Author: Terry Mancour
Date: 2022-12-06 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Magic; Science Fiction; Epic Fantasy
Description: The Witch Queen Strikes! Minalan the Spellmonger has a problem: Mycin Amana, the undead consort of Korbal the Necromancer, is not only occupying one of the largest castles in the kingdom, she’s also occupying the recently-dead body of his former lover, rapist, and mother of his children, Isily of Greenflower. As the crises in the heart of the kingdom grows, Minalan is tasked to force the so-called Witch Queen of Darkfaller from her new stronghold using any means necessary. Unfortunately, the castle belongs to his rival in the royal court and future monarch Prince Tavard, whose ideas about how

Marshal Arcane

Book 15 of the Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Edited by Emily Burch Harris

Copyright © December 2022

Dedication

To Gary Bass, Skip Clark, Al Wilkenson,

Bernard Hetley, and the rest of the staff
of the late, great Fishmonger’s.

That’s where this all began.

Contents

Chapter One………..………………..A Walk In The Woods

Chapter Two………..………….……..…A Kitten in a Turret

Chapter Three…….….………………….…A Cat In Council

Chapter Four……..……………………A Wizard In Waiting

Chapter Five……..………………..A Chat With A Duchess

Chapter Six …….….………….…….A Worm On The Plaza

Chapter Seven……………...…………Aloft Over Darkfaller

Chapter Eight………….…..…A Commander In Readiness

Chapter Nine………....…………….…. A Prince In A Parley

Chapter Ten……….………….……An Apprentice In Doubt

Chapter Eleven…….……………….The Keep of Darkfaller

Chapter Twelve…………….…Unexpected Complications

Chapter Thirteen………………..…..…………Mycin Amana

Chapter Fourteen………………………….Flies In The Web

Chapter Fifteen…………….………..……….……..Reunions

Chapter Sixteen………….The Flame That Burneth Bright

Chapter Seventeen………..………..…………..Azar’s Boon

Chapter Eighteen……………..The Twins of Tuervakothel

Chapter Nineteen…………………………..Count Andrevar

Chapter Twenty…………..The Royal Curia of the Counts

Chapter Twenty-One…………….An Emissary’s Proposal

Chapter Twenty-Two…………..A Hawkmaiden Grounded

Chapter Twenty-Three…………………..A Cat With A Fish

Chapter Twenty-Four…A Message To The Spellmonger

Chapter Twenty-Five………..……………A Dwarf In Clinic

Chapter Twenty-Six………………………..A Boy In A Ruin

Chapter Twenty-Seven………..A Conspiracy Of Friends

Chapter Twenty-Eight…A Consultation With A Goddess

Chapter Twenty-Nine………………….A Seamage Ashore

Chapter Thirty…………………………A Wizard Gone Mad

Chapter Thirty-One…………………A Hell Of A Hangover

Chapter Thirty-Two………………………………………Ariel

Chapter Thirty-Three……………A Chat With A Nemovort

Chapter Thirty-Four………………….Plots And Strategies

Chapter Thirty-Five………………….A Bit Of Necromancy

Chapter Thirty-Six………………….A Wedding In Autumn

Chapter Thirty-Seven…………….The Siege of Darkfaller

Chapter Thirty-Eight……………………………….The Trial

Chapter Thirty-Nine…………………An Unjust Judgment

Chapter Forty……………………………..Yule In Sevendor

Chapter Forty-One…………………An Unexpected Attack

Chapter Forty-Two…………………………………Bug Hunt

Chapter Forty-Three………………….Tavard’s Reckoning

Chapter Forty-Four……………………Spiders In The Dark

Chapter Forty-Five……………………..Talk Of The Future

The period after Minalan the Spellmonger’s return from his expedition to the jevolar in Anghysbel in the distant north of his realm was a tumultuous time for the Kingdom of Castalshar.  Civil war, economic crisis, and military adventures from Merwyn and Farise plagued the kingdom, and the unexpected conquest of Darkfaller Castle in the very center of the realm, sent a chill down the spine of those who had worked so hard and so diligently to see Remere, Castal and Alshar united into a single realm.   All eyes were turned toward the Spellmonger, who had successfully resisted the advances of the enemy in the northwest and had built a miraculously prosperous outpost in the Wilderlands with magic and good governance.

Yet it became clear to all that his journey had fundamentally changed the Spellmonger.  His behavior became erratic, and if his reputation for good governance was still intact it was largely due to the efforts of his loyal subordinates and supporters.  Suspicion of his motivations reigned and his sanity was openly questioned at a time when so many looked to him for guidance, answers, and solutions to the growing number of problems the kingdom faced.

It was during this turbulent period that King Rard I named the unpredictable wizard the Royal Marshal Arcane, charged with leading the kingdom’s forces against challenges that were essentially magical in nature.  This encompassed many portfolios, from the Alka Alon to the dark forces of Olum Seheri.  This appointment was not without controversy, as the traditional chivalry that composed the ruling class of the kingdom viewed the rise of the magi with deep suspicion and outright antipathy.  Minalan’s leadership also brought with it a new era of more sophisticated enchantment that threatened the established order even more deeply, though the effects of some of these innovations would not be recognized for years.

This period also marked a time of transition for both the Magelands of the kingdom and the Spellmonger himself.  Despite the rumors of his madness circling in the courts of the realm, he maintained a public persona that was as admired by the artisan and rural classes as it was disliked by the nobility.  His return from exile brought a transformation of his home in Sevendor, propelling it from a magical novelty into a far greater economic and political role in the affairs of the entire kingdom.  Yet even there Minalan’s unstable nature was routinely seen as troublesome.  He seemed to embrace the whispered title of “Mad Mage of Sevendor” as he worked feverishly to counter the rise of the Nemovort Mycin Amana, the so-called Witch Queen.  In retrospect it should be considered that his willingness to do so emphasized an unpredictability that confounded his friends and foes alike.

From The Annals Of Castalshar

By Lord Heeth the Arcanist of Vanador

Part One

The Darkfaller Raid

Chapter One

A Walk In The Woods

Alurra

Alurra woke with her face pressed into the floor of a forest.  She could smell the decaying leaves and rotting pine needles and feel the loam against her cheek.  There were twigs digging into her back and a rock under her right wrist.  A forest floor.  Not the same smells of a forest in the Wilderlands, but there was no doubt that she was in a forest.

Beyond that, she had no idea of where she was.  She had no magic.

She had been able to “see” out of the eyes of her animal friends since before her rajira emerged in earnest.  It had happened gradually, at first, but when Old Antimei saw her navigating the croft with far less trouble than a blind girl should have, she tested the ability, and helped her develop it.  Since then she had been able to use them to provide the senses she lacked, allowing her to escape the worst limitations of her blindness.  A constant chorus of animals, from her pet crow to nearby mice to the occasional cat gave her an expansive view of her world.

Only now they were all gone.  She could hear birds chirping overhead, but she could not feel them the way she should.  She’d been taken from the Magic Fair and tumbled through the Ways, and when she emerged on the other side some spell had overtaken her and rendered her unconscious before she could so much as scream.  She didn’t know how long she had lain there – she suspected it wasn’t that long – but when she woke up from her enchanted sleep she knew at least an hour or two had passed.  The sun was still on her cheek in irregular patches, as if it was filtered through the trees overhead.

But she had no magic.  Not only were her friends gone from her mind, she had lost the connection to her rajira, somehow.  She could not extend her senses into the arcane world anymore.  She could not raise thaumaturgical power – she could not even feel the Magosphere the way that she had been able to since she was a child.  Suppressing a feeling of panic, Alurra understood that things were going very, very wrong.

She marshaled her control of herself and stopped herself from bolting up or yelling or doing any of the other things she felt an impulse to do.  She was in danger, that much was clear.  She had been taken from Sevendor against her will.  And someone had stripped away her ability to do magic.  She was defenseless, powerless, and truly sightless, somewhere in a strange forest.

But she was not alone, she realized.  The sounds of others laying nearby filled her ears, and she could smell the sweat of other people around her.  Occasional moans or weeping or heavy breathing told her that there were many others with her.  From the sounds she heard, she guessed that they, too, were waking up from a magical unconsciousness.  That was gratifying, in that she wasn’t alone.  It was terrifying, too, because that meant this was an organized attack.

Alurra could only remember flashes of what had happened in Sevendor, mostly memories through Lucky’s sharp eyes.  Unfortunately, the perceptions of a crow were focused on things, not people, so there wasn’t much distinct in that recollection.  But there had been predators among the crowd at the fair, and there had been screaming and blood.  Then she had been torn away from the chaos through the Ways, quite against her will.

She wondered where Lucky was, now.  He was almost always in her vicinity, as he had been since she’d rescued him from a hawk.  The goofy bird didn’t like to get too far from her protection, and she relied on their bond to provide her some sight, but she could not sense him in the slightest for the first time in years.  She hoped that he was all right, that he had made it to safety before she was taken.

Alurra was almost ready to open her eyes when she smelled something else familiar – something that reinforced the idea that she’d been kidnapped: the distinctive smell of gurvani fur.  That was an odor she had endured too many times since the invasion.  A goblin was nearby, patrolling around the unconscious bodies of the humans, she guessed.  Keeping watch for them to awaken.  For what purpose, she didn’t know, but rarely were the intentions of the gurvani benign.

So she kept her eyes closed, kept still, and waited.  There was nothing else she could do.

Eventually she heard voices, and more footfalls.  The language was Alka Alon, she knew, though she didn’t understand a word of it.  Twice they passed by her feet, and she could feel their gaze on her even if she could not see it.  Someone near her started to moan and then shriek, which caused the voices to hiss them to silence.  There was a brief struggle.  The sound of wood hitting flesh.  And then things were quiet again.

Quietly and slowly she tried to take stock of what she had on her person by fingering her belt pouch and checking the pockets in her dress.  They were empty – her witchstone was gone, as were her comb and other personal affects.  Even the pouch of crumbs for her bird were empty.  Likewise the sheath of her small belt knife.  She had been searched and robbed while she was asleep.  Somehow that made her feel even more violated.

Soon a female Alka Alon voice called out a directive, and in moments she felt several more gurvani around her – she could smell the musk of their fur powerfully, now.  And they began to scream.

“Get up!  Wake up, humani!” they called in heavily accented Narasi.  “Wake up!”

Alurra could hear sounds of scuffling and shouts of defiance, but the gurvani were clearly in control.  Moans of pain and anguish cried out as the others around her were pulled to their feet.  She felt long, stringy fingers grasp her arm and pull her upright, and she recoiled at the touch.  But it did not persist – once she pulled herself to her knees the bony gurvani hand left her.

She jumped a moment later when someone else grabbed her other arm and more gently pulled her to her feet.  It was kinder and gentler.

“Don’t do anything rash,” a young female voice whispered in her ear.  Alurra sniffed reflexively.  The scent was familiar.  She recognized it.

“Gatina?” she whispered.  “What are we—?”

“Hush!  Not now!  They’re watching!” the other girl whispered back.  “Just stand up.  I don’t want you to get hit like they’re doing to the others.”

Alurra appreciated that – she didn’t want to get hit, either.  She stood straight and tried to stay calm.  If nothing else, knowing that she had an acquaintance with her brought her some comfort.  She might be kidnapped, but she was not alone.

“You humani will listen to us!” the gurvani voice demanded.  “Do not listen, you die.  Simple, eh?  You listen!” it screamed.

“What do you want from us?” a man’s voice asked, fearfully.

“Your obedience,” an Alkan voice said.  “If you obey, then you live.  If you do not, you will perish.  I am happy to slay one of you right now as an example if you need proof of that.  Are there any volunteers?  I thought not.  Good.”

It was clearly an Alka Alon voice, Alurra knew, but it was coming from several feet higher than she expected; obviously this Alkan had been transformed.  But it didn’t sound like a Tera Alon – the timbre of their voices was more or less human, and this one wasn’t.

“What are you going to do to us?” asked another frightened voice, this time a woman.

“Whatever we desire,” came the arrogant reply.  “You belong to us, now.  Indeed, you are all now the property of Her Majesty Queen Mycin Amana.  First, we shall test your obedience.  All of you, look at me – loot at the tip of this staff.  All of you!” she insisted.

Alurra tried to face her direction and made her best guess as to where she was supposed to look.  Then there was a pulse of energy, and she could feel a spell wash over her.  After that, there were no more objections.

But there were more discussions between the gurvani and the Alka Alon, and Alurra devoutly wished she knew the language they were speaking.  She had to gauge what was happening by their tone of voice, and that was difficult for her to figure out.  Soon it returned to Narasi.

“Line up!” it demanded.  “Line up and prepare for a walk.”  Alurra didn’t know what to do, then, but she felt Gatina’s hand on her upper arm, leading her to another position.  She could hear the other people arranging themselves around her.  When things were apparently to the Alka Alon’s satisfaction, there was another discussion in that strange language before another command came in Narasi.  “Now, march!  And do not leave the line, lest you be slain out of hand.  We have no time for foolishness!”

Gatina’s hand steadied her and then guided Alurra to start walking.  She could feel the others comply ahead and behind her.  She had no idea where they were going, but they were moving.

“Just keep this steady pace,” Gatina whispered in her ear.  “You’ll be fine.”

“What just happened?” Alurra whispered back.

“They used some kind of spell,” the young thief replied.  “Everyone who looked at that staff is completely compliant now.  Except for you and me.”

“How did it not affect you?” Alurra asked, confused.

“Because I didn’t look,” Gatina confessed.  “When an evil sorceress tells you to look at something, it’s usually a good idea not to.  I closed my eyes.  It must have been a visually-oriented spell, something to keep us docile.  Now, if I give you a tap that means be quiet, but there aren’t any guards around at the moment.  Just keep your feet moving on the trail,” she advised.

“How many of us were taken?” Alurra asked.

“A lot.  At least a few hundred.  This line stretches quite a way,” she answered.

“Why?” Alurra couldn’t think of a better question.

“My guess?  They want to steal our bodies.  Nemovorti need magi to serve as their hosts.  All the people here that I know have rajira.  So I won’t expect that there will be any ransom demands made.”

“But I can’t even feel my rajira!” Alurra complained.

“Me either,” Gatina revealed.  “It’s some kind of spell.  But it doesn’t seem to affect their magic, just ours.  They took my witchstone while I was out, too.”  She sounded offended at that.

“Mine, too,” Alurra agreed.  “Gatina, what do we do?” she asked, desperately.

“We keep walking,” the girl counselled, calmly.  “There are too many of them watching us, and they have bows.  If we tried to make a break for it now we’d be dead in a moment.  So walk.  It’s a pretty day for it.”

“Yes, it’s just lovely,” Alurra agreed, sarcastically.  “At least they didn’t murder us in our sleep.”

“We’re too valuable for that,” Gatina reasoned.  “Someone went to an awful lot of trouble to steal so many of us all at once.  They might beat us and threaten us, but they won’t kill us lightly.”

“I hope you’re right,” sighed Alurra.  “I just wish I had better shoes for this.”

“We just have to stay alive,” Gatina said with encouragement.  “The longer we endure, the greater chance that we’ll be rescued.  I know Rondal will move the mountains to find me.  I’m guessing Pentandra will be working to find you.”

“Oh, she will be livid,” agreed Alurra.  “She’s pretty unforgiving when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.  Our friends will be eager to rescue us . . . if they can find us.  If they went to that much trouble to keep our magic from working, I’m guessing they’re using plenty of spells to conceal where we are.”

“Then how do you expect us to get rescued, if they can’t even find us?” Alurra asked, frowning.

“Because our friends are terribly clever,” Gatina concluded.  “They were taken by surprise, but they will respond as quickly as possible.  Hopefully before we all wake up undead.”

That was a disconcerting thought to Alurra.  She’d had some experience with the undead, and she did not like them.  They smelled awful, for one thing.  You could not hide that scent of decomposition with spells or perfume.  Nor did they sound like normal living humans.  They did not breathe, as such, except to speak.

“Where are we, now?  Describe it to me,” she pleaded.  “Without my rajira I’m truly blind for the first time in years.”

“We’re in some wood, somewhere, and that’s about all I know.  There are fields ahead of us, though.  And that crow that follows you around is up in the tree tops, watching us.”

“You can see Lucky?” she asked, relieved that her feathered friend had survived.

“It’s a crow, and it’s following us.  It’s either yours or we look deliciously shiny to it.  But it’s keeping it’s distance.”

“I’m just glad he’s well,” Alurra sighed.  “I was worried.”

That produced a snicker from Gatina.  “Hundreds of us kidnapped and deprived of magic, being marched to our doom, and you’re worried about a bloody crow?”

“He’s my friend,” Alurra insisted.  “And he’s kind of helpless.  But he’s pretty bright.  For a crow.”

“I’m more concerned about leaving a trail,” Gatina said.  “I’ve been dropping bits of stuff here and there as we walk.  Now hush, a guard is walking up the line from the rear.”

“Gurvani,” Alurra nodded, wrinkling her nose at the distinctive smell.

The guard kept pace with them for a long time as they marched, and Alurra concentrated on merely keeping her feet moving along the trail.  Soon she could detect a change in the landscape as they emerged from the wood and out into a field.  The shade she’d felt on her face was gone.  Her feet detected a change in geography, from forest floor to meadow.  The smells around her changed, too . . . beyond the musk of gurvani.

“He’s gone, now,” Gatina whispered into her ear.  “I think I see a castle in the distance, now that the trees are out of the way.”

“A castle?” Alurra perked up.  “That might be good news.”  If the kidnapping party came too near a castle, after all, there was always the chance that a patrol would encounter them, Alurra reasoned.

“Not if it’s the one I think it is,” Gatina said, quietly.  “Before we were taken everyone was upset about the Nemovorti taking over Darkfaller Castle when Prince Tavard emptied it to fight Viscount Terleman.  I suspect that is the castle we’re approaching.”

“Oh.  That’s right.  Bad news, then,” Alurra conceded.  “How far away is it?”

“A couple of miles, at least.  Darkness, that thing is big!” Gatina swore.

“I smell water!” Alurra said, suddenly.

“Darkfaller is supposed to be on a big river,” Gatina reminded her.  “You’re able to smell it already?”

“Just a little, but it’s unmistakable.  Just like I can smell gurvani.  And some fellow up ahead who needs a bath.  And another who smells like herbs.”

“That’s Olmeg the Green, from Sevendor,” Gatina informed her.  “He’s pretty tall, so he’s hard to miss.  And he always smells like herbs.  They took a lot of the common magi from Sevendor,” she observed.  “Not many warmagi, that I can tell.”

“They were busy fighting draugen.  I don’t think they wanted warmagi, at least not yet.  I think they want to make more draugen.”  That idea repulsed her.  It was one thing to die.  It was another to die and be replaced by a million-year-old belligerent mollusk.

“I think we’re going to find out far more of what they intend for us than we’d like,” Gatina suggested.  “At least, I am.  They’re leading us directly into their headquarters.”

“That’s really not a good thing,” Allura pointed out.

“It is if you’re a spy and a thief,” countered Gatina.  “Really, they’re making it too easy for me.  I’ll be able to learn all their secrets.  It might take all day to sneak past the walls on my own.  But they’re taking me right inside.”

“And likely into a cell to face certain death.  That’s not a fortunate turn of events,” Alurra chided.

“Don’t be silly – I could have escaped any time,” Gatina assured.  “I just didn’t want to leave the rest of you behind.  Once they bring us in, I’ll slip away and start spying.”

“Gatina!  If you can get away, you should do it now!” Alurra insisted.

“Don’t be silly, Alurra, if I have the chance to spy on the Nemovorti, I need to take it.  Rondal will need that intelligence for a rescue.  And I can’t just abandon you all.  That wouldn’t be right.”

“It also wouldn’t be right if you get turned into a red-eyed slavering killer,” Alurra pointed out.  “Just because the rest of us are going to die doesn’t mean you have to!”

“I’m going to try really hard not to let anyone die,” promised Gatina.  “But I won’t get caught.  I do this sort of thing all the time.  We had a lot of rescues to do, back under Count Vichetral’s reign.  I was sneaking into castles and warehouses and prisons when I was still an apprentice.  I think I’ve stolen more people than coin.  One time, my brother and I were in disguise as a noblewoman and her downtrodden servant, sneaking into a fortress in Falas Town, trying to rescue an entire theater troupe from the Censorate . . .” she said, and continued quietly whispering the entire unlikely adventure.

Alurra wasn’t sure what to make of Gatina, sometimes.  The two got along well enough, but they were entirely different in many important ways.  And while Alurra would never accuse the young thief of lying, her stories seemed extremely unplausible – likely she was just embellishing, Alurra reasoned.

Still, it passed the time while she put one foot in front of the other across the field.  The smell of water got a lot stronger, until she could hear the river ahead.  They must have crossed three or four miles, at that point, she figured.  Eventually, Gatina fell silent as another gurvani guard strode by.

“There’s a bridge ahead,” Gatina whispered, once he’d passed.

“I know, I can hear it,” Alurra affirmed.

“You can hear a bridge?” Gatina asked, surprised.

“I can hear the water, I can hear the hollow sound of feet on wood reflecting off the water’s surface, and I can smell the castle and village on the other side of the river.  So . . . a bridge.”

“That’s impressive,” Gatina admitted.  “And even without magic.”

“It’s a lot easier to do with magic, when I have the eyes of the animals to guide me.  I’m sorely missing that.  As are my stubbed toes.  Goddess, I wish I was wearing better shoes!”

They resumed their silence as more guards began filling in around them, and the line slowed to a crawl.  Gatina kept Alurra from bumping into anyone as they slowly crossed over the great covered bridge.  Alurra had a moment’s urge to throw herself over the side, somehow, and let the river carry her away to safety, but without being able to see where the openings in the pillars that supported the roof were, she was just as likely to throw herself into a post.  That did not sound graceful.

