rather remarkable!” Banamor said, smiling.  “I’ve known beastmasters who could communicate with animals based on a kind of shared gestalt, but it tends to be more . . . primal in nature than this.  You seem to be communicating with the skill of a human being.”

And you seem to be communicating with the skill of a concussed kitten, sneered the tomcat.  Are you going to feed me?  I can catch a frog, but that’s a lot of work.

“If your stomach can endure another few hours of this, I will prepare you an amazing feast,” agreed Banamor.  “At the moment, I have work to do.”

It’s always promises with you people, the stray said, suddenly bending to lick his own ass.

That struck Banamor as insanely funny, for some reason, and he gave the stray one last pet before returning to his work with the baculus.

The conduit he was constructing out of magic had no purpose, as far as he could see – his intuition was merely instructing him to do it, as if for no other reason than the art of the spell.

He continued upstream, through the thick underbrush, knitting together the various nodes of power and entwining them into the central thaumaturgical channel until the flow ran unimpeded up and down the river.  Where there was an aggregation of snowstone particles he found the natural accrual had built up, sometimes until it was forced to float off into the ether, lest its power alone manifest some magical effect.  Banamor gleefully tied those spots together along his growing trough.

When he came to a particularly thick node of energy at the cataract that he and Ravalon initially surveyed, Appraisal brought something to his attention.  As much fun as it was digging a trench in a river, it was also laborious . . . and his baculus had recommendations for making it easier.

Thanks to the cataract’s aggregated power and the pool that widened directly below it, Banamor was able to alter the nature of his spell slightly, once he understood what the paraclete in his staff was telling him.  A short cut – and wizards loved shortcuts.

Banamor bent his will and took command of the baculus.  It did not take much more than a thought to authorize the paraclete to do as it recommended.  He took a step out into the river, found a convenient rock that allowed his boots to stay relatively dry, and thrust the head of the staff into the water.  Then he fed power to Appraisal, more power than he’d ever devoted to a spell.

Indeed, Banamor rarely used the witchstone he had striven so hard to win.  Certainly, he used magic, and even relied on the stone for mind-to-mind communication – with other humans – as well as dozens of other convenient spells.  But he rarely used the powers available to him.

Now the raw power raged through his mind, and he saw why the expert enchanters so enjoyed using irionite in their works.  It gave his ambitions power in great heaping fistfuls.  When he gave Appraisal permission, the channel he had painstakingly created over a mile of the river suddenly grew.  It expanded.  Indeed, from the feedback he was getting from his baculus, it now ran the entire length of the Ketta, back to its source.

The baculus informed Banamor that the channel was complete, now.  Every node of energy along the length of the river, and all those within its proximity, were suddenly tied together in one long, complex skein of arcane power.  Banamor breathed lightly, his head whirling from the aftereffects of the spell.  He had created this, he realized.  He had entrained the entire river to be one large magical fountain.  For no good godsdamned reason other than he wanted to see if it could be done.

He glanced down into the pool, where the widening river allowed the rapids of the cataract to settle down.  It was nearly fifteen feet wide, at that point, until it narrowed again a few dozen feet downriver.  The magical channel, likewise, seemed to pool in the spot, and Banamor took a few moments to expand and refine the flow until the entire pool would act as a temporary catch basin for the flow.  Satisfied, he observed the energies from upstream and downstream alike converge and thicken in the spot.

It was like a bubble of pure energy, a mixture of water and earth elemental power as well as a healthy dose of vivant energy.  He stood in the midst of it and just enjoyed the cascade of arcane force build.  It was the kind of spot that he would have crossed a dozen miles to use, back in his footwizard days.  Now, with his witchstone at his command, it was merely a thaumaturgical decoration, a piece of arcane art that none save the magi would ever see or appreciate.

He didn’t mind.  It was good work, far better than he’d ever expected to do.

Banamor was about to leave, satisfied, and head back to camp when he remembered his promise to the stray cat.  He could not come home empty-handed, he realized.  While a part of him tried to dismiss interrupting his grand thaumaturgical adventure, another part of him felt explicitly guilty over a promise made to a cat.

As he had left his pole and line back at camp and he was coursing with magical power and arcane insight, he elected to use his baculus, instead.

Appraisal quickly located a suitable fish – a trout, even! – and Banamor began to will it to come to him in the pool through the auspices of his staff.  He watched in wonder as the baculus selected various tendrils of energy within the great flow and began to coalesce them in a whirl at the center of the pool.  He could see the long network of natural and thaumaturgical power form a kind of sphere of light, a bubble of power bound together by his intent.

While he expected a fish to be produced from his efforts, Banamor was not prepared for how that desire manifested.  For a form emerged from the pool, a figure near human size, enwrapped in a powerful shroud of magic.  Surprised, Banamor took a step back – and immediately regretted it, as his boots filled with water.

But the figure in front of him continued to coalesce.  The shape of shoulders, a head, arms and a torso began to take shape, pulling the water itself up out of the river to fill it.  There was a great power involved, Appraisal informed him, as lines of force from both upriver and downriver converged on the spot.  In moments the figure took on greater clarity and transformed from a bubble of water into a more refined looking version of a humanoid shape.

“A water elemental?” Banamor asked himself in surprise.  He had never conjured one, himself – that was more of a pure Imperial magic method of exercising power.  He’d never had much interest in that area of the field.  But regardless of his skill and experience, Appraisal had drawn enough coherence from the remade lines of energy in the river that something like a water elemental had responded to his desire for a fish.

Something like a water elemental, Banamor considered, but not quite a water elemental.  He was quite familiar with the antics of the magical conjurations, thanks to the one Minalan had made permanent in the mill pond, the one the children called “Splashy.”  The persistent spell allowed the enneagram of the thing to keep it cohesive, but it had never assumed any particular shape.  The thing that was forming in front of him was rapidly looking more and more like a person in a way that Splashy had never attempted.

Indeed, there was more to the spell than Banamor had intended; there was a shining, scintillating core of the shape that even his modest knowledge of elemental magic informed him was not a common result.  There was a kernel of power, within, that was drawing the strands of energy from the river of its own accord.  Appraisal was barely attached to it, now, and if it was controlling the emergence, Banamor could not see how.

Breathlessly, Banamor watched as the form refined itself even further.  It not only looked humanoid, but the shape assumed proportions that he immediately identified as female.

The “arms” of the structure solidified into true arms, with four fingers and two thumbs.  The face became more coherent, complete with eyes, nose, ears and mouth.  The lower portion thinned down until the single column of water was separated into two pillars that quickly became limbs.  Lines of power crept up them like roots.  And they were increasing in intensity.

“Oh . . . my . . .” Banamor said, his mouth open.  He’d only seen power like this a few times in his life.  Once when he had witnessed Minalan use that damn Snowflake.  And once when seven gods had come to Sevendor all at the same time.

Before he could complete his sentence a burst of extraordinary arcane energy, the translucent shape transformed fully into a person.

A girl.

Her eyes blinked cautiously a few times in the starlight; she shoot her head and her long hair flung droplets of water and energy across the pool.  Banamor gasped, as he recognized the face, or at least noted a resemblance.   Maid Glevenie, or as close enough to be sisters.

Wordlessly, the girl bent over, reached into the water, and pulled a large trout from the stream.  She turned and silently offered the flopping fish to Banamor.  He blinked a few times before reaching out and grabbing it.

“You wanted a fish,” the mysterious girl called.

“I did.  Thank you,” Banamor said.  He didn’t know what else to say.

The girl blinked several more times before she looked around, and then back to Banamor.  “Who am I?” she asked, simply.

Banamor swallowed.  “I’m not certain, my dear, but I think you’re a water spirit.  A goddess of the river.  And you were just . . . manifested for the first time.”

“I . . . I don’t know what that means,” she confessed, her face bearing a confused expression.  “I was . . . I am . . .”

“Likely confused,” finished the wizard, as he struggled with the fish.  “As am I, for that matter.  My name is Banamor,” he added.  “I’m a wizard.”

“I am . . . I don’t have a name,” she said, after struggling a bit.

“Actually, I think you do.  Ketta is your name, if I’m right,” he said.  The moment he did, there was a kind of shimmer that came across the girl.  She seemed to become even clearer, though her resemblance to Glevenie faded, somewhat.

“Ketta,” she repeated, nodding.  “My name is Ketta.”

“That will do for now, yes,” Banamor agreed, as the fish’s struggle began to subside.  “You have no memory, I take it?”

“I had no existence, until I handed you that fish,” she agreed.  “How did you call me?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” admitted Banamor.  “I was just trying to fish.  With a magical staff.  Under the influence of a powerful thaumaturgic potion.  I suppose it got carried away,” he said, looking accusingly at Appraisal.

“I don’t understand,” the girl said, simply.

“Let us put aside our lack of understanding, for the moment,” Banamor suggested, lightly.  “I don’t think either of us is in a position to make sense of it.  But my theory is that . . . well, that the river was ready for its divine natural spirit.  You arose based on the pattern of a girl who lived near here for a while and who thaumaturgically interacted with the river.  Then I came along and inadvertently fed you power with my spell this evening.”

“And the fish?” the girl asked.

“My cat was hungry,” Banamor admitted, a bit embarrassed.

“What is a cat?” Ketta asked.

“And thus begins your education,” Banamor sighed, finally flinging the fish to the ground.  It had almost stopped moving.  “Here, let me give you my mantle,” he said, unpinning his cloak and putting it around her shoulders.  “I’m too old to be caught in the woods with a young naked girl.  People would talk.”  As soon as the girl took his cloak over his shoulders, he grabbed the tail of the trout and headed back downriver.

He led the nascent goddess back downriver and into the swamp.  Ketta stared at everything she saw by starlight with a focused intensity that Banamor found unnerving.  Indeed, the entire situation had put him far beyond his area of comfort.  Even his altered mental state wasn’t sufficient to properly appreciate the fact that he had just been a midwife to a divinity.

Still, he did his best to be hospitable to the girl – the goddess – Ketta.  Banamor had no idea what might come of this incident, but he was wise enough to recognize not pissing off the gods – of whatever station – was generally in a man’s interest.  He answered many questions for Ketta, as she followed him through the underbrush, explaining to the best of his ability what all the things were that she was ignorant of.

Ketta seemed to absorb the knowledge easily enough, as if Banamor was merely confirming things she already knew.  It was odd, explaining the nature and purpose of a rock or a bush, but Banamor was a patient man.

It wasn’t that the girl was stupid, Banamor knew, it was that she was essentially ignorant of everything he took for granted.  She had been a naturally occurring force, if anything, not more than a few hours before.  Now she was a being of great power stumbling along in a world she had no knowledge of.

Thankfully, Ketta was more inquisitive than emotional as she followed the wizard back to his camp.  She seemed to accept his explanations as a matter-of-course, and rarely asked for more clarification.  By the time they arrived back at the cabins, she had matured significantly, though she maintained her rudimentary perspective on most things.  Later, Banamor would realize that she was approaching humanish life from the perspective of a former river, as mad as that sounded.  But there were subtleties in her questions that supported that theory.

“So this stream is . . . me,” Ketta said, as they came to the bank closest to his camp.

“More like you are a physical and spiritual representation of the stream . . . pulled from the imagination of a young girl who was particularly involved in it,” suggested Banamor.  “But then I’m not a thaumaturge.  Or a theurge.  Honestly, I’m not certain who would be the right specialist for this sort of thing.”

“Are there others like me?” she asked, as she gazed into the water.

“I can only guess that there are,” Banamor decided.  “Though I’ve never met them.  There are many shrines to many river goddesses, across the Riverlands.  It’s kind of a cultural tradition.  Rivers are important.  But by all accounts, they manifest very rarely in human form, if at all.  They just stay rivers, I suppose.”

“That is . . . interesting,” the river spirit said, as she turned to face the wizard.  “What do they – we – do?”

“Protect the river?” Banamor proposed.  “And everything within it?  And the lands around it?  The legends and myths I’ve heard have river spirits doing all sorts of unlikely things, but I doubt if many of them are actual accounts.  I am so far over my depth on this sort of thing that it’s embarrassing,” he confessed.  “But people like river goddesses,” he added, concerned for the divinity’s self-esteem.  “They build little shrines to them all over, to invoke their protection and assistance.”

“How can I be of assistance to anyone?” asked Ketta, confused.

“I truly have no idea,” Banamor assured.  “I’ve heard of river goddesses having all sorts of unusual powers.  This is really more of a Minalan question than a Banamor question,” he said, mostly to himself.

“I understand the river,” Ketta said, turning back toward the stream.  “I understand it is me, and I am it.  We are one,” she said, with conviction.

“Yes, but what does that mean?” Banamor asked, crossly, as he threw himself into his camp chair, the trout falling next to his feet.  “From my perspective, you are the un-anticipated side-effect of a fishing expedition.  The unexpected manifestation of a desire of the collective subconscious, made manifest because this river is polluted with magic, a young girl thought herself blessed as a result, and an old fool indulged in folly because he thought he could get away with it.  Now, here we are,” he sighed, heavily.

The stray cat had taken notice of Banamor’s return, and was beginning to note the girl . . . before the smell of a freshly dead trout commanded his attention.

“I did not desire to be here,” Ketta said, taken aback.

“None of us did,” Banamor agreed, rubbing his forehead.  “Please understand that you are not unwelcome, Ketta . . . just a bit problematic.  Like many of us in the world, you had no say in your own manifestation.  At least you have purpose,” he mused, as the tomcat began to lick the head of the great trout.  “You belong to the river, and it to you.

“Me?  I have a reasonable business interest and a post as a bureaucrat.   No wife.  No family to speak of.  I have a town where some fear me and some envy me, but damn few friends indeed – perhaps a handful.  You will have that stream as long as the rains fall and gravity endures.  Water runs downhill,” he declared.  “There must be some security to that.”

“You are unhappy, Banamor?” Ketta asked, sharply.  The question took the wizard by surprise.  And forced a quick assessment.  If there was divine power behind the question, Banamor wasn’t aware of it, but his mind reacted with similar effect.

“Unhappy?” he snorted.  “I’m rich.  Not just rich, but filthy rich.  And powerful!  I command one of the fastest-growing towns in the Riverlands, thick with magi and rotten with gold.  Sure, the occasional dragon attack makes life interesting,” he considered, “but I cannot say that I am discontented.”

“But are you happy?” Ketta prompted.

“Happy?  What knows a river of ‘happiness’?” he challenged, perhaps foolishly.  “A river lives from rainfall to rainfall, merrily babbling its way downstream.  How can drainage understand human happiness?” he asked.

“I understand turbulence,” Ketta pronounced, her eyes narrowing.  “And I understand placidity.  Peace and chaos,” she said, with a nod of her head.  “Abundance and scarcity.  Betwixt the two, equilibrium exists.  Therein lies happiness.”

“Really?” scoffed Banamor.  “You know, this is a fascinating conversation, in all truth.  I wish I was the kind of man to take down every utterance as a divine command.  And, perhaps, I’m letting my natural biases color my perspective.  But . . . what wisdom can a human draw on happiness from a glorified drainage ditch?” he asked, recklessly.

“If what you say is true, and the human mind drew me forth from the water,” Ketta reasoned, “and I am, indeed, merely a manifestation of the river, then I must rely on what I know in my heart.”

“You probably don’t have a real functioning heart,” argued Banamor.

“I don’t even know what a heart is,” Ketta said, insistently.  “I pulled that from your mind, I think.  Nevertheless, it is in my experience.  My memory.  I know what happiness is.  Placidity.  Calm.  Free flow,” she said, finding the words as she lectured the wizard.  “These things elude you,” she observed.

“Well, so what if they do?” Banamor asked.

“I find that troublesome,” Ketta replied, folding her arms.

“Why does it concern you?” Banamor replied, shaking his head.  “I’m an old wizard with a miserly heart.  Hardly the sort to inspire a goddess’ interest.”

“Yet you are . . . responsible for me, in some way,” Ketta pointed out.  “You said so, yourself,” she said, defiantly.

“It’s a theory, and a poorly-constructed one, at that,” he sighed.  “Regardless, if you’re concerned about my happiness, the world truly has gone mad.  I’m the only one who is concerned with that.”

Why haven’t you fed me yet? demanded the tom cat.

“Will you just give me a moment, please?” Banamor asked, irritated.  “It will be ready soon!  Now, my lady Ketta, I suppose I should introduce you to the cat who demanded the fish that led to your manifestation.”

“What’s its name?” Ketta asked.

“I . . . I haven’t named him, yet.  Do you have a name, Master Cat?” Banamor asked, feeling quite mad.

In human speech? scoffed the stray.  Nay.  Why would I need one?  My name in cat speech references how large my testicles are and how brave I am, he boasted.

“Of course it does,” sniffed Banamor, dryly.  “You sound like some warmagi I know.  Very well, as I named a goddess, this night, I suppose I can name a cat.  Your color and your size are striking,” he reasoned.  “Perhaps ‘Pumpkin Head’?” Banamor suggested.

Are you trying to be insulting? the cat complained, glaring at the mage.

“I’m trying to be creative,” countered Banamor.  “Your manner recalls the same arrogance I once encountered in a reeve named Botuckis.  He was known as ‘BoBo,” he added, with a snide look.

That sounds stupid, the stray objected.

“Aye, he was that, too.  Your hair is too short to be a ‘Fluffy’, but your belly is wide enough – perhaps ‘Puffy’?”

You know I can shit on your bed, don’t you? warned the tomcat.

“Of course you can,” chuckled Banamor.  “Goddess, my cat is in want of a name; do you have any suggestions?” he asked Ketta, who seemed to be able to hear both sides of the conversation.

“So this is a cat?” she asked.  “Can it swim?”

Try to find out and earn yourself a scratch! assured the stray.

“You’ve drunk from my waters, before,” Ketta said, nodding.

I’ve taken a piss on your banks, too, the cat reminded her.  It’s like we’re family.

“What does this animal do?” the goddess asked Banamor.

“As little as possible,” grunted the wizard.  “Cats are predators, and consume small birds, mice, and other rodents.  They’re useful, in a limited sort of way.  But they are all too willing to give up honest work for a bowl of cream and the leftover porridge,” he assured her.  “Then they are mere parasites.”

We do purr, the cat pointed out.

“There is that,” conceded Banamor.  “In truth, cats do keep us company, when they aren’t otherwise useful.  I suppose that is a comfort.”

For you, perhaps, the cat agreed.  In truth, we barely tolerate you.

“It’s a complicated relationship,” Banamor affirmed to the goddess.

“I would say a creature like that deserves a fitting name,” Ketta decided.  “One that suits its fickle nature.  Perhaps . . . you can call him ‘Muddy’?” she suggested.

“He is kind of the color of mud,” Banamor agreed.

Hey! objected the cat.  I’m not just a pile of wet dirt!  That’s insulting!

“I think it’s cute,” insisted Banamor.  “Muddy, meet the goddess of the river, Ketta.  Ketta, please meet my cat, Muddy.”

Who said I was your cat? The stray demanded, indignantly.

“I’m the one with the trout,” Banamor reminded him.  “Your name is Muddy,” he added.

The cat sighed – or the nearest feline equivalent.  All right.  You can call me Muddy.  That doesn’t mean that I’ll actually come when you call me.

“I expect nothing less,” nodded Banamor.  “You are a cat, after all.  Ishi’s tits, I need a drink!”

“This creature is . . . confusing,” Ketta said, her brow wrinkling.  “But compelling.”

“They aren’t as interesting as they want you to think they are,” Banamor shrugged.  “But they do purr.”

That we do, Muddy agreed.  Are you going to cook this thing, or should I go ahead and start eating it raw?

***

Banamor awoke in his cottage the next day, late in the afternoon in his rope-bed, his head pounding with an acute pain that suggested someone was driving a nail from one temple to the other with a particularly heavy hammer and a psychotic determination.

It was the after-effect of the Mindwort, he knew.  He recalled the unpleasant result from his previous experiences, and relived the unsettling consequences of them.  Mindwort might promote the vision of the soul, or something like that, but it took a decided toll on the body that dared strive for its secrets.

Worse, it affected his digestion.  He wouldn’t shit right for days, he knew, but the insights and knowledge he’d gained was worth the suffering.  A bit of willow-bark should abate the pain, he figured, but on the other hand it was good that his body rejected the potion.  As potent as it had been to his insights, it was not a state he could dwell in, indefinitely.

Banamor was surprised to see that the stray tomcat was actually in his cottage, and curled up on his belly when he regained lucidity.  The effects of Mindwort had worn off, he knew, and only the memory of the new-formed river spirit remained.  She had . . . disincorporated sometime late in the evening.

Banamor had a vague recollection of it.  He had triumphantly cooked the trout and served it to his divine guest, along with a selection of the best wines from his stores.  But, after the meal, all became hazy.  There just weren’t many details about the event haunting his memory, as divine as the company had been.  Ketta had become quite engaging, over the course of the evening.  Charming, even.

He had felt a closeness with her that had been so intimate that it made him uncomfortable.  But Ketta had not lingered, as a brilliantly illuminated dawn broke above the eastern tree line, extending a pale golden glow across the horizon.  After witnessing the breathtaking event she had proclaimed her weariness and pretended other errands.

Banamor could not refuse her.  He had bid her farewell, wistfully, as if she was a niece or even a daughter, he hesitated to think.  She had walked into the middle of the river and then just . . . became part of the river.  Or returned to the river.  Or something.