“Welcome to Darkfaller!” a gurvani called sarcastically from the opposite end of the bridge.  “You will be divided into three groups, after you’ve all been examined.  Then you will be taken to your quarters.  Do not attempt to flee, or we will kill you.  Do not attempt to fight, or we will kill you.  You are all now the property of Her Majesty, Mycin Amana, Queen of Castabriel, and should act accordingly,” the goblin called out, mockingly.

“Enough, Durkarl!” a male Alka Alon reproved.  “Don’t make them nervous, it makes them more difficult to work with.  I am Lindimal, and I will be making examinations of you to determine your fate.  As you have realized, your weak humani magic does not work here.  Your irionite has been confiscated – not that you should ever have had it in the first place.  Our magic, on the other hand, works perfectly.  So do not test us,” he warned.  “There are far worse things that can happen to you than death.”

“That wasn’t very welcoming,” Gatina murmured.

“Neither are the dungeons, I suspect,” Alurra nodded.  “But that’s where we’ll be going, I assume.  Any glimmer of magic, yet?”

“Maybe a little?” Gatina offered, a moment later.  “I can’t really connect with the Magosphere or my stone, but . . . I can sense metals, a bit.  I’ve always been able to do that.  But I can’t even conjure magesight.”

“That’s interesting,” Alurra agreed.  “So, we just all go into a cell and wait to be rescued?”

“You do,” Gatina affirmed.  “I’m about to slip away.  But I’ll find you, once you’re settled.  I promise.  I won’t let you be in here alone.”

“There are hundreds of people here,” Alurra reasoned.  “I’m not alone.”

“Then keep them together, and keep them in good cheer,” Gatina answered.  “People respect and like you.”

“They do?” Alurra asked, surprised.  “I always thought I was blunt and uncompromising.  Pentandra tells me that all the time.”

“You are,” Gatina conceded, “but that’s what makes people like you.  They never have to wonder what you’re really thinking.  Assure them that help is on the way, once they awaken from their stupor.  Because it is.  My Rondal will not rest until we’re rescued.”

“I know.  But thanks.  And good luck,” she added, sincerely.

“You, too,” Gatina said, squeezing her hand one final time.  Then she was gone.

Chapter Two

A Kitten in a Turret

Gatina

Gatina waited until just the right moment to slip away from the rest of the prisoners.  It wasn’t hard.  The Enshadowed guards were arrogant and not nearly as watchful as they should have been.  They depended upon threats and intimidation to keep the mind-shocked humans in line . . . and the humans largely obeyed out of fear as much as the spell they had been put under.

But the guards couldn’t look everywhere at once – there were six of them, for the group, but their attention wandered as much as any human’s did.  Gatina studied the field of their gaze and was patient, as they were marched through the dungeons of Darkfaller.  When she found the right moment to act, when the attention of all six were elsewhere, she silently moved without hesitation to the side, plunged into the shadows . . . and was gone.

It pained her to watch the rest of the captured magi shuffle along in quiet resignation to their fate, but she had no choice.  This was a crisis.  Starting a sudden prisoner revolt when the prisoners were under a spell of docility was foolhardy and stupid.  Even without the spell, she guessed, the magi were likely just too cowed by the trauma of the experience they’d endured to resist without some preparation.  No, the best the Kitten of Night could do was slip away and figure out some better, more productive means of affecting their escape.

While Gatina acted calmly and deliberately as she clung to the stone arches in the darkness, her heart was pounding, and her mind was whirling in near panic.  One moment she had been shopping at the markets of the Magic Fair in Sevendor, and the next someone had put a hand on her shoulder and she had been transported through the Alka Alon Ways.  She didn’t remember what happened very well, after that, and she was certain she’d been unconscious through some part of the episode.  But when she’d finally regained her senses, she had been face down on the forest floor somewhere . . . apparently in Castal.

She had not been alone.  A brief glance around while she was regaining her wits showed scores of other people in a similar situation, all collapsed on the ground in a strange forest while odd-looking Alka Alon warriors stalked the edges of the group with spears.  They were tall, like the Tera Alon she knew, but they were . . . different.  More angular and boney, with narrower chests and longer arms.  Nor did they share the friendly smile that she’d come to associate with the transformed Alka Alon.  They scowled and grunted as they guarded the prisoners.

It didn’t take Gatina long to put together what had happened: the Enshadowed – the brutal and hateful Alka Alon renegades who were reportedly running the war against humanity – had infiltrated the Magic Fair to secure new bodies for their Nemovorti masters.

Gatina hated the Nemovorti.  The ancient Alka Alon spirits who inhabited the bodies of human magi were horrid, completely unbound by decency or sympathy for other beings, in her experience.  They were worse than even the red-eyed draugen, lesser undead servants inhabited by the even more ancient spirits of belligerent sea creatures, the brutally chaotic soldiery of the Nemovorti.  Both had troubled Alshar for years, now, turning the swampy province of Caramas into a haunted killing ground on the western end of the Great Bay of Enultramar.  Rondal had spent most of the last two years fighting against them, only to see their evil spread into Inmar, the Westlands and beyond.

Now they were here in the heart of Castal, inhabiting the greatest castle in the duchy . . . and she was locked inside with them.

It took a goodly while for Gatina to calm her thoughts and sort through her feelings, but in short order she put aside her fears and began to formulate a plan to contend with the awkward situation.  That was something she knew how to do.  Every heist required a plan, she reasoned, and the first portion of that process was determining what was essential, what was desirable, and what was not.

Shelter, she knew, was her first priority.  She was technically locked into this vast castle, and the place was crawling with both Enshadowed warriors and their undead servants.  More, she realized after observing the great courtyard from her hidden vantage, there were a large number of human beings locked within, as well.  She watched with horror as work gangs of ordinary folk and former castle servants were compelled to do the bidding of their new masters in the great yard.

Mostly they were moving supplies from one place to another, or digging, or pushing great carts of stone or dirt from one part of the fortress to the other.  But they were not working willingly.  Every gang had at least a pair of draugen and an Enshadowed warrior directing them, with the occasional gurvani overseer plying a whip on the slow or weak.

As horrid as that was, Gatina knew trying to intervene was hopeless.  She was one small girl hiding in one giant castle.  She was not a gallant hero or an errant knight dedicated to justice.  She was a magically Talented thief.  One who couldn’t use much magic at the moment, she realized, as she tried to call to her betrothed, Rondal, using the mind-to-mind enchantment.

Something was blocking the spell, she concluded, after trying everyone else she knew with the same enchantment.  She couldn’t even manage a flame cantrip.  There was interference with the process of raising power.  Some potent counter-spell was at work to block Imperial magic, she concluded.

But she was more than a mage, she reminded herself.  She was also a highly trained thief.  Her magic may have left her, but she knew Darkness would protect her.  She had but to apply her wits and her training and she was confident she could elude capture indefinitely in such a massive complex.

It was the huge nature of Darkfaller that gave her advantage.  When fully garrisoned, she reasoned, the endless halls and barracks of the place must have teemed with people . . . but with the few thousands of humans left behind when the army departed, there were scores of empty halls and vacant towers.

She had little difficulty in exploring some of them and quickly found an ideal sanctuary from casual inspection that suited her liking: a tall sentry turret with a broken staircase that overlooked both the great curtain wall and the courtyard, below.  It was one of many such turrets designed to provide a secure place for a squadron of archers defending the outer wall.  Of course, Darkfaller had not been under attack in generations, from what she remembered.  Whatever accident had led to the collapse of the stairs could have happened years ago.

Leaping over the shattered steps was simple and a quick inspection of the layer of dust in the observation tower told her that it had been several seasons since someone had ventured up here.

But the place was useful for other reasons.  She could see both inside and outside from its narrow arrow slits.  The broken stairs precluded a casual patrol stumbling on her new lair.  The turret was well-roofed and dry, which meant she could sleep there, and a quick pillage of the hall below supplied her with blanket, a straw tick, and even a pillow of rude manufacture.  A little more searching provided a few rations that some foresighted soldier had tucked away in his press.  An ewer of water and a borrowed chamber pot completed her accommodations.  By the time the sun set, Gatina had provided herself with everything she needed.

Her second order of business was far simpler: observe the grounds of Darkfaller and get a sense of the foe’s complement.  That included witnessing guard patrols, locating the defensive headquarters, and making notes about the number and disposition of troops and prisoners within the walls of the great keep.  While the desire to simply escape over the walls and fly back to Alshar was strong, she remembered the promise she’d made Alurra.  She would not abandon Alurra or the others to such foul folk while she stood free.  Rondal would never forgive her for that. She would never forgive herself.

So, she took notes.  Gatina was skilled at detailed observation, as all good thieves were, and she had found sufficient blank parchment in the abandoned barracks to record her observations.  She charted the number of patrols and their frequency, noted the quantity of giant wyverns – awful creatures like miniature dragons, who substituted poisoned claws, sharp fangs, and venomous tails for size and the breathing of fire – who were flying continuously in and out of the southern towers of Darkfaller.  Occasionally one would appear with a rider, she saw.

Gatina also observed more parties of human prisoners brought into the castle.  Those were mostly peasant folk, no doubt kidnapped from nearby settlements.  The Nemovorti had done that in the Westlands and Caramas, she recalled.  The Enshadowed needed slaves to keep the great keep functioning, of course, and there were apparently chores they could not convince the draugen – or the more simple-minded undead – to do.  Occasionally, a few of the prisoners were separated from their fellows and imprisoned in one of the other great towers of the castle.

That led Gatina to conclude that the Nemovorti were continuing to look for bodies that qualified for their disgusting practice.  No doubt those poor souls were Talented, gifted with at least some modicum of rajira that made them potential hosts.  She despaired thinking about the simple hedgewitches, spellmongers, footwizards and dowsers who had been conscripted into that inglorious function.  But while tracking them from afar she discovered quite a bit about where her fellow prisoners had ended up.

By the next morning she was all but certain that there were three distinct groups of imprisoned magi: one in the northwestern tower, which seemed to be the oldest portion of the castle and the closest to her position.  One in the sprawling southern keep that overlooked the outer bailey.  And one in the gigantic main fortress at the center of the castle.  She did not know how the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed graded the poor magi who had been taken prisoner, but she was certain there were three groupings of them in those places.

Once she’d established that, Gatina began keeping track of the actual enemies who strutted between struggling gangs of slaves.  The Enshadowed, the draugen, the common undead, the handful of gurvani warriors – she kept a running tally of those she’d counted, as well as where they were garrisoned in the vast complex.  She picked out where the armories were, where their rations were stored, and where they went when they were on duty.

She tried to estimate the growing number of human prisoners that were being marched into the vast keep to perform the menial tasks required for its upkeep.  It was appalling work.  The poor Castali peasants that seemed to arrive continuously were no more than slaves.  The cruelty of the captors and the misery of the captives challenged her sense of decency . . . but, then, she had witnessed such things before, during Count Vichetral’s reign over Alshar.

The most disturbing element of her observations was the influx of new foes.  Just after noon during her first full day in the castle she witnessed the courtyard in front of the central keep being cleared of servants and their overseers.  She was intrigued when a dozen Enshadowed ordered the slaves to vacate such a large space for no apparent reason . . . until she saw a distortion begin to form in the space.  Cursing the inability to use magesight, she watched as some kind of magical field manifested there.  In moments it had become a wide circle of arcane force that distorted the ground behind it.

Then it seemed to solidify, and in the blink of an eye more than two hundred gurvani and a score of Enshadowed appeared in the distortion, along with piles of supplies and provisions.  Fresh troops, she realized with horror.  Magically transported from somewhere within the distant Umbra, she guessed.  If the foe could resupply and reinforce the castle that way, she reasoned, that would make attacking it far more difficult . . . and a real siege nearly impossible.  The second day saw another delivery, albeit smaller than the first.  She dutifully added to her tally as a knot of anxiety began to grow in the pit of her stomach.

By her second night in Darkfaller, Gatina felt she had enough information on the workings of the castle to feel confident venturing forth from her lair and exploring a bit.  She crept silently through the great halls and stone chambers of Darkfaller until she found entrance to the closest of the dungeons below – the one that seemed to house the second most important magically Talented prisoners, in her estimation.  It was time to re-establish contact with her friends.

Moving through the castle was easier than she’d anticipated.  Most of the “guards” at the entrances were common undead, poor souls whose reanimated bodies were being used to ward the doorways from escaping prisoners.  They were nearly mindless, she saw, responding only to certain basic commands from the Enshadowed or their goblin servants.  Mostly they just stood absolutely still in the doorways, quietly rotting in the autumn sunshine or increasingly frequent rain.  They were unobservant, beyond the area of their guardianship.  She could pass within ten feet of the walking corpses without being noticed.  She could get even closer, she found, if she employed fairly simple evasion techniques.

Gatina didn’t even need magic for such forays; the lifeless soldiery was simply too limited in their powers to require it.  The few gurvani and human confederates who acted as turnkeys for the dungeons were slightly more difficult to elude, but only slightly.  She’d been evading guards for years in her short, brilliant career as a thief.  And no one ever expected someone to try to break into a dungeon.

A few hours before dawn she managed to discover the long row of cells under the northern keep that housed some of the magi, once she slipped passed the sleeping human guards posted there.  The sacred Darkness enveloped her as she quietly felt her way through the prison.  She examined each cell, one by one, and tried to establish just who was within and whether she knew them.  Gatina figured that her reintroduction to the other prisoners would work best if she could find one of her friends, first, now that the docility spell had worn off.

Thankfully, as she toured the second line of cells, she spotted a familiar shape in the gloom.

“Alurra!” she whispered, with quiet urgency.  She threw a handy pebble to help the process.   “Alurra!  Wake up!”

“Hunh?” the blind girl grunted, as she sat up from her uncomfortable-looking spot on the dungeon floor.  There were half a dozen folk locked in the cell with her, but she managed to pull herself up without awakening any of them.  “Who is it?  Gatina?”

“Yes, how did you know?” Gatina asked, surprised.

“Who else would it be?” the apprentice mage asked, irritated.  “Besides, I can smell you,” she said, as she made her way toward the thick iron bars.

“You can?” Gatina asked in surprise.

“Don’t get offended, I can smell everyone,” Alurra dismissed.  “I thought you would be miles away from here by now.  Getting help,” she emphasized.

“I promised you I wouldn’t abandon you,” Gatina reminded the other girl.  “I do not break my promises.  How are you faring?”

“Apart from being locked into a damp, mildew-ridden cell underground with only the promise of a horrible death ahead of me, I’m splendid,” Alurra complained.  “We get fed once a day.  Watery potato gruel.  At least the filthy river water they give us is plentiful.  Everyone is terrified and in a panic.  A few times a day the guards come by and taunt us.  It has been lovely.  What have you been doing?”

“Hiding . . . and watching,” Gatina answered, feeling sorry for her friend.  “When they mount a rescue mission, they’re going to want to know what they’re facing.  I hope to give them answers.”

“Any chance of escape?  For us?” Alurra asked, hopefully.

Gatina’s heart sank.  “Not immediately,” she admitted.  “There are too many of them and every day there are more being brought in from somewhere else.  But I’m working on it,” she assured the girl.

“Good.  That’s hopeful, at least.”  Gatina couldn’t tell if Alurra was being sarcastic or genuine, or a mixture of both.  “Add this to your tally, then: there are over a hundred of us down here.  We’re in the second group scheduled to be . . . converted,” she said, with a shudder.  “The guards keep telling us that.  As soon as the workshop or laboratory or whatever it is gets completed, they’re going to start with the primary group.  Then us.  The last group will be turned into draugen, most likely.  None of us can use magic one bit, either,” she added, shaking her head.  “Something is prohibiting that.”

“Everything but necromancy and sorcery,” agreed Gatina.  “I can’t raise enough power without my stone to cast a simple flame.  It’s annoying.  But . . . well, some of my more basic abilities are intact,” she revealed.

“Mine, too,” Alurra agreed.  “I can’t exactly jump behind the eyes of the neighborhood rats, but I can influence them a bit.  They’re not so bad.  I’ve convinced them to be on good behavior, at least, even if they can’t tell me much about what’s going on.  I find that annoying,” she sniffed.

“Does anyone else have any kind of access to their powers?” Gatina asked, curiously.

“Only the dowsers and a few other minor magi,” Alurra revealed.  “They can feel the river on the other side of the wall.  That’s hardly useful.”

“It’s information,” countered Gatina.  “It might be useful, somehow.  You never know what bit of information is going to prove invaluable until it does.  That’s why I’m collecting it.  Do you need anything?  Besides an escape?”

“Something other than potato gruel would be nice,” admitted Alurra, glumly.  “I think they’re trying to keep us near starvation to keep us weak and docile even without magic.  It’s starting to work.”

“I will see what I can do,” Gatina assured her friend.  “But it’s only a matter of time before Rondal and the Spellmonger figure out a way to rescue us.  We just need to keep our spirits up and stay vigilant until they do.”

“They had better do it soon,” cautioned Alurra.  “From what the guards say the workshop will be functioning within a week or so.  By that time we’ll all be able to feel our ribs, if we have that much energy.  But that’s when they’ll start . . . harvesting us,” she added, grimly.

“Where is this workshop?  Do you have any idea?”  If she could find it, Gatina reasoned, perhaps she could slow down their progress.

“All of the important stuff seems to be kept in the main keep, wherever that is,” Alurra informed her.  “Our witchstones, our enchantments, even our money was taken there.  If I had to guess – which I do – that’s where it would be.”

“That’s helpful,” Gatina agreed.  “Keep your spirits up.  I’ll try to come back tomorrow with a few morsels.  Hopefully I can find a storeroom or something.  Until then, keep everyone cheerful.  You and I both know that the Spellmonger is not going to let us languish here.”

“Not with his nephew being held captive,” agreed Alurra.  “He’s three cells down from here.  His name is Larask but I told him to use a false name – ‘Ganovir’ – and not admit his relation to Minalan.  He’s already a prisoner.  No need for him to become a hostage, as well.”

“Good thinking,” nodded Gatina in the dark.  “Pass the word that there is help coming.  But don’t get too specific.  There’s no telling who would betray us, if they thought they could gain some advantage out of it.  People do odd things when they are under duress,” she said from experience.

“You have no idea,” Alurra agreed, ruefully.  “Some are becoming desperate.  Be careful, Gatina,” she warned.

“No one notices a kitten creeping through a castle,” Gatina dismissed, trying to keep her tone cheerful.

“I do,” Alurra reminded her.

Gatina reached through the bars to give her friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and then slipped back through the darkness.  It took ten minutes for her to find her way out of the dungeon, and another twenty to return to her lair.  By the time she cast herself on her stolen mattress for a few hours of sleep, the sky in the east was already lightening with the dawn.

But she had made progress, she reasoned to herself.  She had maintained her liberty and had made contact with the prisoners.  She would continue her spying and stealing until some sort of help came.  It wasn’t much, but it was the best that she could manage.

***

The next day Gatina made another foray into the rest of the castle.  There seemed to be catacombs everywhere, under the surface, underground store rooms and passageways that would allow soldiers to move from one point to another during a siege.  This time she found a tunnel that seemed to connect the northern keep with the central one – one of those helpful escape routes that were designed to allow defenders to retreat back to the refuge of the main keep if the outer defenses fell.  Indeed, she discovered an entire network of such earthworks running under the inner bailey, connecting the far-flung defenses of Darkfaller to the central hub.  She was gratified to see it largely unguarded.  Apparently the Enshadowed weren’t as sneaky or paranoid as human lords.

The passageway spilled out into the lowest regions of the imposing tower at the center of Darkfaller, a vaulted labyrinth of storerooms and armories designed to sustain the keep in case of siege.  There was chamber after chamber of firewood, preserved rations, barrels of pitch and tar, rope, lumber, and other helpful supplies that would be useful if the outer defenses were cut off.  That delighted Gatina; she filled a sack full of hardtack and dried meat and stashed it in the tunnels before resuming her explorations.

The central keep was incredibly large, she realized as she quietly ascended the narrow stairs that led to the next level up.  She mentally mapped out the extant of the great stone walls that supported the keep, and determined just where the second batch of prisoners was being kept.  The rank of cells in the dungeon was more sturdily built that the first one, but it held far fewer magi – only fifty or so, she counted, as she quietly observed from a shadowy corner.  They were, perhaps, slightly better treated than Alurra’s group, less crammed into the available space and provided better food than mere gruel.  But there was a distinct feeling of despair among them, she saw.  And she didn’t know any of them particularly well.

Finally, she approached a pretty young woman who seemed to perpetually cling to the iron bars and stare into the gloom.

“Hello,” Gatina began, quietly, after the turnkey completed his rounds and returned to the guard chamber.  Her voice startled the woman.

“Hello!” she replied, blinking.  “Who are you?”

“Call me Kitten,” Gatina suggested.  “I was among you at the Magic Fair.  I managed to slip away and stay hidden.  Now I’m plotting an escape,” she said, directly.

“Kitten . . . well, I’ve never been so happy to see a kitten before,” the woman admitted.  “I am Callwyn.  I’m a hedgewitch.  You are a mage, then?”

“A shadowmage, of sorts,” Gatina agreed.  “Not that that is particularly helpful, in the absence of magic.  But I’m good at avoiding notice and being sneaky.  How many are down here?”

“Forty-seven,” Callwyn answered, promptly.  “Including my brother-in-law, Olmeg the Green, and others.  We are special, somehow, to warrant such delightful accommodations.”

“If it makes you feel better, this is a better class of dungeon than the others,” Gatina offered, as she settled in close enough to the woman.  “How is the food?”

“Wretched and disgusting,” the witch answered, her voice laden with criticism.  “I wouldn’t feed it to a dog.  And our captors are vile.  There’s a squadron of scrugs who threaten to beat us every time they venture down here, and an old human turnkey who leers at me every time he does his rounds.  Even they dislike it here and talk of running away.  But they have yet to do so.”

“Why are you separated from the others, I wonder?” Gatina asked.  “There’s plenty of empty cells under the northwest keep.”

“Apparently, we are counted among the elect of prisoners: we’re supposed to be the best available to provide new bodies for the Nemovorti.  Therefore, we are prized, and not to be damaged unnecessarily.”  Callwyn sounded bitter, her voice dripping with hoarse condemnation . . . and dread.

“Let’s see if we can avoid that unpleasant possibility,” Gatina offered, reassuringly.  “I am not inclined to allow my fellow magi to be consumed in such a way.”

That surprised the woman.  “But there is only the one of you, free.”

Gatina shrugged.  “There is only one castle.  This isn’t the most difficult thing I’ve ever done,” she assured.  “A few years ago, I overthrew an entire duchy.  Besides, I’m certain that there is some sort of plan to rescue us.”

“Oh, that is a certainty,” Callwyn agreed.  “To be honest, I’m surprised my lord husband has not sundered the gates of this castle already.  He is a warmage of great repute.”

“As is my intended husband,” nodded Gatina.  “And Minalan the Spellmonger is not the kind of wizard to allow his faithful retainers to languish for long in the face of doom, in my experience with the man.  No doubt it is just taking a little time to plan the heist.”

“I do wish he would hurry up about it,” Callwyn said, irritated.

“Our job is to maintain ourselves in health and good spirits until that day comes.  And plan for contingencies.  If you will encourage your fellows without revealing too much about why you are sanguine, I will contrive to bring you a few small comforts while I explore.  I must make contact with the third group of prisoners, anyway.”

“They are in the south tower,” Callwyn informed her.  “It is supposedly the worst quarters in the castle.  The cells there are awful, from what I have heard.  The turnkey mentioned them when he threatened to throw a few of us into their cells, if we persisted in complaining.”

“That is where I figured they were being kept,” agreed Gatina.  “Bide, Callwyn, and be hopeful.  I will return soon with news and food,” she promised, before turning away into the shadows.

Satisfied with her progress for the evening, Gatina snuck back into the tunnels and headed toward her hidden lair in the north tower.  She barely struggled with the small sack of provision as she evaded the guards and sentries.  But by the time she finally regained her hiding place and was assured that the hall below was still empty, she flopped down on her straw-filled tick as if it was a thick featherbed, she was so tired.  She needed a nap, she decided, until darkness fell.  Then she could venture forth once again and discover the underground route to the south tower.  Hopefully it would be as accessible as the main keep had proven.

But when her attention was finally drawn to the beam overhead that supported the roof of the tiny turret, she was startled.  There was a message scrawled upon it in white chalk that had not been there before.  A message written in a code that only a dozen people in the world could read – all of whom were related to her in one way or another.

The cryptic writing would appear as nothing more than a random scrawl to anyone else.  But she could read it plainly.  Gatina blinked, shocked at its appearance . . . and even more intrigued by what it said.

Kitten: meet me on the rooftop of the central turret on the north side of the wall at midnight.  I’ll bring wine and food.  Don’t be late.  Cat.

“Well, Darkness and Shadows!” Gatina murmured to herself, permitting a small smile.  “It’s about bloody time!”

Chapter Three

A Cat In Council

Atopol

Atopol, the Cat of Enultramar, silently slipped through the window like a shadow, dangling five stories above the courtyard below without a thought to the distance between his lithe body and the hard, hard ground.

There was no pride in his entrance; Atopol was so familiar with the scaling of tower walls that scurrying up the outside of the place was normal to him.  Indeed, climbing the exterior of a castle like this was actually easier, to his mind, than the tedium of finding a ground-level entrance and laboriously climbing the stairs.  There were always people in a tower of this size, in his experience, and that required interactions he’d just as soon avoid.  He was an introvert, after all.  Making small talk with strangers on the stairs was outside of his element.  Besides, the main tower of Leveny Castle was ornately constructed in the Gilmoran style and a decided pleasure to climb.

There were gargoyles, decorative stonework, oversized corbels that supported glass-paned windows designed more for aesthetics and status than defense – and there was an accumulation of ivy crawling up the stone walls that gave as many handholds as he could desire.  It would have been ridiculously easy to steal something from Leveny Castle, he decided, but that was not his purpose.

This chamber at the top of the tower was where the leadership of the impromptu military force of the kingdom was meeting, he’d been informed.  Indeed, it seemed better suited to councils than combat.  The charming Gilmoran castle of Leveny was hardly a credible fortification, but it was pretty, Atopol reflected as he straightened in the darkened room.  Gilmorans had great taste, when they weren’t being garish.  The interior of the room was even more opulent than the outside, he saw.

The chamber was dark and comfortably filled with shadows, with but one small fireplace smoldering on the north wall; it cast precious little light and even less heat, but it was sufficient for him to survey the room even without magesight.  They revealed a decidedly upscale décor.  The finely carved wood furniture was exquisite and expensive, in his professional opinion, and the tapestries and carpets were the kind of lavish furnishings that denoted generations of extravagant wealth.  The walls were adorned with statuettes paintings, trophies, and highly ornamented ceremonial weaponry, all of significant value.  It was the kind of castle that was a privilege to rob.

According to his sources there was to be a meeting of the war council here, tonight, one important enough to merit reporting to directly.  He took a seat at the broad table and waited, casting a tiny magelight to illuminate the room.  He was getting used to such casual magic now that he’d had a few years to practice with his witchstone.  Traveling from Darkfaller to a nearby Waypoint with his witchstone had saved him a journey of two days overland, for which he was grateful.  And while he could have briefed the members of the war council mind-to-mind, he didn’t like repeating himself.

It did not take long for the members of the council to begin filing in, some with expressions of surprise at his presence. Some he knew, by acquaintance or reputation: Sandoval, Terleman, Taren, and Carmella were all magelords he’d met before, and even worked with.  But then there were a lot of Castali and Gilmoran knights and lords who arrived, too – representatives of Prince Tavard’s army.  Tavard himself was not there, he noted.  Instead, a richly dressed Gilmoran count seemed to be the prince’s representative to the council.

Tyndal and Rondal, of course, were old friends, and greeted him as such when they saw him after arriving for the important meeting.

“Cat!” Rondal said, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.  “I thought you were in the field!”

“I was,” he agreed, laconically.  “Now I’m in the tower.  I have news of Darkfaller – good news,” he added, knowing how distraught his future brother-in-law was about the abductions.  His sister’s in particular.  It would be best to soothe that anxiety directly, he reasoned.  “Kitten is safe, well and free.  There’s more, but I’ll save it for after my report.”

“You actually broke into Darkfaller?” Tyndal asked, in admiration, while Rondal visibly struggled to control his emotions.

“It was nothing, compared to Olum Seheri,” Atopol dismissed with a wave of his hand.  “There are dozens of posterns and unguarded gates.  The walls were almost as easy to climb than this place.  And the undead aren’t the best sentries.  The magical interference was a little trickier to contend with.  I couldn’t cast a squib, even with my witchstone.  But the place isn’t particularly secure.”

“You saw her?  Where is she?” demanded Rondal impatiently, his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring.

“I saw her on two consecutive nights, hardy and hale . . . and still in Darkfaller,” Atopol explained with a sigh.  “I’ll explain in my report.  But everyone else is still alive, too, from what I can tell.  So far,” he added, somberly.

Terleman cleared his throat, as the other members of the council took their seats, and gave Atopol a meaningful look.  He did not seem surprised to see the thief in council.  Indeed, he seemed to take it as a matter of course.

“The sooner we get started, the sooner we all hear about your reconnaissance, Master Cat,” the warmage’s deep voice said.  “I, too, have some news to share.  So do others.  Then we will be joined by His Majesty, Count Minalan, and Prince Tavard to discuss the proposed battle plan, once we are well-informed.

“But let us start with our stalwart spy for a fresh report on our foe’s defenses,” he said, gesturing to Atopol.  “For those who aren’t aware, this gentleman is Lord Atopol, one of the most adept . . . clandestine agents in Alshar.  He was kind enough to sneak into the enemy’s fortress and take a look around on our behalf.”

“You managed to enter Darkfaller?” asked the Gilmoran count in surprise and disbelief.  Atopol was amused.  The massive castle was a watchword for its strength and invincibility amongst the Gilmorans, he knew.  The reality did not live up to its reputation.

“In fact, I did more than take a look around, my lords,” Atopol began once he had everyone’s attention.  “I made contact with the prisoners.  My sister was captured in the raid, if you recall, and of course she immediately escaped from them before she could be secured.  She’s been wandering around the place since the first day.  I had occasion to meet with her when I was in the castle.”

“What?  How?” asked one of the Gilmoran knights, surprised and skeptical.  “Is the place not filled with undead?”

“She took advantage of an opportunity,” shrugged Atopol.  “She’s good at that.  She’s spent the last few days wandering around Darkfaller, taking notes, which she helpfully passed along to me” he said, pulling the long strip of parchment out of a pouch.  “It’s in code, yet, but she marked the positions and dispositions of their troops and leadership on this little map.  And, of course, where our prisoners are being kept.”

“This girl is just wandering around Darkfaller, filled with foes?” the Gilmoran count asked, unconvinced.

“Wandering might be a strong term,” Atopol corrected.  “She is exploring with purpose.  She has made contact with each group of magi, provided them some clandestine aid, and helpfully determined the nature and composition of the enemies we face.”

“And we’re to trust in her report?” the count asked, clearly irritated.  “Young girls are not generally known for their accurate observations, if my daughter is any indication.”

“My sister could tell you at a casual glance what kind of undergarments you’re wearing, the value of the rings on your fingers to the penny, and how many coins are in your purse,” Atopol defended.  He felt a little indignant about the man’s doubts of Gatina’s professional abilities.  “She can count gurvani and draugen with equal facility,” he assured.

“But why didn’t she leave?” Rondal burst out.  “Why didn’t she come back with you if she had escaped?”

“Gatina wanted to stay and look after the other prisoners,” Atopol answered, with a small sigh.  “She would not save herself and leave the others behind.  You know how dedicated she is.  And she understands her value as a spy, in her current position.  I told her that we were planning a rescue, and she wants to be able to help prepare that from within the keep.  Thus she sent this intelligence,” he said, gesturing to the parchment.

“This is fortunate news,” agreed Terleman, nodding sagely.  “Having someone free within the castle walls could provide us with a great advantage.  What else did you learn, Atopol?”

“Quite a lot, actually.  The prisoners’ witchstones and other enchantments were taken from them while they were unconscious,” he reported.  “Our friends were sorted into three groups before being imprisoned.  Each group is being held in a different part of the castle, though all three places are well-guarded.  There is also some spell that prohibits them from using Imperial magic,” he added.  “I suspect necromancy, of course.  The entire place reeks with the stink of the stuff.”

“So they can’t use magic at all?” Rondal asked.

“Not as such.  You can’t use the Ways, there, and you can’t communicate mind-to-mind.  Indeed, you can’t raise the power to cast a squib of a cantrip, according to Kitten.  That effect extends to the two castle villages, I can attest.  Both are pretty much abandoned, at this point,” Atopol added, making a sour face.  “Whoever didn’t get away from them during the invasion was taken into the castle and put to work at the point of a sword.  There are undead roaming around looking for stragglers, but otherwise they’re empty.”

“Just how many forces are in place, there?” asked Sandoval, keenly interested in the report.

“According to my sister, at least a few hundred Enshadowed in their large forms,” Atopol answered, tapping Gatina’s notes with a finger.  “There are more than a thousand human prisoners – non-magical, I’m assuming – who seem to be working for the Nemovorti willingly.  Another two thousand are clearly slaves, local people who were rounded up and brought in for their labor.  They bring in more every day from raiding parties, I witnessed them myself.  Two thousand undead, mostly the normal, dumb variety, who appear to be former castle folk or villagers who put up a struggle.  But at least a few hundred draugen, too.  They keep the human prisoners in line.”

“And scrugs?” Terleman prompted.  “Are they not employing gurvani servants, anymore?”

“There are about a thousand gurvani, including a couple of hundred morogorku and a few companies of hobgoblins, with a few more arriving by magic.  They’re the ones patroling the walls, which makes them easy to slip by,” he added.  “But there was also a group of them who were building a mews, or whatever you call the place that giant wyverns live over at the southern keep, according to Kitten.  They’re riding them, now.  The scrugs are, I mean.  They aren’t as good at it as the Sky Riders, but there are a lot more of them.”

“How many?” demanded Dara, the Sky Captain, a troubled look on her face.

“Thirty or forty,” shrugged Atopol.  “So far.  They’re using one of the big towers along the southern wall to house them now, but it looks like they’re making room for more.  In fact, their entire operation seems to be preparing for a stout defense or staging a sustained offensive action from what I can tell.  They’re strengthening the walls and increasing the number of scrugs atop them, over time.  Gatina says that they bring another few hundred every day through some portal.”

“The Bovali molopor,” nodded Taren, gravely.  “Someone must be using it to supply them if they cannot utilize the Ways.  Archers?”

“The Enshadowed and a few gurvani carry bows, but they merely patrol the walls with them.  I saw no sign of a true archer corps,” Atopol reported.  While warfare was not his specialty, he knew that most of the feudal lords saw a complement of archers as essential to battle, particularly sieges.  Massed archery was second in importance to their messy wars only to charging horsemen.

“What of their cavalry?” asked one of the Castali knights who clearly wasn’t familiar with the gurvani’s methods of warfare.  “How many horses do they have?”

“Horses?  None to speak of.  The stables were near empty.  And I didn’t see a single Fell Hound or a siege beast.  But there is no equine cavalry.  Oh, some of their human servants ride horses, but the Enshadowed don’t bother with them.”

“So we do have an advantage!  They have no knights!” the man grinned.  A few of the magi rolled their eyes at his ignorance and arrogance.  Atopol could appreciate that.  Imagining the gurvani fought just like humans was the kind of mistake that had cost thousands of lives during the gurvani invasion of Gilmora, he knew.

“Their cavalry is in the air,” Terleman reminded him.  “They do not charge with lance and sword; they swoop with javelins or bows – or warmagic.  In the Wilderlands they use giant dogs which the gurvani ride into battle to great effect.  We are fortunate they have not brought them to Darkfaller, yet.  Nor does it sound like they’re building up forces for a regular infantry army.  There might be a role for the chivalry in this battle, but not a decisive one,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“They could not resist the force of a massed cavalry charge,” insisted another Castali lord, contemptuously.  He was less lavishly dressed than the Gilmorans the prince had sent, but no less arrogant.  “We can gallop over them with impunity if they have none of their own!”

“They would not need to and you would be foolish to consider such a tactic,” Terleman reproved, clearly irritated with the knights’ obsession.  “They have magic, and other means to fight.”  Both men looked offended at the position of the other.  Atopol was relieved he did not have to deal with such stubborn men.

“Our purpose in this sortie is to rescue our people, not take the castle,” Sandoval reminded the knight.  “That might give us an advantage in this raid.  If they think we’re trying to re-take it, they’ll be preparing for that, not a rescue.  What were you saying about the magi being divided into groups?” he asked Atopol.

“It wasn’t arbitrary, from what Kitten told me.  Apparently they were each examined by the Enshadowed and then sorted.  By size, at first, and then by ability, we think.”

“Why size?” asked a Gilmoran knight, confused.  “For labor?”

“Because they take our bodies and destroy our souls before they wear them like an old cloak, my lord,” Sandoval said, grimly.  “They’ll want the largest and strongest for that dark purpose.  The Nemovorti seek only the finest human bodies for their sustenance.  Then they’ll determine which of the remainder will be more suitable for other uses: either as mere temporary hosts, or as the vessels for draugen.  From what we saw in Olum Seheri, they require an extensive thaumaturgic process to achieve that, though.  What about their workshop for that purpose?”

“It’s still under construction, from what Kitten told me, but its nearing completion,” Atopol warned.  “Of course, she’s complicating their efforts,” he grinned.

“One girl?” the Castali lord asked, skeptically.

“You don’t know Kitten,” Rondal snorted, shaking his head.

“My sister excels at being a nuisance,” Atopol assured with a knowing smile.  “Apparently important items and essential thaumaturgic elements seem to go missing when the enemy aren’t watching them.  Carefully cast spells get upset with the stray bit of interference and have to be done over again.  Doors get jammed, cabinets get stuck, alchemical preparations get mysteriously spilled, she’d probably even resort to setting tacks in their chairs.

“But there are limits to what she can do without being detected.  She has slowed their pace, but not halted it.  Eventually they will have what they need to begin.  She encourages us to make haste in our plan.  We are running out of time,” he asserted, gravely.

“Whereabouts are the prisoners being kept?” Terleman prompted.

“The largest group is in the northwestern castle, the one closest to the rivers’ confluence,” he offered, recalling his conversation with Gatina and pointing it out on her map.  “The second group is in the central keep – those are the captives of highest value, according to the guards.  The third portion is in the southern keep, those seen unfit for service as hosts for the Nemovorti.  All three prisons are appallingly secure and well-guarded, both mundanely and arcanely.  Gatina has managed to contact all three groups, by now.  They are generally intact.  Casualties have been light, so far, but morale is low,” Atopol dutifully reported.

Terleman pursed his lips as he considered the matter.  “And the Nemovorti?  Does she know which ones are in residence?”

“She learned the names of only a few,” Atopol sighed.  “Mycin Amana, of course – she rules the keep like the queen she claims she is.  A few others: Ocajon.  Raz-Ruziel.  Kalbur.  Gaja Katar.  Many are sorcerers, apparently, but there are a few warriors who have joined the cause of the Witch Queen.  She is still compiling her list.”

“Witch Queen,” Taren snorted in disgust.  “An apt title.  Some of those Nemovorti are likely disgraced, in Korbal’s eyes,” Taren reflected, as he stared at the small fire.  “Mycin Amana must have recruited them to redeem themselves ere the Necromancer rises from his torpor.”

“Gaja Katar will likely be chosen to lead whatever military forces she commands,” Terleman agreed.  “I did not think he had survived his attack last winter.  Mycin Amana will need a capable general, if she plans on taking Castabriel.  Thankfully she only has Gaja Katar,” he said, sounding smug to Atopol’s ears.

“Has there been any word of Karakush?” asked Rondal, curiously.

“Not yet,” Atopol admitted.  “But then Kitten has just begun to explore the central keep.  He may yet be lurking around, just waiting to aid in Mycin Amana’s plans.”

“I will take that under advisement,” nodded Terleman, intrigued.  The big warmage had a faraway look in his eye, as if he was already envisioning the battle ahead.  “Count Minalan will be quite interested in this report,” he added, glancing back toward Atopol.  “Please transcribe your notes directly.  Good work, Lord Cat.  You and your sister.”

Atopol bowed from his neck at the compliment.  While he was pleased with the praise, he was not intoxicated by it.  He knew how good he and his family were at what they did.  Infiltrating Darkfaller was trivial to them.

“Now, let us hear the status of our troops, as they stand – something else Count Minalan will be interested in,” Terleman continued.  “He must know what forces he has his disposal before he can formulate a plan.  Baron Arthedes of Pamona, let us start with your troops,” he began, indicating the gentleman.

One by one the Castali and Gilmoran lords proudly – and exhaustively – boasted of the number of their knights in the field, their distinguished lineages, how they were mounted, and how they were equipped for war.  There was only passing discussion of the peasant levies that had been mustered for the attack, and a few mentions of archery companies – mostly mercenaries, Atopol noted – in their long-winded and self-aggrandizing reports.

Atopol was not a military man.  He was a trained thief and shadowmage, not a warrior.  But he found the discussions entertaining, in a perverse sort of way.  The Castali knights looked and sounded like the Alshari knights of the Coastlords and Vale Lords preparing for a tournament.  He’d met plenty of them in his travels, and elements of style aside, they seemed just as egotistical and vain as a class.

But watching the warmagi challenge them was delicious.  The Vanadori captains were practical-minded military men long used to a long war.  They had a far more pragmatic approach to warfare as a result.  Nor were they slow to criticize.  After the first Castali baron was finished listing the status and pedigree of his captains and the splendid nature of their panoply, Viscount Terleman gave a single, derisive grunt.

“How are you fixed for supply?” he began, curiously.

“Our knights have largely prepared their own provision, contracting with local manors to ensure a plentiful supply of hay, oats, and victuals,” Baron Arthedes proclaimed, proudly.  “They dine as well as the king, himself.”

“And the infantry?” Terleman asked, a dark eyebrow raised in challenge.

“The . . . peasants, my lord?” the baron asked in surprise.  “We pay their petty captains a stipend to feed them.  How they choose to do so is up to them,” he dismissed.  “The mercenary archers, of course, have their own commissary.  That was figured into their pay.”

“But you make no direct provision for the thousands of foot soldiers under your command?” Sandoval asked in disbelief.  “Have they no issued rations?”

“There are inns and taverns aplenty, in the field,” Arthedes shrugged.  “As well as markets.  They are free to hire a cook or provisioner.  Why is that a matter of import, my lord?” he asked, as if it was an inconsequential matter.

“Because you have men in the field you are asking to risk their lives,” Sandoval observed, as if it were the simplest of matters.  “Leaving them at the mercy of innkeepers and market grocers is hardly going to ensure that they are well-fed and ready to fight, at the right time.”