Banamor shook his head, hoping the last of the effects of the powerful psychotropic potion had worn off.  Glancing around the room with magesight demonstrated that there was little of the enhanced effect the Mindwort had granted him.  Probably because the seed was so small, he reasoned. His mind had returned, more or less, to normal.

That was just as well, he decided.  No wizard should have access to the more arcanely sophisticated world that Mindwort revealed.  It just wasn’t fair.  Nor was it healthy.  Seeing the underpinnings of the world from that vantage was a cheat, even from the perspective of the magi.  He was glad that the Mindwort and all of its effects were over.

“Enough with the flirtation of the spirits of nature, old boy,” Banamor insisted to his cat – his cat! – as he petted the tawny beast, now on his chest.   “No more potent magic, no more goddesses.  We’re headed back home.  Back to simple things, mundane matters, and normal life,” he proposed to Muddy, whose chin he scratched with affection.  Muddy purred loudly in response, though his eyes remained closed.  “Are you ready for that kind of blissfully boring, sedentary existence?”

Only if that includes breakfast, the cat replied, in his mind, as it suddenly opened its eyes.  Soon. She said you would, he emphasized, before closing his eyes once again.

Banamor didn’t reply.  He would have felt silly to.  It must have been his imagination, he decided.  A lingering after-effect of the potion.  Slightly too much wine.

But there was no denying that there was something . . . different about his life now, even if he couldn’t define it.

All he could do was stare at the feline who’d claimed him and filled him with a feeling of companionship he had not even known he wanted.  Or needed.  And he recognize that his life had, indeed, become far, far more complicated, thanks to that godsdamned bathhouse.

Matters of Regional Concern

“Ashes and cinders!” Dara swore, as she saw the imposing pile of parchment near her porridge bowl when she sat down to breakfast in the Mewstower mess.  “I was only gone for three days!  What’s all this?” she demanded.

“Messages and correspondence, Captain,” Laretha dutifully reported.  “They arrived while you were in the field.”

Dara could tell that her second-in-command took some perverse pleasure in informing her of the accrual of important business – something Dara hated about her position as Sky Captain of the Sevendor Mewstower.

“But where did they come from?” she asked, irritated.

“Some from the Castle, some from the town, and . . . well, that big one came late yesterday afternoon.  By mounted messenger,” Laretha added with special emphasis, raising an eyebrow in the process.  “One flying heraldry.”

Dara silently cursed herself for appointing someone so efficient to a position of responsibility.  Since the departure of nearly half of the Mews to Vanador, Laretha had been promoted to Tower Keeper, responsible for the day-to-day business of the Mewstower.  Dara had rarely regretted that decision.  Laretha was an excellent officer: loyal, intelligent, and attentive to her duty.  She’d kept the place running while Dara had been in the field, practicing drills for three days and the new Sky Riders of the Training Wing.

“From whence?” Dara asked, as she poured herself a mug of weak ale.  She suddenly desired something stronger.  Even at breakfast.  She was not particularly eager to hear Laretha’s answer.  She tried to make it sound as if was unimportant to her.  But it wasn’t.

“From the Baron of Taravenal, my lady,” Laretha informed her.  Dara’s mug stopped before it touched her lips.  That was not what she had been expecting.

“Baron Arlastan?” Dara asked, intrigued and confused.

“I wouldn’t know,” Laretha sighed.  “Alas, it was sealed, and I couldn’t figure out a way to unseal it without you discovering it.  But it bears what I believe is the seal of Taravanal.  But I didn’t open it.  I couldn’t open it,” she corrected.  “It must be handy to be a mage,” she added, wistfully.

“It’s a mixed lot, actually,” Dara countered, as she pulled the large, imposing pack of parchment to her.  Laretha had left the messenger-delivered letter imposingly on the top of the stack.

The exterior of the folded packet was made of finest parchment, the really fine-grained material destined for temples, academies, and the desks of the wealthy.  The bold calligraphy across the front merely read “Lady Lenodara of Sevendor, Mewstower, Westwood Estate.”  It cited her civil, not her military title, she noted.  That was significant.

The impression in the yellow wax that sealed the packet closed was crisp and new, and displayed the arms of the equally new Barony of Taravanal.  No, Dara realized, as she studied the heraldry, she was fairly certain that those arms belonged to the new Baron of Taravanal.   Arlastan

The young nobleman had been her guest at Westwood Hall a few times, now, during occasions of state, the Magic Fair, and other activities in Sevendor that had required his presence.  Likewise, she’d stayed briefly at one of his halls last year, when his father hired the Wing for some work on his new domains.

It had been an interesting and entertaining mission.  Arlastan, the younger son of Baron Arathanial, was handsome, charming, and well-learned, for a knight.  Dara genuinely enjoyed his company, and his gracious politeness had even charmed her dour father and uncles while he was at Westwood.  Not to mention every female in the estate, who could not stop staring at the man.  Being a baron didn’t hurt, she admitted to herself.

If there had to be a baron, Dara figured, Arlastan was well-suited to the task.  He’d learned statecraft and estate management from his father, the venerable Baron Arathanial, and then learned warfare when his father and brothers launched a successful war of conquest – technically, of re-conquest – against the Sashtalian Confederation two years ago – or was it three, now?  As Arathanial was an ally of Master Minalan, the new barony constructed out of the ruins of Sashtalia was also an ally of Master Minalan.  As his vassal, it was her duty to keep good relations with the young baron.

That is what she told herself, at least.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Laretha asked, alarmed, as Dara pushed the ornate message to the bottom of the pile.

“Mundane business, first,” Dara declared, with a sigh.  “Wisdom dictates that I contend with the boring before indulging in the exciting.”  She began to shuffle through the rest of the messages, hoping to dispense with them quickly.

“Your discipline is inspiring, my Captain,” Laretha said, sarcastically.  Clearly, she was impatient to see what the baron wanted.

“It was fiercely won,” Dara said, as she began devouring her correspondence and her oat porridge with equal dedication.  “Now let me read.”

The first notes were simple requests for payment from merchants and artisans in town, things she could turn over to the castellan of the Mewstower to handle.  Dara liked keeping up with the accounts and understanding where the money went, though; Sire Cei and her father had both beat it into her flame-kissed head that inattention to accounts was the surest way for a lord to lose control of their estate, and she’d seen it happen, herself.  Dara didn’t object to spending money, she just wanted to know how the money was being spent.

As Captain of the Mewstower, Dara was responsible for executing the commission from Baron Minalan to patrol the bounds of the barony on a regular basis.  The Sky Riders and their birds flew over all of Minalan’s vassal states on the watch for troop movements, natural disasters, and other threats.  For this task they were paid a generous stipend, adjusted for the size of the Mews.  That provided the income she needed to keep her birds in the air.  Managing the expenses well kept her from fearing debt or needless expense.

Other notes were a little more interesting – an invitation from Master Olmeg to attend a reception in Hollyburrow, a message from Sire Cei discussing new threats to be aware of on her patrols with a note that he had acquired a new hound, yet-another polite request from Banamor that her Riders quit perching their birds on the spires of the town (which they would continue to ignore), and a request from Lady Fallawen to take a meal with her, at her convenience, at her new hall.

All perfectly normal, mundane Sevendor stuff, nothing urgent.  The next note was a bit more exciting.  It bore the seal of the Mirror Array, and was from Barrowbell: news that her dear friend Amara was pregnant!  Dara had enjoyed her eventful wedding last year in sunny Barrowbell, despite the tensions between the Gilmorans and the Magefolk.  Of course, that was before the dragon attack, Minalan’s exile, and a lot of other unpleasantness.

Dara was genuinely happy for her friend and her new husband.  They deserved as many beautiful children as they desired on their beautiful estate.

The last note before the baron’s was a short dispatch from Minalan, from Vanador, also by Mirror Array.  While it was true that her liege could simply reach out with his mind and speak to her across hundreds of miles with magic, in general the magelords tended to use correspondence just as much as they did mind-to-mind communication to conduct their affairs, for many prudent reasons.

The account was spare, merely a report of his and the family’s good health and well-being, along with some foreboding words about a grim new threat on the horizon, impending war, dire circumstance, the creeping shadows of an uneasy land, and a reminder to be vigilant for subtle threats and attacks from unforeseen corners.  Typical Master Min stuff.

He then reported that the Vanador Mewstower was efficient and well-run, a credit to her efforts, without naming any of the Riders or their Captain, which she found diplomatic.  His report of the birds’ good health was welcome, at least.  She’d mourned the loss of the falcons she’d raised from eggs as much as the absence of so many of the original Wing.  Perhaps more.

But the overall message from her former Master was clear: all is well in Vanador, apart from the eternal threat of war, please watch Sevendor’s skies diligently.

“Finally!” Laretha said, rolling her eyes as Dara returned to the Baron’s message.  “Ishi’s eternally arching eyebrows, sometimes I think all you wizards do is read!”

“It’s part of the job,” Dara shrugged, as she casually broke the wax seal and revealed the letter.  “It’s not even the best part.”

To Lady Lenodara of Westwood, Sky Captain of Sevendor Mewstower,

My lady, may Trygg bring you grace.  It is with humble devotion and temporal pride that His Excellency, Baron Arlastan of Taravanal, invites you and your party to the dedication ceremony of the new chapel and cloister halls he is donating to the Sacred Birthsisters of Holy Hill Abbey, near to Sevendor, ten days after Midsummer, in memorial to those who died on both sides in the recent war.  Your especial presence is requested for deliberations with the baron on matters of regional concern.

Yours, in Trygg’s grace and Luin’s wisdom, Arlastan Baron of Taravanal, House of Lensely.

“Oh, my!” Laretha said, her eyes wide.  “’Your especial presence is requested?’  I wonder why?”

“Matters of regional concern!” Dara snorted.  “It says so, right there!  Why is that an issue?”

“I’m just curious as to which regions His Excellency might be concerned with,” Laretha teased, giving Dara a meaningful look.

“Laretha!” Dara gasped.  “It’s a perfectly harmless invitation!”

“They all sound that way, from what I understand,” the dark-haired girl shrugged.  “Are you going to go?”

“Of course, I am!” Dara declared, annoyed.  “It’s my duty.  It’s an ecclesiastical reception so that Arlastan can show off how humble and devout he is, after he’s been set over a bunch of recently-conquered vassals.  Holy Hill is held in high esteem by gentry and peasants, alike,” she reasoned.

“Trygg’s the goddess that brings babies,” Laretha reminded her, unnecessarily.

“I’m aware,” Dara growled.

“And Baron Arlastan is, by all accounts, a robust Riverlord with a wealth of lands, a handsome face, and a long . . . pedigree,” Laretha continued, to Dara’s irritation.  “There is certain to be a social function in conjunction to his openhanded display of piety.  Indeed, it says as much.  The entire affair seems contrived to provide him an opportunity to make his interests known.  And your ‘especial presence is requested.’  How can you not read that into the invitation?”

“Because that’s not what it says!” Dara insisted.

“But that’s what it means,” Laretha countered.

“I’m certain Sire Cei, Banamor, even my brother got one, too,” Dara pointed out.

“As did a good number of lordlings from Sashtalia and Sendaria,” Laretha reasoned.  “Men of good station and proven strength.”

“Your point in this reasoning?” Dara asked, exasperated.

“Can I go?” asked Laretha.  “Please?”

***

News of Dara’s acceptance of the handsome young baron’s invitation spread quickly through the halls of the Mewstower.  The Riders all ate in a common mess, though they each lodged in a great bay of the complex according to their Wing.  There were three bays filled, so far, a year after Nattia’s rebellion and the dragon attack had decimated their ranks.  It pleased Dara to hear the hall so filled with voices again, laughing and calling to each other across the tables in such numbers.

It was less pleasing to be the subject of their loud discussions.   More than a dozen young people – mostly girls – couldn’t help but discuss the affair amongst themselves over meals.  Conjecture on the nature of the baron’s intentions were widely and lewdly speculated upon, and even in her presence, though in a muted form.

Dara didn’t forbid them to talk about it.  She didn’t want them to think she cared that much about it, and the surest way to do that was to let them talk.

It was frustrating to hear the fanciful reasons they invented for Arlastan’s interest, when she knew perfectly well that it was a perfectly normal sort of noble social event, the sorts she’d been attending for years.

A bunch of lords and ladies would stand around while a bunch of nuns made sermons and speeches, followed by some sort of religious service, followed by some ecclesiastic artistic display – likely a chorale about the glories of motherhood, considering it was Tryggite nuns – followed by a casual reception with wine, followed by a sumptuous feast with more singing, followed by a formal dance, followed by informal drinking with spirits and liqueurs, followed by endless gossip about what everyone was wearing, who was getting married, who died, and even more sordid nonsense.

As the Hawkmaiden, Lady of the Westwood, she’d learned the art of enduring such functions with patience and grace.  That didn’t mean she enjoyed them.  While a lot of real business occurred at them, so did a lot of pointless posturing, endless social maneuvering, and tedious chatter.  Thankfully, she was able to escape the inane discussions of embroidery and playing the harp and the other topics dear to the feminine aristocracy due to her military and magical rank.  But all too often it that just meant she was tormented by tales of hunts and hounds, and the inevitable discussion of hawking that arose among the noblemen when she was present.

This one would be even worse than usual, thanks to the idle speculation of her Riders.

The fact was, she liked Arlastan; he was as handsome and charming in person as he was in public, and he seemed genuine in his approach to his new position of responsibility.  He had a good sense of humor, to the point of being self-effacing about his fortunes.  He was generous and kind, more of a scholar than a warrior, like his older brother.  And he seemed to genuinely like Dara, personally, beyond her fame as the Hawkmaiden.

Disturbingly, she found she enjoyed his company, as well.

Dara didn’t have any romantic pretensions about Arlastan, though he was a handsome man.  She didn’t have any romantic pretensions about anyone, much to Laretha’s annoyance, and had studiously avoided any since . . . the incident.  It wasn’t as if she lacked companionship.  Sir Festaran was still a good and devoted friend, and she knew he had some interest in her, but she had kept the good knight at distance since she’d realized it.  She’d devoted herself instead to training her Riders and drilling them on the lessons she’d learned from the dragon attack.  Important work, she knew.  War was always just around the corner.

But it did truly irritate her that the subject of her personal life was such a frequent topic of discussion when she wasn’t around.  Not just here in the Mewstower, but even in Westwood Hall.  Everyone wondered to whom the Hawkmaiden would give her heart.  It was particularly pointed in springtime, when the entire world seemed to conspire to romantic gossip.  Once, it had aggravated her.  Then she’d grown used to it.  Now, she just ignored it, after speaking to Sire Cei and others about the matter.  People would talk whether she wanted them to or not.

Mostly, she tried to forget that she was committed to appearing at the reception.  But things kept conspiring to remind her.  When she visited Westwood Hall about some deliveries, her Aunt Anira and her cousins grilled her about what she planned on wearing, and instantly found fault with her choices.  Banamor mentioned the event when she met him in Sevendor Town market.  Even Sire Cei had suggested that she dig up an escort, somewhere, if she was uncomfortable with going.  When even Zagor the Hedgemage had casually said something about it, she’d had enough.

That night at dinner in the Mewstower she announced her escorts to the dedication ceremony: Laretha – because she would be insufferable if she didn’t get to go – Vander and Dima, all seasoned riders who were mature enough to know how to behave in public.  They also looked good in the uniforms she required her Riders to wear on such occasions.

That had been Nattia’s idea, originally, she recalled.  Her former second-in-command had been a stickler about how the Sky Riders presented themselves in public, and had designed a formal outfit that was, to some Riders’ minds, depressingly uninteresting.  But Dara had to admit that the effect of matching clothes, especially in a military cut, was impressive to the people of Sevendor.  Unlike the knights and warmagi who contended for notice and attention through gaudy displays of brightly-colored heraldry, the Sky Riders’ jackets and half-cloaks provided a uniformity that lent them all strength without advancing any one of them.

It also distracted from the fact that all of the Sky Riders were, on average, short, thin, and nimble, compared to most other warriors.  Nattia’s Kasari heritage, where every Kasari wore more or less the same clothing in the same cut, had no doubt influenced the choice.

She’d chosen Vander because he was well-spoken and sociable, as well as being a good rider and a mage in his own right.  While not as powerful as Dara, and lacking a witchstone, his magical abilities gave him an advantage over other Riders when it came to controlling his bird and using the magical munitions upon which they were increasingly relying.

Dima, likewise, was more polished than some of her unit; she was the daughter of a petty nobleman in Hosendor who had run away from home to travel to Sevendor and enlist with the Sky Riders.  While that had caused a fuss, when her parents caught up with her, by that time she’d become one of the Wing’s most accomplished Riders.  Indeed, she’d been a vicious fighter the day of the dragon attack.  It was her noble upbringing Dara required for this mission, however.  Dima knew a lot about the politics of the Bontal Vales, and she indulged in the kind of gossip Dara hated.  She knew how to dance, and she knew how to indulge in polite conversation.  Dima was a natural.

As for Laretha, Dara included her just to shut her up about it.

Dara tried not to think about the upcoming reception too much, and, in truth, there was plenty to keep her mind occupied.  She was doing her best to expand the Mewstower’s capabilities, and that meant working with the new Riders on basic hawksmanship, elementary flying, and proper harnessing.  The intermediate Riders learned aerial combat and personal defense, while the senior class focused on learning how to use the increasingly sophisticated magical weaponry that Sevendor’s bouleuterion kept producing.

She had instructors for all the trainings, of course, but she still had to oversee the process and quiz her Riders on their performance.  Accountability and discipline were  key, she knew.  She also knew that was something else Nattia had brought to the formation of the unit.  They were a long way from the days where they would just throw a saddle on a giant hawk and ride into the sky.  There were procedures and lists, now, regulations that had to be maintained and enforced for important reasons of safety and efficiency.  And that took a lot of work that she, alone, could do.

Few understood what she did, however, beside sit on a hawk and look fearsome.  That was frustrating.  She didn’t just rule the Westwood – in name only, her father was still firmly in control of the estate – she ran a sophisticated, highly specialized military outfit.

She was proud of her Sky Riders and her Mewstower, and she didn’t begrudge the hard work.  Since the disastrous dragon attack, she’d rebuilt the Mews until it was almost as strong as it had been that awful day.  The nestlings were healthy and vibrant, and there was no lack of potential Riders.  In a year, she’d have four full Wings, as well as the Training Wing.

Alas, the day of the abbey’s reception eventually dawned, and Dara found herself dressing in her formal uniform, and even checking on the cut of her hair as she prepared.  Anxiously, she brushed it to a full sheen and pinned it back.  Then she unfurled it again, before pulling it up.  She studied her image in the looking glass for long moments before casting a spell in a fit of irritation.

“Riders!  Let’s fly!” she called, as she flung her bag and cloak over her shoulder and descended the stairs from her quarters to the common mess.  All three of her escorts were there already, each looking freshly scrubbed and sharply dressed.  Laretha had even indulged in some cosmetics, Dara could tell.

“The birds are ready, Captain,” Laretha assured her.  “We were just waiting on you.”  The Tower Master did a double-take.  “What’s wrong with your face – wait, did you use a glamour spell?” she asked in disbelief.

“What?  Don’t be silly,” Dara dismissed.  “It’s just a . . . a perception spell,” she lied.

“Then how come you suddenly look much prettier, Captain?  No offense,” Dima asked.

Dara blushed and frowned.  “Because I am representing this Tower and all of Sevendor so I thought that scrubbing the bird shit off my face might be appropriate.  Can we fly, now?” she pleaded, and headed for the staircase that led to the mews.

The new recruits were in charge of preparing the giant falcons for missions, as well as tending the everyday maintenance of the birds.  They had all four steeds harnessed by the time Dara and her squadron arrived.  Nonetheless, each Rider checked every strap and buckle on the cunningly designed saddles.  No Rider would be so foolish as to entrust his safety to someone else.  People died that way.

Nor did they have to concern themselves with their arsenal, this time – this was a simple flight to a party, not a combat mission.  The birds did not bear the steel claws for this flight.  Nonetheless, the recently polished harnesses still carried a brace of skybolts in their scabbards.  And the left side of each pommel bore a short but wide curved blade, the signature weapon of the Sky Riders.  Dara’s harness also contained a few sheathes where she kept her combat wands.

When all the Riders were satisfied with the harnessing, and after they’d spent a few moments with their birds, they climbed atop the great falcons’ backs and, one by one, lined up behind Dara and Frightful.  When each gave the ready signal, Dara nodded back and then urged Frightful forward, towards the gaping entrance of the launching bay.

At this height the great birds had plenty of room to deploy into the sky quickly, if needed.  Dara felt the world fall out from under her as Frightful’s huge wings folded and the giant bird plummeted.  Dara could feel the falcon’s delight in her discomfort, but it was brief.  Frightful’s wings were unfurled at just the right time, catching Dara hard in her seat as the sail-sized limbs caught the air sharply.

But then they were gliding, and all was well with the universe.

Dara never tired of being in the sky atop her bird.  Frightful was just the perfect flier, in Dara’s estimation, as well as being the oldest and most experienced.  With the magical connection she shared with her, the experience of soaring over the treetops and mountains of Sevendor was sublime.

They flew over Westwood Hall and then Frightful banked right.  In moments she was flying directly toward the rising walls of the new castle on Rundeval.  In Rundeval, mostly, she corrected herself, but the exterior portions of the castle were being steadily erected behind the completed gatehouse.