“They are only footmen, sire, and of little consequence,” assured the baron, contemptuously.

“They are more than two-thirds of your force,” Sandoval countered.  “How are they armed?”

“Arms, sire?” Arthedes asked, surprised.  “Why, I assume they have spears and shields and swords and such.  We leave that sort of thing to the petty captains, in Pamona.”

“It’s a wonder no one has conquered you,” Taren grumbled.  “In Vanador, every infantryman has full kit – the best we can afford to outfit him with – and full provision by a kitchen we pay for serving food we pay for.  It is a commander’s duty to ensure every man who risks his life under our banner does so with the assurance of a full belly and a sharp sword.”

“That seems unnecessarily complicated, my lord,” Arthedes said condescendingly, after a pause.  “The men can see to themselves.”

“And if they can’t?” Terleman asked, pointedly.  “What happens when the markets dry up?  Or merchants won’t sell to them?  Or the camp followers desert them in the field?  Or they’ve lingered more than three weeks in one place and picked it clean?  Or their procurer runs off with the stipend and there’s no rations for a week?  I thought the Castali were better at warfare than that.  If it hadn’t been for the caches of supplies and stockpiles we had on the way to Farise, we would have starved long before we arrived.  And we would have been in no condition to fight.  Find a way to feed your men more efficiently,” he commanded.  “Count Maserain, would you like to go next?”

One after another the sharp-tongued warmagi questioned the knights harshly about their forces, until it was almost a kind of game.  While Atopol wasn’t a military man, Terleman and his fellows certainly were.  They had fought in war after war against a clever and relentless foe.  They had crafted the Vanadori armies with magic and professional discernment, ensuring that they were as efficient and deadly as possible as a result.

Certainly, Atopol had to admit, they relied on magic to purchase that efficiency.  Sending orders mind-to-mind was far preferable to relying on mounted messengers, in a battlefield.  Hoxter pockets had allowed transportation of much of their gear, sparing the need for an overlong wagon train.  Their Yltedene steel hauberks and weaponry were superior to any belted knight’s shiniest tournament armor in Gilmora or Castal.  But a good measure of the Vanadori’s success, he knew, was in simple supply and support of their men, something the knights seemed to pay only passing attention to.

That was just not good enough for the magi.  Terleman held every unit to account with sometimes blistering criticism.  And the more a commander tried to laud his command with distinguished titles, lineages, and tournament victories, the harsher that critique became.

It was enormously entertaining.

Only when Sandoval gave his report on the Vanadori side of the army and the Gilmoran auxiliaries who had joined them was there an appropriately professional briefing.  Terleman did not spare his colleague his probing questions, but Sandoval answered them promptly and properly.  He explained the problems he was having with his readiness, but he had already worked solutions to them before he came to council.  Then Taren reported on the preparations of the Magic Corps, whose direction he’d been delegated to oversee before the raid.

While he complained about the shortage of magical constructs issuing from the bouleuterion, Taren reported that there were four companies of professional warmagi preparing and training for the expected raid and more being recruited.  Both reports were short, devoid of unnecessary detail, and not once did they mention anyone’s pedigree.  Both received just as rigorous barrage of questions from Terleman . . . and both answered with pragmatism.

“So, it seems you have a lot of work to do and a short time to do it,” Terleman concluded, once the last captain endured his response.  “I have no plan of battle yet, but battle is inevitable.  In days, not weeks.  Once Count Minalan arrives with His Majesty in a few moments and he approves the Spellmonger’s plan, we’ll move.  And move quickly, I’ll wager.  Against an unpredictable and deadly foe.  So be prepared, gentlemen,” he ordered.  “Far more prepared than you think you are.”

It was clear that the mundane knights and noblemen were either offended at the temerity of Terleman’s criticisms, or were quietly taking them to heart, based on their varied expressions.  The Gilmoran count who represented Tavard’s men seemed particularly snubbed by the perfunctory review and gave the big warmage a few muttered words just before several more figures entered the room through the Alkan Ways.

First Count Minalan, looking a bit worn and tired but generally enthusiastic.  He brought King Rard, Prince Tavard and Count Moran, Tavard’s prime minister.  There was a brief period of bowing and obsequious flattery, but it was clear the monarch wanted to dispense with ceremony and quickly get to business.  Tavard, for his part, looked pained, proud, and annoyed, all at the same time.  Loiko Vaneran, the famous warmage and current Royal Court Wizard, appeared shortly with a few other officials of the court.

“Let us get started,” King Rard said, as he settled into the chair reserved for him.  “My son says he has a battle plan.  Let us hear it,” he said, without further explanation.  Prince Tavard cleared his throat, stood, and began to describe what he and his captains proposed to retake the castle.

Unsurprisingly to Atopol, Tavard’s plan was a credit to four hundred years of Narasi chivalric ideas about warfare.  In other words, it was entirely inadequate and inappropriate for the problem at hand.

It involved a decisive move of the entirety of his forces – leaving no reserves – to the abandoned village on the outskirts of Darkfaller.  There, the prince reported as he demonstrated his plan on a map he had prepared, his engineers would begin assembling siege engines, and his peasant infantry would begin constructing a grand trenchwork around the village while his noble knights patrolled within sight of the captured castle’s walls to intimidate their foe with their magnificence.  Tavard would fly a thousand banners, representing the great houses of Castali and Gilmoran chivalry, to further intimidate the foul folk who sullied his fortress.

Then, he reported eagerly, when all was in readiness, he would advance with a hundred of his most distinguished and capable knights and summon forth a herald from the keep.  Once engaged in the formal pre-battle consultation, he would extend an offer of combat between champions: up to a hundred of the Enshadowed warriors against a similar number of his knights.  No clear terms for victory were mentioned.

Atopol was appalled.  The prince actually believed that Mycin Amana, dark sorceress in the body of a dark sorceress, would respect his eventual – inevitable! – victory and remove herself and her forces as a matter of honor.  Atopol had been at Olum Seheri.  The Enshadowed and their masters did not adhere to human concepts of honor.

If the foe did not agree, of course, then Tavard proposed commencing a full siege, bringing the wrath of the engineers’ art upon the outer defenses until he managed a breech in the great curtain wall that surrounded the castle. Or until they surrendered due to starvation.

“Then, of course,” the prince declared, as he pushed a pile of toy horsemen across the map, “we would charge: a charge the likes of which has not been seen in Castal since the Conquest.  Over ten thousand knights will assault the outer defenses at once!  With those numbers we should be able to force a breech or – better yet – overcome one of the gates.  From there, we bring up the infantry and carry on to victory!”

There was silence in the room after his summation.  Atopol could tell that even the old guard of the chivalry saw the appalling problems with his plan.  The older lords looked back and forth at each other and then down at the map, and then back again . . . but no one looked at Tavard, likely out of a sense of political self-preservation.

It was a shit plan, most of them recognized at once, he could tell.  A shit plan that invited ignoble defeat.  But who would be the first to cast aspersions on the future king of the realm for such an embarrassingly naïve proposal?

Atopol was quietly amused as he watched the older and wiser heads amongst the prince’s own retinue nearly shake as they quietly debated how to tell their sovereign duke what an idiot he was without offending his dignity.

Thankfully – for them – Tavard had a ready foil in Terleman.  And he had no trouble offending Tavard’s dignity.

“That, my prince, is a flaming pile of dogshit of a plan,” he pronounced, “in a cracked chamberpot lying within a festering barrel of offal . . . on a sinking barge.  Approaching a treacherous rapid.  With a drunken goblin at the helm.”

There were some gasps amongst his supporters – even those Atopol figured agreed with Terleman’s assessment.  Idiot or not, they seemed to relate, one just did not speak to a political superior in such a manner.

Atopol was also gratified that King Rard gave a snorting laugh at the reply.

“You . . . you have a better, Sir?” Tavard asked Terleman, his brow furrowed like a freshly planted field as he suppressed his rage.  Minalan looked on, amused, Atopol noted.

“I have a hundred plans better than this,” Terleman sighed, contemptuously.  “Oh, there are a few decent elements to it – I quite like the trenchwork.  But beyond that it’s a recipe for utter defeat in these circumstances.  Not to mention that it completely ignores the stated objective for the action: the rescue of the prisoners.”

“Viscount!” Count Moran objected, fiercely.  “Do not let your past enmity color your judgement!  My prince has advanced a perfectly reasonable plan!  He seeks to recapture the castle!”

“Reasonable?” Terleman shot back.  “If this be reason, gentlemen, it is of the type that dooms a man.  You have ignored several critical factors,” he began to explain.  “What of your magical corps, for instance?”

“Magical corps?” Tavard asked, surprised.  “Why, they would do . . . they would do what warmagi do in such circumstances,” he said, with a nervous shrug.  “Provide magical defense.  Reduce the likelihood of enemy spells affecting the men.  Rid the village of any accumulated vermin,” he suggested, weakly.  “That sort of thing.”

Terleman laughed, and Sandoval chuckled.  Even a few of the old knights looked amused.

“My prince, perhaps that would have stood in Farise, but you have little conception as to what modern warmagi do,” Terleman said, with far more diplomacy than Atopol would have predicted.  He looked thoughtful, but Atopol could tell he was suppressing himself.  “More, you are facing a foe who practices sorcery – Alka Alon sorcery.  Therefore any attack that ignores magic is doomed to fail.”

“But your spy tells us that your magic will not work inside the confines of the castle!” objected Count Moran.

“I have plans to counter that effect,” assured the Spellmonger, quietly.

“We have fought the Nemovorti for years, now,” agreed Terleman.  “Every spell has a counterspell.”

“And just how would you propose the mission?” asked Count Moran, looking skeptically amused.  “Can your warmagi counter this . . . sorcery?”

That gave Minalan the opportunity to present his own plan to the council, using a sophisticated magemap he projected over Tavard’s parchment map.  It was as complicated as Tavard’s, in Atopol’s eye, but far more comprehensive.  It also focused on rescuing the prisoners, not retaking the castle.  As it involved magic far beyond Atopol’s scope, he had to take much of what Minalan said on faith; but then the Spellmonger had proven himself in the field repeatedly.

That did not stop Baron Arthedes from scoffing at the plan when Minalan concluded.

“And you think a few hundred warmagi will succeed where ten thousand Castali knights would fail?” he asked, mockingly.

“We managed well enough at Olum Seheri,” Sandoval said, darkly.  “We faced legions of scrugs there, along with trolls and dragons, and Korbal, himself.  And Sheruel the Dead God,” he reminded them.  The knights did not look like they believed him.

“Mycin Amana presents a different set of challenges,” Minalan said, seemingly trying to avoid too much acrimony in the council.  That made sense, to Atopol.  These men had to work together, after all, and rescue his sister.  “She isn’t as powerful as Korbal or Sheruel, but she inhabits the body of Baroness Isily of Greenflower.  A body that was transformed by the dark experiments that Baron Dunselen and she concocted.  We face an unknown, in her,” he warned.

“And on that basis, you think the magi should lead the battle?” Count Moran asked, skeptically.

“I dare say we are,” Minalan agreed.  “Otherwise, you would be faced with the strategies that Prince Tavard has proposed . . . and that Terleman has criticized so well.  I expect to command all the forces arrayed against Darkfaller for this mission,” he said, boldly.

The statement was a direct challenge to Prince Tavard’s position, and he did not take it well.  But Atopol could see King Rard nodding in agreement.

“I think any other command would lead to defeat,” conceded Rard.  “We must proceed with the best available commanders enacting the best possible plan.  Tavard, you will submit your forces to Minalan’s command,” he ordered.

That produced a sharp reaction in the prince.

“Your Majesty, I should not be held subordinate to the Spellmonger in the field when he holds lower rank than I!” objected Prince Tavard.  “Our classes aside, I am the prince heir, above even a count palatine.  It would be . . . unseemly,” he suggested.  Atopol could see the man was teetering between recourse to insults and respect for the serious nature of the discussion.

“Unseemly?” snorted his father.  Rard peered over the elaborate diorama of Darkfaller, at the models of the military units enacting the complicated plan the magi had proposed.  “Count Minalan has presented a scheme of battle as complete as a king could ask from one of his commanders.  You offered single combat and a cavalry charge.  His plan is superior.  Count Minalan alone can see it executed, in my estimation.  Unless you feel competent to direct warmagi, giant hawks, and magical constructs,” he added, with a sarcastic smile.

“I have been trained in all of the martial disciplines, Father,” Tavard reminded the king, stiffly.

“All the disciplines our ancestors used, my prince,” Master Loiko countered, respectfully.  “Count Minalan has advanced the art of warmagic far beyond what even the Archmagi of old could accomplish.  And he has employed it to great effect,” the Royal Court Wizard reminded Tavard.  “As we face a foe well-versed in the arcane, it stands to reason that we need to counter with our own best magical force.  None of our foes will care about the rank of the commander who opposes them.”

“But what about our vassals?” objected Count Moran.  “If it becomes known that His Highness was demoted to a secondary position in favor of a wizard, there are those who would think poorly of it.”

“They will think more poorly if they are forced to flee their little castles against a rising tide of the undead,” observed Terleman.  “Then their concern for rank will be less important, I would venture.”

“We cannot elevate a count – however powerful and well-regarded – above the prince!” insisted Moran, forcefully.

“Then we conspire to lose this battle before it begins,” said Rard, shaking his head distastefully.  “How committed are you to regaining Darkfaller, Tavard?”

“Your Majesty,” Master Loiko began, clearing his throat, “there is another way: during the Late Magocracy, when the archmage was facing the invasions of the Narasi tribes across the steppe, the Magocracy instituted titles for military commanders to counter the threat,” he reminded everyone.  “Marshals were appointed over the mundane armies of the Empire to command particular regions or forces of arms, regardless of the civil rank of the general.  The Duchies have long adopted this practice to more efficiently counter the threats we have faced.

“But the archmage also appointed special officers detailed to command the Imperial Magical Corps,” he continued, reasonably.  “There were a number of occasions when mundane Marshals were unprepared or unqualified to conduct special tasks.  Magi were required to conduct those operations, and commanding officers familiar with warmagic were appointed to command those efforts under special provision from the Imperial Court.  The term was, I believe, ‘marshal arcane.’  A commander who has absolute authority over both magical and mundane forces for the purpose of conducting an operation,” he explained.

Atopol had never heard the term before, even though he had studied a bit of Imperial military history.  His ancestors had fled to Alshar from Vore around that time.  To his knowledge the Imperial Marshals had been the commanders of that long, bloody struggle to defend against the Narasi barbarians.  When the King Kamaklavan finally took the capitals of the Magocracy, he had accepted the surrender (and eventually the service) of the Imperial Marshals to command the mundane troops of the Magocracy to put down the petty rebellions and revolts that popped up.  But he did not recall the title of Marshal Arcane in those histories.

But Loiko’s advice made sense, to his mind.  Appointing a supreme commander who was familiar with the advantages and limitations of warmagic was good thinking.

“Marshal . . . Arcane,” Rard said, trying the unfamiliar term in his mouth.  “A military title, not a civil rank.  I suppose we could appoint Minalan as Royal Marshal Arcane, to reduce the . . . unseemliness you sense,” he said, staring at Count Moran through slitted eyes.

“Is he not already a royal marshal?” Moran countered, giving Minalan a snide look.

“Yes, I was appointed as such during the first Wilderlands campaign,” Minalan agreed with a shrug.  “My commission is still in effect.  Just ask Count Anvaram about that,” he added with a smile.  Indeed, Atopol remembered that Minalan had used his commission as Royal Marshal to compel the Gilmoran count to fight the gurvani on his behalf, instead of fighting Minalan’s on Tavard’s.  He’d been involved in that caper himself.  It was one of the more embarrassing elements of Anvaram’s ill-considered adventure in the Magelaw, in Atopol’s estimation.

That point was not lost on Count Moran.  He winced.  That had been an embarrassing episode that had led to the abortive civil war.

“Then elevating him to Royal Marshal Arcane would not be a problem,” Rard nodded.  “I’ll have a commission drawn up, and we can announce it at the next court,” he decided.  “Along with the power to draw upon the Royal treasury for resources, the Royal Stable for horses, and the command over any vassals he requires for the duration of the emergency.  The Curia can allocate a permanent budget,” he reasoned.  “You will have the liberty to designate and appoint his aides, advisors, and assistants, of course.  Would that mollify your wounded feelings, Tavard?  You will still be the senior-most ranking Kingdom official in the army.  Minalan would merely be your direct military superior.”

“I’ll gladly defer the right to speak at the victory celebration to you, of course, Your Highness,” Minalan told Tavard with a tight-lipped smile.  “Hells, take all the credit you want for this – once we win,” he emphasized.  “I do not care about such things.  I merely require command over our forces if we are to ever be able to enjoy a victory.  I just want our people back.  And to see for myself what forces Mycin Amana has gathered.  This first attack is going to be . . . tricky,” he admitted.

Tavard pounced on the admission.  “You doubt your ability to win this fight, then?” he asked, expectantly.

“Win?” Minalan asked, surprised.  “No, no, of course not.  I could win this battle with half the forces and powers at my disposal.  But if I’m not careful, I wouldn’t win the next battle.  Winning, in my estimation, includes not only rescuing our people, it involves doing so in a way that will not reveal our full strength and plans.  The Nemovorti are not terribly creative in battle, usually,” he offered.  “But they could adapt to new circumstances.  If we show all of our pieces at once, we might prevail in this fight, but we won’t have an advantage in the eventual attempt to take the castle.  I want to leave something to surprise them with.”

“Good thinking,” murmured Loiko, and several of the other commanders nodded in approval.  Rard was also nodding.  Tavard was frowning.

“But why not just take the castle now, if you are so confident?  Just what are you saving for the second battle?” the prince asked, his lip twisted.

“Because I am confident I can rescue the prisoners,” the Spellmonger answered, patiently.  “I do not think I have the forces to successfully drive the Witch Queen from the castle.  This first battle does not require all of my power and resources,” Minalan assured.

“Then use all of your power and resources on behalf of the kingdom!” Tavard countered, clearly frustrated.

“That is precisely what they are expecting,” Terleman growled.

“Indeed, Mycin Amana is expecting an attack designed to recapture the castle.  That’s just how the Alka Alon think,” Minalan said, thoughtfully.  “But don’t think that a glorious charge is entirely out of the question, Prince Tavard.  Mycin Amana is going to expect that, from a humani warrior prince, and I don’t want to disappoint her.  But that will be her weakness.  I don’t think she’s subtle enough to understand iterative attacks with different objectives.  If our gallant prince approaches with all of his hosts, she’s going to expect that as our best effort.  I plan on encouraging that – and exploiting it,” he revealed.

That essentially ended the meeting, Atopol saw.  There were still a few details to be worked through, including assigning liaison officers between the two forces, but most of that was concluded by subordinates.  Minalan insisted he would have a final battle plan within a few days, once he had studied the various intelligence reports, and that seemed to placate the king.  It was clear that Rard wanted to return to his palace, and Minalan wanted to return to his workshops.  Tavard looked like he wanted to go somewhere and sulk.  Once the king dismissed the council, most of the magi departed through the Ways in short order while the mundane lords took the stairs.

But not all the magi left.  Atopol was unsurprised at how quickly Rondal and Tyndal approached him, afterwards – Rondal was clearly still disturbed about Gatina’s fate, despite Atopol’s assurances that she was faring well.  Still, he was unprepared for the intensity the usually mild-mannered warmage displayed.  Indeed, Tyndal appeared calm and collected by comparison.

“So when are you heading back to Darkfaller, Cat?” Rondal quietly demanded.

“Why?” he asked, cautiously.

“Because I want to go with you,” Rondal said, his face a mask of concern.  “I want to get Gatina out of there.”

“We both want to go,” Tyndal added, nodding his shaggy blonde head.

“I . . . no,” Atopol said, shaking his head, uncomfortably, as he looked back and forth between his two friends.  “No, fellows, that’s impossible.  You heard Terleman.  We don’t have a final plan, yet.  And infiltrating someplace like Darkfaller takes skill.  You’re too big and loud and couldn’t sneak through, even with magic.  And I can’t risk you getting captured or killed before we do.  Kitten would kill me,” he assured.

“I can be sneaky!” Tyndal complained, frowning.

“As sneaky as a war horse in a chapel,” snorted Atopol.  “That goes for both of you.  Look, this isn’t like concealing yourself on the battlefield.  When you break into the castle of an evil dark lord, the challenges are as thick as flies.  Every step is calculated in your head.  Every sound you make, every breath that passes your nose is measured, every corner you turn is a potential chance that you’re going to get pinched.  Dealing with undead compounds the problem further.  And the screwy magical defenses make all the spells that you could cast to make it a bit easier out of the question.  It’s hard enough for me to do it – if I had you two to look after, we’d surely be found out.”

“You’re just going to leave Kitten in there, then?” Rondal asked, appalled at the idea.

“I am,” Atopol said, solemnly.  “At her direction.  Compared to her, I’m as clunky as a horse in a chapel.  Don’t ever tell her I told her, but she might just be better than me at avoiding notice.”

“Surely you can think of some way to sneak us in,” Tyndal encouraged.  “Remember Olum Seheri?  We’ve done such work before.”

“Not with as many hostages in as many places as we face this time,” Atopol countered.  “And there is sorcery to contend with.  We aren’t ready to attack, yet,” he reminded them.  “I don’t know how we’ll do it, but when we do we’re going to need some fresh tricks and the best possible knowledge of what is happening in Darkfaller.  Kitten is ideally placed to give us that information,” he insisted.  “If you show up and try to persuade her to leave for her own safety, she’ll laugh in your face,” he promised.

There was a long pause as Atopol watched the young men chew on his words.  But he did not relent.  The very idea of the two stumbling around Darkfaller’s vast corridors and blundering into a draugen would mean a fight that would quickly reveal their location, and invite a response and ensure that his sister’s careful plans would be discovered.  That was just a stupid – if well-intentioned – idea.

“I suppose we’ll have to defer to your judgement,” sighed Tyndal, finally.

“You should,” Atopol agreed, nodding vigorously.  “Trust me, we’re going to have to use every advantage we have to rescue the prisoners.  That includes letting Kitten prowl around the shadows and find things out for us.  And then it will include having a couple of strong, powerful fellows who aren’t too bright bursting in and slaying everything in sight.  Let the Cats of Enultramar do our part, and then you can do yours.”

“You sound just like Gatina,” Rondal said, sourly.

“We spent a lot of time together as children,” Atopol pointed out.  “I appreciate how enthusiastic you are to be her hero on this mission, Ron, but you have to avoid the impulse to run to her rescue before we have a final plan.  It’s noble, but . . . stupid.”

“You’re right,” Rondal finally conceded, rolling his eyes expressively.  “I know you’re right, but I hate that you’re right.”

“He’s been lingering at the edge of madness for three days, now,” Tyndal explained, quietly.  “So has Lorcus.  So have a lot of us.”

“My parents aren’t terribly happy about the matter, either,” Atopol informed them.  “Mother wanted to essentially do the same thing as you two.  Father probably does, too, but he’s patient enough to wait for a real plan.  Besides, Gatina is a journeyman, now; she makes her own decisions and plots her own heists.  It’s poor form to interfere.

“But what I’m more concerned with than my sister is just what is being planned,” he continued, trying to subtly change the subject before he had to convince Rondal all over again.  “Don’t mistake me, Terleman is good at what he does . . . but what about Minalan?” he asked.  “I’ve heard . . . rumors,” he admitted.  “Rumors that he’s not quite right.  We’re going to need the Spellmonger to do this successfully, I would wager.  But I’ve barely seen him since his return.  The rumor has it that he’s lingering on the edge of madness.”

That produced a meaningful glance between the Spellmonger’s former apprentices.

“He’s not lingering,” sighed Tyndal.  “He’s bloody dancing around in madness, now.  Every day it’s as if he’s a different person.  But he’s keeping busy, when he’s not doing strange things.  He’s meeting with the king, with Terl, with plenty of other folks trying to formulate a plan.”

“And when he’s not in a meeting, he’s holed up in his workshop or secluded in the bouleuterions of Vanador and Sevendor,” agreed Rondal.  “He’s building . . . something.  Some big enchantment.  Several of them,” he predicted.

“We have no idea what it is, before you ask,” Tyndal related.  “He’s barely spoken to anyone about it.  We just know it’s expensive, complicated, and powerful.”

“I think he’s awaiting more intelligence, for one thing,” Rondal said with a resigned sigh. “Once Terleman tells him what you told us in deail, we’ll be closer to a final plan.  Thanks for that,” he added, genuinely grateful.  “If it wasn’t for you and Kitten, we’d be going into this blind.”

“Sneaking around and observing from a distance is what cats do,” Atopol shrugged.

“So is licking their own butt hole,” Tyndal reminded him.  “Let’s keep things in perspective, shall we?”

Chapter Four

A Wizard In Waiting

Rondal

It was difficult for Rondal not to be disappointed by Atopol’s news of Gatina’s reluctance to be rescued from Darkfaller Castle, but it was also a relief to him that his intended bride was safe, free from constraint, and not suffering the way the other prisoners were.  He still wanted to scream at her for not escaping herself, but at least she was safe and not chained to a wall somewhere deep underground.

As he took himself through the Ways back to his headquarters, he had to admit to himself that, despite the unrelenting danger of her mission, Kitten was likely having the time of her life being a shadow on the walls of the enemy’s keep.  She took a perverse joy in courting such peril, he knew all too well.  It was one of the more maddening things about their relationship.  It was also one of the things that made him love her so dearly.

He was gratified to see his troops actively engaged in training and preparation for the emergency mission ahead of them: when he emerged from the Ways at the non-descript Westlands manor house he had claimed as a temporary staging ground.  No less than twenty veteran warmagi were practicing individual combat, warmagic spells, and directing combat constructs through complicated regimens designed to test the abilities of both the thaumaturgical devices and their operators.  The clash of steel and the smell of ozone filled the air as he strode past the individual squadrons of wizards honing their professional skills.  He was even more gratified to see the quick bows, salutes, and nods of acknowledgment he received as their commander.

There were two full squadrons of twenty warmagi each based here, he knew, with another hundred mundane warriors assigned to support them.  Each wizard was a veteran, and all of them had irionite.  He was inordinately proud of that.  He’d built it himself.

It was a small, nameless force, by most standards, but the power implied in forty High Magi trained in the arts of destruction was significant.  Nor was it the only one.  After driving Karakush’s forces out of the Westlands, he had ordered several of the estates – abandoned and occupied too long to be rendered agriculturally productive – to be used as staging areas and barracks for his men while they awaited the attack on Darkfaller.  There were three other manors in the dry and dusty Westlands that each housed a similar company of warmagi.  There were more training in the Wilderlands and in Sevendor, too, he knew.  When the time came, there would be an impressive number of warmagi available for the task.

He had no actual right to the lands, of course.  While technically they were his by right of conquest, he had been acting on Duke Anguin’s orders, not his own volition.  The estates were a resource he could use and had need of, so he did so without recourse to a formal claim.  It was a temporary measure, he reasoned, as he entered the great hall of the manor house.  He did not want these desolate estates, but they were convenient at the moment.

“How did the meeting at Leveny go?” his lieutenant, Noutha, asked when she met him in the central chamber in front of the fire.  The former foe turned stalwart ally had been an ideal choice as an officer, Rondal reflected.  She commanded the two squadrons as captain and had been drilling them unmercifully for days, once it was clear that there was more action in their future.

“It was informative,” he admitted, as he warmed his fingers in front of the flame.  “But frustrating.  We got word from the prisoners inside Darkfaller.  They’re secure and largely unmolested, thus far, but that will not last.  Minalan should be presenting a final battle plan shortly . . . if he remembers to,” he added, a bit sourly.

That was a potential risk, Rondal suspected.  As much as he was thankful that his old master was back from his expedition, the changes that journey had wrought in him had Rondal concerned.  Minalan seemed perpetually distracted, these days, concerned more with the intricacies of the arcane than the necessities of his duty as ruler.  There were whispers that the Spellmonger had gone mad.

“He will,” Noutha assured.  “And our part in that plan?”

“Unknown, as of yet,” Rondal admitted.  “The senior staff is still digesting the intelligence.  We won’t know until they make some decision.”

“As usual,” Noutha snorted.  “Well, our men will be ready when they do.  I’ve had them training like it was their first week at Relan Cor.  They might hate me for it, but they will be prepared for anything in another few days.  My only concern is the lack of good arcane munitions,” she added.  “Our orders to the bouleuterion have been delayed again.  We got a couple of crates of berserker balls and such, so far, but that is all.”

“We might not be able to rely on such things in this battle,” Rondal observed, with a sigh.  “Constructs take time to build and enchant.  So do impressive battlefield spellworks.  Both bouleuterions are challenged with the demand, right now.  We will have to make do with whatever we can scrounge up or make ourselves.”

Noutha made a sour face.  “This lot isn’t exactly experienced at such studies, Ron.  Breaking things and killing people, certainly, but if you expect them to craft anything beyond simple warwands . . .”

“This mission will likely call for more stealth than power, if that’s any consolation,” he pointed out.  “If Minalan’s typical strategies hold true, I’d wager he’ll us our iron-headed cavalry to distract them while we warmagi sneak in and affect an escape.  A raid, more than a pitched battle.”

“I prefer the latter, but we’ll be ready for the former,” she assured him.

“The pitched battle will come later, I promise,” Rondal agreed.  “Prince Tavard’s men are eager to charge in and reclaim their master’s latest lost castle.  You should have heard how appalled they were at the idea that we weren’t going to do that, this time.  But none of their units are prepared for anything more complicated than that, in truth,” he added, shaking his head.  “Some were even whining about how the battle would affect the upcoming tournament season.”

“Idiots!” she snorted, her nostrils flaring.  “No offense, but you Narasi are stupidly attached to sport when you should be studying war.  You could take a lesson from the Wenshari.”

“I won’t argue against that,” Rondal agreed.  “I share our duke’s dislike of tournaments.  Tyndal enjoys them, I suppose, but a celebration of our glorious heritage of horsemanship is a foolish indulgence when there are real foes about.  How are we fixed for supplies?” he asked, changing the subject.

“We have plenty,” Noutha agreed.  “Food, wine, hay, all coming through the supply rods regularly.  The mundane auxiliaries have never eaten so well in the field,” she added, with a smirk.  Then she changed it to a small frown.  “We did have some local trouble, of a sort, this morning.”

“Local trouble?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “I didn’t think there were more than a score of families left lurking around this place.”

“It wasn’t the peasants that were the problem.  We received an emissary from the new military governor of the Westlands, Count Anvaram,” she revealed, her lip curling in distaste.  “Another iron-headed Narasi knight.  He sent a company of cavalry to our gates to demand our homage and pledge of loyalty.  I think they were mostly just trying to evaluate who was currently occupying the place and ensure there was no rebel activity here.”

“It’s good to hear he finally made it out here,” Rondal pointed out.  “He might be another iron-headed Narasi knight, but he should be able to put down the revolt if he can discover the locations of the cult that leads it.  What did the emissary have to say?”

“They demanded we provide troops to assist in the pacification.  They demanded tribute in coin or kind to support the effort.  They demanded sworn fealty to the Duke of Castal.  I told them that we were a Royal operation and wouldn’t get further involved in the local efforts because we were too busy fighting an actual war.  They weren’t particularly happy to hear that.”

Rondal chuckled at the thought of the Gilmoran knights being so abruptly refused what was, he knew, a fairly common practice in such operations.  “Did they draw steel to attempt to compel us?” he asked, curiously.

Noutha snorted even more loudly.  “They wouldn’t dare!  Most of the Gilmoran troops already fought with us up in the Magelaw this summer.  They knew what we could do and they wanted no part of it.  Their commander is apparently some younger son of some Gilmoran baron who was more recently appointed.  He might have tried something, but he became convinced it was a poor tactical decision when someone activated a couple of warspells in the courtyard.  For practice,” she emphasized.  “They produced a goodly sized crater.  After that the gentleman was far more conciliatory in tone.  He even offered the assistance of his forces, should we require it,” she added, skeptically.

“I can’t say I’m entirely unhappy that Anvaram got stuck with this detail,” Rondal chuckled, “not after what he tried to do to the Magelaw last spring.  From what Tyndal says he’s a fairly officious dandy who trades on his close relationship with Tavard for his position.  A tournament monkey,” he added, shaking his head.  “Forcing him to deal with this revolt is at least making him useful.  It’s just barely within his capacities.  How many men does he have here?”

“About three thousand, with another thousand in support,” Noutha answered.  “They’ve set up their headquarters in the larger towns and now they’re trying to take control of the roadways.  There have been a few small skirmishes with the Colleita cult, but nothing major.”

Rondal suppressed a shudder at the mention of the rebellious gang of self-appointed clergy who were leading the revolt.  The Colleitites were adherents to an old Imperial divinity who oversaw agriculture and preached a doctrine of radical equality amongst the social classes – the opposite of what foppish lordlings like Count Anvaram represented.

That would have been fine, in other circumstances, he knew.  Peasant revolts were not uncommon, and while tragic they rarely achieved any serious interruption in the workings of the feudal world.  Indeed, he was largely sympathetic to the desire to rebel against the Narasi chivalry who generally mismanaged their lives.  He could easily understand why the peasantry periodically rose to challenge the aristocracy and their ancient – and usually unearned – privileges.

But this cult was different, he knew from personal experience.  The Colleitites in the Westlands were led by a charismatic young woman who not only directed the red-robed monks of the cult with imagination and discipline, but she was also somehow channeling the divine power of the rebellious divinity herself.  When faced with an intractable lordling who insisted on his feudal rights over the peasantry, the girl had a tendency to use divine fire to burn the offenders to ash in seconds.  He’d witnessed it himself.  In the face of such eldritch powers, it was doubtful that Count Anvaram or any other great Narasi knight would be able to defeat the cult without assistance – magical assistance.

That was not his problem, he reasoned.  Indeed, the Westlands were a temporary base for his forces, not a permanent possession.  This wasn’t even Alshar, the duchy to whom he owed his loyalty, it was Castal.  Until Minalan or Pentandra directed him to lend his forces to aid Count Anvaram, he considered the revolt to be local business and not his concern.  He was under the command of the new Marshal Arcane, not Count Anvaram or even Duke Tavard.

Darkfaller, on the other hand, was certainly his concern.  Until that matter was dealt with and his beloved was back in his arms, the rest of Castal could burn in the savage flames of rebellion, for all he cared.

“Keep up with the training,” he advised Noutha.  “Spare no duty until we are called to assemble.  I want our forces to be as sharp as razors when that call comes.”

“Of course,” nodded the warmage.  “But that brings up another point the men have been asking me about: just what do we call ourselves?  We’re volunteers in service to Alshar, I suppose, and we have royal sanction now, but there is no real formal establishment of the unit.  It’s making some of them whiny,” she revealed.

Rondal rolled his eyes.  “Really?  They have an important mission, strong commanders, good food and excellent pay.  Why do they need an official unit designation?”

“Bragging rights?  A sense of belonging?  Personal insecurities?” Noutha suggested, skeptically.  “I have no idea.  But they want a name, a title, and a regimental banner, from what I understand.  Half of them are already members of the Estasi Order, or the Horkan Order, or both.  But that’s just not good enough.  They’ve asked me to ask you for a more formal designation.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll get back to them,” Rondal sighed, shaking his head.  For all of the complaints about Narasi knights, he had to admit that Narasi warmagi weren’t much better at focusing on the important things in a war.  “Let me ask Pentandra about it.  Or Minalan, since he’s the Marshal Arcane, now.  Or someone else who can make a decision that isn’t me.”

“That’s refreshingly honest, from a unit commander,” Noutha chuckled.  “Most would leap at the chance to put their stamp on an outfit this distinguished.”

“I really just don’t want the responsibility,” Rondal admitted.  “I put this force together out of expediency, not a desire to have my name live forever in the histories.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken Wilderhall, the way you did,” she confided, her smirk returning.

Rondal’s eyes shot open.  “What?”

“Oh, come now, it’s an open secret that you were the wizard responsible for taking Wilderhall away from Tavard.  Oh, no one is composing an epic about it, or anything, nor has any official notice been taken.  But it’s generally agreed that it was you who hired the mercenaries and planned the operation.”  Noutha gave him a meaningful look.

“That’s just what I need!” groaned Rondal.

“If it makes you feel any better, you both surprised and impressed three hells out of our men,” she continued.  “Few of them thought you’d have that kind of guile or initiative.  Now you’re getting a reputation as a deep thinker and a master strategist.”

“But if they’re talking about it, then it’s only a matter of time before Tavard finds out!” Rondal objected.

“It’s inevitable that he finds out,” Noutha considered.  “I’ve spent the last two years skulking around the Royal Court, and anything one of those brainless courtiers knows they all do in a fortnight.  It’s only a matter of time.  Just hope that he’s too busy with Darkfaller to take any action on Wilderhall,” she advised, unhelpfully.

“And when he does?  You know what his mother is capable of!” Rondal fumed.

“More than you know,” assured Noutha gravely.  “Her cultish little Family has littered the halls of power with inconvenient corpses for years.  But you’re a mage.  You’re protected from her, remember?”

“If she really wants me dead, Minalan’s agreement won’t stop her,” Rondal said, gravely.

“If she’s really that stupid, your proud new nameless unit of warmagi will be thrilled to avenge you,” she consoled.  “Then you might actually get an epic out of the entire affair.  Your men would love that.  For now, they’re just gossiping amongst themselves.  I wouldn’t worry about it too much.  Just enjoy the newfound credibility you gained from it.  Most commanders spend years cultivating that kind of reputation.  It makes the men fight harder.”

“That really doesn’t help me, much,” Rondal said, with a grunt.

“It doesn’t hurt you much, either,” she pointed out.  “When you recruited them, they all thought you were a good fellow and smart.  A bit of an officious bureaucrat, but you proved yourself as the Spellmonger’s apprentice.  Now they see you as some sort of military genius.  A commander they can be proud of.  It’s like a honeymoon.  Enjoy it . . . while it lasts.”

“If we don’t begin this assault soon, I won’t even have a real honeymoon,” Rondal lamented, as he reflected on the perverse manner in which mercenaries practiced their trade.  “Gatina is safe . . . well, safer than the other prisoners . . . but things will get dire, soon, if we don’t act.  We have to get her out of there.  And the rest of them,” he added.

“We will,” dismissed Noutha.  “You’ll be wed before spring, I have no doubt.  It will absolutely ruin you as a military commander, but you’ll have your wedding.  Then you’ll be lost in the bliss of matrimony and the charms of a beautiful wife.”  There was a trace of bitterness in her tone that Rondal detected – it was subtle, but it was there.

“And what about you?” he asked his former foe.  Noutha had been a renegade warmage under the war name Lady Mask, working directly for the gurvani earlier in the war.  It had taken Minalan defeating her and a betrayal by her former allies to convince her to switch back to the proper side of the conflict.  “Surely you must be considering retirement, once this mess is cleaned up.  Is there not a husband in your future?”

“Me?” Noutha asked, genuinely surprised.  “I prefer the life of a warmage to that of a brainless wife.  Besides, who in their right mind would consider marrying me?” she asked, the bitterness emerging more clearly.  “I’ve killed more men than most women have danced with.  I have more sets of armor than ball gowns.  And I’ve gotten more scars from battle than kisses in the dark.  That’s hardly an attraction to most sane potential husbands.  Besides, most men bore me.  Even most warmagi.  They strut and they brag about their bravery and their skills, but once they’re really challenged most of them collapse like a rotten bridge.”  She sounded proud, as she dismissed her own prospects.

But Rondal wasn’t so certain.  Of course, Noutha was a distinctive figure in court life.  She had gained her reputation as a renegade, and that was a hinderance.  But her father, Master Loiko, was not only a famous warmage in his own right, he was also the current Royal Court Wizard.  That could not have made her prospects any better.

Noutha had spent most of her adult life attempting to better his untarnished reputation as a professional warmage, embracing the rugged and dangerous profession with a zeal that most women reserved for parties, dresses, and childbirth.  Like Carmella and the few other female warmagi he knew, she had little use or even evident desire to give up a life of danger and magic for mere domestic concerns.  She was more devoted to the rites of Duin the Destroyer than Ishi or Trygg.

However, that kind of unique approach to womanhood had an appeal to some men, he knew.  Ishi often dashed such dreams in the hearts of young women dedicated to other pursuits to make room for love . . . or at least lustful indulgence.  Noutha was not the fairest maiden at court, he was aware, but her strong personality and acute intelligence – not to mention her position and reputation – could allure the right kind of man, in his estimation.

“We shall see,” he said, cryptically.  “I never thought I’d attract a mate, nor did I particularly want to.  But when Ishi decides it’s time . . .”

“Ishi can kiss my saddleworn arse!” Noutha declared, indignantly.  “I will not exchange warmagic for household spells and a life of tedium when there are battles to be won.  I may die a maiden, but it will be a life better spent than as a goodwife!”

Rondal didn’t answer.  But he did venture a smirk.  Only after the warmage turned and stomped off to inspect her troops.  He wasn’t suicidal.

***

Rondal was going through the pile of parchment on his borrowed desk in his temporary quarters in the manor when someone reached out to him, mind-to-mind.  With a sigh he pushed aside the stack of reports and requests and leaned back in the chair that had been commissioned for some Westlands lord with an arse far wider than his.

Rondal, it’s Pentandra, the voice announced in his mind.  Do you have a moment?

For the Court Wizard?  Always! he assured.

I’m seeking an update on the status of your forces, she informed him.  Rardine and Anguin are curious about the matter.

We’re ready.  I can have my men prepared for battle in under an hour.  I’m just waiting on Terleman and Minalan to give us our orders.  My group is ready, he affirmed, confidently.  The only other thing they’re waiting on, apparently, is a name to call themselves, he added.

What?  They want a name?  Why do they need a name? Pentandra asked, confused.

It’s a military tradition, Rondal decided.  Most of these warmagi have been around for a while, since Olum Seheri or before.  Most are already members of the Horkan Order, of course, and a few are members of the Estasi Order.  But military units like a good name to brag about.  And it avoids confusion, I suppose.

Then give them one, Pentandra answered.  From what I understand, this is going to be a tough battle, she proposed.  Not many Alshari noblemen are confident that Darkfaller can be successfully assailed.  They say it’s almost as strong as Getamor.

Rondal considered.  The great keep that had underpinned Castal’s conquest of Gilmora was, indeed, a massive military complex, likely on par with the natural defenses that guarded southern Alshar from the rest of the Five Duchies.  Getamor was the duchy’s most secure defense; the natural caverns in the Narrows had been continuously strengthened with man-made fortifications for centuries, now.  Darkfaller lacked the mountains and rocky outcroppings that made the Alshari keep nearly unassailable.

But that did not diminish the strength of Darkfaller – it was a watchword amongst the military of all Five Duchies.  You had to go to Merwyn, or perhaps Wenshar to find a castle as strong and resilient as Darkfaller.  Filling it full of undead and sorcerous horrors did not improve its reputation.  Any mercenary soldier worth his livery would be hesitant to attack the place.