Dara had always considered the massive gatehouse an impressive feat of Karshak engineering.  Compared to the human-built Sevendor Castle next door, it was as sophisticated as it was solid – and about as large.

But the castle that was forming in and around the mountain Frightful where had been born was nearly as tall as the gatehouse, and it promised to get much taller.  It was also vast, four times the area of Sire Cei’s seat.  And that did not count the hollowed-out interior.  When it was complete it would have the capacity to shelter thousands, she knew.  Inside they would be safe even from dragons.

The other Riders followed Frightful in formation, each using the healthy thermal in front of the castle to gain altitude.  Should they really want to climb rapidly, Dara knew, they could dare the insanely strong thermal over town, where the Everfire heated the air to the point a chicken could have taken flight.

But for this journey a few circles around the mountain were sufficient.  Holy Hill Abbey was just over the northern ridge, not five miles away.  They would be there in minutes.  That was almost disappointing.  It was a beautiful day for flying.  She was tempted to just keep going past the abbey and head west.  She could probably make it to Barrowbell in a day or two, she mused.

Frightful gave her support for that plan through their affinity.  She could keep flying like this all day.

“I wasn’t serious, you fat old hen!” Dara chided her.  “We have responsibilities!  We have duties!  We have a boring old reception to attend where I’m going to be gossiped about no matter what I do!”

Frightful reaffirmed her willingness to go.  Instead, Dara gave the hand signal to begin circling over the spires of the abbey.  The magnificent new chapel provided an ideal landmark, especially from this angle.  She could see the beautiful dome of stained glass that had been incorporated into the roof in a way that few could, from her vantage in the sky.  That’s where the dedication ceremony was to be.  That’s where Arlastan would be.

Dara sighed.  There was no getting out of this.

It was always fascinating to see how people reacted to the giant falcons landing amongst them.  It was one thing to see them soaring off in the distance, far overhead.  It was quite another to see that big shadow and realizing that something was coming down at them.  Though Dara had the landing site picked out well away from the crowd that was gathering in the abbey’s courtyard, there were inevitable squeals and involuntary stumbles as Frightful’s mighty wings braked and brought them safely down.

The other Riders did an adequate job of following her, and in moments they were slinging their bags and removing their leather helmets.  Dara gave the birds each a mental command to perch on the peak of the barn and wait for them.  Then she led her Riders across the field, where an astonished crowd applauded and cheered for them.

The next several minutes involved all of the Riders answering the questions the assembled volleyed at them, and they patiently indulged them.  It was good for the Mews when people had a favorable opinion of the Riders.  It certainly helped with recruitment.

Dara quietly worked her way through the crowd, greeting people she knew by sight, and introducing herself to those who had never met her.  Among them was a largely new crop of nobility who’d taken over for the former Sashtalian domains.  There were many strange banners held by servants or retainers standing near their lords.  Baron Arlastan had ensured that Taravanal had made a strong showing.

Though Sire Cei had to cancel his attendance, owing to some emergency over in Laripose domain, there were plenty of other prominent Sevendori who’d arrived.  Magelords and Riverlords, alike, along with a healthy contingent of clergy from other temples.  Everyone was dressed in their summer best, she saw, and noted a half-dozen outfits that were particularly striking.  The girls back at the Mewstower would want to know the details.

“Ah, the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor!” a middle-aged nun said, grabbing her arm out of the crowd.  “My lady, I am Sister Merlysia, the abbey’s herald.  I need you and your party to come over here,” she said, gesturing with a chubby finger toward a smaller, better-dressed part of the crowd standing on the cobbled portion of the courtyard.  “You’re on the special guest list,” she said, as she led them away.

Dara dutifully followed the nun’s bouncing habit through the crowd.  She’d learned long ago that no matter what your rank, the functionaries of a place actually ran everything.  If you were smart, you did as they ask and stood where they told you to stand.  That held true whether you were a drudge emptying chamberpots or a baron entertaining a group of your vassals.  Irritating the people that organized and ran such things was never a good idea.

“Birthsister Merlysia?  May I ask . . .” Dara said, as they approached the high-born gathering.  “Who all is here?”

The nun stopped up short.  “Who all is here?  Why two barons, a dozen baronets, and lords and ladies in gracious abundance!  There’s abbots, abbesses, magelords, Riverlords, why, we haven’t had such a turnout since I came here, twenty years ago!” the nun said, crossly.  “And apparently there’s a Hawkmaiden that I’m supposed to secure for the reception.  Thank the Mother that you folk dress so distinctively!” she said, shaking her head.

“But Baron Arlastan is here, isn’t he?” Laretha asked, eagerly, from over her shoulder.  Dara suppressed the urge to jam her elbow into her ribs.  There were people around.

“Arlastan?  I dare say he was the first to arrive,” agreed the priestess, frowning.  “It was his coin that built the new chapel and the halls.  That usually means a man is trying to purchase Our Lady’s favor as he searches for a good bride.  Half the halls here at the abbey were built by Riverlords who seek quality wives.”

“Does that actually work?” Dima, shocked.

“That’s between the goddess and the gentlemen in question,” sighed the nun.  “But a man who can afford to build that?” she said, jabbing her thumb at the richly-appointed chapel.  “He won’t have trouble finding someone to share his bed!”

“That is a fascinating bit of ecclesiastic history, Sister Merlysia,” Laretha said, solemnly.  Dara reconsidered throwing her elbow, but decided that doing so in front of a nun would be disrespectful.

“Aye, the new chapel is lovely, and the new halls are needed – I’ve never seen so many babies being born in the hills, Trygg’s grace be upon them!” the nun said, shaking her head.  “We’re training our novitiates as midwives as fast as we can.  But these bloody ceremonies are a headache, they are.  Here, if you will just wait here until the bell rings for the dedication ceremony to begin, and then follow the first guests into the chapel.  I’ve got to tell that party from Rolone to move back, lest they confuse the order.  A bloody headache!” she muttered, as she rushed to her next task.

“So, His Excellency is seeking a bride,” Laretha whispered to Dara.

“Many men seek brides,” Dara countered.  “By the Flame, my brother is even considering it!”

“Your brother isn’t a baron,” Dima broke in.  “Although he’s terribly handsome.”

“Just because Arlastan is looking for a wife and happened to invite me to this ceremony doesn’t mean that he’s considering me for marriage,” Dara said, crossly.  “If that is his strategy, he will be disappointed,” she added, firmly.

“I wasn’t thinking about you, I was thinking about me!” Laretha whispered back.  “‘Baroness Laretha’ has a lovely ring to it . . .” she said, dreamily.

“You’d give up flying to be a baron’s brood mare?” Dara asked, pointedly.

“I’d at least have to consider it,” Laretha said, after a moment’s thought.  “I mean, just – Ishi’s tits, there he is!” she said, interrupting herself and nodding emphatically toward the new chapel.

Dara’s breath caught as she saw the great wooden doors open for a moment, and watched five or six Riverlords emerge.  At their center was Arlastan.

She couldn’t deny he was a handsome man.  While he did not yet possess the maturity of his father, Baron Arathanial of Sendaria, he had every measure of his sire’s commanding personality.  He was wearing a beautiful woolen mantle of bright blue, thrust back over his broad shoulders in the heat of the day.  His cap was dyed the same shade, and both brought out the striking blue of his eyes.  Arlastan’s barber had taken considerable pains to trim his beard and hair in an attractive manner.

But it was his easy smile that was the most attractive thing about him, Dara realized.  While some of his gentlemen seemed dour or preoccupied, Arlastan seemed to cast his smile around like a beam of sunlight, illuminating everything it touched.  She watched as he charmed a pair of nuns who were attending to the doors, and then joked with a few of the Riverlords who had broken from the crowd to hail their new baron before he began leading his entourage toward the courtyard where the important guests were waiting.

“Ishi’s aching nips, he’s lovely to look at!” Dima sighed.  It was echoed by Laretha, who could not tear her eyes from him.

“All that jousting training really builds up the shoulders, doesn’t it?” she said, biting her lip.  “I wager he has strong hands – I always like a man’s hands, they say a lot about him.”

“Will you two stop it?” Dara demanded.  “Flame, we’re in public!  In a temple!  And you’re acting like a couple of . . . a couple of . . .”

“ ‘Brood mares’?” suggested Vander, quietly smirking.

“It’s embarrassing!” Dara declared.  “I should—”

She was interrupted by the ringing of the cloister bell, the signal for all to attend.  The Abbess of Holy Hill strode into the center of the crowd, looking regal in her formal robes, and was attended by five senior nuns, all bearing baskets.

“My lords and ladies,” the old woman croaked, just barely loud enough for Dara to hear.  “We are gathered today on Our Lady’s sacred ground to bear witness to the dedication of the new chapel, so kindly and graciously donated by Baron Arlastan of Taravanal,” she said, nodding toward the handsome nobleman and his party.  She allowed a brief moment for cheers and applause before she continued.

“Of course, many others have donated to the maintenance and improvement of our abbey, over the years,” she said, as the cloister doors opened and a line of young nuns filed out.  “Indeed, this kind of devotion to Our Lady has sustained our dear abbey for a century.  And while I doubt you can match Baron Arlastan’s generosity in grandness, I encourage each of you to consider that Trygg’s blessings flow to all, villein and barons alike.  To contribute according to your ability is a mark of devotion Our Lady has a history of noting,” she reminded, as the elder nuns began to approach the crowd with their empty baskets.

“Of course,” Vander groaned, as he dug into his purse.  “The pitch for offerings.  Just how much fertility can I buy with three silver pennies?” he asked.

“How much do you need?” sneered Dima, as she, too, found her purse.  “We can take up a collection . . .”

“It’s not for me,” Vander chuckled.  “It’s for the Captain,” he said, as he tossed the coins into the basket and shot a smile to the nun.

“Then I’m definitely in,” Laretha agreed, emptying her own purse into the basket.  Dima laughed and added her own offering.

“You all are going to be flying a dismally long patrol for this,” Dara warned.  “In the rain!”

As the choir began singing a beautiful hymn to the wonders of the birthing chamber, the Abbess began to lead the special guests into the gleaming new chapel.  Dara quickly called her Riders to attention, and was gratified how quickly they managed to pull themselves out of their reverie and adopt a solemn air.  She took one last glance at the giant hawks atop the barn.  They seemed bored, all save Dima’s mount, Featherface, who seemed intent on something in the woods below the hill.  Likely he had spotted a deer, and he was hungry.

“Lady Lenodara!” a deep voice unexpected sounded in her ear.  Startled, she turned to see who called – and was face to handsome face with Baron Arlastan.  “I was hoping that you would come!  I heard you arrived on those beautiful birds – my niece cannot stop talking about it,” he said, nodding toward a young girl a few places down the cue.  “She’d love to get close to one,” he added, with a shy smile.

“I’d be happy to, Baron Arlastan,” she agreed, returning the smile.  “Perhaps after the ceremony?”

“There should be time before the reception,” he nodded, charmingly.  “I would very much consider it a boon.  She’s mad for them.  And I do hope to see you at the ball, tonight,” he added.  “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you that are of mutual interest.”

“She’d love to come!” Laretha burst out.

“I will be there, as duty permits,” Dara agreed, giving her second-in-command a brief but withering look.  Someone was definitely going to be flying patrols for a while, she decided.  “But I haven’t other plans.  And I brought a gown,” she added.

“I look forward to seeing it,” Arlastan agreed.  “And all of you,” he added, as he picked out the other Sky Riders.  “We all feel safer when we see your birds in the sky.  Thank you for keeping us safe,” he said with complete sincerity.

“It is our duty and our pleasure, Baron,” Dara nodded, hoping by the Flame that she appeared cool and collected.  Regardless of her feelings, she did not want to make a fool out of herself, here, in front of Arlastan and half of the Bontal Vales.  Thankfully, Arlastan was gracious enough to bow and then greet the next set of guests.

“Thank Ishi you cast that glamour spell,” Laretha whispered, her eyes wide.

Dara didn’t say a word.  She merely paused and stomped the heel of her boot on Laretha’s instep.

The interior of the new chapel was gorgeous, Dara had to admit to herself.  The round walls were well-crafted by the same masons who had built her brother’s fortress at Caolan’s Pass.  The caryatid statues supporting the vast roof showed the different stages of pregnancy, one for every month, until the final showed a woman holding a healthy baby.  The stained-glass windows in the walls were filled with peacocks (the sacred bird of Trygg) apples, apple blossoms, and babies.  The smaller windows in the dome overhead – the same one she thought was so pretty, from five hundred feet above.  Now she saw that each panel depicted the appallingly bloody process of labor and delivery.  There was a lot of red up there.  But between each large window there was a smaller one showing a healthy baby.

Everywhere, there were babies, she realized.  Dara swallowed hard.

They were escorted to a stately section of the chapel, the one directly in front of the altar in the center of the room, a round wooden table supported by three exquisitely-carved peacocks.  It seemed to take forever for all of the crowd to take their seats, and there was much murmuring and rustling under the sweet voices of the choir.  She was both irritated and secretly pleased when Baron Arlastan was seated directly in front of her.

Then the ceremony began.  In a way, Dara was fascinated by it; her people didn’t often resort to the formal gods of the Narasi, the way they were devoted to the Flame.  The anthropomorphic divinities seemed designed to inspire emotion, while the Flame was eternally dispassionate.  Likewise, the incense, candles, singing, and praying were strange to her.  The Westwoodmen did not do that sort of thing when they were home.

But in another way Dara was bored senseless at the droning prayers that began after the choir was done.  Why did the Narasi seem so determined to make worship so complicated? she asked herself.  As the prayers continued on and on . . . and on, Dara found herself staring at one of the altar candles, clinging to the beautiful simplicity of the Flame as she was drowning in a sea of ecclesiastical ornamentation.

Then there was another choral performance.  At least the music was good.

Dara continued to listen and watch the candle flame when she became aware of something else . . . some disturbance around her that no one else was noticing.  Then she thought she heard something, somewhere off in the distance.

“What was that?” Dara asked, in a hoarse whisper.  She wasn’t asking anyone in particular, but the noise she heard – sensed – while the nuns were singing was incongruous to the place.  Even though she wasn’t familiar with the sounds of the abbey, the distant noises she detected were out-of-place.  Arlastan turned his head toward her.

“What was what?” the young baron whispered, confused.  Dara shook her head and closed her eyes, reaching out to Frightful and the other birds in the courtyard.  And the horses.  And any other creature who might lend her their eyes and ears.

She sifted through the potential perspectives of the livestock and steeds gathered about.  Several had noted the noise, most just in passing, but a few were generally alarmed.  She focused on those animals and allowed her consciousness to harvest their insights like apples from trees.  She came back to the giant hawks and recognized at once that something was wrong.  They had spotted something.

There were definitely figures moving across the courtyard – away from the chapel, she saw, and toward the older halls of the abbey.  And not human figures.  Featherface and Frightful were both certain something was there, at the far end of the abbey.  Some of the more attentive dogs – and one highly suspicious goose – were upset at the intrusion, on top of the other intrusions into their routine they’d been subjected to today.  It was bad enough to have strangers about Holy Hill; having inhuman strangers was just outrageous.

“Riders, eyes up.  There’s trouble,” Dara murmured to her companions, who looked surprised as her eyes snapped open.  “Someone’s skulking about the grounds!”

“What?” Arlastan asked over his shoulder.  “Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure – and the goose is certain!” Dara said, doing nothing to allay the baron’s confusion.  She turned to Laretha, and lightly touched her thigh.  “Prepare for action – quietly!” she emphasized, in a whisper.  “Someone’s trying something outside while everyone is in here!”

Instead of questioning her, the Wing Second nodded, and began passing the orders down to her wingmates, as unobtrusively as possible.  The news startled the other two Sky Riders, but they did not resist the command.  Indeed, they were ready to depart their pews the moment their Captain informed them something was amiss.

Dara did not bother to follow how well her instructions were disseminated and followed – she was back in the heads of her animal confederates, trying desperately to determine the nature of the intrusion.

The figures in the eyes and ears of the dogs were inhuman, that was clear enough – but they weren’t gurvani, by their color and their gait.  Nor did they have the distinctive smell of a gurvani, that much she could establish.  Frustrated with the dogs’ limited discernment, she shifted her attention back to the birds she was so familiar with.

It took only a few moments to redirect Frightful’s attention to the incursion that Featherface was already intent upon.  Once alerted, each of the four giant falcons quickly cast their gaze in the direction of the old halls in the east of the compound.  A part of the abbey she was only too familiar with.  Those were the halls where the infirm were cared for, she knew from bitter experience.

“What are you—?” Baron Arlastan asked as she rose, suddenly.

“Cover for us,” Dara instructed the baron.  “Our birds . . . detected something.  We’re going to investigate. It’s probably nothing.  Don’t interrupt the ceremony unless we call out,” she directed in a whisper.  The abbess shot her a nasty look from the altar over the disruption.

“I . . . all right,” he agreed, reluctantly, with a nod.  He may not have understood what was happening, but he seemed to trust Dara.  “Do what you must, Captain!” he whispered, and delivered a curt nod.

Dara quietly slipped from the pew, and felt Laretha and the rest of her Wing fall in behind her.  She was confident the hawks would not abandon their target, now that it had their attention.  They managed to file out without disturbing the ceremony further, although Dara noted a pair of dour nuns attending the door who glared at them for leaving in the middle of the ceremony.

“What’s amiss, Captain?” Vander asked, when they’d left the sanctuary.  Dara’s wingmates looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.

“I heard something,” Dara murmured, pulling her gloves on.  “Then I checked with Frightful and Featherface, who saw something.  Nonhumans skulking about the place,” she said, worriedly.

“Captain, there’s been some Tal Alon who’ve settled in the next domain,” Dima pointed out.  “Olmeg told me about them.  Apparently, Lord Lorcus brought them in a few weeks ago with his new bride.  It’s likely them,” she reasoned.

“These weren’t Tal,” Dara said, shaking her head.  “And Tal don’t skulk, they scuttle,” she added.

“There’s a difference?” Vander smirked.

“Skulking is like scuttling . . . when you’re up to something,” Dara decided, as she looked around the deserted compound.  “They skulked,” she declared.  “They moved with purpose and sought to avoid detection.  Skulking.”

“The things you learn as a Sky Rider,” Vander said, shaking his head.

“The birds are watching them, now, but they were headed toward the older halls,” Dara said.  “Laretha, Vander, go north and south around the hall.  I’ll go within.  Dima, mount your steed and be prepared to assist in reserve,” Dara ordered, drawing a small wand from her belt.  “Don’t launch yet, but be prepared to take to the sky on my signal and give us some support from above.  And everyone stay quiet.  If there are intruders, I don’t want to alert them that we’re on to them.”  She was gratified that her usually chatty wingmates took her at her word and moved to their tasks without talking, their soft boots barely making a sound on the hard ground.

Dara began casting a few spells to help prepare for whatever it was that was invading Holy Hill.  Her pulse raced as she called the runes into existence, informing them with her intent and fueling them with her will.  Power poured from her witchstone like a river, filling and enacting her spell one thaumaturgical concept at a time.

Dara knew her craft.  Her shields fell over her like a cloak, and her perceptions grew until she could see details through walls and beyond her line of sight.  She suddenly saw the scene in a much different light.  It wasn’t merely the invalid wing of a rural abbey, anymore.  It was a battlefield, and she had insight into it that gave her control.

There were at least seven invaders climbing over the walls of the compound to the east, her spells informed her.  Their shapes were inhuman, moving with a gait that no man could manage.  Nor were they, strictly speaking, gurvani.  The proportions were all wrong.  Dara wasn’t certain, but she knew that these were a mixture of gurvani and . . . something else.  But not human.  Every spell at her command assured her of that.

That could mean a lot of things . . . but they were not Tal Alon.  Or Karshak.  Those thaumaturgical signatures she was familiar with.  These were different.  More like the Tera Alon.  Or those gurvani, the ones they called Great Goblins.  Either one would be trouble, but there seemed to be a mixture.

Dara did her best to keep her emotions calm as her mind screamed at her about the danger.  The idea of an attack at such a time and place was horrific, and it raised further concerns.  This was no fortress, no castle; apart from a few lightly-armed guards at the gate, the place was undefended.  Even the large number of knights and lords within the chapel weren’t prepared for this.  While most bore the long swords that told them out as knights, they weren’t armored, for the most part, and they were unprepared for battle.

Which made it a perfect time for an attack, she realized.  But why?  Why would anyone attack an abbey?  In the middle of a dedication ceremony?

None of it made sense, she knew.  She needed more information.

As she skidded into place behind the southern corner of the cloister, she cast ahead with magesight.  Dara saw the figures directly, now, as they scaled the wall and slipped over the top.  With magnification, her suspicions were confirmed: those were gurvani, the transformed kind.  But they seemed even taller than the man-sized foes she’d witnessed at Olum Seheri.  Indeed, their arms and legs were laughably long, and their heads and necks were thicker.  Though there was black hair on their bodies, it was much thinner than a normal gurvan’s.  You could see bare patches between their armor.

For armored they were, as well as armed.  That was proven a moment later, when one raised a longbow and shot an arrow at something out of her line of sight before dropping to the interior of the abbey.

“Cinders and ashes!” Dara swore, out loud.  Automatically she drew her mageblade, Talon, the magical short sword that was the pattern for most of the Sky Rider’s blades.  Unlike the others, this one was actively magical; it had war spells designed into the enchantments.  Spells she knew how to use.