But Rondal had been part of the battle of Olum Seheri.  Compared to that dark and remote island, within a putrid lake, guarded by dragons and commanded by the most powerful necromancers in the world, attacking Darkfaller seemed a reasonably straightforward exercise.  Not as simple as his campaigns in the Westlands, perhaps, but nothing was as bad as Olum Seheri.

It is, he admitted.  But don’t let that scare you – or Their Graces.  In truth, we could likely do this without Minalan.  With him, I’m confident that we’ll rescue our people.

But will we be able to drive the evil witch from the place? Pentandra asked.  Your professional opinion, please.

Rondal was surprised.  You value my professional opinion? he asked, skeptically.

Why wouldn’t I? Pentandra asked, her tone bordering on mocking.  Did you not conquer a ducal capital with a couple of mercenary companies, a pile of gold and sheer gall?

That’s not exactly how I’d describe it, Rondal said, uncomfortably.  That is, I did do that, but I took some terrible risks and very easily could have ended my career and my life at the attempt.  I was lucky, he insisted.

Skill is often disguised as luck, she insisted.  This is a serious matter, Ron.  There is a lot of concern about this operation.  In all three duchies of the kingdom, she reminded him.  Until Darkfaller is re-taken, the very future of the kingdom as a political entity is in doubt.  Merwyn’s incursion into Remere, or the Farisian pirates plundering our shipping are minor matters, compared to this.  Even Korbal’s minions in the Mindens are not a greater threat.  Like them or not, the Royal House is an important factor in how this entire war proceeds, she reminded him.  And we cannot overcome any of our foes if we are disunified.

Rondal suppressed a mental groan.  You don’t have to tell me that, Pentandra, he assured her, instead.  I recognize the importance.  But rescuing our people from Darkfaller takes precedence over even political considerations   You can lecture me about why that’s not reasonable, but it isn’t my reason that is the issue.  It is my emotions, and I will not lay them aside to make Tavard – or anyone else – happy.

Nor would I ask you to, she agreed, sympathetically.  We’re all invested in the outcome of this battle.  It’s been nine days since they’ve been taken.  Nine days filled with dread, worry, and anxiety.  I think of poor Alurra hourly, she confessed.  If I hadn’t heard that she was still alive I don’t know what I would do.

I feel the same about Gatina – and our other friends, Rondal assured her.  It’s hard to keep the political implications in mind when you’re going mad over someone you love.  That’s why we appeal to older and wiser heads for guidance, he teased.

Higher ranking, perhaps, but not necessarily wiser, Pentandra corrected.  That’s why I like having Minalan around.

Speaking of the Spellmonger, just what is he up to? Rondal probed.  I’ve heard very little from him, since the raid on Sevendor.  I would have expected him to be in the thick of . . . well, everything, right now.  His nephew is among the prisoners, he reminded her.

Minalan is . . . well, he’s working, Pentandra admitted.  I just don’t really know what he’s working on.  He’s been quite secretive.  He’s popping back and forth between Sevendor, Spellgarden, Vanador and Kaunis a lot, but . . . well, he hasn’t really kept me informed of what he’s doing.  I just know that he’s working on things.  And acting strangely.  I know what he’s been through has been traumatic, but I was hoping it hadn’t driven him completely mad.

But that is what you fear has happened, Rondal supplied.

I do.  But don’t ever tell anyone I said so.  I know things will work out, she predicted, I just don’t know exactly how.  It’s hard to have faith in that when your stalwart leader keeps staring off into the distance or speaking in languages no one knows.  I keep waiting for the old Minalan to come back, but . . .

. . . but you worry that he won’t, even if he does successfully manage this rescue, Rondal finished.  I understand.  He’s . . . different.  I suppose all we can do is wait and be ready, he sighed.  For whatever comes.

Chapter Five

A Chat With A Duchess

Pentandra

“I just don’t see how this is our crisis,” Duchess Rardine said, shaking her head.  “This is my brother’s war.  He’s the one who kicked the chamber pot over, he should be the one who has to clean it up.”  There was a certain smugness in her words, Pentandra noted; she was clearly pleased by her big brother’s misfortunes.  The former princess had asked her court wizard to come to Vorone for consultation, as well as transport back to Falas to attend to some business, and had chosen to discuss some political matters with Pentandra in the privacy afforded by her favorite balcony in the new castle.  From here one could see most of the picturesque summer capitol spread out below.

“That may be, Your Grace, in an ideal world,” Pentandra said, as persuasively as she could.  “But the fact remains that Darkfaller is painfully close to Castabriel and Kaunis,” she pointed out.  “If either of them are taken or destroyed, the damage to the kingdom could be irreparable.  It cannot endure with such a rot so close to its core.  And there is the matter of the hostages . . .”

“Oh, I’m in favor of the rescue, don’t mistake me,” the young sovereign agreed.  “We cannot allow the enemy to get away with such a brazen attack.  Nor do I want any more Nemovorti to emerge from Darkfaller.  But once that is accomplished, I think we should reconsider providing aid to Tavard in retaking the castle.  Let him and his toadies try to resolve it.”

Pentandra stifled a sigh that might be misinterpreted by Rardine.  The two had a very good working relationship, she reflected, but there was still the possibility of alienating the Duchess of Alshar accidentally.  Rardine wasn’t as shallow or sensitive as many of the women in her court, and Pentandra knew she valued candid discussion when it came to matters of policy.  But she also did not like being disrespected – by anyone.  If she was going to persuade the girl to help with the coming battles, she would have to tread carefully.

“Your Grace, as much as I understand your reasoning,” Pentandra began, “and as much as I’d like to see your brother taught a lesson in humility, Darkfaller is just too important to risk losing.  And not just for symbolic reasons,” she reminded her.  “From that forward base, the Nemovorti have an outpost that can strike anywhere in Castal . . . and Gilmora.  Should the magi be granted the territories they’ve conquered, Mycin Amana would prove a poor neighbor.  Nor would she respect the boundaries we’ve established between the duchies.  Her war is not with Tavard, but with all of humanity.”

Rardine frowned.  She was not used to not getting her way, Pentandra knew, and she disliked it when her preferred policies were unpopular or unwise.  Despite her experiences at the hands of the foe she still thought in terms of feudal politics, first, not the long war against the dark forces that challenged the kingdom.

“But our war is with Tavard,” she countered.  “My father did not halt my brother’s unprovoked attacks on the Magelaw, or in Gilmora, and he should bear responsibility for that.  We should not be the ones riding to his rescue.”

“It is our own rescue we ride to, Your Grace,” Pentandra pointed out.  “If you wish to see him weakened, do not worry: there is no way in which his forces can avoid taking punishment in this raid.  He is having difficulty raising troops and funds from his vassals.  His support even amongst his own court is waning, thanks to his misjudgments and losses.  Patronage and tradition can only carry a ruler so far; once he proves his ineptitude over and over again, even the most enthusiastic and patriotic vassal has to begin to question his loyalty to an incompetent ruler.”

“You aren’t using this as a veiled warning for how Anguin and I are ruling, are you, Pentandra?” Rardine asked, sharply.

Pentandra tried not to react.  Rardine wasn’t the type of duchess who saw plots and ulterior motives behind every conversation she had with every courtier, but she was sensitive to judgement about how she undertook her responsibilities.  Unlike her brother, she was often concerned with the consequences of her actions, and genuinely wanted to implement good policy as a foundation to her rule.

“No, Your Grace,” Pentandra assured.  “The duchy is seen in good hands at the moment.  After Anguin’s return to Falas and the retribution toward the rebels, there are few left in Enultramar who would take issue with your policies.  The end of slavery has improved the lives of the common folk, Anguin’s resistance to indulging in pointless wars at the duchy’s expense has promoted him as a wise and patient leader, and commerce would be blossoming – if it wasn’t for the pirates of Farise,” she reminded Rardine.

“Yet we are at war,” Rardine frowned.  “That always puts the people on edge.”

Pentandra shook her head.  “The Magelaw has gone to war without requesting a single copper or a single warrior from the duchy.  And Terleman’s advances have been popular in Vanador, where there is no whisper of dissatisfaction.  None of that was instigated by Anguin’s ambitions, even if he gave his consent and his quiet support to the campaign.  He hasn’t issued arbitrary edicts, or imposed any serious taxation, or otherwise impeded the lives of his subjects with his rule.”

Rardine sighed and fixed her court wizard with a stare.  “Yet you have used ‘your grace’ four times, now,” she pointed out.  “You only resort to such formalities in a private discussion when you are worried or nervous.  So why are you worried and nervous?” the astute young monarch demanded.

“Perhaps because I try to give you good counsel . . . in a duchy where the penalty for poor counsel is immediate execution?” Pentandra smiled.  “Or perhaps because I’m trying to dissuade you from something you want to do but that I think is poor policy?  Or perhaps because my dear apprentice is locked up in the dungeon of an evil dark lord who intends to see her mind slain and her body occupied?”

“Fair points,” Rardine sighed.  “Not that I would ever order you executed – you, yourself, are very popular, not to mention an important political figure in the duchy’s government.  And then, of course, there is the fact that I like you, despite you telling me things I do not want to hear.  Father always says that those sorts of conversations are oft excellent guides to when a ruler may be straying from good judgement.”

“Your father is a wise man, your—Rardine,” she said, adopting a more casual tone.  “Allow Minalan to do what he must to Darkfaller and Mycin Amana.  And if he requests help from Anguin, I would strongly encourage you to consider granting it.  That is my counsel, be it wise or foolish.  And I think Count Minalan would agree,” she added.  It irritated her sometimes that Min’s very name could now affect policy.  That didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to trade on that fact.

“It’s wise,” admitted the duchess with a disappointed sigh.  “It’s just not what I want to do, and you know it.  You’re probably right, of course.  My temptation to harm my brother is, indeed, a foolish gesture during an important time.  But that brings me to the next question: speaking of Minalan, what truth is there to the rumors that he’s . . . gone mad?” she asked, hesitantly.

“The Spellmonger retains his faculties, after his experiences in the north,” Pentandra assured her.  “He works even now to build enchantments to use against Darkfaller.”

“Oh, I know he’s being productive,” Rardine said, frowning.  “He’s ordered scores of supplies and exotic items, and he has both of his bouleuterions in a tizzy.  He’s attended every important military council.  But I’ve received many reports from the Garden Society.  He’s been acting . . . unlike himself,” the duchess said, diplomatically.  “I’ll be candid, Pentandra: Anguin is worried.  He credits Minalan for much of his restoration, and he sees him as an essential element to Alshar’s prosperity.  What he’s done – what you all have done,” she amended, “to rebuild the Wilderlands is nothing less than astonishing.  We are deeply grateful.  Anguin also has a personal affection for the man.  But he’s heard reports of strange behavior, too, and he’s seen a change in him, personally.  He’s concerned.  So am I,” she admitted.

“Minalan will be fine,” Pentandra insisted.  “Trust me, Rardine.  He did, indeed, discover much that disturbed him in the north, and he finds himself transformed.  Transforming,” she corrected herself.  “It seems to be an ongoing process.  There is a rule of magic that many mundane folk don’t know or understand: some things change you just by knowing them.  Minalan’s mind is still trying to digest the implications of his discoveries.  It won’t be without its difficulties.  But trust the Spellmonger to continue to support the duchy and the kingdom.  Trust that he will prevail over the challenges ahead.”

Pentandra tried her best to sound confident and convincing, and the knowledge that Minalan would, indeed, survive his madness, proven by secret prophecy, gave some foundation to her sincerity.  The problem was that she was also realizing that secret prophecy was unreliably hazy about the details of its subjects.  She knew Minalan would survive.  She didn’t know if he’d ever be sane again or how that would affect everyone else.

Rardine sighed.  “I suppose I have to trust you,” she decided.  “My mother has always been suspicious of the magi – a combination of Narasi superstition and personal experience, I suppose.  One of the old court wizards didn’t like children, apparently, or something like that.  She saw the opportunities in an alliance with Minalan as a temporary measure, not a permanent arrangement.  She considers wizards as inherently deceitful and unreliable.”

Pentandra chuckled.  “Not any more than any other man.  But when you have an understanding into the nature of the universe and others don’t, sometimes you must resort to deceit and exaggeration in order to see things done.  I think your mother misunderstands our motives.”

“In truth, I don’t think she cares for your motives.  I more than suspect she planned on assassinating the lot of you, once you weren’t of further use to her.

“But Minalan somehow managed to make himself and the magi vital,” Rardine continued.  “I don’t believe she could move against what you and Minalan have built even if she had reason to, and I think she understands that, too.”

“He’s far better at politics than I ever gave him credit for,” Pentandra admitted.

Rardine gave her a long, searching look, then looked away.  “It is whispered that you two were once lovers,” she said, quietly.

Pentandra could not help herself.  She burst out laughing.  That startled the duchess.

“I’m sorry,” she said, covering her mouth.  “Yes, that is true.  For a year or so at Inarion Academy.  He helped me with my studies in Sex Magic, so yes, we were lovers.  I still bear him a lot of affection from that time.  But our . . . emotional entanglement was over long before the sex was.  He had a lot of energy, and a great wit, but had ambition with no clear direction at that time.  As wizards go, he was handsome, lusty, and intelligent.  He was a good study partner for my discipline.  But there is no longing in my heart for him.  I am quite happy with my husband,” she assured.

Rardine nodded.  “Thank you for answering me candidly.  In truth, I like the Spellmonger.  He was kind to me when everyone else at court was being petty.  And he came to rescue me, when no one else would.  I see the importance of your class, Pentandra, even if Mother does not.  You’ve proven it over and over again.  There was some grumbling at court at giving away half of the Wilderlands to Minalan, but what you’ve built in Vanador and Vorone has quieted them.  Your class has enriched the duchy immeasurably.  The magi have witchstones and freedom and nobility once again, and the sky has yet to fall.”

Pentandra caught an element to the duchess’ voice that suggested there was greater motive in what she was saying.  She took a risk with the young sovereign and called it out.  “The coronet of Alshar has been extremely generous and supportive of the magi, and we seek to repay that in kind.  But it sounds as if you are trying to assure me of something, Your Grace, and I’m curious of precisely what.”

Rardine smiled.  “Of course I am.  I want to assure you that the magi have a home here in Alshar, a home where you will be welcomed and protected.  I could not necessarily say the same for the other duchies . . . say, Remere,” she said, pointedly.

“Ah,” Pentandra sighed, realizing what Rardine was actually talking about. “You’ve heard the rumors about the Ducal Court Wizard position.”

“From three different sources,” confirmed the duchess.  “Two of them also revealed that you were being serious considered for the position.  You are a Remeran, and traditionally the Remeran court wizard has enjoyed a higher status and level of responsibility than the Alshari court wizard.  I would be remiss in my duties to the duchy if I did not inquire about your disposition toward the idea.”

Pentandra considered, allowing a long enough pause to build before she answered.  “I am quite happy in Alshar, Your Grace.  My husband is Alshari – of a sort – and my daughters were born here.  Nor would I enjoy the move to the Remeran court.  That status and responsibility that you spoke of also carries with it a great deal of danger and trouble.”

“Have you not survived three assassination attempts in Alshar?” Rardine asked, an eyebrow raised.  “And battled Nemovorti?  And been in battle?”

“Compared to the intrigues of the Remeran Court and the Game of Whispers played there, I find my tenure in Alshar refreshingly absent of concern,” Pentandra chuckled.  “And the accommodations have been lovely.  Really, Rardine, you have no worry about me abandoning my post for Remere.  As distinguished a position as it is, I’d rather give birth to a siege beast.  Besides,” she continued, softly, “I doubt that Remere would indulge me in some of my vanity projects.”

“The ship,” Rardine nodded.  “Insanely expensive, intensely secret, and I have no idea why you want it.”

“It will be instrumental in the future,” Pentandra predicted.  “The fact that you trust me in that, without a demand for further explanation, is one of the reasons I value my position in Alshar,” she revealed.  “It might be said that if one wanted to embrace the magi, and all of our obscure and deceitful ways, one must also embrace a certain willingness to let us do what must be done without undue explanation.  The ship is necessary.  Your indulgence of letting me build it is a luxury that Remere could never provide.”

“A small price to pay, if it maintains your loyalty,” Rardine agreed.  “Alshar is famous for its shipyards, after all, and I have no doubt that when it is built and launched it will be a testament to Alshari craftsmanship.  But securing your loyalty is only one of my motives.  If you won’t take the job, who will?” she asked, searchingly.

“Any number of candidates could,” reasoned Pentandra, “and any one you might think is favored is unlikely to.  Remeran court politics makes Castal and Alshar look straightforward by comparison.”

“I know.  Half of my ancestry is Remeran.  But it would be best for Alshar if the right candidate got the position,” Rardine explained.  “Rumors also abound that the Duke of Remere is considering leaving the kingdom if Rard does not provide sufficient assistance against the Merwyni incursions on his frontier and a cessation of the Farisian corsairs’ assaults on shipping.”

“Minalan has already dispatched Baron Astyral to assist,” Pentandra reported.  “As soon as the Darkfaller raid is over, the Spellmonger will turn his attention to Remere.”

“Which will anger my brother all the more,” Rardine smiled.  “It will take months for my father to raise an army sufficient to block Merwyn.  If Minalan can manage to do it sooner, do you think he might have some influence over who becomes Remeran Court Wizard?”

“You think it’s that important a post?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“Any time you can count on another duchy’s ministers to act in your favor, you have gained advantage,” Rardine reasoned.  “That was half of my mother’s plan to subvert Alshar.  She had leverage over several of Lenguin’s closest people, and they in turn had substantial influence over his policies.  Having a friendly voice in Remere’s court cannot help but keep the balance of power in the kingdom tipped away from Castal and Tavard’s court.”

“If I may say so, the Castali court is a mess, at the moment,” Pentandra pointed out.

“And I would be shirking my duty to Alshar if I did not move to take advantage of it,” Rardine affirmed.  “Tavard’s wife is Remeran, after all, and I suspect she’s using her own influence there to enhance her political position in Castal.  I need to counter that.”

“We shall see what can be done, Your Grace,” Pentandra suggested, with a slight bow to her head at her scheming sovereign.  “I do not want to become entangled in the Remeran Game of Whispers, but I will seek to do what I can to ensure a candidate friendly to Alshar and the magi is selected.  Of course, there is no assurance that I can do that.”

“But you can try, Pentandra,” Rardine urged.  “The magi are becoming more and more powerful, and the ducal court wizards will have increasing influence in the future.  I want to make sure that such influence benefits Alshar.  Now, as pleasant as this is,” she sighed, “I do need to get to Falas.  There are some important affairs I have to see to, and your assistance in sparring me a three-week journey through the wilderness is greatly appreciated.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed, with a smile.  “I can take you through the Ways directly.  I’m always happy to be of service to Alshar.”

***

The Tower Arcane seemed like a refuge to Pentandra, after the chaos of the last few weeks.  After depositing the Duchess at the palace with a trio of her ladies-in-waiting, Pentandra returned to her official residence for a few hours to see how badly things had fallen apart in her absence.

Much to her surprise, the arcane business of the duchy seemed to be rolling along smoothly without her.  While there was, indeed, a tall stack of parchment awaiting her inspection and approval, there were no bureaucratic crises demanding her attention.  Her staff had largely handled all but the most serious issues – indeed, things seemed almost suspiciously quiet at the Tower Arcane.

Without the warmagi and magical corps around, the clerks and officials in charge of registration, education, and even complaints had managed to keep anything from spiraling out of control, as she had feared.  That was a credit to the capable pool of magi she had assembled – and an interesting assessment of the need for leadership.  As one minor magical official had explained to her, “It’s just easier to get things done when your superiors are on holiday.”

As startled as her staff was by her unanticipated return, they were quite eager to hear her news.  Even though the Mirror Array was located within the compound of the Tower Arcane there was a decided lack of news from the war in Castal – and very little knowledge of Mycin Amana’s bold seizure of Darkfaller.  She spent more than an hour catching everyone up on recent events, including the unexpected raid on Sevendor’s Magic Fair.  And, of course, they were devastated to learn that her apprentice had been among the captured magi – and infuriated that she was fated to become the vehicle for some vile undead monster if she wasn’t rescued.

Indeed, Pentandra was surprised about just how angry her staff was about the matter.  They seemed personally offended and genuinely fearful for poor Alurra.  Pentandra had always thought that her clerks tolerated the strange, blind girl from the Wilderlands simply because she was the court wizard’s apprentice, but as she listened to them rant about how awful the situation was, the more she realized that Alurra had, somehow, manage to charm most of the Tower Arcane without her noticing.

Of course, she had been busy.

But the news of Alurra’s abduction and plans for a rescue did have one unexpected consequence: it rallied the staff in support of the effort.  While Pentandra did not see how a bunch of ink-stained clerks and officious wizards could do much to assist, once they knew that she and the Spellmonger were working on the problem they were enthusiastic about lending any assistance they could.  Pentandra left the meeting feeling gratified about their optimism.  She only wished she felt the same.

It wasn’t that she didn’t think that Minalan would be successful.  Her old friend had surprised her over and over again since he’d risen in power.  Even the madness that plagued him was not of concern.  She’d watched him struggle to master the voices in his head and bend the uncontrollable memories of long-dead ghosts to his purpose, since he’d returned from his expedition.  No, she was certain that Minalan could manage to rescue at least some of the stolen magi.  He was awfully good at that sort of thing.

What worried her was the cost.  She could not imagine a plan that could rescue all of the magi.  There would be casualties.  And not even the assurance of prophecy was sufficient to give her hope that all of the people she knew who were now languishing in Darkfaller’s dungeons would escape unscathed, if at all.  Who would fall in the attempt?  Who was already lost?  As confident as she was in Minalan and the others – particularly Rondal, who had far surpassed her expectations in his role as her deputy – she knew for certain that there would be some losses.