She crept closer to the invaders, hiding herself as best she could and wishing that she had someone with her.  And then she realized that she did.  She reached out with her mind and sent a general call to every canine she could contact, telling them that there were intruders about.

Dara was about to slip around the corner, Talon in hand, when one of the odd-looking goblins unexpectedly appeared from another direction.  They must have sent a second scaling party! she realized, belatedly.  Thankfully, the goblin did not sight her as he glanced around the compound, then motioned his mates forward.  All had bows and spears, she saw, and several carried axes and swords as well.  This was a raiding party, she reasoned, as she ducked back behind the corner.

But goblins attacking in the middle of the day?  And raiding an abbey in the middle of the Riverlands?  Hundreds of miles from their nearest outpost?  There had to be much more to this attack than that, Dara reasoned.  This had the stink of the Enshadowed all over it.

She was about to alert the crowded chapel of the attack with a display spell from Talon when she was interrupted by a goblin coming around the corner.  Indeed, she almost collided with it.  The thing towered over her and looked almost as startled as she was.  Reflexively, she started to raise the blade when the goblin’s spear-clutching fist collided with her face, sending Talon sailing away from her grasp . . . and sending her sprawling on the cobbles.

She was about to scream out a warning to the chapel when, maddingly, the choir within began to belt out yet another hymn to the holy labor pains the goddess had gifted womankind with.  There was no way that her voice would be heard over that, she realized, as she scrambled across the courtyard, away from the goblin.  Her face stung with the force of his blow, still, yet she knew if she did not move quickly, she would be speared by the raider.

She had just reached the pommel of Talon, grasping it with her fingertips, when she felt the first blow come.  Without thinking she rolled to her left, which kept her sword out of her reach . . . but allowed her to avoid the blade of the spear that nearly gutted her.  Before she could move further, she was gratified to see the big ugly goblin go down unexpectedly with a dog flinging itself at the thing’s neck.  A split second later, a second hound viciously began tearing at its legs, and then it was down in a flurry of fangs and fur.

That gave Dara just enough time to snatch up her sword and fire her spell . . . just as the cloister bell started ringing loudly and without its customary cadence.

The two events combined to alert the assembled in the chapel, as Dara’s spell had splashed a harmless gout of red magical fire (pretty, but without the ability to burn anything) over the top of the dome.  It was easily bright enough to illuminate the chapel through the gory stained glass.  No one in that big, well-lit building could have ignored that.  She was gratified that the choir stopped singing.  The bell, however, continued ringing wildly.

Her next spell proved to be a volley against a second goblin who was rushing to save his comrade from the dogs.  It was potent enough to knock him senseless, which made the canine attackers’ job easier.  Indeed, there were more dogs running into the fray, now, and the two raiders seemed overmatched.

“To arms!” she screamed, as the doors to the chapel burst open.  “To arms!”

A group of knights rushed outside, their blades brandished, as they looked for the danger.  It came soon enough, for the moment they crossed the threshold several bowstrings sent arrows singing into the crowd, inspiring screams of terror and shouts of alarm.  Dara could not direct them further. The bloodied goblins who was fighting the five hounds – when had the fourth and fifth arrived? – required dispatching.

There were several goblins revealing themselves, now, she saw, as she used Talon to finish off the raiders.  A lot more than she’d realized.  The great goblins proved that their longer arms and legs were ideal for climbing, as many began ascending the walls and abundant trellises of the abbey while their mates continued to fire arrows at the crowd in front of the chapel from concealed locations.

The climbers began to take up positions by the gate and on top of some of the halls and outbuildings and soon were sniping at the humans by the chapel with their long bows from the rooves.  A few raiders were chasing down screaming nuns or servants with their blades, slashing the unarmed humans indiscriminately.  Bodies began appearing across the courtyard as their efforts bore fruit.  Dara felt sick to her stomach as she helplessly watched one middle-aged nun get her face bashed in with an axe.  She remembered that she’d been the one who took her offering, before the service.

Now she was dead.  And many more would die, if she didn’t do something.

Dara rushed forward toward one of the archers who had taken position atop the well-house, waving her arms to attract its attention while activating spells in her mageblade.  It was dangerous and reckless, of course, but Dara could not, in good conscience, allow innocent blood to be spilled by these evil bastards.  She flung her attack spell the moment it was ready, just as the archer turned his next arrow on her.  She was gratified to see the goblin flung in an arc fifty feet long.  It crashed into the corner of a hall and fell twenty feet to the ground, where it did not move.

Alas, there were plenty more of them, she realized.  Individual duels had broken out across the courtyard between the visiting knights and the invaders.  Arrows continued to rain down from the rooftops, taking a toll on the defenders of the abbey.  For one brief second she picked out Baron Arlastan bravely hacking at the spearshaft of a goblin trying to rush the stairs of the chapel, his gentlemen fighting fiercely at his shoulder – one of whom already had an arrow in his thigh.

Then she was occupied by another snarling attacker who was charging her and slashing its spear at her with murderous intent.

Dara was not a large woman, but she knew how to fight.  And she was quick.  She avoided each strike of the spear largely by twisting away, and then trying to get close enough to land a blow with Talon.  The battle was too hot for her to prepare any more spells; had she paused her defense for even a moment, she knew she’d be skewered.

Then a shadow passed overhead, and before she could flick her eyes up to see it, Dima rode Featherface by.  A sky bolt blossomed in the chest of the raider Dara faced, much to his surprise.  As he crumbled to the ground, Dara waved gratefully at Dima, who was flying Featherface to knock some of the snipers off rooves with swipes of his talons.  The other birds followed, riderless, but no less vicious in their attack.  The momentary shift in the raiders’ focus to the skies allowed the knights to press forward without facing archer fire.  The battle expanded across the abbey.

“Only three?” someone said, from behind her.  She turned to see Laretha and Vander, both with bloody blades in their hands, running up to support her.

“Five,” Dara corrected, weakly, pointing out the goblin who had been flung away.  “But those two over there was taken by the dogs,  and Dima got this one,” she explained, gesturing to the goblin with the sky bolt buried in its chest.  It was still twitching.  “Can either of you fly?”

“Sure, but the birds can’t land in all of this,” Vander pointed out, his breath coming in heaves.  “They’ll get slaughtered by arrows!”

“He’s right – they could land, but they’d get slaughtered while we try to get in the saddle.  These scrugs are vicious,” Laretha added.  “We got attacked by two of them, when we crossed the compound,” she reported.  There was a slash in her shoulder, and blood soaked her uniform sleeve.  She didn’t seem to notice.  “Vander managed to kill them both, then ring the cloister bell with magic!”

“I was wondering who did that,” Dara nodded.  “Good work!  Well, if we can’t fly, what can we do?” she asked, scanning the courtyard.

There was a full-scale battle going on.  Now there were at least twenty of the strangely stretched goblins in evidence, many fighting hand-to-hand against the desperate lords and knights who were trying to re-take the courtyard.  There were at least twenty more archers on the rooves and high places of the compound, and the sky was filled with their deadly shafts.  Despite the fierce attacks Dima and the birds were making on them, there was just too much cover on the complex of roofs gables and chimneys for them to hide behind.  They were having an effect.  There were human bodies peppered with arrows everywhere, many still struggling to crawl to some cover from the relentless fire.

“Captain!  Summon help!” suggested Laretha, as she looked around in dismay.  Dara looked at her and frowned, as an arrow whizzed just overhead.

“From whom?” she asked.  “I don’t have a Waystone, and the nearest natural Waypoint is . . . oh!  That must be how they got here!” Dara realized.  “There’s a natural Waypoint a few miles north of here.  Goblins don’t use Waypoints.  Which means that they didn’t come alone!”

“Enshadowed?” Vander asked, concerned.  Dara nodded.  Only the Alka Alon renegades would have the power to transport so many goblins so far from their bases in the west.

“Still, we should get word to Sevendor,” Dara agreed.  “I’ll try to contact someone mind-to-mind . . . if you two can keep me from getting shot while I do it!”

Her wingmates nodded, and took up defensive positions around their captain as Dara dug out her witchstone.  She didn’t use mind-to-mind communication often, and she wasn’t as prepared with the spell as most other High Magi.  But she closed her eyes and reached out to . . . whom?

Master Minalan was hundreds of miles away in Vanador.  Sire Cei did not have a witchstone.  Olmeg was likely out in his gardens and fields.  Zagor did not use mind-to-mind much, if at all.  Finally, she hit on one wizard she knew she could count on.

Banamor! she screamed into his mind.  I’m at Holy Hill Abbey, and we’re under attack!  Great goblins and probably Enshadowed!  At least three dozen of them!  We need help!

What? the confused wizard asked her, through the link.  Holy Hill is under attack?  Slow down, Dara, tell me what happened!

I can’t slow down and I can’t explain, she insisted.  I’m under fire!  Just send a message to my brother at Caolan’s Pass to dispatch some riders to help us out!  Send word to the Mewstower to launch all available birds!  And whoever else you can think to send and get here quickly!

All right, I’ll handle it!  Stay safe, Dara! he said, with genuine concern.

I’ll be fine, Dara dismissed.  But there are a lot of nuns and honored guests getting slaughtered, so hurry!  she broke contact before he could reply.

“I’ve done what I can,” she reported to her wingmates when she opened her eyes.  She was surprised that there was a bloody-mouthed dog now protecting her, too.  She’d been so involved in her communication that she hadn’t even felt it arrive.

“Good, because the guests are getting pinned down behind the chapel stairs,” Laretha reported, grimly, gesturing with her blade.  Despite Dima’s and the hawks’ best efforts, there were still far too many archers on the roofs and walls.  They were far better at shooting than normal goblins, too, Dara realized.  Those bows were larger than the gurvani usually carried.  They were man-sized longbows, and they were having a devastating effect.

“Why in six hells are they doing this?” Vander asked, aiming his wand at one of the ungainly goblins and missing with his spell.  The chimney it hid behind, however, exploded in a glorious shower of masonry.  “And why can I peg one of these buggers from two hundred feet in the air on the fly but I miss when they’re fifty feet away?” he asked, discouraged.  “We’ve got to get up there, somehow, Captain!”

“If we try to climb the wall, we’ll get butchered,” Dara said, shaking her head.

“Captain, the birds might not be able to land,” Laretha said, as she scanned the rooftops, “but they could probably pick something up, couldn’t they?”

“Like what?” Dara asked, confused.  There were screams coming from some of the outer halls, now.

“Like us!” Laretha pointed out.  “They could at least get us to the top of the roof in an instant!”

“You want them to carry us up to the rooftops?” Dara asked, surprised.  “I . . . they could, I guess, and that would put us in position to eliminate those archers!” she said, with increasing confidence.

“If they don’t drop us and break our necks,” Vander countered, grimly.

“Frightful can do it,” Dara assured, appreciating the plan.  “I’ll call her.  We’ll try it on me, first, and then I’ll send her to get you two,” she said, as she closed her eyes.

In moments she had raised her affinity with Frightful, and once she got past her bird’s fighting rage, she convinced her of what she wanted her to do.  Frightful was both skeptical and confident, once Dara had given her direction.  She wheeled gracefully around the north end of the compound and began her approach.

Dara picked one particularly well-covered archer who was on top of the hall directly across from the chapel to challenge.  He had a savage smile on his face as he calmly shot a knight in the shoulder, she saw, and his quiver was only half-empty.  That one, she decided, needed to die.

“Frightful’s coming in!” Vander called.  “If this doesn’t work, does that mean Laretha is in charge?”

“It’s going to work,” Dara insisted, as she tracked Frightful by sight.  She tried to stretch as much as she could before marking the spot with her eye where she needed to stand.  “It’s going to be tricky, but it’s going to work!”

“Good luck, Captain!” Laretha said, shaking her head.  “This is such a stupid idea.  I can’t believe you’re going to do this!”

“Me either,” Dara said, with a sigh.  She would have to match Frightful’s speed as well as she could with the pace she would need to hit that spot.  She sheathed her blade to keep it from getting in the way, then launched herself into the courtyard . . . and away from any reasonable cover.  Timing was essential, she knew, and with that first step she committed herself to a possibly ugly – but heroic – death.

Her enthusiasm got her to her target spot a few moments too soon.  She found herself skidding to a halt, while she waited for the bird to come, just a few endless seconds exposed and uncovered.  Plenty long enough for the goblins to track her and fire.  Dara felt helpless in the big, open space of the courtyard . . . and then she was yanked by her shoulders as the flutter of massive wings created a canopy over her head.  She’d been worried that Frightful’s giant talons would tear through her jacket, but the falcon’s grip was just firm enough to grasp her, not injure her.

That didn’t keep her from feeling like a rabbit in the clutches of the giant bird, however.  With her feet dangling and her arms locked in Frightful’s grasp, Dara felt helpless for the few brief seconds it took to get her to the tiled roof.  Then she was falling, scrambling her arms desperately for purchase on the tiled roof while her feet frantically tried to stop her from sliding off the building.  Once her fingers curled firmly around the edge of a tile, she halted her descent and was able to bring herself to her knees.

The goblin was startled at the sudden and unexpected incursion.  He turned and tried to aim his next shot at Dara just as she was able to scramble to the ridge of the rooftop.  Thankfully, she was able to draw Talon in time, blasting the goblin back and off the roof before he was properly lined-up.  The arrow sang past her ear just as his face exploded from magical force and he went down.

Ducking down behind the chimney the goblin had been using as cover, Dara once again called on her affinity to Frightful and instructed her to repeat the process with Laretha.  Another sniper similarly emplaced on a nearby hall was the target.  The dark-haired girl had watched the entire process with rapt attention.  Dara indicated with the hand signals they used while flying that her Wing Second should get ready to repeat the dangerous feat.  Laretha nodded, and when Frightful circled around again she was ready.

Dara didn’t know she was holding her breath until she let it out in a burst as Laretha was deposited perfectly on the adjacent hall.  The goblin firing from that roof was unaware of her until a moment later, when she sprung on his back and stabbed him in the throat with her blade.  While he was still scrambling, Laretha neatly pushed him off the roof.  Dara watched as the brave Rider picked up his fallen bow, pulled an arrow from the still-thrashing goblin’s quiver, and began firing back at the raiders from her vantage.

“Now on to Vander,” Dara said aloud, as she began directing Frightful to make a third pass over the courtyard.

Her bird was getting cocky at performing the feat, she noticed, and was looking for more of a challenge.  Dara obliged her by selecting a particularly well-hidden goblin who had taken position on the rim of the great elevated cistern that allowed a devastating perspective on the entire courtyard.  The top of the cistern was open, to catch rainwater, but the catwalk around it provided a few feet of clearance.  If Frightful wanted a challenge, landing Vander on that ledge would do.

She watched anxiously as the giant falcon swept in, snagging Vander up by his long arms and shoulders.  After soaring barely two hundred yards, Frightful braked and deftly dropped the Rider on the opposite side of the cistern as the goblin.  Vander’s arms waved wildly as he tried to get his balance on the narrow platform.  Just as the goblin fired a pointless shot at Frightful’s retreating tailfeathers, he had his feet knocked out from under him by a bolt from Vander’s warwand.  The body dropped lifelessly to the cobbles below.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Dara turned to survey the rest of the unexpected battle to see where she could be of most use.  With three of the closest snipers eliminated, the knights and other defenders of the chapel were able to venture beyond the stairs and begin to engage with the wandering goblins again, hand-to-hand.  But there were few left in the vicinity – and then Dara saw why.  The goblins on the ground were beginning to withdraw toward the gate of the compound.  There were already a few holding the gate, the bodies of some unfortunate nuns at their feet.  Others were loping toward that position under the cover of the remaining archers.  They were preparing to retreat.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Dara whispered to herself, frowning.  She called out to Frightful, both in her mind and with the special whistle command she’d taught the bird since she was a fledgling.  There was just enough room on the roof for her to land, and Dara wanted to get in the air desperately.  She’d risk the possibility of an arrow, if she had to – Frightful had taken them before – but she needed to respond.  Frightful certainly didn’t concern herself with the danger.  She was fearless.

Dara impressed herself by how quickly she mounted when the great bird lighted on the central beam of the roof.  She didn’t even bother with the safety straps before she encouraged Frightful to take wing again.  In seconds she was surveying the entire compound from two hundred feet in the air, as Frightful quickly climbed.

She watched as most of the black specks below made an orderly retreat toward the gate, and then gaped when she saw a few of them prepare torches and light a fire.  They intended on burning down the beautiful abbey, she realized.  Using flame for such destruction appalled her deeply.  Alas, she had none of the spells or devices that would be of use against them, and they were too close to the gate for Frightful to attack directly without getting injured.

That’s when her bird called her attention away from the abbey entirely, and toward the valley to the west.  Frightful banked of her own accord, and allowed Dara to see another small force crossing the stream on horseback – at least a score of them.  Her stomach churned with dread until she used magesight to get a closer look – and saw the green banner with a red apple on it.

“Lorcus!” she screamed in joy and relief.  Banamor must have gotten a message to the warmage who lived in Granite Tower, in the neighboring domain of Amel Wood.  A rescue party was on the way!

Filled with a renewed sense of optimism, she commanded Frightful to prepare for an attack run on the gate.  She might not have most of her magical munitions, but she had two skybolts.  She would use them to the best effect she could, until help arrived.

She was gratified to see that Laretha, too, had managed to mount her bird and get into the air.  Fanciful, her mount, had risen even faster than Frightful, and had quickly formed up with Dima and Featherface.  That was enough for a decent strafing run, she decided.  Signaling with her arms, Dara commanded her Riders to attend her strike on the gate.

In moments, the three giant birds were lined up on a vector that would bring them to within fifty yards of the raiders.  That was dangerous – they could certainly take fire from the goblins at that distance.  But Dara had been in scores of battles, and accepting a certain amount of risk was part of winning.  She had people to protect, down there.  She would not see them get burned out and slaughtered because she wasn’t willing to risk a few shafts.

Just as the goblins were distributing torches and running toward the buildings nearest the gate, Dara and Laretha darted in and hurled their skybolts, with Dara adding a few more blasts from her saddle wand as soon as she threw the light javelin.  Dima had no more bolts, but Featherface struck at the sniper on the gate with her talons and sent him tumbling.  While not devastating, the fresh attack disrupted the enemy’s attempts to burn the place . . . and it slowed them down a bit more.  Dara figured they had about five minutes before Lorcus and his men arrived.  She planned on making the lives of the goblins interesting, painful, and depressingly short in the meantime.

Nor was she the only one.  Someone had managed to get the horses out of the stables, and now a mounted party was assembling nearby.  While few had lances, their longswords were sufficiently deadly to promise vengeance.  Dara and the other two Sky Riders did what they could to harass the foe while they prepared their charge.  It was a very chaotic scene, and for a few moments she lost herself to battle.

She watched the battle unfold from the air, as Lorcus and his men arrived first and took the diminishing knot of raiders holding the gate from the rear, with magical fire and unrestrained fury.  A moment later the surviving knights – led by Baron Arlastan, she saw – plowed into what remained of the enemy from the front with a short but brutal cavalry charge.  The resulting battle caught the invaders between the two forces.  The fighting was short and furious, but the outcome wasn’t in doubt.

For the next hour the Sky Riders helped the defenders on the ground clean up the few remaining goblins and patrol the estate seeking stragglers or spies.  They were joined soon by a second Wing from the Mewstower, scrambled into the air and arriving with a full arsenal, eager to help. Even with their assistance, it was clear from the air that at least a few of the great goblins had slipped away.  It was late afternoon when Dara finally landed her tired birds.

The reception in the courtyard was unexpectedly overwhelming.  When she and the other Riders finally dismounted, it was to blistering applause and loud, enthusiastic cheers.  It quite surprised her, especially considering the number of dead lined up on the cobbles, and the number of wounded she’d seen being taken to the infirmary on stretchers.  She expected the crowd to be devastated by the attack; instead, they cheered her and the Sky Riders.

“You pigeons did good work up there, Captain,” Lorcus said, grinning as he leaned on his staff.  Dara only knew the warmage in passing, but she appreciated the compliment.  Lorcus had a reputation for being unconventional, for a warmage, but he had orchestrated the successful war against Rolone.  That had been, by all accounts, a genius campaign.  Praise from Lorcus was worth more than a medal.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Lord Lorcus” Dara smiled.  “You probably saved the abbey from being razed.”

“When Banamor called, I couldn’t resist,” Lorcus chuckled.  “Haven’t had a good scrap in a while.  My lads were ready the moment I whistled.  Only wish it had lasted longer.  Funny thing about these buggers, though,” he continued, as he escorted Dara to a grisly pile of goblin corpses.  “They aren’t the normal scrugs.  Or even hobs.  These got stretched.”

“More than stretched, they are built differently,” Dara pointed out.  “Like the maragorku, in the Wilderlands, only . . . well, they’re different,” she said, frowning, as she studied the tangle of bodies.

“Looks like Korbal is playing around with the breeding stock,” Lorcus nodded, thoughtfully.  “Building man-sized goblins and then breeding them for specialized function.  These look built as archers, with those long arms.  Crafty bastard.”

“Yes, but what were they doing here?” Dara demanded, kicking a corpse with her boot.  “Attacking a strategically pointless target?  This far from the front lines?  It doesn’t even make sense as a terror raid.”

“I think I can answer that,” Baron Arlastan said, as he joined them.  One of his gentlemen and a nun accompanied him.  “The raid was a distraction from their true purpose.  Sister Terica, here, just informed me that while we were dodging arrows in the courtyard another party of scrugs attacked one of the infirmary halls.  They killed three nuns, there.  And then they took one of the patients.”

“They took one of the patients?” Dara asked, confused.  Holy Hill Abbey, she knew, functioned as a hospital as much as a temple.  Alya had been confined here, after the Magewar.  The nuns offered constant, expert care for those wards.  “Why would they take one of the patients?  Ransom?”

“Do you know of any scrugs who have ever asked for ransom?” Lorcus challenged.  “Who enticed them so much that they’d skip over nicking the silver spoons?”

“It was a patient in a vegetative state,” sighed the nun.  “She’s been here for a long time.  They don’t always survive, those who’ve lost their minds, even with all of our care and prayers to Our Lady,” she said, making the sign of Trygg.  “I don’t know what exactly befell the poor woman, that was before I came here,” she explained.  “All I know is that she is a noblewoman, and her care is paid for, not charity.  A baroness, I think,” she said, her wrinkled face twisting under her habit.  “Baroness . . . Isma?  No, no, Isily, that’s it,” she snapped.  “From down south, somewhere, I think.”

“Isily?” Lorcus and Dara asked, simultaneously, their jaws gaping in surprise.

“Who is this baroness?” Arlastan asked, curiously.

“An old enemy,” Dara said, flatly.  “She married one of Master Minalan’s rivals.  Then she . . . it’s a long story,” Dara said, her face blushing at the memory of the horrible battle at Greenflower.  The one that had nearly taken Alya away from them.  “She rebelled against Minalan, and her mind was destroyed in the battle that followed.  That was right as you were winning the war over Sashtalia,” she reminded him.

“She was an evil woman,” Lorcus said, shaking his head with uncharacteristic somberness.  “She had designs on poor Minalan.  She abused him terribly.  She plotted . . . well, she plotted.  She experimented with dangerous magic and it drove her mad.  Minalan had to intervene.  And nearly lost his wife over it.  It was too kind of him to pay Isily’s maintenance at a fine institution such as this.  He should have slain her then,” he said, bitterly.

“Why would anyone want to capture a mindless husk?” Baron Arlastan asked.

“Aye, that is the question,” Lorcus said, thoughtfully.  “I can think of a few reasons, magically speaking.  Blood coral, for one.”

“Blood coral?  I’m still confused,” Arlastan admitted.

“It’s a magical coral that can be used to restrict use of a spell or enchantment,” Dara explained, keeping things at a layman’s level.  “You use a drop of blood, when you enchant it, hence the name.  It’s kind of like a magical lock that only you – or your direct descendants – can open.  But it works based on your blood, not your mind.  Her body could still be used to open one even if her mind is gone.  I hadn’t thought of that.”

“There might be other spells someone could use her body for, too,” warned Lorcus.  “Some are too dark for me even to speculate upon.  But this, clearly, was the reason for the attack.  To distract from her capture.”

“There is another thing,” Dara realized.  “She is still, technically, a baroness, even if her mind is gone.  Of course her barony has been seized by the Arcane Orders after her and her husband’s betrayal,” she offered, “but that might figure into their plan.”

“Whose plan?” demanded Arlastan.  “Who is behind this plot?”

“Stinks of Nemovorti,” Lorcus said.  “Or their Enshadowed minions.  Of course.  But there are so many of the buggers running around now without the supervision of the Necromancer, it could be any one of them.”

“What?  Why?  What happened to the Necromancer?” Arlastan asked.  The nun next to him was raptly paying attention.  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with most of these,” he added, apologetically.  “But I find myself suddenly very interested in such matters.”

“Minalan kicked him in the plumbs, thaumaturgically speaking,” Lorcus explained, “back at the battle of Olum Seheri.  Min locked the undead bastard into the prison of rotting human flesh with that pretty little magic ball of his.  Since then, he’s been weakened, despite his great power.  We’re hoping that he simply rots to death, once and for all, and not pop back up fresh in a new mage’s body.  But the Nemovorti keep coming up with ways to extend the life of their hosts.  So he lingers like a bad rash.”

“It could be any of the Nemovorti,” agreed Dara.  “There are many of them who were brought back from their tombs with Korbal the Necromancer and restored to bodies – the bodies of human magi,” she added, making a face.  “They are undead.  They’re loyal only to Korbal, not each other.  They constantly fight for his attention and approval.  They are ruthless.  This could easily be part of some plot to further their maneuvers.”

“And the Enshadowed?” Arlastan asked.

“The Enshadowed — those are a sect of renegade Alka Alon who follow an ancient, evil philosophy,” she explained.  “The Enshadowed were behind the discovery and restoration of Korbal, in the first place.  And they are rumored to be the ones who taught the gurvani how to encase Sheruel’s head in irionite and provoke them into invasion.”

“Evil, crafty bastards,” Lorcus assured.  “But very, very powerful in battle, both physically and magically.”

“The one I captured at Olum Seheri was especially evil.  A vivisectionist.  He cut up his victims while they were still alive,” Dara reported, shuddering at the thought.

“You . . . you captured one of these Nemovorti?” Arlastan asked her, surprised.

“Well, my bird was down, and I was hurt, and so I got rushed,” Dara explained, her face blushing.

“That makes one Nemovort and two dragons, now, doesn’t it?  And about ten thousand scrugs,” Lorcus grinned at her.  “That’s an impressive trophy shelf, Pigeon!”

Dara blushed even more.  “I’ve just been lucky,” she said, weakly.

“Luck?  I saw you get flung on a three-story roof by the talons of your own hawk and attack the sniper that nearly killed me and my vassals, Hawkmaiden.  I’ve never seen such a daring move.  There is more than Ifnia’s blessing involved in your life.  Indeed, all of this is . . . it’s much to contemplate,” Arlastan said, shaking his head gravely.  “Here I thought I was building a chapel for a quiet, peaceful little country abbey, and I find it lies on the edge of a war I didn’t even realize was being waged.”  The baron looked challenged by the admission.

“It’s one with roots that stretch centuries before we were born,” soothed Dara.  “We magi just ended up being in the middle of it.”

“I dare say if you hadn’t been, the consequences would have been dire,” observed Sister Terica, with a determined nod.  “A lot of foul folk about doing mischief. . . but we see naught but the magi fighting them.  In all my years, I’ve never seen such a thing, Trygg protect us.”

“I fear our presence invites them, sometimes,” sighed Dara.  “It weighs on me.  But it also makes me more determined to defend against them.  Thankfully, the Bontal Vales has not seen the worst the enemy can do.  I have.  And I will fight to my last against such horror, Sister,” she assured the nun.

“All of us will,” Lorcus agreed.  “Some for the duty, some for the glory, some for the sheer perverse joy of a good scrap.  I’ll leave it to you to guess my motives.  Shall we adjourn to the infirmary?  I’ll introduce you to my new bride,” he said, with especial fondness.  “She’s helping tend the wounded.  Callwyn.  She’s a hedgewitch.  She’s lovely.  I think you’ll like her, if she isn’t too pissed off.”

***

Dusk was near, when Baron Arlastan finally tore Dara away from the wounded in the infirmary.  Though she had no specialized training in medicine, she had learned a few battlefield spells that could ease the pain or help remedy the wounded.  It was depressing work, but she felt useful in employing her witchstone alongside Lorcus and his new wife.  She even learned a few new tricks of battlefield healing.

But she had promised a little girl that she would meet the Hawkmaiden and her steed, and Dara could not, in good conscience, ignore that.  She met Arlastan, his sister Lady Grensela, and her nine-year-old daughter, Befnisy, near the stables just as the sun began its final descent.

The little girl was wide-eyed, as she was introduced to Dara.  She’d already had an exhilarating day, but meeting the Hawkmaiden was even more so.  Befnisy breathlessly related to Dara about how she’d watched her fly to the roof to defeat the goblin archer through the window of the chapel, describing every moment in detail to her.  The reverence she showed was almost disturbing, but Dara dismissed it as the result of an over-exciting day in the little girl’s mind.

But when Dara summoned Frightful, the goblin attack and the tragic consequences were forgotten.  Befnisy was enchanted to her very core by the giant falcon.

Dara waited until the squeals and jumping subsided before introducing the girl to Frightful, and invited her to stroke the feathers of her neck.  Frightful had endured little ones admiring her for years, now, and knew not to react instinctively to such annoying encounters.  Dara demonstrated the various straps and harnesses a Sky Rider used in flight, and then showed her the skybolt that they fought with.  Then she mounted Frightful, settling easily into the saddle, before looking down at little Befnisy’s awed face.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked, casually, removing the helmet from the saddle and holding it out for her.  “Just a couple of circuits around the abbey, but you’re light enough for Frightful to bear us both.”

After more squealing, more jumping, and permission granted by her terrified mother, Arlastan hefted Befnisy into the saddle in front of Dara, giving her a grateful look in payment.  Dara made a great show of securing the wriggling girl in place with the auxiliary straps, and then placed the leather helmet on the girl’s head so that she could keep her eyes open in the face of the cool evening wind.

With a single step Frightful’s powerful wings beat the air and they were aloft . . . and in a moment they were sailing higher and higher, past the cistern and the stables and the gates, finally cleared of corpses, and thence into the sky.

Dara indulged Befnisy with three passes of the estate, and kept her altitude to under five hundred feet.  The girl squealed the entire time with excitement.  Dara smiled, as the wind began to chill her face, recalling her own first ride on Frightful’s magically expanded back.

Reluctantly, Dara landed Frightful exactly where she had launched from.  Lady Grensela looked even more terrified as she did so, and then relieved as Dara unstrapped her daughter and let her slide to the ground.

“I did it!  I did it!  I flew!  I flew, Mother, I flew!” she said, scarcely believing it as she said it.

“You nearly gave me the faints, is what you did!” Lady Grensela accused.  “Thank you,” she added to Dara, her face filled with gratitude.  “She hasn’t been able to contain herself since she found out you were coming to this reception,” she said, as she embraced her daughter.  “Befnisy once saw one of your birds from afar, and she’s been mad about falconry and your Sky Riders ever since.”

“So, this was the ‘matter of regional interest’ that you wanted to discuss with me?” Dara asked, after Lady Grensela and Befnisy retired to the grand hall, where a much-subdued celebration was taking place.

It was Arlastan’s turn to blush, she saw.  “Well, she is my favorite niece, and Grensela is my favorite sister,” he explained, apologetically.  “I reasoned that it couldn’t hurt to ask.  A good thing I did, too, else the battle would have turned out very differently, today.”

Dara could not argue with that.  “Well, she’s an amazingly sweet girl,” she chuckled.  “And she wasn’t a bit scared by flying.  She might make a good Sky Rider, someday, if she’s willing.”

Arlastan frowned.  “I confess, I do not like the thought of women in battle,” he sighed.

“Nor do I like the thought of men in battle,” Dara countered.  “In fact, I’m generally opposed to battle, given the choice.  But those nuns who died today had no choice in the matter.  In this age, war is not confined to the frontiers, nor is it waged by just one sex.  We all do our duty, man or woman.”

“It does make courtship a bit more interesting,” he chuckled.  “I will also confess that Befnisy’s request gave me the excuse to see you again.”

Dara stopped walking.  “Really?” she asked, realizing the moment she said it how stupid it sounded.

“Does that surprise you?” Arlastan laughed.  “It shouldn’t.  You are a beautiful woman, Dara.  Even without the glamour spell,” he added, softly.  “You are intelligent, educated, and a powerful noblewoman.  Your name has come up several times, as my advisors propose marriage alliances to secure Taravanal’s future.”

“That’s . . . that’s interesting,” Dara said, feeling dizzy.  “Yet I hold but one small estate, and you have a score of domains.  Politically, it would not be a very good match.”

“I’m less concerned with the politics of the matter,” Arlastan said, as he turned to face her.  “Until a few years ago, I thought I was destined for holy orders.  That’s usually what happens to younger sons in a barony.  Then we conquered Sashtalia, and suddenly I’m a baron and everyone wants to marry me off so I can start producing heirs and secure the family’s hold over Taravanal.  So this is all a bit novel, to me.”

“I understand,” Dara said, with a deep sigh.  “I know not what the Flame had in store to me, before Minalan came to Sevendor and changed everything, but I’m certain it would have seen me married off by now.  Perhaps that would have been simpler,” she conceded.

“Ah, yes, the Spellmonger,” nodded Arlastan.  “That is why my some of my advisors are really encouraging me to pursue a marriage with you.  Your closeness to Minalan would help ensure good relations between the two baronies.  And your ‘one small estate’ seems to be in possession of a vast fortune in snowstone,” he reminded her.  “Make no mistake, it would be a powerful alliance.  The question is, is it one you would favor?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked.

Dara felt perplexed.  The casual question had far more weight to it than his words suggested.  She studied Arlastan’s handsome face – cinders and ashes, why did he have to be so godsdamned handsome? – and struggled to find some answer.

“Such an alliance . . . it would have repercussions,” she said, struggling through her thoughts and feelings as if they were a briar patch.  “For both of us.”

“For all of us,” he corrected.  “For instance, I feel a bit foolish, now.  I sponsored this chapel and this reception in part because I wanted to show off how important I was, and impress you – and others – with my victory in the war against Sashtalia.

“Now I learn that while we were besieging a few castles, you and your Sky Riders and the magi were waging a war I barely suspected was happening.  While I was battling knights, you were dueling with undead, slaying dragons, and slaughtering thousands of goblins.  And magic . . . I barely understand it, or the society of magi that has arisen.  You live a very complicated life, Dara,” he sighed.  “I rode into Holy Hill feeling like a victorious champion.  Now I feel completely unremarkable.”

“Oh, you’re remarkable,” Dara said with a sigh.  “Most knights wouldn’t have the wit to understand half of what we’ve discussed.  Much less realize the implications of it.  Believe me, it’s actually far more complicated than I’ve let on.  And that is what discourages me from considering marriage.  I will be needed – I am needed.  In fact, I will likely be called to service in the Wilderlands, if Minalan needs my aid.  Which he seems to need a lot, these days.”

“Well, if you and I are both suspect of marriage . . . would you consider a bit of courtship?” Arlastan asked, nervously.  “You do have the most kissable-looking lips.”

Before she knew what was happening, Arlastan leaned in until his face was just an inch away from hers.  And before her mind could consider it, she found her own face crossing that last bit of distance.  She didn’t even care that she was standing in public, in an abbey, surrounded by nuns, after a bloody battle.  For just one moment, she wasn’t the Hawkmaiden, or Lady Lenodara, a mage, a Sky Rider, or anything else.

“I think I’m actually starting to appreciate the idea,” she said, hoarsely when she finally broke the kiss.

Secrets at the Two Lanterns

Sir Festaran’s long legs bounded up the stairs of the gatehouse with especial alacrity, taking the steps three at a time.  Usually he would have taken a more leisurely pace, particularly considering how many steps he had to cover to get to Sire Cei’s office, but the message he’d picked up at the Mirror Array in town was concerning enough for him to hurry.

He hadn’t expected much when he’d made his daily visit to the wizards’ den where messages were magically transmitted to Sevendor from throughout the kingdom.  There were always a few awaiting him there, mostly direction or requests from Vanador, where Baron Minalan was in exile, or messages from the crown on various topics.

But when he saw one from Iyugi, he knew at once it was important.  More, it was not addressed to Minalan, it was directed, specifically, to the attention of the Steward of Sevendor, Sire Cei, and sealed by the Mirror attendants.  When a sealed message came in from the Spellmonger’s personal spy, it demanded action.  By the time Sir Festaran made it to the door of the study, he was breathless.  That was a lot of stairs to take so quickly, in full armor.  One hundred and twelve, to be exact.

“A message, Sire,” Festaran said, once he’d knocked and been admitted.  Sire Cei was seated at his worktable, poring over a stack of parchments more than an inch high.  He looked more like a clerk than a knight, save for the longsword hanging from the back of his chair.  His new dog was lying in the corner of the room, taking up more space than a horse.  It had taken Festaran and the other castle staff a few days to get used to the gigantic beast constantly following Sire Cei everywhere, but Simel’s sweet disposition had quickly won everyone over, save for a few Tal Alon servants who were suspicious of her.

“From Iyugi,” Sire Cei said, frowning, as he broke the seal on the note.  “That is unusual.”  He spent a few moments reading it and then leaned back in his chair and sighed.  “And cryptic.  But I should expect that for a man whose business it is to learn secrets.”

“May I ask what it says, Sire?” Festaran asked, politely.  He fully expected the Steward to decline to share the message, of course.  He was used to his superiors determining what to tell him and what not to, by now.  Nor did he bristle at the practice.  There were certainly secrets of state and other matters that were not in his purview, and often there were damn good reasons for it.

But Sire Cei surprised him by handing him the note.  Festaran’s eyebrows rose as he read.

To the Steward of Sevendor: request that you send a trusted and empowered agent to meet me at the sign of the Two Lanterns in Laripose Village. Iyugi

“That is, indeed, cryptic,” he agreed.  “But Iyugi has never proven disloyal,” he reminded Sire Cei.  “Indeed, he’s been extraordinarily helpful.  But why Laripose, I wonder?  And why does he request that the agent be empowered?  Does he mean magic?”

“All very good questions, Festaran,” agreed Sire Cei.  “I look forward to hearing your answers, when you return.”

“Me, Sire?” the knight asked, surprised.

“I don’t know if he needs a wizard or an official, but you are technically both,” he pointed out.  “Indeed, you’re one of the few who are.  But Banamor is off on some fieldwork in his capacity as spellwarden, he says, and you happen to be free of special duties, at the moment.  And you could use a bit of errantry.”

“Of course, Sire,” Festaran conceded.

“Take a purse, a horse, and a few days to meet our mysterious friend in Laripose, and figure out what he wants.  Oh, and take this,” he said, handing him a device Festaran had come to recognize.  A magical mirror, though it did not look like a looking glass.  Instead, the device utilized one half of a sympathy stone.

When submerged in a bowl of water, it would project the sound and sight of its twin, when likewise employed, allowing instant communication regardless of distance.  Even with his limited magical abilities, the enchantment was powerful enough to allow him to use it.  No doubt Sire Cei held the stone’s twin.

“If anything comes of it, let me know at once.  Good luck,” he added, before turning back towards his work, dismissing Sir Festaran.

He shrugged as he turned away.  The Steward had been correct.  His routine duties could be handled by one of the other knights in the castle.  He was used to being assigned special duty, as the Deputy Steward, in order to secure Sevendor in various ways.  He had fought bandits, rooted out treachery, and visited various domains as emissary or adjudicator, in the past.  This mission was just more mysterious than most of them.  And therefore more intriguing.

Festaran secured a purse from the chest in the treasury set aside for such expenses.  It took him a few moments to find a sack of newly minted silver coins from Vanador, which weighed twenty-six ounces, and add it to his own on his belt.  That should be sufficient to afford a few days on the road, he reasoned.  Prices in Laripose could not be as high as Sevendor.  On the way out of the gatehouse he informed the Officer of the Watch on the ground floor about the change in his duty assignment, his intended destination, and his expected return.

Securing a horse was a more complex matter.  Festaran had several, of course – a gentleman kept a robust stable, if he could afford to do so.  His prized destrier, Victor, was roaming the summer pastures of Southridge, against sudden need in battle.  But for a short trip to a neighboring domain suggested a rouncey, and he had a few.  Alas, most were at his father’s domain in Kest.  But he had a few in Sevendor to facilitate his office.

Amber, the ancient mare that he usually rode around Sevendor on errands was simply not up to the task.  She’d been his first mount of note, a gift from the Warbird upon his knighting.  He’d ridden her into battle once, and he had been captured by Minalan.  Though sturdy and well-broken, such an extended journey to Laripose would challenge the old nag.  Better a younger, more robust rouncey to bear him eastward, he reasoned.

The castle stable was crowded and cramped, now that Sevendor was a baronial seat and not merely a domain castle.  Until the new towers were finished on the vast underground complex, that was unlikely to change.  But the stable master was adept at keeping things orderly, and when Sir Festaran asked, he knew just the beast for the journey.

“You’ll be wanting Buck, over there,” he said, pointing out a roan gelding in the paddock.  “He’s two years, lot of endurance, good rider, just got shoed, aye, a very agreeable horse, though . . . uh, he has a bit of personality,” he added, apologetically.

“I like as spirited mount,” Festaran nodded.  “Saddle him, please.  With saddlebags.  I’m going to be a few days.”

“Going to Laripose, eh?” the stable master asked.  “Been as far as Sendaria, but never saw Laripose.”

“I don’t doubt you’re alone,” agreed the knight.  “Not many have.  It will be my first trip, myself.”

“Probably should go through the new pass, out through Hosendor,” he suggested.  “A couple of good new inns opened up along that road.”

“That will make the journey shorter by seven and a quarter miles,” agreed Festaran.  Regardless of his reasons for trading away his mountain, Minalan’s bargain had indeed improved travel times into and out of Sevendor.  The road east has become filled with merchants and travelers, now that there was actually someplace to get to.  The road to Laripose lay in that direction.