Nor was she certain how the politics of the kingdom would look after the upcoming raid.  Terleman was still occupying a great section of Gilmora, Tavard still had armies in the field, and Grendine was quietly scheming in the background.  A lot could shift in the political world, depending on the outcome of the military expedition.  That worried her more than the idea of corpses of fallen warriors and victims of Mycin Amana’s perversions being returned from Darkfaller.  This was a pivotal moment in the kingdom’s evolution, of that she had no doubt.  Terleman’s unexpected string of victories in Gilmora had put it on a knife’s edge as it was.  In some ways she was grateful for Mycin Amana’s attack, for it forestalled the deep political implications of Terleman’s success.

For if the chivalry at large realized the real power implicit in the High Magi, then Tavard’s accusations of a war between the two factions would gain more credibility.  And an all-out struggle between the two would manifest in many violent and destructive ways.  The only beneficiaries from that kind of conflict had glowing yellow eyes.  Without the institutional strength of the kingdom to defend against them, the Nemovorti could bash the Five Duchies into smaller portions that they could eliminate or subvert piecemeal.  That would be a disaster.

As arrogant as Terleman, Azar, and the other warmagi were about their superiority to the chivalry, Pentandra knew that the horse lords were a vital part of the present social order.  Most Narasi lords were more experienced at managing their estates than charging with a lance, and the former she deemed a far more important function than the latter.  But the idiots on both sides would rush to get themselves killed to prove their superiority, if allowed, and right now only the prospect of a mutual foe and the strong hand of Rard’s rule kept that from happening.  But only for now.

But what if they were successful? she wondered as she made her way to her private quarters to inspect and instruct the household staff.  What if Minalan and his warrior wizards managed to smash Mycin Amana out of Castal in such a way that invited the chivalry to take offense?  That could prove as disastrous to the health of the kingdom as a defeat at Darkfaller, she knew.  And while she was loyal to her friends and her class, her first sworn duty was to Alshar, where the mundane knights and lords were far, far more numerous and essential than the few High Magi who had taken residence there.  That presented a problem.  A hundred problems.

She had just finished lecturing the maids and drudges about preparing for her family’s return from Vanador for the season when she contacted one of those problems, mind-to-mind.  Rondal was in the field somewhere, preparing his specialized teams of warmagi for the coming raid, and she wanted an update to pass along to Rardine.  Ten minutes later she felt assured that her deputy had everything he needed for the fight, and all was in readiness.  Indeed, he sounded cocky about it – until it came to the matter of Minalan’s state of mind.  And there was little she could say to sooth his anxiety about that.  Rondal was Minalan’s former apprentice, and he knew him almost as well as Pentandra did – better, in some ways.

But despite his loyalty and his competence, Pentandra was starting to see Rondal as one of the problems that was rising.  The good-natured lad had become famous in Alshar for his rise to power at the Spellmonger’s knee, which was hard enough to contend with.  But then he had gotten betrothed to Gatina and inadvertently inspired her to do brave, bold, and ill-advised things that had directly led to the restoration of Anguin to his full legacy.

It wasn’t even Gatina who was the problem.  It was her family.  And her extended family, the Coastlords who had conspired so successfully against Count Vichetral.  Pentandra had learned much about their efforts against the deposed and executed usurper, and while part of her was gratified, as a fellow descendant of the Imperial Magocracy, part of her was also deeply disturbed by just how effective they’d been at undermining power.

And now they had irionite.

Gatina’s mysterious parents were at the core of a group of emerging magelords who threatened to disturb the delicate balance of politics in ways she could only begin to suspect.  Now that the Censorate was banished from the entire kingdom, the ancient houses were beginning to reassert their old prerogatives and scheme for greater power in southern Alshar.  Anguin had hoped that establishing the Magelaw and supporting the development of Vanador on the ashes of the old Wilderlands would provide a place for the magi to live.  But the new magelords of southern Alshar saw little reason to flee to the cold northlands when they could enjoy flexing their new strength in more comfortable and familiar surroundings.

Rondal’s impending marriage to Gatina was a token of that rise.  The valiant warmagi of the Wilderlands had a certain romantic appeal to the jaded Coastlord families, she’d seen, echoing the fascination of the folk of Enultramar with the gallant Wilderlords who had served Alshar so well over the centuries.  Rondal’s quaint accent and quiet charm had made his alliance with House Furtius and its extended network of Coastlords and magelords a potential danger to the future of the state.  Minalan had been handing out witchstones to them like sweet buns at a festival.  They were all too willing to use that newfound strength to develop political power, perhaps enough to rival the sovereignty of the duke.

That was worrisome.  Oh, the Furtiusi and the other Coastlord houses had been terribly loyal to Anguin, it was true; Minny had proven to be adept at helping Rardine establish the Garden Society and expand it rapidly to defend Alshar from all sorts of threats.  But Pentandra also suspected that part of her motivation – and her support of her future son-in-law – was to have access to power and the resources that Rondal’s position provided.  Pentandra was always suspicious of that sort of thing.  It was a classic move in the Game of Whispers.  It did not make her less wary because the alliance was currently working in Anguin’s favor; if anything, it made her more concerned. Loyalties could change.

She had just finished ordering her supper from the kitchen when another voice begged for her attention, mind-to-mind.

Pentandra, I think we’re ready, Minalan reported to her, as she made herself comfortable in her chamber.

You are? she asked, surprised.  That was quicker than I expected.  Do you have a plan?

We do, Minalan affirmed.  More importantly, I’ve finished the construction of the tools I need to do it.  Well, finished might be a strong term – but I’ve made it operational, for now, and it should be adequate for what I have in mind.  I’ll continue improving it afterward, but it’s ready for a field test.

You sound more enthusiastic about that than the actual rescue, Pentandra noted.

Well, the one serves the other, Minalan argued.  We’re dealing with necromantic magic and Alka Alon sorcery and . . . well, perhaps other things.  Our normal tools were inadequate.  This one, though . . . with this I can strike at their defenses in ways they do not suspect we have.  And attack them from directions they are not anticipating.  He sounded smug about it, which didn’t worry Pentandra.  Minalan didn’t usually get smug about something unless he had good reason to.

And Rard has approved this? she asked, always concerned about the politics of the matter.

He has, Minalan agreed.  I even found a useful role for his idiot son.  Terleman and his staff have put together a good plan of attack, one that uses surprise and misdirection to great effect.  But it will be tricky, he confessed.   I wouldn’t dare attempt it without recourse to these new tools.  And it will require some audacity, of which we have a goodly supply.

I have no doubt, Pentandra agreed, drolly.  You really have an answer to Mycin Amana’s necromancy?  One that doesn’t require an orgy?

Ishi’s services will not be required – I hope, Minalan agreed, with a mental chuckle.  As diverting as that sort of thing might be, I think I now have the power to deconstruct the spells Mycin Amana has set to ward the place, which was key.  Vibrant energy counters and diminishes necromancy, but I’m attacking this problem in an entirely new way.  I understand it better, now, he boasted.  And with this new toy I should be able to take it apart like I’m paring a pumpkin for a pie.

I truly hope so, Pentandra said, sincerely.  Minalan sounded like his old, arrogant self, for once.  That gave her some hope.  Confidence was contagious.  When do you attack?

I’m sending out the alert as soon as I’m done speaking with you.  All teams need to be in position and ready to attack at dawn, tomorrow.  And once we start, we’re going to be committed.

Chapter Six

A Worm On The Plaza

Lorcus

The wide, white cobbled plaza in front of Sevendor’s new castle was filled with the sounds of men preparing for battle in the pre-dawn gloom.  Lorcus barely glanced at the castle as he inspected his armor and equipment spread out over his cloak by magelight.  The structure of the fortress was nearing completion, with wooden scaffolding covering the white snowstone blocks that were stretching toward the dark sky.  He’d always been fascinated by the thing, but today Lorcus ignored it.  He was preparing for the battle to come – the battle he’d spent every waking hour focused on since the Magic Fair.

He’d barely slept since that awful day.  He’d taken a room in the castle, shared with his sister-in-law Caerwyn, while the plans for the raid were being made.  He had sparred with his fellows and sharpened his mageblade and prepared his own special battlefield enchantments at the bouleuterion.  He ate when Caerwyn put food in front of him and slept when he could no longer avoid it, but the last thought in his mind before unconsciousness was of Callwyn.  She was also the first thought in his mind when he woke.

There was never any question that he was going to be part of Sevendor’s significant contribution toward the raid.  When the word came that Minalan had set a time, he had arrived the night before and slept on the plaza in his cloak, despite the cool autumn night.  He was soon joined by other warmagi with as grim a purpose in their expressions as he wore.  So many of them had been affected by the mass kidnapping that finding volunteers for the magical corps hadn’t been difficult.

Someone had conjured the image of a water clock ticking down the time until the attack.  Lorcus knew that it would be wrong because no military action ever started on time, even when timing was crucial.  That was an immutable rule of the universe, he was convinced.  But it gave him something to look forward to, something to focus on beyond his worry and his rage.

For Lorcus felt a rage that burned hotter than he’d ever suspected he was capable of.  Ordinarily he took a dispassionate approach to warfare, treating it as a game or a puzzle to be solved.  There was none of that, this time.  He had no elaborate plan, no clever scheme, he merely had a purpose: to find Callwyn, take her from that place, and slay everything that dared stand in his way.

It was a simple plan, to his mind.  It even had a kind of simplistic elegance to it.

Soon the unit commanders began to assemble their teams, and the officers began to give final instructions and conduct inspections of the warmagi gathered – and there were a lot of them.  Lorcus saw a number of old comrades, of course, but he also saw a lot of new faces – veterans of the Wilderlands campaigns, and the recent raids in the Westlands.  A lot of sparks were slinging a lot of glass around, he noted.  He hadn’t suspected that so many would be armed with irionite, but there seemed to be plenty of new high magi donning armor and preparing for the show.

In time Rondal approached him, already armored, a scroll in his hands.  He quickly conjured a magemap of Darkfaller – Lorcus had studied all the parchment maps of the place he could get his hands on, but he appreciated that someone had built this one.  It confirmed much of what he suspected about the great, sprawling castle: it was a dump.

Lorcus had a fine appreciation for a well-designed, well-built fortification, of course.  Castles were easier to defend and more comfortable to garrison than camping outside.  But Darkfaller had started as a temporary fort that had been expanded again and again as the Castali ambition to conquer or steal Gilmora was developed by generations of dukes over the course of a century.  The result was – to his eye – a ramshackle fortress of competing architectural styles and poor design decisions that his critical eye had seen fit to exploit.  Darkfaller was effective as a defensive fortification and a place of political power largely because it was large, not because it was particularly well-made.

But you couldn’t deny that it was large.  It could hold tens of thousands of troops and their mounts if you could feed them.  Only a few castles rivaled it, in his experience – though it appeared that Sevendor Castle would certainly be one, when it was complete.  But Darkfaller was massive.  That was a lot of castle to attack.  And it had a great many places where prisoners could be kept.

Lorcus didn’t care.  He would search every inch of the place until he found Callwyn, or he wasn’t coming back.

“Your station will be here,” Rondal told Lorcus, pointing toward a tower in the northeastern corner of the magemap.  “You’re part of the defensive force we chose for the Spellmonger, under Taren’s command.  You’ll emerge with Minalan and his staff to take the top of this tower, where he can oversee the battle.  That’s assuming he can drop the necromantic shield that they’ve put over Darkfaller,” he conceded.  “From there, you are to protect Minalan for the duration of the battle, until he signals that everything is ready for the second phase.”

“When can I go seek my wife?” Lorcus asked, hoarsely.

“When Minalan tells you everything is ready for the second phase,” repeated Rondal, patiently.  “He has a list of requirements that must be met before that happens.  Moving prematurely could endanger the hostages and the success of the mission.  Do you understand?” Rondal asked the Remeran with far more emphasis than a commander might ordinarily put into the question.

Lorcus understood why he’d done so; he respected Rondal and found the lad a good companion, as well as a canny warmage.  He also understood that Rondal was attempting to execute the well-thought-out orders of his superiors and ensure that no one spark would cock it all up.  He could appreciate that.  He’d seen all too often what happened when some idiot decided that he knew better than the commander . . . even when the commander might himself be an idiot.  It was unprofessional.  It got people killed and battles lost.

Lorcus did not care.  When it came to Callwyn, he was willing to be that idiot.  Nothing else mattered.

“Wenek’s squadron will enter here,” Rondal continued, indicating a spot east of the tower.  “He and his men will take control of the gatehouse and hold it against reinforcements.  Hopefully the Nemovorti will have all of them out chewing on Tavard’s forces, but we can’t be certain.  Azar will lead the squadron that attacks the southern flank, here,” he said, pointing to a long square fortress flanked by a couple of towers.  “That’s where the lower power magi are being held, from what our intelligence says.  And Terleman himself will lead the sortie against the central keep,” he advised.

That sparked Lorcus’ interest.  “Terl?  He’s going in personally?”

“With a double-sized squadron,” agreed Rondal.  “His hand-picked people.  The central keep is where the most-valuable captives are being held – most valuable to Mycin Amana, not us,” he explained.

“It’s not common for a supreme commander to take the field,” Lorcus said, doubtfully.  “That’s how battles get lost.”

“In this instance, with Minalan looking down from that tower, Terleman thinks it’s the best strategic solution,” Rondal countered.  “Terleman is itching to confront the Nemovorti personally and instill a bit of dread in them.  He thinks that will add morale to our troops and diminish that in our foe.”

“Sounds like a vainglorious trip to the tombs, if you ask me,” shrugged Lorcus.  “Terl’s good on the field, don’t mistake me,” he quickly cautioned.  “None better.  But you don’t put your most valuable piece in play that early in the game,” he reasoned.  “It’s just not classy.”

“He thinks it is worth the strategic risk,” reasoned Rondal.

“I think he’s just trying to impress his boyfriend, but he’s the commander,” shrugged Lorcus.  “I won’t say I’ve not done worse.”

“Those are the assault squadrons,” Rondal said, diplomatically ignoring the comment.  “There is a fifth squadron on the bank of the river, commanded by Mavone, prepared to secure the escape.  And there are two more squadrons held in reserve if things get sticky.”

“Things are going to get sticky,” conceded Lorcus, as he gazed at the magemap.  “That castle is full of sticky, I can feel it,” he emphasized, as he rubbed his chin.  “It was bad enough when it was just a bunch of Castali lance-monkeys holding it.  Now there’s undead, wyverns, scrugs, Enshadowed sorcerers, and a score of Nemovorti there, and the gods only know what else.  Might even be a dragon,” he proposed, thoughtfully.

“From our intelligence – as unreliable as it is – Korbal, or whoever is ruling in his stead, is being stingy with dragons, apparently.  Too many losses in the field to clever magi,” Rondal said, with a trace of boast in his voice.  Lorcus remembered that he’d been instrumental in slaying the beast that ate Vorone.  By all accounts it really was a clever slaying, and bold in its execution.  That gave him a little more confidence in the mission ahead.  “Besides, dragons are good at destroying castles, not defending them.  But I won’t discount the possibility of some surprises, either.  Indeed, I’m prepared for it.”

“And that’s where the sticky part comes in,” Lorcus agreed.  “Just when you’re all set to fight dragons, they send you giants or siege beasts or wyverns or overly belligerent opossums or something,” he said with a rueful snort.  “What’s our plan for ‘sticky’?”

Rondal sighed.  “Do the best we can and be clever,” he admitted.  “That’s about all we can do.  We have a lot of hot sparks in the reserves, and Minalan will be there.  He’s always got something novel in his purse.  Sometimes it works.  And Tyndal will be there with you, to take tactical command of that tower.  He’s had a lot of experience with unexpected creatures.  Not as good against a sorcerer, perhaps, but he’s good with the slimy, crawly sorts of things.  You should hear him go on about Anghysbel.”

“Perhaps after this is over and we get our womenfolk back,” Lorcus agreed.  “I don’t mind protecting Min’s noble arse up there in the tower – I like a good view.  But the moment I can, I’m going after my wife.”

“If things go well, that shouldn’t take long, and she’ll be among the first to escape.  Our exit is closest to the tower, and that’s where she’s being held.  In a way, you’re lucky,” he noted.  “You’ll know where she is.  Gatina could be anyplace in that pile of rocks and doing anything.  I’m going to have to wait for her to come to me, after she’s done indulging in dangerous deeds.  She does that,” he said, his voice filled with resignation.

“So does my wife,” agreed Lorcus.  “Keeps the excitement alive in a marriage.  That’s why I have to get her back,” he concluded.  “I can’t . . .”

“I know,” Rondal said, hoarsely.  “I can’t, either.  And we will.  It’s just going to be . . . sticky.  At least you won’t have a bunch of in-laws on the field in battle,” he offered.  “My future brother-in-law and my future father-in-law are insisting on being included.  That puts a bit of pressure on a man.”

Lorcus raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “To the contrary, I will.  My sister-in-law is going.  She’s part of my squadron.”

Rondal stared at him in confusion. “You want to take a noncombatant witch into battle?” he asked, skeptically.

“I couldn’t keep her from it,” Lorcus sighed.  “She’s as mad to rescue Olmeg as I am her sister.”  As if he’d summoned her, a short, curvy woman approached them with two big leather satchels.  She bore a heavy pack on her shoulders as well.

“Hello, Love!” Lorcus called, as he made room for her on his cloak.  “We were just talking about you.  Vicious gossip,” he teased.  “Ready for your big day?”

“This is a big day for all of us,” she said, setting down the heavy bags.  She was armored, after a fashion, bearing a leather breastplate that wouldn’t interfere with her ability to tend to someone in the field.  Lorcus had mage-hardened the armor himself.  It was crossed with a fighting harness like a warmage, only with more pouches, presumably filled with medicines.  She wore a simple helmet made of that new steel from Vanador, emblazoned with the red drop of blood symbol Lilastien was using for her medics.  “I’ve got enough bandages and potions in here to cure a village,” she boasted.

“We might need them,” Rondal said, darkly.  “You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked the witch, doubtfully.

“Until I get my husband back, there is nothing else to do,” Caerwyn countered.

“You have something to protect yourself?” the young commander asked.

To answer she pulled out a short but heavy-bladed sword from the small of her back.  Rondal looked at it in surprise.  It was serrated down one side, giving it a particularly vicious cast.  “Impressive!” he admired.

“It’s for defense, of course, but it can also be used for emergency battlefield amputations,” she explained, running her thumb over the serrations.  “Lilastien says that sometimes you just have to cut and run, if you’re going to save someone’s life.”

“I wonder what Olmeg would say if he could see you,” chuckled Lorcus.  “I know Callwyn would tell you that you looked ridiculous.  She’d be wrong, but that’s what she’d tell you.”

“As long as you’re ready,” conceded Rondal, giving Lorcus a final glance.  “There will be a horn call to prepare for departure, and then a bell that will signal that the portal is open.”

“We’re not going through the Ways?” Lorcus asked, surprised.

“Not this time.  Minalan has come up with something else,” Rondal explained.  “The Waypoints at Darkfaller may be compromised and Minalan doesn’t want to attack in a way that they’re expecting.  Of course, he’s doing just that by sending in Tavard and his army to feint at their gates,” he revealed.  “According to our plan, the prince and his brave men should have taken the village outside of the castle last night.  By morning they’ll be lined up, banners fluttering, ready to charge.  Just as one would expect a knight to do,” he added with a derisive snort.

“He has a siege train?” Lorcus asked, surprised.

“No, he’s not supposed to besiege the place.  Mostly Min wants him to wave his lance around and make a lot of dunderheaded demands to keep their attention.  Then our squadrons will start coming in behind them . . . assuming he can drop their wards,” he added.  Lorcus detected a bit of anxiety in the lad’s voice when he admitted that.

“Do you think he can?” Lorcus asked, an eyebrow raised.

“If anyone can, it’s Minalan,” sighed Rondal.  “Now, let me go speak to my future father-in-law,” he said, even more anxiety in his voice.  “He’s just shown up wearing warmage armor, and he’s . . . he’s wearing it wrong, and I have to tell him.”

“That should be pleasant,” smiled Lorcus.  “Good luck, lad!”

“You, too,” Rondal nodded toward them.  “And be careful.  Things are going to get sticky,” he reminded Lorcus, as he wandered off.

“Nice boy, him,” Caerwyn nodded.  “He seems too nice to be a warmage.”

“Well, we’re not all uncultured brutish psychopaths – I’m special,” Lorcus admitted.  “Are you certain you haven’t forgotten anything?” he prompted, looking at her bags.  He was partially being sarcastic, but he liked to ensure everyone under his command had an extra pair of socks, a water bottle and a snack for later before they went into battle – as well as anything else they might need. From the looks of things, Caerwyn was well supplied.

“Lilastien checked herself, before she brought me through.  She’s setting up a field hospital in the old castle,” she informed him.  “Purslane is there.  Volunteered for nursing duty, since you wouldn’t let him go with us.  A lot of Tal did.”

“As adorable as he’d be in armor, battle is no place for a Tal Alon, no matter how loyal,” Lorcus pointed out.  “He’ll just have to give up his fantasies about stabbing an evil dark lord in the ankle.  Not something that would really win a battle, I think.”

“I think he’s relieved you forbade it,” snickered Caerwyn.  “He’s quite gallant, at heart, but he’s also afraid of getting hurt.”