Laripose had been granted to Minalan by the Crown for his victory over the dragon at Castle Cambrian – one of the most ferocious fights Festaran had ever been in.  It was a small domain, east and a little north of Sevendor, and the only noncontiguous land Minalan owned in the Bontal Vales.  While Minalan had sent a local spellwarden there, as in all of the barony’s domains, it was a magelands in name, and not in nature.  Just before his exile he had installed a respected knight as Lord in Tenancy, to run the day-to-day affairs, but largely Laripose had been outside Sevendor’s baronial interest.  And that only made Iyugi’s instructions that much more intriguing.

There could be many reasons for the magical spy to request such a meeting, in such a place, Festaran reasoned as he watched his rouncey get saddled. All of those reasons promised intrigue, if not more potent implications.  Sir Festaran’s Talent demanded that he consider and estimate whatever was haunting his mind, and Iyugi’s cryptic message was more grist for the mill of his thoughts than for which he had been prepared.  While his mind was off in speculation of a magical, political, and legal nature, the stable master tapped him on the shoulder.

“Buck’s ready, m’lord,” the man assured him.  “Three day’s feed in the aft saddlebag.  As soon as the drudge gets back from the kitchen with your rations, you’re set to go.”

While he waited, Festaran spent a few moments getting to know the rouncey.  The animal seemed fit and healthy, muscular, and well-fed.  Had he been taller and a bit larger, he might have made a decent warhorse.  He was friendly enough, not shrinking away from Festaran’s attempt to stroke his neck and pet his nose.  And there was an intelligence in his eyes that Festaran associated with a good mount.  He called him by his name a few times, as he checked the hooves and shoes.  Everything seemed to be in order, by the time a boy came running back from the kitchen with his own rations.

The ride across Sevendor was pleasantly uneventful, and the weather cooperated by supplying a gloriously perfect summer’s day.  Buck was an easy mount, and made good time through the crowded streets of the town.  Within an hour he had passed through town entirely and had made his way to the new bridge into Hosendor.

Sir Festaran marveled, as he frequently did, at the dramatic changes this once-humble mountain domain had transformed since he had first come here.  Minalan really had changed things.  Indeed, the land he served was a very pretty place.

The spires of Lesgathael and the Mewstower, where his friend Dara lived with her Sky Riders, had both been built by the Karshak, and they dominated the vale, below.  The designs had then been copied by the townsfolk, particularly the magi who’d settled there, until all the city had gained a spikey skyline.  The great dome of the Temple of Briga added a curved element, and the blocky warehouses and traditionally-roofed halls within the town added to the character of the place.  The beginnings of a wall were being started on the northeast side, as well, and he could imagine perfectly how encircling the town with a white snowstone wall would tie the place together, visually.

But the gleaming white castle that had once provided Sevendor’s major defense now seemed quaint, compared to the impressive structure of the gatehouse and the base of the great towers that would eventually rise behind it.  When it was complete, the new castle complex would be vast, easily defended, and nearly impregnable.  Indeed, it would be the largest and stoutest fortress in all the Bontal Vales, if not the entirety of the Riverlands, he estimated.

He had a deep sense of pride in that.  It had taken years of hard work by thousands, but he had never seen a prettier city.  The knowledge that he had been one of them gave him a sense of accomplishment few things did, he reflected, as he crossed the bridge into Hosendor.

Thereafter, as the road conditions worsened, the landscape around him transformed.  Going from a magical town and castle that attracted dragons into the more mundane scene of normal rural life in the foothills was a refreshing bit of normalcy.  Peasants on their way between fields, carters running everything from pigs to hay to and from various local estates, wives and children weeding the ubiquitous garden plots, pastures filled with cows and sheep, and the occasional horse, all conspired to remind him of a time when life was simpler.  The air seemed fresher than in Sevendor, now that there weren’t a thousand hearths around him burning their cookfires.  It was a pleasant ride.

He stopped for supper at an inn just on the other side of the frontier, once known as the Badger and Boar, he recalled.  It bore a freshly painted sign featuring a comical blue dog chewing on the hindquarters of a particularly ugly monk, and was known as the Blue Dog, now.  As he ate his soup he overheard the story about a couple of wizards and a blue hound who had chased a wicked abbot away, recently, but it all sounded far too fanciful to be real.  Likely just a change in name to boost business, he reasoned.  That was not unusual – there was an inn located in his native Kest that had changed names three times in his lifetime in an effort to get more business.  Improving the quality of the ale would have been a better move, he reflected.

He made good time, after that, despite his leisurely pace.  Though the road got worse the further he traveled from Sevendor, the land turned from true mountains to the rolling foothills he had grown up in – indeed, if he was to take a left at the crossroads, he would have been headed to his own family’s beloved estates in Kest.

By the time he’d made camp at dusk, he was near the frontiers of Hosendor.  Though he had access to one of the “wizard tents” that were all the rage at the moment, the weather was perfect for sleeping under the stars, something he always loved.  He banked the fire and released Buck on a long picket rope for the evening, and went to sleep after watching the cloudless black sky for a while.

That’s when Sir Festaran discovered a bit of his steed’s “personality.”

He awoke in the middle of the night feeling the chill of night breezes . . . because his cloak was missing.  He looked around in confusion, his dagger in his hand, and then noted that it was wadded up more than fifteen and three quarters feet from him.

He had no idea how it got there.  He was not a violent sleeper, and the cloak was too far away for it to have merely rolled off him in the night.  He peered carefully into the darkness, and even summoned the power to use magesight . . . but there was nothing lurking in the night that he could tell.  Just his horse, peacefully sleeping in his picket.

Shrugging it off as a mystery he didn’t need to solve, Festaran retrieved the cloak and returned to his bedroll.  It took him a little longer to fall asleep, this time, but he eventually drifted off again.  And then he was cold, again, cold enough to wake him up.

“Ishi’s tits!” he groaned.  This time his cloak was even farther away, and in a different direction.  But there was no one else around, he determined, after physically walking a perimeter around the camp, sword in hand.  There was no one, save Buck.

Frustrated, Festaran retrieved his cloak a second time before returning to his bed.  This time, he was careful to tuck the hem of his mantle into his belt before rolling over.  He closed his eyes and did his best to feign sleep, his mind furiously working through the possibilities.  Within thirty-eight minutes, he felt a slow, gentle tug on his cloak, near his ankle.

Quickly, he sat up, his eyes filled with anger and his dagger in his fist, ready to attack . . . only to discover the startled face of his horse looming over him, the hem of his cloak between his teeth.

“You!” Festaran said, with a mixture of shock and relief.  The horse looked surprised – indeed, Buck seemed mortified, his eyes flashing and his nostrils flaring as he froze.  He had been caught.  “What in two hells are you doing?” he demanded.  Buck gave one snort, dropped the cloak, and stepped away.  In moments he was calmly grazing at the far edge of his picket line, as if nothing had happened.

Sir Festaran just stared at the beast in disbelief.  His horse had stolen his covers.  He’d had many odd adventures over the years, as he’d associated with wizards, Alka Alon, Karshak, and all other manner of novelties.  But nothing as strange as that had ever happened.

He had a difficult time falling asleep a third time, but when he awoke in the morning Buck looked as innocent as . . . well, as innocent as a horse who hadn’t stolen his covers.

But all day long, he could swear Buck was snickering.

***

It took him another day to get to Laripose, and he escaped any further trouble with his horse.  Indeed, Buck seemed to be eager to respond to his command.  Perhaps, he reasoned, because he kept eyeing the beast suspiciously.

He made it to the gate of Laripose Town just before dusk, moments before the sleepy-looking guard was due to close it for the night.  A penny tip got him directions to the Two Lanterns, one of four inns within the village . . . for while it was called a town, Sir Festaran figured that there were only eight hundred and nineteen people who lived within the hedgeworks.  The modest, old-fashioned shell keep of Laripose Castle was perched on a rise a quarter-mile away, overlooking the village like a protective hen over her eggs.

The Two Lanterns was on a corner in the middle of the High Street, and had the full name of the inn spelled out on the sign that did, indeed, feature two lanterns hanging from it.  It faced a shrine to Damus and was across the street from a potter.  It was the second-largest inn in the village, he gathered, as he rode past the entrance.  The place had its own stables where Festaran parted with Buck before going inside.

The Two Lanterns was a typical small-town inn, in his experience.  It occupied twenty-two and two-fifths feet of the street in front, and extended back fifty-four and one-third feet, with a second story that protruded out on the sides two and four-seventh’s feet.  There was a stable to the rear, and a double privy near the road.  By the wear on the stairs and pathways, the inn had seen frequent use.

The wide-open doors and windows facing the street allowed the interior to be seen from the street, thanks to the light of several more taper lanterns within.  Still, the inside was so gloomy that Festaran had to wait for his eyes to adjust before he could make out just who had come to enjoy the common room that night.

It was a simple set-up: a stoutly built table on the left side of the door supported two barrels of ale and a number of bottles.  The barman plied the four trestle tables and many single stools on the right with a large earthenware jug, dispensing ale into leather jacks or simple clay mugs for a half-penny a pint.  There were nine guests, when he arrived, most clustered in knots of two or three, with a few loners enjoying a cup of ale after the long working day.

Toward the rear were more two substantial tables, permanent furniture that could seat a large party.  And in the very rear was the grand stone fireplace.  Due to the time of year, the gaping mouth of the structure bore only a small fire on the hearth, more for cheer and a bit of light than for heat.  A pot bubbled on it, no doubt filled with the ubiquitous stew it seemed all inns in every rural domain seemed to prepare: cabbage, peas, carrots, onions, garlic, barley and, perhaps, a few bits of mutton or chicken.  No doubt bread could be had for a price to accompany it.

But there was no sign of Iyugi.  Sir Festaran studied every face to be certain.

Sighing, he took as seat on the right side at an unoccupied table and awaited the barman.  It only took a few moments for the man to bustle over.

“What is your order, Sir Knight?” he asked, with the minimum required deference due to Festaran’s obvious rank.  His belt bore the only sword in the place.

“A mug, a bowl, and a plate,” he requested, signifying his desire for ale, stew and bread.  “And if you have any cheese, a wedge of that would be welcome,” he added.

“Aye, we’ve cheese, and cakes, too, if you’re still hungry,” the barman nodded.  “You from the west, m’lord?” he asked, casually.

“From Sevendor,” Festaran said, automatically.  “Traveling on business.”

“Ah!  The baron’s own domain,” the man nodded sagely.  “Right, have it for you in a shake,” he said, and he tottered off.

Sir Festaran didn’t mind waiting for Iyugi; indeed, he had enjoyed his journey for no better reason that it allowed him an opportunity for introspection, something he rarely got to do.  Spending time in a quiet inn in the countryside was not hard duty, compared to some he’d been given.  He was in an appreciative mood when the barman returned with a tray and his meal.

The bread was maislan, but well-made.  The ale was tolerable, once it was served with great ceremony by the man.  Festaran’s rank rated him an actual pewter cup, he saw, and relatively speedy service.  The cheese was freshly made farmer’s cheese made with herbs and garlic.  Finally, he was served the predictable bowl of stew, which was decently made . . . and woefully under-seasoned.  He added a pinch of salt from his own cellar, unwilling to pay for a spice he had brought with him.  But otherwise the stew, bread, and cheese was tasty fare, if plain.

He was just finishing, sopping up the last bits of strew with the remnants of his bread, when a shadow loomed in the door.  A simple glance told him that his spy had arrived.

Iyugi was a distinctive figure, for a man who purveyed in secrets.  A tall half-breed of Narasi and some wild tribe, he wore an outlandish hat quite different from the typical conical cap of the footwizards or the customary hat of the commercial magical class.  Yet there was no doubt that the man was a mage; he bore an impressive staff that looked quite capable of either casting spells or beating a man senseless.

“Ah!” he began, without preamble.  “Cei sent you.  That was more than I expected,” the footwizard said as he slid onto the stool opposite of Festaran.  “I wasn’t certain he would send anyone.  Well met, Sir Festaran,” he said, with a bow from his neck and a rare grin.  Sir Festaran had only passing acquaintance with Minalan’s infamous spy, but he nodded in return.

“Master Iyugi,” he acknowledged.  “Yes, Sire Cei thought me worthy of this mission.  I do hope I’m not wasting my time,” he added.

“I would not have invoked you if it was a minor matter,” assured the footwizard, leaning his staff against the wall and signaling to the barman.  “I am just impressed that Cei took me seriously.”

“An explanation would help my disposition,” agreed Festaran.

“And you’ll get one,” Iyugi nodded, “as soon as I am done with my supper.  Never discuss business over a meal,” he said, as if quoting scripture.  “It’s poor for your digestion, and it complicates business unnecessarily.”

“I defer to your wisdom on the matter,” Festaran said, graciously.  “Indeed, I’m enjoying myself with this break in my normal duties.  It’s been awhile since I’ve enjoyed an inn.”

“There’s little enough to enjoy at the Two Lanterns,” snorted the odd-looking wizard, as he hung his hat on his staff.  “But it was the best place to meet you.  Ah!  Stew, bread, ale, and keep the ale coming, Master Zoma,” he said, when the barman appeared.  He looked suspiciously at the wizard, but had apparently already made his acquaintance.

“Another for me,” agreed Festaran, pointing to his cup.  “And I’ll try one of those cakes, if you have any left.”

“How was your journey, Sir Festaran?” Iyugi asked, politely, in his rasping voice, as the barman returned with their order.

“Pleasant,” admitted the knight.  “I was breaking in a new steed, and the weather has been ideal.”

“Day after tomorrow, it rains,” Iyugi stated, matter-of-factly, as he tore the small loaf in half.  “Is your family well?” he inquired, before tearing into it like a starving wolf.

“Well enough,” Festaran conceded.  “My sister got married this spring.  A young knight of Bulmont.  Seems like a nice fellow.  And my parents fare prosperously, for their age.”

“Health is everything,” the mage agreed, with more sympathy than Festaran would have considered a spy to bear.  “So is family.  Both my wives tell me so, so it must be true,” he chuckled.

“Both wives?” Sir Festaran asked, surprised.  “You have two?”

“Aye,” Iyugi agreed, as he began to shovel stew into his wide mouth with the wooden spoon provided.  “One in Tasly; one in my tribal homeland,” he related.  “One is pretty;  the other is . . . formidable.  Life requires balance,” he explained, philosophically.

“Do they . . . do they know about each other?” Festaran asked, his mind whirling.  Narasi culture was strictly monogamous.  Well, officially, he corrected himself.  But the Laws of Trygg forbid pledging your troth to more than one woman, and the idea of bigamy was scandalous.

“One does, the other doesn’t,” conceded the swarthy spy.  “Every man needs his secrets.  How about you?  Have you married that little wren you were courting?” he asked, with a toothy grin that exposed a gold tooth.

“Me?  Oh, you mean Dara – Lady Lenodara,” he corrected himself.  “No, no, we’re just friends and colleagues,” he assured.  “She has no interest in marriage.”

“Nor does the fish in swimming,” reflected Iyugi, as he plowed through his stew.  “They’re quite against it, if you bother to ask.  Yet, they swim.  Come, now,” he chided, “what would make a man like yourself timid, when it comes to pursuing the lass that has taken your heart?”  The wizard’s matter-of-fact tone on so delicate a subject was disconcerting to Festaran.

So was the next subject he broached.  “I know Gareth would have done anything to mount that bird.  She spurned him because she found him unworthy of her heart.  Has she said as much to you?” he asked, pointedly.

“I . . . I have not put the question to Lady Lenodara,” Festaran said, stiffly.  “I am still a young man; I have plenty of time to consider what options Ishi presents me.”

“Yet the wren ages daily,” countered Iyugi, philosophically.  “Soon, there will be others to tempt you.  Does she not weigh the most in the balance of your heart?”

“I have a great fondness and affection for the lady,” conceded Festaran, “but her duty and mine present . . . difficulties,” he said, as diplomatically as he could.

“Gareth was willing to walk through knee-deep coals to plight his troth,” snorted the footwizard.  “His passion was strong, though his body was lacking.  His spirit was a match for hers, even if her heart was looking elsewhere for entertainment.”

“I seek not entertainment,” Festaran said, uncomfortably.  “Marriage is a complicated thing.  One does not rush headlong into an engagement until the moment is right and proper.”

“I’m twice married,” the spy reminded him.  “You have no conception of how complicated it truly is.  But while you’re waiting for that moment, some stronger raptor will poach your bird,” Iyugi warned.  “I make my living dealing in secrets, Sir Festaran.  Do not make me point out the obvious one you carry.”

“I . . . I . . . I am certain that, in time, if our mutual duties permit, that I can . . . that is, that she will . . . Lady Lenodara is not the only maiden in the Bontal Vales!” he finally burst out, his face burning.

Iyugi gave a loud and barbaric laugh at his admission.  “You would settle for a hen when you could bed a pretty little wren?    You value your manhood too lightly, good knight.  A match between the two of you would ensure Sevendor’s future,” he predicted.  “Marry a boring old hen from the hinterlands?  Or an exciting, interesting little wren from Sevendor?” he proposed.  “Which are you more worthy of, oh knight?”

“Ishi and Trygg will figure it out,” Festaran grumbled with a sigh.  “I suppose someone with two wives would be keen on marriage,” he mused, shaking his head.

“It has its comforts,” agreed Iyugi.  “And yet it is the reason I travel so often.  Learning how to marry them is easy,” he opined.  “But no one truly knows how to live with them in peace.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Festaran mumbled into his ale cup.

“Truth often is,” agreed Iyugi, without irony or sarcasm in his voice.  “Mark my words, Sir Knight: plight your troth or put your friendship with the maiden aside.  Else your heart and Gareth’s will share the same fate.”

“Was your message to Sire Cei about anything in particular?” Festaran demanded.  “Or did you merely want to criticize my love life?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Iyugi confirmed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.  “My meal is done.  We can talk business, now.”

“And that business is?” Festaran asked, becoming frustrated with the wizard.

“Secrets!” Iyugi said, intently.  “That is my stock-in-trade.  Three weeks ago, I chanced to be in northern Remere—”

“Wait, you were in northern Remere?” asked Festaran, confused.  “Why?”

“Pursuing business,” Iyugi informed him, cryptically.  “And seeing my friend, the Count of Moros.  But—”

“Wait,” Festaran interrupted, “you know Count Dranus?”  He was the former Court Wizard of Sevendor, before Minalan had quietly backed his effort to overthrow his half-brother and be named the count of his ancestral home.

“Minalan thought it prudent that we make acquaintance,” Iyugi grinned.  “I did a little work for him, before his installation.  And he often has useful information.  While I was there, I chanced to witness a pair of men at an inn far finer than this, quietly traveling westward.”  He paused, to allow Festaran to understand his meaning.  There wasn’t much west of Remere.  Save the Duchy of Merwyn.

“Westward, you say?” he asked, interested.  “What kind of men?”

“The kind who wear red cloaks, when at home,” Iyugi nodded.  “With white patches upon them.  A most distinctive heraldry.”

That got Festaran’s attention.  Red and white cloaks were the livery of the Knights of Nablus, the order of magi sponsored directly by the Duke of Merwyn.  All of them had been Royal Censors, until a few years ago when they were expelled from Castalshar.   They were not particularly well-disposed to the kingdom that had been founded on the demise of their original order.  While the Censorate had eschewed any local loyalties, King Rard’s condemnation and outlawing of the order had forced them to take refuge – and orders – from Rard’s greatest political opponent.

“You don’t say,” Festaran nodded, his eyes narrowing.  “Your certain?”

“As certain as your love for the wren,” assured Iyugi.  “The checkered ones usually travel in pairs due to ancient doctrine.  They watch each other,” he explained.  “These two were on a mission . . . westward.”

“And that is significant . . . how?” Festaran asked, his mind racing.

“In many, many ways, my friend,” Iyugi said in a low voice.  “Our friend, Count Dranus, has been skirmishing with the Merwyni on his frontiers since he took office.  Indeed, when they saw a magelord on their borders, the easterners redoubled their efforts to test his authority and his responsiveness.  He has managed to keep their incursions minor, and punishes their intrusions in equal measure without committing to full-fledged war.  However,” he continued, raising a single finger, “the pattern of their molestation of the border betwixt the Duchy and the Kingdom are revealing to those with discernment.”

“Revealing, how?” demanded Festaran.

“The Merwyni have rarely employed warmagi on the battlefield,” supplied Iyugi.  “Save for very specific operations.  Those have been designed to test the resilience of our friend.  He has met them forcefully,” he reasoned, “but not enough to discourage them.  If Merwyn were to make a play for Wenshar – which they have ever hoped to conquer – they must go through Moros, first, and the Count has let them know how difficult a prospect that would be.”

“So why are we here?” Festaran asked, once he’d digested the new information.

“They seek to meet with potential allies behind their foe’s borders,” explained Iyugi, his voice so low Festaran could barely hear it.  “They have contacts within the kingdom that they think will aid them in their program.  I know not who they are – yet – or what their specific plan might be, but the pair have steadily been traveling west.  I shadowed them,” he revealed.  “In fact, I steered their course with subtle interventions until they changed their plans twice to meet with their contacts.”

“So who are their contacts?” Festaran asked, his mind whirling at the possibilities.  Such a meeting was treason, according to any honorable standards.

“That is what we are here to find out,” Iyugi assured.  “First, they were to go to Mindarane, but I scuttled that meeting.  Then they desired to meet in Parsane.  That, too, I ruined.  Laripose was suggested, mysteriously, and accepted by both parties.  Neither, I think, realizes the importance of the domain.”

“I’m ignorant of its importance, as well,” confessed Festaran, confused.

“It is a domain of the Barony of Sevendor, though among the least of Minalan’s holdings,” explained the spy, as if he were instructing a child.

“Which makes it a suitable place to plot treason and sedition?” asked Festaran, surprised.

“Which makes it a mageland, with very, very specific laws,” countered Iyugi, signaling the barman for another round.  “Laws that can be enforced by an empowered official of the barony.”

“Ah,” Festaran nodded, as he contemplated the half-breed’s words and its implications.  “They are coming here . . . and they don’t know Minalan owns the place.”

“Precisely, my friend,” the footwizard grinned, showing his gold tooth with wolfish delight.  “They think Laripose is just another unimportant Riverland domain.  A quiet place, devoid of spies, where they may speak without fear of being overheard by eager ears.  They will meet their contact from Castalshar no later than tomorrow.”

“Ishi’s tits!” Festaran swore.  “How did you get them to do that?” he asked.

“A man who knows how to ferret out a secret also knows how to tell one,” Iyugi said, thoughtfully.  “Or at least what a man thinks is a secret.  It has special value in his mind.  Tell him the right one, and you can convince him of anything.”  The cryptic explanation did little to enlighten Festaran, but it was likely the best he would get out of the enigmatic footwizard, he knew.

“Who is their contact?” Festaran asked, in a low voice.

“That is what we are here to discover,” Iyugi said, taking a deep draught of ale.  “If we identify who is conspiring with Nablus, well, that will be a secret worth knowing.”

Festaran could not argue with that.  He had seen firsthand how the fanatics of the former Censorate enforced their brutal doctrine.  They might have taken refuge as an arcane order under a foreign power, but their ideals were the same.  They even had some irionite, the famous green amber that powered the wonders of the High Magi.  Only, unlike the High Magi of Castalshar, any oaths they’d sworn in regard to its use were to the Duke of Merwyn, not a wise mage like Minalan.

Suddenly, he realized why he was here.  Minalan had made law for his domains regarding such things.  He had to, considering the number of great wizards in Sevendor to whom he had granted witchstones and those who lacked them.

If there were two foreign magi in Sevendor – even this little scrap of Sevendor – then they fell under the law of the barony.  A law he, as Deputy Steward, was empowered and, indeed, obligated, to enforce.  And if, during that enforcement, they could expose the identity of those who would cooperate with such a power, that would, indeed, be a good secret to know.

“I see your meaning, my friend,” Festaran agreed, nodding.  “What do you need from me?”

“To help me observe, for one,” Iyugi instructed.  “And, when the time is proper, I will need your assistance with the local authorities.  A few men from the castle will likely be required.  Can you manage that?” he asked, cocking one of his big, bushy eyebrows.

“Of course,” nodded Festaran.  “The local lord should be willing to loan me a couple.  And perhaps provide a cell, if we need one.  I have that authority.”

“If all goes well, that might be necessary,” Iyugi agreed.  “If it goes poorly, we might need reinforcements.  Shall we switch to spirits?” he proposed, as he finished his ale.  “They won’t be here until tomorrow.”

***

Sir Festaran saddled Buck the next morning and rode up to the castle.  Castle Laripose was not a grand construction, but then it was only responsible for housing about a thousand people in an emergency.  Nor did it display much sign of wear, the way a castle that had endured a siege inevitably did.  The fourteen-foot, nine and two-thirds inches tall outer wall of its shell had simple crenelations at the top, and there was a single watchtower protruding over them.  But the gatehouse, complete with two round towers standing nearly twenty-two feet, five and a quarter inches was certainly stout enough defense for most dangers.

Festaran rode through the gatehouse until he was challenged, near the final portcullis, by a man-at-arms with a pike and sword.  It only took a few moments to present his credentials and request an audience with the tenant lord.  The guard look startled, when he realized that a baronial official had come to sleepy Laripose on official business.  Festaran could appreciate the man’s anxiety.  In ordinary circumstances, that was rarely a good thing.  The man was very deferential as he took Buck’s reigns and led him to the stable.

Like most shell keeps, nearly the entire domestic range of buildings was built along the outer wall, from stables to the armory to the halls where the castle folk slept.  Festaran knew the design well – it was favored in the rolling hills of the Riverlands for its defensive efficiency and its relatively low cost.  The only fortified portion of the interior beyond the gatehouse was a square tower with the great hall on the second floor.  It was through this door that the guard directed him.

He was escorted upstairs to the lord’s chamber by the castellan’s assistant – a job he’d held all-too-recently – where he was introduced to the tenant lord of Laripose, Sir Lithspar.

Lithspar proved to be the kind of unassuming, practical-minded lord who ran most estates and castles in the Riverlands.  An older man, he had served honorably in various households for years, and had agreed to take this post in exchange for permanent possession of one of the four estates in the domain.  Sire Cei had interviewed him, Festaran recalled, at the recommendation of Baron Arathanial.  While the gentleman was too old to ride with a lance, anymore, he’d had decades of experience in managing estates.

Indeed, his manner was much as Festaran’s father’s, a man he admired and aspired to be like in the fullness of time.  Sir Lithspar was a gracious host, sending the castellan to the pantry for cakes and ale, when he discovered he hadn’t broken his fast yet.  Then he was invited to sit at the lord’s table and explain the reason for his visit.

“One of the baron’s agents has detected a threat to the barony,” he informed Sir Lithspar.  “He has steered it to Laripose.”

“Laripose?  Why here?” Lithspar asked, looking troubled.

“I am not free to disclose that, my lord, for reasons of security,” Sir Festaran said, apologetically.  “Suffice it to say that it was the most advantageous option out of others.”

“What is the nature of this threat, my lord?” Lithspar asked, concerned.  “Should I put the barracks on alert?  I can have a dozen archers and a score of spearman ready in an hour, at need.  More, if I have more time.”

“As to the nature of the threat, I cannot say at this time.  I appreciate your willingness to support this, my lord, but this is an operation of stealth, not military power.  Merely a matter of a clandestine meeting in one of your inns – the Two Lanterns.  If all fares well, you and your people will not be disturbed.  I merely request a few trusted men-at-arms be assigned to me for temporary duty, however.  Men who can be unobtrusive, but who can help enforce an arrest, if needed.”

“Aye, we can give you that,” nodded the lord.  “I’ll have my barracks sergeant and one of his ancients do the duty.  They’re always lingering at an inn or tavern, anyway,” he grumbled.  “They know how to do that.  But they’re good men, stout and loyal.  Say, you are from Kest, are you not?”

“Yes, my father has the privilege of being the Lord of Kest,” Festaran agreed.  “We’ve owned the domain for three generations, now.  Originally granted by the Count of Lensely, after service in the eastern wars.”

“Yes, yes, good family, by reputation,” the knight agreed.  “Even under the Warbird’s lordship.”

“Those were dark times for us all, my lord,” nodded Festaran.  “We struggled under the Warbird’s rule, but did so honorably, without falling into his circle.  We find far greater prosperity under the rule of the Spellmonger.  I am glad we are in a new age.  Albeit a far more complicated one.  I—”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, which presently opened.  Instead of the castellan bearing cakes and ale, however, it was a very pretty young woman of about seventeen, and by her clothing she was no drudge.  Festaran rose automatically, as propriety dictated.

“Ah!  Jayleny!  My daughter,” he explain with an affectionate smile.  “Maid Jayleny of Laripose, my youngest daughter.  Sir Festaran – my dear, this is Sir Festaran of Kest, in service to the Baron of Sevendor as his Deputy Steward.  He arrived late yesterday on baronial business, and has yet to have breakfast.”

“Then hospitality demands that we provide, my lord father,” agreed the woman in a soft, yet strong voice.  She was near to Festaran’s own age, though he knew not who was older.  She was nearly as tall as he was, as well, and had allowed her long dark curls to pour forth from her wimple like a cascade.  Her eyes were a passing beautiful shade of blue, surmounting a delicate nose and gloriously high cheekbones.  She glided across the wooden floor of the chamber effortlessly as she carried the tray.  Festaran intercepted her half-way there, relieving her of the burden.

“Allow me, my lady, please!” he insisted.

“May I join you, my lords?” she asked, after graciously surrendering the heavily-laden tray to the young knight.  “It is rare that we get a visitor from the baronial seat, and I long for news,” she added.

“I believe the sensitive portion of our discussion is done,” agreed Sir Festaran – who suddenly stood much straighter, and found his chest thrusting out.  He set the tray on the table and the drew a stool from under it to supply Maid Jayleny.  “I certainly have no objections to such pleasant company this morning.  Will your lady wife be able to attend?” he asked.

“Alas, she passed three years ago, right before my appointment to Laripose,” sighed the old knight.  “My sweet Janel was as lovely as Jayleny, and quite the spirited woman.  But sickness knows no rank and strikes the noble and the base alike,” he said, wistfully.

“I do miss her,” agreed Jayleny, with a fond smile.  “I always will.  She would have enjoyed this place and our estate.”

“My sorrow at your loss, my lady,” Festaran nodded, sympathetically, as he took his seat.  “I’m certain she was a pillar of your life as my mother is to mine.”

“I do hope this visit of yours is not a prelude to my father losing his position,” Jayleny said, matter-of-factly.  “He thrives here, and the folk of Laripose prosper accordingly,” she added, proudly.

“Nay, my lady,” assured Festaran.  “To my knowledge there has not been complaint about his governance; nor is Sire Cei the sort of man that would summarily dismiss a man in his employ unless he was beyond all correction.  This matter is one of security, and involves Laripose only by happenstance.”

“That is gratifying to hear,” smiled the woman, immediately brightening the room.  “I’ve spent most of my girlhood being shuttled between estates, as Father has taken one post or another.  I fear moving again.  I dislike packing,” she added, making a face.

“Sire Cei assured me that our appointment here was secure,” Lithspar said, nodding.  “Even if I was replaced in the castle, we’d still maintain the Laripose estate.  So tell us, Sir Festaran, if you can satisfy my daughter’s desire for news from Sevendor.  We hear tales, but they sound so fanciful I must wonder at the domain’s sobriety, as much as its magic.”

Festaran spent the next hour politely informing his host and his daughter of the goings-on in the City of Magic, entertaining them and providing news they found useful.  There was much to tell –Lithspar had not performed his service duty at Castle Sevendor since before the dragon attack.  The details of the news of Minalan’s exile – and subsequent raising to Count of the Magelaw by Duke Anguin – was largely a mystery to the rural nobility.

To his surprise, instead of politely listening for the sake of propriety, both father and daughter hung on every word, and asked him intelligent questions about the politics and personalities involved.  It was odd, being such the center of attention, but Festaran found himself enjoying it.  Especially with how Jayleny seemed captivated.

“Let us walk you back to the stable, Sir Festaran,” Lithspar requested, as he finally prepared to depart.  “I will introduce you to my men, and you can instruct them on their duties.  I look forward to hearing the result of your efforts – whatever you can tell me, of course.”

“It’s the most intrigue we’ve seen in Laripose since we arrived,” admitted Maid Jayleny.

“I will be certain to tell you as much as I am able,” promised Sir Festaran, as they crossed the yard toward the stable.  Jayleny seemed to prefer to walk terribly close to him, he noted.  “But I warn you, the details will probably be depressingly mundane.  My few encounters with this sort of clandestine work have involved little excitement, though they are often important in retrospect.”

“Just be careful against this threat, Sir Festaran,” pleaded Jayleny, as his mount was brought to him.  “Though we just met, I find I’ve grown fond of you.”

“I have enjoyed our time together as well,” agreed Festaran.  “Perhaps we can dine and exchange stories, after this affair is done.”

“I’d like nothing more, Sir Festaran,” Sir Lithspar assured him.  “Now, let me summon my men.  You two can take a moment to . . . uh, talk,” he said, then wandered away, muttering to himself.

“May I confess to you, my lord?” Jayleny asked, in a low voice, as her father strode out of earshot.  “My father seeks to put me in proximity of every handsome knight that rides into the village.  I think he fears that he cannot arrange as good a match for me as my sisters and brother,” she giggled.  “He will not admit it, but he thinks my stature will keep any serious suitors away.  So far, his efforts have yielded three penniless rascals, an overaged sot, and a trade-fallen professional jouster who tried to . . . to take liberties.”

“Then I stand in the finest company,” he chuckled.  “I can sympathize, as well.  My mother throws every petty nobleman’s awkward-looking niece at me and lists their virtues as if I was purchasing a horse,” he said, patting Buck’s neck.  “She had me nearly convinced to propose marriage, last year.  To a girl who was not particularly inclined to accept.  Afterward, I avoided returning to Kest just to avoid the embarrassment of meeting yet-more eligible maidens.  I take no offence in your father’s designs,” he assured her.

“In truth, you are the first knight he’s introduced me to that did not bore me to sleep or make me wish devoutly for a bath.  I enjoyed our talk, Sir Festaran.  I would like to think you did, as well.”  She fixed him with a stare for ten and a half enormously long seconds before looking down at her feet. “Indeed, I look forward to further talks.”

“I would be honored at such an invitation, my lady,” Festaran agreed, after a thoughtful pause.  “It would be a welcome relief from my duties.  Let me finish this business, and perhaps we can see our way there.”

“For luck,” she said, suddenly leaning forward and giving him a peck on his cheek.  She didn’t even have to stand on her tiptoes.  The move surprised the knight; it wasn’t quite a sisterly buss, in his estimation.  But he did not deny it.

“As always, my lady, I shall – Buck!” he said, alarmed, as his horse suddenly lunged forward and nuzzled the space between Jayleny’s shoulder and neck.  “No!  Bad horse!” he scolded.

“He did not bite me,” she said, concealing her giggling smile behind her hand.  “He just did what I wager you were unwilling to do, due to propriety.  Fare well, Sir Knight!” she said, as she withdrew back to the keep.

Festaran could not help but watch the young woman retreat with decided interest.  And within that interest, a dilemma presented itself.  He had secretly devoted himself to Dara, on the premise that his admiration and affection for the Hawkmaiden would someday, in some fashion, bear fruit.

But it was clear to him that the brief time spent with Jayleny had been far easier, far more congenial, and far more comfortable than his conversations with Dara, of late.  Indeed, he had felt a nearly instant affection for her, he noted.

“Bad horse, Buck,” he repeated to Buck, as he patted his neck and watched her walk away.  She paused at the last moment and spared him a quick glance over her shoulder.  “That was a very bad horse.”

***

Sir Festaran sat in a corner of the Two Lanterns, come early evening, his travel cloak thrown over his armor and a pint of ale in front of him.  He’d arrived early, and watched the crowd without trying to look like he was watching the crowd.  It was harder than he’d predicted.

There was what he figured was the “usual crowd,” a mixture of well-to-do peasants and local artisans, arrive at the inn at the end of the day for a pint or a bowl of supper.  To his knowledge, the Merwyni agents had not entered into the place, unless they had traversed a cow pasture to obscure their travels.  There were fifteen inside the busy inn, including himself.  None of the patrons who lingered at the Two Lanterns at dusk had given any indication that they were not regulars.  The two guardsmen Sir Lithspar had lent him were seated together near the entrance, but their swords and helmets were laid out of sight.

Only Iyugi looked out-of-place, as he wasn’t a peasant, an artisan, or a soldier.  The footwizard had positioned himself at the rear of the common room, his misshapen hat slouched over his eyes.  The remains of three small flasks of spirits lay on the table before him.  He looked for all the world like a wastrel packtrader.  Festaran could smell the stink of some local distiller’s pear brandy washing off the man.  He admired the effect.  Festaran had no doubt that Iyugi was sober – sober enough, at least, to handle the business at hand.

That proved to take time.  Over the course of the evening, seventeen different people entered the inn, and seven left.  By the time the announcement that the stew was done came, nearly every stool was filled.

But not long after his bowl arrived, along with a half a loaf of cheap maislan bread and half of a slightly toasted sausage, Sir Festaran observed the arrival of two gentlemen who were clearly not villagers.  Indeed, everything about them screamed that they were travelers from a foreign land.

It wasn’t blatantly obvious; they wore boots, hose, doublet, cap, and cloak, just as any man of moderate means did, on the road.  All were of sturdy quality, but more than a glance from the casual observer revealed that they were of foreign manufacture.

For instance, Sir Festaran was familiar with the habits and customs of local bootmakers – a resolutely independent subclass of the shoemaker.  He had been fitted for boots nine times, over the course of his life, and he was familiar with the process by which the bootmakers of the Bontal Vales approached their art and how they fulfilled their commissions.  They used nine heavy stitches to secure the thick sole of the boot to the upper, which was considered a standard by the guilds.  But the two strangers had eleven points of heavy thread securing the upper to the sole.

More, the doublets of the gentlemen had a cut at the collar that the tailors of Sendaria would consider scandalously acute.  And the cloth was decidedly Remeran in origin, he considered.  Likewise the cloaks and hats.

But that was of little consideration, compared to the manner of the gentlemen, Festaran decided.  They looked uncomfortably wary, in the doorway.  The stared at every man in the common room, searching for spies.  Alert to the possibility of detection, Festaran tried to conjure some ordinary malady that would compel a man to seek solace, alone, in the common room of a country inn.

He found himself dwelling on the dilemma that had been thrust upon him by Iyugi’s searching question: pursue his cautious courtship of Lady Lenodara or seek a more reasonable mate.  The question was, indeed, a burning one on his mind.  A knight had a duty to pass along the best of himself, in conjunction with a worthy partner, to propagate a future generation to revere the gods and enjoy their bounteous grace.

Dara was a puzzle, his mind had to admit.  She clung to the trappings of tradition while upending them with every breath, it seemed.  That was understandable, during the reign of the Spellmonger.  Everything he had grown up accepting had been overturned, in one manner or another.  The magi, who had been a part of the artisanal class, had suddenly risen to power.  The knights, who had controlled the world for as long as he’d lived, were losing their footing.  The mercantile interests were asserting their power across the new kingdom.  Forming an alliance – dynastic or romantic – seemed a dicey prospect, right now.

Yet his heart did not remain silent.  Nor was it resolved, in one direction or another.  It yearned for an easy and obvious answer to its desire.  In Dara, it saw limitless adventure, danger, and honor.  A match to the Hawkmaiden would be a challenge every day, from the moment his feet touched the floor in the morning to the moment his head touched his pillow, should he be fortunate enough to enjoy one.  Dara would not be easy to take to wife.  But she would be exciting.

Maid Jayleny, on the other hand, offered something he’d rarely considered in such musings on his future: comfort.  His mind continually returned to the easy and convivial discussions he’d enjoyed with the pretty maid.  While every conversation he’d had with the Hawkmaiden had been an exercise in nervous endurance, Jayleny’s company had granted him grace.  She had looked upon him as an authority, a man of action and importance.  Dara looked upon him, he realized, as an ambitious flunky to greater men.

But Jayleny . . . Maid Jayleny saw him differently.  She had a respect for his position and ambition, not a quiet disdain.  The pretty maiden was possessed of a great intelligence, in his estimation, and while she did not have the power of the Hawkmaiden, she certainly had the same sense of seriousness, when it came to the world around them.  She was not limited to the concerns of home and hearth; it was clear, based on her questioning, that she valued in a man the ability to look beyond the horizon, at a future none could fathom.

Sir Festaran found value in that.  He appreciated Lady Lenodara’s position, rank, and level of responsibility . . . but he also appreciated what it might take from him to ally himself with such a woman.  He had slain no dragons.  He had defeated no evil undead.  He had merely maintained the regulations upon which all depended, enforced the rightful law of the barony and defended his lands as a good knight should.  He had offered honorable service to a lord he respected.  And he could tell how many inches there were betwixt the base of a tower and its peak.  To more than that, he could not boast.

Yet, Maid Jayleny perceived that as an honor and seemed to demonstrate an affection for him.  Dara, for all of her sympathies, had been reluctant to declare her interest.  He had to consider her treatment of Gareth – by all accounts and his personal experience, a gentleman mage of exceptional worth – in his equation.  He could not imagine gentle Gareth worthy of the Hawkmaiden’s antipathy.  He was an honorable man, for a mage, by both reputation and within his personal experience.  He had never witnessed him be duplicitous or unfaithful in his loyalties.  Dara had a well-known hostility toward a man Festaran considered a friend, if not a comrade.  Her apparent position on the matter strained credulity, and he found that confusing.

Dara was complicated.  Jayleny was blissfully simple.  And enticingly near at hand.  That caused great turmoil, in his heart.

Sir Festaran could only conclude that his contemplations were adept enough at portraying him as a young knight with romantic problems to befuddle a casual inspection of the inn, for the two strangers to the Riverlands saw no impediment to finding seats nearby his position.  As he struggled with the benefits and deficits of the woman he would pursue to ensure his future, the two strangers settled themselves no less than three and five-eighths feet away from his ears.

Romantic distress had some benefit, then, he reasoned.  The two travelers paid him no attention.

He listened to their accents as they ordered from the barman, and then he overheard their complaints about the roads and the ale.  But they said little else of interest, unless they spoke in a code so obscure that he could not detect it.  Indeed, for most of the evening they acted no different from any travelers on a long journey.

It wasn’t until the tapers in the lanterns had burned low that anything of note occurred.

Festaran was outside, relieving himself in the privy, when he saw the carriage pull up, pulled by a pair of sable mares that could have been sisters.  The coach, itself, was well-made and appointed with the comfort and convenience of the nobility in mind.  The high nobility, Festaran corrected when he saw the coachman pull the team to a halt.  The craftsmanship and the complexity of the stair and windows, not to mention the cunning system of springs to smooth the ride of the carriage, was the sort that only the richest and most important in the kingdom could afford.

Yet the carriage was completely devoid of heraldry, he noted, as he watched from the privy.  Ordinarily a person of importance festooned their carriages with their coats-of-arms, personal banners, symbols of their rank, the mascot of their house, and other displays to demonstrate their status.  This carriage had no sign on the exterior of who might ride within.  It was as plain as it was luxurious.

Festaran watched as the linen curtain parted, and the slight figure of a young woman came forth, the coachman assisting her down the stair.

She was very pretty – objectively more beautiful than Maid Jayleny, he had to admit – and of slender build.  The woman wore her blonde hair in a loose braid down the back of her mantle.  She wore a dark green gown over expensive traveling boots, and while Festaran was generally ignorant of matters of style, he recognized the cut of the gown as similar as the styles favored in the summer capital of the duchy, Wilderhall.  There were rings of gold and silver on her fingers, and she bore several necklaces.

The woman murmured a few words to the coachman, and then entered through the open door of the inn unescorted.  Festaran lost sight of her, then, due to the angle of the building, but he had no doubt that Iyugi had spotted her for what she was the moment she crossed the threshold.  He trusted the spy to handle the rest, until his services were called for.

As he returned to the doorway himself, he lingered by the impressive coach a moment and openly admired it, as any country knight would.

“That’s a fine piece of work,” he commented to the coachman.  “Where was it done?”

“Wilderhall,” the man confirmed, gruffly.

“I can’t wait to see it in the daylight,” Festaran nodded.

“Won’t be here, come morning,” the man sneered.  “The lady just wanted supper.”

“Where are you headed?” Festaran asked, trying to sound like an innocent bumpkin.

“None of your concern,” the coachman said, his lips frowning with irritation.  He then nodded a clear dismissal, and turned his attention to watering his team.

Shrugging, Festaran returned to his seat, where his mantle covered his sword.  The barman had refilled his mug while he was gone, and he made a point of staring into his ale and sighing.

As expected, the lady had found her two contacts and had taken a seat with them, directly.  There was no pretense of propriety, or attempt to obscure their meeting.  Indeed, she had taken command of the conversation at once.

“. . . you’ve come such a long way to such a rustic welcome, but I’m afraid any closer to Wilderhall and I would fear detection.”

“We are no stranger to either travel or rustic inns, my lady,” the older of the two travelers said, shaking his head.  “And we’ve learned to be especially cautious in these trying times.  Our mutual friends suggested you might have an offer of interest for us, and we are enterprising men.”

“I represent people who are in need of your services,” she said, briskly.  “Depending upon your strength.”

“You need magi?” the younger traveler asked.  “Why us, when this place abounds with them?”

“I need High Magi,” the woman corrected.  “High Magi who are not beholden to the Spellmonger.  Those are in short supply.  Warmagi, preferably, but they must have witchstones.”

“To what purpose?” the older man asked.

The woman sighed.  “Why else would someone want to employ warmagi?  To make war.  I—”

“Hold a bit, my lady,” the older man said, holding up his hand.  “A precaution, before we continue.”  Festaran watched out of the corner of his eye as the man made a few gestures with his hands . . . and then he heard nothing more from their lips.

It was a spell of silence, of course, the kind Banamor and other magi frequently applied when they desired their words to be private.  A cunning piece of magic, he had to admit, one far beyond his meager powers.  But the mage’s use of the spell was, by the baron’s law, illegal, if the two magi had not registered with the local spellwarden.  He could interrupt and arrest the two right now, if he’d wanted to.

But that was not part of Iyugi’s plan.  Indeed, Festaran was to do nothing but observe, until Iyugi’s signal: his hat being dropped to the floor.

The three strangers spoke at length and without pause.  It was maddening to be this close to them and not hear them speak, but that was his role.  His curiosity was intensely piqued at the idea that someone wanted to hire the Knights of Nablus as mercenaries – specifically because they were not sworn to Minalan.  The list of people who could afford such a transaction was short, and the list of those who had motive to make it was even shorter, he knew.

He spent his time in quiet thought about that list.  Speculation was all he could manage, without more detail, and his knowledge of court politics was strictly limited.  That was a circle of power he had little contact with and no desire to participate in.  But the people he trusted that did were precisely the ones that were the point of this meeting.  Whoever was attempting to hire them, the Knights of Nablus were going to be employed against the Spellmonger.  That much was certain.

The meeting lasted until the first of the tapers in the lanterns went out.  There were only a few patrons lingering, by that point.  Most of the locals had drifted away, and the few travelers who were staying had largely picked out their spots on the floor for the night.  There were rooms for rent above, of course, but they cost thrice as much as a spot on the inn’s floor.

Finally, the older man dropped the spell, and bid the woman goodbye.

“Well, I think that concludes our business, my lords.  I wish you safe travels, and I trust you’ll adhere to our agreement with all due discretion?”

“Of course, my lady,” the younger man assured.  “You, as well.”  And that was that.

With an exchange of understanding nods, the woman promptly rose, and returned to her waiting carriage.  In moments, she was gone.  As soon as the hoofbeats of the team were out of earshot, Iyugi casually let his hat slip to the floor.  The sign that he’d been waiting for.

“Gentlemen,” Sir Festaran said, as he rose.  “I could not help but notice your employment of a silencing spell during your conversation.”

The two magi both turned to face him, each looking annoyed.

“So what if we did?” demanded the younger of them.

“I am Sir Festaran of Kest, Deputy Steward of the Barony of Sevendor,” he explained, lifting the badge of that office out of his surcoat.  “I am empowered by my commission from His Excellency, Baron Minalan of Sevendor, to enforce all of his sworn laws, both mundane and magical.”

“This isn’t Sevendor!” spat the elder man.

“Ah, but it is,” Sir Festaran corrected.  “Laripose is the most easterly portion of the barony, but it is owned by the count, and was incorporated into the barony as a gift of King Rard at its inception.  Therefore, as a mageland, the count’s policies regarding magic are to be strictly enforced.  Surly, you gentlemen must appreciate the importance of strict enforcement of such powerful forces,” he said, pointedly.

“And what policies are those?” the older man said, puffing up his chest as he rose.

“No mage shall practice magic within the frontiers of the barony unless he has been duly registered with the local spellwarden, and his name and position logged with that agency,” he explained.  “Have either of you gentlemen done so, this day?”

“No, we didn’t go register with no godsdamned . . . what did you call it?  Spellwarden?  What in three hells even is a spellwarden?” the younger man demanded.

“An official similar to what I believe the Censorate called an Inspector, though I may have the term wrong.  There are spellwardens in each of the magelands in the kingdom serving that position.  Do you deny you are a mage, sir?” he asked the older man.

“No,” the man admitted, with a sigh.  “I am a mage.”

“Then you must be remanded to the keep, for the evening, until you can sort out your documentation with the spellwarden in the morning,” Festaran said, officiously.  “I do apologize for any inconvenience.  I would also advise you that resisting that order could have even more dire consequences than the small fine you’ll pay,” he added, warningly.

“And you are going to be the one to stop us, if we resist?” sneered the younger man, threateningly.

“That is my duty,” Festaran said, bowing slightly.  “And it is well within my capability,” he added.

“I could make a scrawny thing like you eat dirt!” the younger man challenged.

“We would not come to wrestling, I assure you,” Festaran said, evenly, as he showed the polished brass hilt of his sword.  He also gave a nod to the two attentive guardsmen near the door.  Both stood and loomed menacingly in front of the doorway, helmets slipped on.  Their swords were likewise evident.  “Come, gentlemen.  The odds are not in your favor.”

“Have you ever fought a duel with a warmage, boy?” the older man asked, thoughtfully.  Festaran watched him clench his fingers, as if he was warming them up.

“I have, indeed, had that honor,” Festaran said, refusing to be intimidated.  Then he used the special spell on the special ring that Gareth had helpfully enchanted for that purpose.  Vigilance, the staff the Spellmonger, himself, had given to him, appeared in his left hand.  The sudden appearance surprised the two men, who blinked with confusion and then recognition of what he had done.

He had rarely had call to use the sentry staff, during his missions; most of what he accomplished he did with his authority, and occasionally his sword.  But having a token of the magical nature of that authority had occasionally been helpful in enforcing his duty.  Such as now.

“Now, we can follow proper procedure,” he lectured the men, “in which you get to spend a night at the keep and face the spellwarden for your misdemeanor, or you can resist and face both spellwarden and magistrate, in the morning.  Likely while suffering from bruising and other maladies.  I would say the choice is up to you.”

The two magi looked at each other in a silent discussion.  Then the older man sighed.

“All right, we don’t want any trouble,” he admitted.  “We just want to go peacefully on our way.”

“It wouldn’t be the first night we’ve spent in a cell,” agreed the younger man.  “We’ll sign your damned book and pay your damn fine.”

“Very well considered, gentlemen,” Festaran agreed.  “Now, shall we take a walk up the hill?  It’s only seven hundred and twenty-six paces away.”

***

It did not take long to get the two prisoners installed in the reasonably comfortable cell, even at that time of night, and once Sir Festaran had seen the gaoler and explained the situation, the two Merwyni magi settled down to sleep.  He was about to leave a note for the spellwarden describing the situation when he unexpectedly ran into Maid Jayleny in the great hall, where he was searching for a pen and a scrap of parchment.  She was wrapped in a dark blue robe against the night’s chill.

“I heard the gate open,” she explained.  “It’s right across from my chamber, and it awakened me.  I was curious as to the outcome of your mission, Sir Festaran,” she added.

“Entirely successful, my lady,” he assured her.  “It was merely an arrest.  I was going to begin the parchmentwork on it, now, actually, but there was nothing exciting about it.  They will face the spellwarden tomorrow, pay their fine and likely be on their way.”

“An arrest?  I would imagine a threat would be more . . . threatening,” she said, frowning.

“It is my duty to address such threats before they become threatening,” he explained, as she directed him to a small desk behind the buttery door, where pen and parchment was kept.  “And not all threats are as thrilling as a dragon attack.  Or as obvious.  Nor do they require a violent response.  Sometimes a quiet arrest will do.”  He began writing out the writ for hearing to the spellwarden, detailing the offence and the manner of the arrest.  It took a single page.

“Your penmanship is so graceful,” she admired, as he sanded the page.  She had fetched them each a glass of wine from the buttery, while he wrote, and lit a few more tapers to illuminate the page.  “It’s rare to meet a knight who knows his letters, much less renders them so beautifully.”

“It’s rarer still to meet a knight who fights far more often with parchment than with his sword,” he chuckled.  “With the practice I’ve had over the last few years, I’ve come to respect the art.  Clear communication is essential, for a well-run enterprise.  Be it estate, domain, barony, or duchy.  So I take pains to write clearly and effectively.  Any hidden beauty you may perceive is entirely of your own invention.”

“What a fascinating life you must lead, Sir Festaran,” she sighed, putting her chin on her fists and staring at him.  “Yet you must have some ambitions beyond mere duty.”

“I will, of course, inherit my father’s lands in Kest,” he admitted, thoughtfully.  “I suppose I will retire from the baronial service and become a simple vassal, at that point.  But my father is still hale and healthy, as well as dear to me, so I hope that fateful day lies far in my future.”

“So there are many adventures left ahead of you,” she nodded.

“Life is never boring in the service of the Spellmonger,” he agreed.  “Even when he is in exile.  Especially while he is in exile,” he corrected.  “He left Sire Cei charge of his lands in his absence, and the good knight depends on me to help protect them.  With Baron Minalan gone, the resources we have to rely upon are somewhat diminished.  Thankfully, as the conditions of his exile specify that none can make war on Sevendor until his return, most of the threats we face are minor . . . but interesting.”

“Fascinating, from my perspective,” smiled Jayleny.  “And far more interesting than spinning and sewing, let me assure you.”

“Then do you have higher aspirations, my lady?” he asked, enjoying the conversation immensely.

“I’ve considered taking holy orders,” she said, after a few moment’s thought.  “But in truth I am simply not devoted enough to any particular divinity to feel genuinely called.  I would feel a hypocrite, should I put on a habit.  If it would be to any goddess, it would be to Holy Mother Trygg . . . but then I would regret giving up the chance to be a mother myself, some day.”

“All mothers are Trygg’s priestesses,” Festaran said, quoting a popular folk saying.  “I hope you get your wish, someday, my lady.”

“If Trygg wills it,” she sighed.  “Do you desire children someday, my lord?”

“It is a knight’s duty to continue his line,” he nodded.  “What virtues we possess should be passed down to future generations.  Children are a responsibility, but they are also a comfort in our dotage.  Of course, my children may be touched by magic, as well, in some way.  Rajira often runs in families.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” she admitted.  “Having magi for children would not be so bad, I think,” she mused, after a moment.

“They are just children, until they come into their power,” he chuckled.  “Thankfully!  Magic is difficult enough to control with the maturity of adulthood.  If they had magical powers before they’re old enough to understand them, children would cause havoc with the misuse of their powers!  Imagine a shouting match over a sweet biscuit turning into a magical duel,” he said, shaking his head.

They continued to chat long after his report was done, and it was only when Sir Festaran heard the first cockerels crowing before dawn that he realized he had just spent the entire night talking to the lady.  Surprisingly, even with the wine, he did not feel the slightest bit tired.

“I suppose we’ve lingered overlong at this,” he sighed with a guilty smile.  “I did not mean to deprive my lady of her rest.”

“Nor I of yours,” she giggled.  “In truth, this has been . . . enchanting,” she said, self-consciously.  “But I’m certain you have other duties to attend to.”

“Yes, I must meet with my agent, before he departs,” Festaran agreed.  “But I promise you that I will return before I begin my journey back to Sevendor.  In case there are any loose ends with the spellwarden,” he explained.  “And to enjoy your company a bit more.”

“I’d like nothing better,” she assured, as they both rose.  Before she went back up the stairs to her chamber, she considered for a moment, and then placed a proper kiss on his lips.  “Something to entice you with,” she added, with a final glance over her shoulder before she mounted the stairs.

Sir Festaran found himself whistling on the trip back to the inn.  He was nearly there when he saw the distinctive figure of Iyugi standing on the High Street, just as dawn broke.

“Did you have any difficulty with them?” he asked, as he fell into step with the knight.  “I was just coming to see if you needed assistance.”

“No, no, I merely composed a report for the spellwarden,” Sir Festaran blushed.  “Then I got caught up in . . . in a conversation with one of the castle officials.”

“She must have been pretty,” Iyugi said, sagely.  “But our work here is done, my friend.  We have accomplished what we set out to do.”

“Lock up a couple of former Censors overnight for a petty offense?” Festaran asked, surprised.

“We established documentation that they were here, at this time,” corrected the footwizard.  “But that was just a part of it.  The more important part is discovering the identity of their contact.”

“The noblewoman from Wilderhall,” Festaran nodded.  “I’ve heard rumors that the queen has a number of pretty young women who do her bidding.  Most unsavory rumors,” he added.

“She does, and they do,” Iyugi nodded.  “But this was not one of Grendine’s agents.  Quite the contrary.  Once I saw her face, I knew exactly who she was.”

“Who?” Festaran asked, sharply.

“I know many secrets, and this one is closely kept.  Her name is Lady Aketta of Longbridge.  She was the secret mistress of Prince Tavard, before he married.  Perhaps even after.  She was raised on an estate to the north of Wilderhall.  Apparently, the prince was frustrated by everything he whispered to his bed partners becoming known to Grendine by morning’s light.  So he seduced Lady Aketta, on one of his hunting expeditions.  She’s the daughter of one of his vassals – petty nobility, no one important.  Quite beautiful.  It is said she loves the prince.  The queen did not discover the liaison until Tavard had settled on a bride, and she demanded he stop seeing her.”

“That sounds quite . . . tawdry,” Festaran said, frowning.  “So why would she be involved with this?”

“She is a woman who is loyal solely to him, not his mother.  He conducted the affair with her, it is said, she fell in love with His Highness.  That kind of loyalty is rare, in the royal court.  Or any court.  She is one of the few people Prince Tavard trusts.”

“Therefore, it is Prince Tavard who is attempting to hire magical mercenaries,” Festaran concluded.

“That is the most likely explanation,” agreed Iyugi.  “He wishes to do so without his mother learning of it.  And is willing to conspire with a foreign power in order to achieve his goal.”

“That . . . that is disturbing,” Festaran said, imagining the result.  “Why would he do that?  I thought Grendine was his strongest supporter, in court.”

“There are many possibilities,” conceded Iyugi.  “I go now to Wilderhall to investigate them.  But it stands to reason that if Tavard did not use one of Grendine’s murderous little whores, then he is making plans she is not aware of.  That is a valuable secret, in the right ears.”

“Thank Luin we were here to stop them!” Festaran agreed, as they neared the Two Lanterns.

“Stop them?” snickered Iyugi.  “We will not stop them.  We will let them proceed.”

“Ishi’s tits, why?” demanded Festaran.

“The wisdom of secrets is that they grant power,” Iyugi explained.  “We are far better equipped knowing what our enemies do that way.  Nor could we stop a bargain betwixt Tavard and the Knights of Nablus – he will just find another way to contact them, if we prevent them from returning.  But all is not lost,” he added, before Festaran could object.  “For while they employed a silence spell, I have long since learned how to work around it.  Indeed, I heard everything they said when they thought they were at their most private.”

“What?  How?” Festaran asked, confused.

“It is a talent of mine,” Iyugi shrugged, as he pulled a pipe and pouch from his bag.  “One of many.  But you may like to know that Lady Aketta secured the services of ten High Magi, all of them seasoned warmagi, and twenty sergeants of the order.  An entire magical corps who hates Minalan with a fanatical passion.  The specifics will be decided by other means – which is one of the reasons I travel now to Wilderhall – but payment was settled.  Five thousand ounces of gold.”

“And we’re just going to let it happen?” Festaran objected.

“We are,” Iyugi nodded, as his pipe came to life with a cantrip.  “We most certainly are.  You cannot charge someone with treason until they actually commit treason,” he reasoned.  “Once Prince Tavard commits to his plan, then evidence can be presented to prove it.  Conspiring with a foreign power is never a good thing for a future king to do – it sets a bad precedent,” he pronounced.

“And the arrest of the two Censors proves that they were here, in Laripose.  For the spellwarden will undoubtedly use a truthtell when he places them under oath,” Festaran nodded.

“So our business is concluded.  Once they pay their fine, they will travel back to Merwyn, and we can await the unfolding of events,” he said, as if he relished the idea.  “Thank you for your help, Sir Festaran.  It might seem a small thing, but all of the great things rest upon such small things.  Secrets are like that,” he grinned.

“I’m grateful I do not have any,” the knight said, yawning.

“Ah, but you do,” Iyugi said, puffing on his pipe.  “Indeed, you’ve acquired one since you’ve arrived in Laripose.”

“I have?” Festaran asked, still confused.  “I must share this information with Sire Cei, of course—”

“Of course, he must be informed,” agreed the footwizard.  “He will know what to do with the information.  But that was not the secret I was speaking of.  You, my friend, have a difficult decision to make.  You might not make it right now, but you will have to make it, one day,” he said, cryptically.  “That is the secret you have, now.”

Startled, he stared at the old footwizard in disbelief.  “A decision?  I . . . I . . .”

“That is all that needs be said,” Iyugi stated.  “Save for this: it will be a lovely day for a picnic, this afternoon.  After you’ve had a nap.  But it will rain on the morrow.  And with that, my friend, I bid you farewell.  I have miles to go before I can rest, myself.”

With that, and a big, savage grin, Iyugi took himself through the Ways, leaving only a cloud of pipesmoke to mark where he had been.

“Ishi’s . . .” Festaran started to say, and then stopped, when he realized invoking that particular deity again might be inviting trouble.  For Iyugi was correct.  He did have a decision to make.  His heart was no longer untroubled.  It felt tugged in two different directions.

Yet the spy had also been correct in that he did not have to make any decisions today.  Indeed, he still had duties to perform, starting with seeing to his horse.  He skipped the inn, and went directly to the stable, where Buck was patiently awaiting his morning oats and grazing from the manger.

“Well, my fellow,” he said to the beast as he scooped the feed into a pail, “as soon as I’m done with you, I’ll use that magical mirror to inform Sire Cei of our result.  And perhaps let him know it may take another day or so to complete the details – we want to make certain those two warmagi are safely on their way out of Sevendor, don’t we?”

Buck seemed to nod, as he pushed his nose into the pail and began noisily eating.

“Yes, and then a bit of breakfast.  And then a nap – just a few hours,” he reasoned.  “Just enough to put the edge back on the blade.  And then . . . well, don’t you think this is just the perfect day for a picnic?” he asked, stroking Buck’s neck.  “And don’t you think Maid Jayleny will agree?”

Buck didn’t comment, being too busy with his own breakfast.  But Sir Festaran was certain the horse agreed with him.  He was, after all, a very agreeable horse.

The End

Table of Contents

- epigraph
- The Beast of Cargwenyn
- The Incident at Ramoth’s Wood
- The Wicked Monk of Hameron
- Ketta’s Lily
- Matters of Regional Concern
- Secrets at the Two Lanterns