“I don’t need a fuzzy wuzzy underfoot like a frightened cat while I’m dueling with dragons.  I’m going to have enough to do just keeping you from getting hurt.”  That remarked pained his sister-in-law, and he immediately regretted it.  But, to his surprise, she bit her lip and nodded.  She was, after all, the reasonable one amongst the two sisters.

“I’ll try not to put myself in danger,” she promised.  “But I really want to go.  I need . . . I need to save him, Lorcus.  Both of them.”

“I know, lass,” he sighed.  “It’s all I can think about, too.”

It genuinely surprised him at how quickly he and Callwyn had fallen in love and wed, and how disturbingly well they had both taken to marriage.  He’d never considered himself the domestic type – indeed, he’d never planned to wed.  He’d predicted a short, glorious life that came to a bloody end on some battlefield, not the comfortable life of a country lord in Amel’s Wood.

But what had really startled his sensibilities wasn’t how easily he and Callwyn had settled down into domestic bliss, it was how easily Caerwyn and her great oafish husband had become part of that new family.

The Lord and Lady of Hollyburrow were frequent visitors to the tower at Amel’s Wood, and Lorcus found he and Callwyn visiting the little Tal Alon enclave at the center of Sevendor domain nearly every time they popped through the ways to go to market.  Watching Olmeg and Caerwyn’s own romance blossom like a particularly burly flower was intriguing and entertaining.  There was no doubt that the two loved each other deeply, and that they’d both found comfort in their marriage that seemed appallingly natural.

So Lorcus felt doubly insulted that both his wife and his favorite brother-in-law had been taken so unjustly.  He would have been here ready to kill things if it had just been Olmeg who’d been taken.  He had a deep affection for the unnecessarily tall, barefooted Green Mage that had only grown over the course of the last several months.  He felt he had a deeper understanding of the quiet man’s mind, now that he’d seen him more intimately.  Indeed, he now counted Olmeg as one of his best friends, as well as a family member he was duty-bound to avenge.

For Lorcus wasn’t the sort of Remeran to entertain himself with all of that Game of Whispers rubbish his people were so famous for.  He’d come from country stock, honest peasant folk who preferred the simple pleasures in life, not the contrived machinations of the nobility.  But he was Remeran.  He understood revenge at his core, and the way he felt about the crime Mycin Amana committed against him, there was nothing that was going to stop him taking it.  And if there was anything Lorcus could do to take a piss in her metaphorical porridge, he was eagerly looking forward to it.  She would find out what half a worm tasted like.

“Lorcus!” Taren called, from across the plaza a great spear in his hand.  “Are you ready?  Horn call, soon!” he said, pointing toward the conjured waterclock.

“Quivering in anticipation, my lord,” Lorcus assured his commander.  He turned to Caerwyn.  “Last chance to pee before battle, lass,” he reminded her.

“I went before I got in armor,” she said, making a face.  “I . . .  I’m actually a little nervous about this.  It’s my first battle,” she reminded him.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” Lorcus assured her as he began to secure his weapons in their straps.  “We’re supposed to come out at the top of a tower, if no one told you.  You should be fairly safe for most of the battle.  Just duck when I say duck, and run when I tell you to run.  Leave the killing and slaying and slaughtering to me.  You just stand there and look on admiringly and encourage my manly prowess.”

“And then stitch you back together again when you’re bleeding all over the place,” nodded Caerwyn thoughtfully.

“That’s the manliest part,” he agreed, stretching his arms.  “Not long now . . .”

“Lorcus, what are our chances?” she asked, suddenly.  “I mean, our real chances?  This sounds like it could go horribly, horribly wrong.”

“All battles go horribly, horribly wrong, lass,” agreed Lorcus.  “I won’t lie, this one has more potential for that than most.  But I trust Minalan has pulled some incredibly impressive bit of enchantment out of his arse and is going to make it go wrong in truly splendid fashion.  The truth is, this might be as hard as the Battle of Olum Seheri, where he assailed the dread Necromancer Korbal and the Dead God Sheruel at the same time and nearly got himself killed.  A lot of other people got killed in that one, too.  Battles are dangerous,” he shrugged.

“And yet you plunge into them with brash confidence,” she noted.

“To do any less is to give your enemy an unfair advantage.  That wouldn’t be sporting.”

“Minalan’s in position!” Taren bellowed, as he walked through the crowd.  The tall, lanky warmage looked like he hadn’t slept in a while, either, and he was barking like an ancient drilling new recruits.  “We’ll depart according to the plan through a portal he will create from the field.  He said get ready to bring the fire to Darkfaller!”  he added, inspiring a ragged cheer from the magical corps.  A moment later a horn sounded.

“Five minutes,” Lorcus told Caerwyn, unnecessarily.  “Get your dancing slippers on.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” the witch assured him as she pulled the straps of her satchels over her head.

Only then, as the squadrons of warmagi prepared for their departure, did Lorcus look up at the growing face of Sevendor Castle.  It gave him a feeling of security to know it was there, and seemed to promise victory somehow.  The Karshak had designed it cleverly in so many ways that he had no doubt that the pretty thing would be proof against the monsters of the world when it was done.

And that might be necessary, he reflected.  He hadn’t been following the war carefully lately because he’d been distracted by domestic bliss with Callwyn – and convincing his hill men to accept the Tal Alon colony that was now in his care at Amel’s Wood.  But the news from Vanador had been overwhelmingly positive, from what he could recall: one flat-headed Nemovorti after another had led their legions against Minalan and his friends and been ground into sausage.  Likewise, Terleman’s string of victories against the Castali knights in Gilmora had been of passing professional interest to him – but nothing compared to the pleasure of studying Callwyn’s piercing eyes every night.

But now he tried to recall the details of those tales, as he gazed up at the big white castle.  Ordinarily he considered his superiors idiots, wisdom he had tested many times in his long career as a mercenary warmage.  He was usually right.  But he had to consider all the victories, all the clever stratagems that the Spellmonger had contrived – with plenty of assistance – to fight the undead and the goblins and everything else that had threatened him, and he had to alter his opinion.  He respected the character and the skills of the magical corps that Minalan had assembled in Sevendor.  They were smart, powerful, and valiant, and the Spellmonger himself was reasonably good in battle, if not occasionally inspired.  No matter how sticky things became, he trusted Minalan to find some way to prevail.  He was a far, far superior quality of idiot than most commanders.

“I thought we were going five minutes after the horn,” complained Caerwyn, behind him.  “It’s starting to get light, already!”

“These things never start on time,” shrugged Lorcus.  “It’s some sort of rule, or something.”

“Would you think less of me that now I have to pee?” his sister-in-law asked in a low voice.

Lorcus chuckled.  “That’s another rule.  I suppose we’ll just have to hurry through the battle, then.”

“Lorcus,” Caerwyn said, her voice unexpectedly filled with emotion, “thanks for doing this.  Truly.  Even if we fail, you have my gratitude, forever.  And thanks for bringing me along,” she added.  “I don’t think most men would take that risk.”

“The risk will be what Olmeg and Callwyn will do to me when they find out I let you come to a battle,” Lorcus pointed out.  “Neither one of them would be in favor of this plan.”

“Well, it’s good that they aren’t here, then,” Caerwyn said, and then laughed, nervously.

“It’s not too late to stay behind,” Lorcus reminded her.  “Once that bell rings and that portal opens, you’re committed.”

“I haven’t lost my nerve,” Caerwyn promised.  “I’m just impatient.  And a little anxious.  But I’ll be fine.  Anyone who has survived a Tal Alon orgy shouldn’t be cowed by something as simple as a battle.”

That made Lorcus laugh.  The four of them hadn’t spoken of the occasion of their meeting to many, but it was a constant inside joke to the two couples.

Then it happened.  Somewhere a great bronze bell rang a single time, the tone reverberating across the cobbled plaza.  Everywhere he looked the warmagi began to draw weapons and take their positions.

A great upswell of arcane power filled the place immediately afterward as everyone cast their defensive spells and readied their protections.  The great arch at the end of the plaza – something Minalan had the Karshak build for him recently – seemed to shimmer, like there was a gentle waterfall just on the other side.  A moment later there was a kind of popping in his ears, and Lorcus felt a draft emanate from the great arch.

“First sortie, into the portal!” bellowed Terleman, his voice augmented by magic.  A group of a score or so of heavily armed warmagi dutifully started screaming war cries and running into the thaumaturgical field under the arch.  That was the one Azar commanded, Lorcus recalled.  They disappeared at once.

Then the field under the arch shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Second sortie!” Terleman directed, drawing his own blade and leading forty or more warmagi into the portal.

One by one the units departed into the unknown, until Taren led Lorcus and Caerwyn and two dozen others to the front of the line.  “Stay alert!” Taren reminded them.   “We could get hit the moment we cross the threshold.  And watch the skies!  We’re going to be particularly vulnerable to wyverns!”

Lorcus gathered his resolve and put on his war face . . . only to be startled by an unexpected kiss on his cheek from his sister-in-law.

“For luck,” she explained.  “Let’s go get my husband and sister!” she directed, as they moved forward.

Confidence in hand, Lorcus nodded, and began to jog toward the shimmering plane, drawing his mageblade as he went.  His other hand found a warwand he was fond of . . . and shoulder to shoulder with his sister-in-law, he plunged into battle.

Chapter Seven

Aloft Over Darkfaller

Dara

Dara looked down over Frightful’s wingtips as she banked around the familiar-looking castle below.  Even with the Cat’s Eye spell activated, it was difficult to make out the details in the darkness, particularly in the areas where the enemy’s defensive spellworks were obscuring her sight.  It was as if Darkfaller Castle had been wrapped within a skein of thick, dirty yarn that swallowed arcane energies directed at it.

Still, Dara was adept at observation at this point.  She’d flown in scores of battles, now, everywhere from Sevendor to the Wilderlands, not to mention the dark skies over Olum Seheri.  At this point, she could tell an awful lot of what was happening on the ground without resorting to magic.  And it wasn’t what was happening within the imposing stone curtain walls of the keep that was the focus of her attention.

As daunting as the spellworks of the Nemovorti were, she was far more interested in the progress being made by the large cavalry force approaching the castle from the southeast in the darkness.  That was Tavard’s army, she knew, which had spent the last two days putting itself into position to strike – not at the castle, but at retaking the village – Darkfaller Village, of course – that supplied and supported the mighty fortress when it was under human control.

It was deserted, she knew from making countless flyovers of the sprawling village in the last ten days.  The people had fled or been captured after the Nemovorti had conquered the castle and began sending out raiding parties to secure a workforce to toil on their behalf.  Those too slow to escape were now slaves to Mycin Amana, being forced to dig trenches, build walls, and do the other necessary work required to keep a castle that large from crumbling.  The streets of the place had been empty when Tavard’s first force of scouts had made a sortie to the village.  Only a few pesky undead had patrolled its cobbled streets and marketplace.

Now it was showing signs of life again as Tavard began to reoccupy it.  There were torches and campfires everywhere as at least seven or eight thousand troops began to make their encampments there.  They were doing little to hide their movements, now that they had retaken it – it was as if Tavard wanted to proclaim his victory over the undefended village as a token of his own power.

Tavard was a boob.  Of that Dara was certain.  From the first time she’d met the prince in Wilderhall, during a break from the Great March through the Wilderlands, she had formed a low opinion of him.  He was handsome enough, of course.  He had his father’s features, save for his lips and eyes, which were purely from the queen.  But he also possessed an arrogance and haughtiness that Dara found repugnant, and twice so in a future ruler.

Nor was she impressed by his capacity to command.  After working with talented lords like Minalan and Terleman and Pentandra, she was acutely aware of the failings of those rulers who demanded flattery and praise that had been unearned.  More, he was a bully – as bad as any adolescent peasant boy who’d grown into his strength before his head had sprouted any sense.  Dara loathed bullies.

But he could lead the cavalry, she knew.  Indeed, that seemed to be his only provable skill.

His men had erected a series of pickets around Darkfaller Village in a competent manner, screening their empty holding while units of mercenary crossbowmen and conscripted archers were marched overland by night.  The main roads into the village had large squadrons of light horse guarding them.  Tents were being erected around the eastern and southern sides, and wains full of supplies and gear were arriving.  By dawn, she reckoned, there would be field kitchens, hospital tents, armorer’s wagons, and depots full of arrows and bolts for the archers being established.  It had all the hallmarks of a professional military preparing to besiege a castle.

And absolutely none of it would be effective against Mycin Amana’s foul troops, she knew.

Oh, cavalry could clear the field of undead, if they were disciplined enough.  Archers could take a heavy toll on goblins in the field.  If those were the only threats Tavard faced, he might stand a chance, even against superior numbers.

But Mycin Amana had brought with her plenty of her fellow Nemovorti, powerful undead who were practiced in magic and brutality.  She’d brought hundreds of Enshadowed sorcerers and warriors, Alka Alon renegades who’d been practicing their dark skills for centuries in preparation for this war and who were armed with irionite spheres laden with sophisticated battle spells.  There were legions of common undead – fresh corpses reanimated by magic and capable of simple tasks, like standing watch or killing helpless peasants.  And there were, by her estimation, at least a few hundred draugen, the bodies of human magi which had been infested with the consciousness of long-dead sea creatures willing to do the bidding of their Nemovorti masters.

Tavard’s army, as impressive as it was, had no chance against that combination.

And then there were the wyverns.  Dara hated the things.  The Wyverns were great flying reptiles with poisoned fangs, toxic tail spikes and vicious teeth. These had originally been mere pests no longer than her arm.  But then Mycin Amana and her sorcerers had enlarged them enough to be formidable against human warriors, large enough to be ridden.  They seemed a mockery of the grace and beauty of the giant hawks she’d worked so diligently on, as the foul folk who used them as steeds were a mockery of her Sky Riders.

Apart from field observations, Dara’s Mewstower was responsible for screening Darkfaller Village from the air, now that Tavard had taken control.  Well, half her Mewstower, two Wings’ worth of birds and riders.  The other half was awaiting orders back in Sevendor, acting as reserves with the Vanadori and Alka Alon Mews . . . and the new Mewstower that had yet to be settled to guard Castal.

Minalan did not want to reveal the airborne strength Tavard had at his command yet for strategic reasons.  She could appreciate the wisdom of that decision.  Dara’s Wing was being discreet in their maneuvers.  She only had one in the sky at a time, and they did little but fly patrols and warn off the riderless wyverns that Mycin Amana had unleashed to harass the countryside and demoralize the humans of central Castal.

But now she had to use them to protect that royal snot Tavard and his strutting knights, which galled her.  The only solace she had from the orders was that she was protecting them from someone even worse, the dark sorceress who had taken the living body of Isily of Greenflower as her vehicle and who saw the wholesale slaughter and eventual extermination of humanity as a pleasant benefit of her ambitions to further Korbal’s plans for domination.

Yes, Tavard was a boob and a bully, unfit to command and incapable of ruling, in Dara’s estimation, but Mycin Amana was a true enemy.  If Minalan wanted to use Tavard and his knights as bait to absorb the lethal damage Darkfaller promised to deliver, she could not think of a better candidate.

It was time to make her report, she realized.  The skies around her were growing lighter with the approaching dawn, and her patrols were complete.  Dara sighed, and reached out to Terleman, mind-to-mind.

Commander, it’s Dara, she announced, and then proceeded to relay her observations.  Tavard’s army has retaken the village and established pickets while they bring up reinforcements and support.  No real resistance, so far, apart from a couple of walking corpses.  Darkfaller hasn’t sent any force to contest the move, but there’s no way it could have escaped notice.

And the castle, itself? the warmage asked, tersely.  Dara had grown used to the brooding warrior’s brutal efficiency in communications and come to appreciate it.  Terleman didn’t like a lot of useless information, she’d learned long ago.  Best to keep her answers short and meaningful.

Not much change in activity, she admitted.  They’ve got sentries on the walls, guards at the gates, and they’ve built a few defensive trenchworks and tunnels around the outer walls, but that’s about it.  They don’t seem bothered by Tavard’s recent movements.

How are the skies looking? Terleman responded, a moment later.

Not much activity at all, she reported, truthfully.  She’d only seen two wyverns in the night’s sky, and both had been close to the castle.  It’s quiet.  If you wanted to attack an unsuspecting castle, today would be a good day to do it, she proposed.

Which makes me suspicious, Terleman admitted.  I think Mycin Amana is trying to allure Tavard into thinking that she’s defenseless or unprepared in an effort to ensnare him.  And he’s dumb enough to believe that.

I cannot argue that point, Dara said, truthfully, surprised at the level of contempt that came through the magical connection.  He’s already got a small force of a thousand mounted and ready to ride to the castle walls with a challenge.  Another thousand seem to be arming.  I would guess that he’s hoping he can sweep in with that few troops and take the castle quickly.

Those are not his orders, Terleman said, flatly.  Let me know if he shows any signs of doing that.

I will, she promised.  I’m going to make one more circuit of the castle and then land for an hour or so.  The Second Wing can take the skies until the assault begins, and then we’ll join them a little refreshed.

Appropriate, Terleman agreed.  We’ll speak later.  And then he was gone.

Dara admired the dour commander; she always had.  Terleman seemed the epitome of the professional warmage, even more so than her former master and current liege, Minalan.

It wasn’t about fighting, she decided, or even about strategy.  Terleman knew how to command and lead, as well as fight.  His men were efficient and attentive to their duty because they loved their commander, not because they feared him.  And he seemed to take their welfare in mind constantly.  Whenever Dara and her Riders had been under Terleman’s command, he had made a point of making sure that they were provided with what they needed to fly and fight, and he was always cautious and thoughtful about how he used the specialized units.

The other Mewstowers agreed – indeed, Terleman’s ability was one of the few things that they did agree on, but Nattia and Ithalia were both as admiring of Terleman as she was.  Among all the land-bound leaders Terleman seemed to have an appreciation for how the Sky Riders and their fearsome steeds could be used . . . and how they could not.

She banked Frightful to the right and began to climb to a higher altitude as they soared toward the river.  A smaller village, known as Trimony on the maps, existed just outside of Darkfaller’s imposing gates and guarded the bridge that spanned the river.  Trimony was filled with Enshadowed and gurvani, now, keeping any possible forays against the castle at bay.  Perhaps as many as a thousand of them, she estimated as she flew overhead.

Beyond that was the open countryside of Gilmora, a pretty place filled with farmsteads and cotton fields, and forests and the occasional gently sloping hill.  It was a pretty country, especially in the dawn, but she followed the course of the river, instead, keeping her distance from the castle walls.  That was the usual flight pattern she’d chosen in her patrols, and she did not want to arouse any suspicion amongst the foe by departing from it today, of all days.

The river joined the tributary at the northwest corner of the castle – the oldest section which was, theoretically, the most easily defensible of the five castles that made up the fortress.  With water on two sides and the rest of the castle on the other two, it was built as an impenetrable hold-out in case of siege.  Only the central keep seemed as hardened as the northwestern towers.  With the aid of magic, its strength was only intensified.  The spellworks of the Nemovorti were particularly strong there, though she could not untangle them enough to know why.  She just knew that it was one of the toughest portions of the fortress to consider attacking.

Which was why she suspected Minalan was making it the focus of his attack.  Her former master rarely liked to do things in a straightforward way.  She’d seen that proven over and over again during the course of her apprenticeship.  Indeed, he seemed to have a perverse knack for subtlety and misdirection that had frustrated her repeatedly during her education with him.  While she respected it, she preferred when his twisted approach to problems was being employed on others, not herself.

If Dara admired Terleman’s talent, she had a more troubled relationship with Minalan.  It wasn’t that she didn’t think he was a brilliant wizard and a well-governing lord, because he was.  He was also kind and likable, and willing to listen to a well-reasoned opinion.  But his very capabilities in that regard had also made contending with his orders problematic, especially when it came to her estate.

When he’d commanded her to ruthlessly cut down the precious trees in the most remote portion of the Westwood, she understood why, once he’d explained himself.  The Sea Folk wanted more snowstone, and in an effort to appease them Minalan had agreed to sell them another mountain . . . but one which existed as the frontier of the Westwood, behind the new castle.  She had given the orders to her father sullenly, through gritted teeth, and he was instantly appalled.

The Westwoodmen prided themselves on maintaining the mountain forests under their purview with dedication and stewardship.  Those trees were cultivated with an eye to the estate’s future.  Cutting down every single one seemed a betrayal to that cultivation, the kind of arbitrary and senseless command a capricious and uncaring lord might give to his people.

There was purpose in it, she understood.  The Sea Folk would take that mountain with or without the trees, and Minalan was actually looking out for the Westwood and Sevendor by telling her to harvest them prematurely.  She understood that.  But she didn’t like it.

She knew that the modest mountain in the shadow of great Rundeval would become another alpine lake, eventually, as the cavity that remained filled with water over time.  That was something of a novelty to the Westwoodmen, who had little experience with bodies of water greater than a pond or a stream.  It would enrich the estate, she knew, by providing a reservoir and a fishing spot, eventually.  The loss of the mountain would open up access to the remote valleys beyond for settlement and development, as they were difficult to approach as the mountains stood.  That could enlarge the Westwood and benefit the people of the estate for generations. She, personally, would grow wealthier because of the transaction.  Minalan was good about rewarding obedience and service.

But Dara didn’t like it.  She didn’t like it one bit.

She didn’t like being commanded to do such a drastic thing by her liege lord.   She didn’t like that Minalan was being compelled by the demands of the Sea Folk.  She didn’t like that he was being so openly cooperative with the strange ocean-bound race.  Minalan was one of the most powerful wizards in history, she knew, and to see him barter away his precious snowstone – and worse, the lands under her control – to the Sea Folk seemed a display of weakness.  Which meant that he was concealing his true strength, she understood, but it was not a good look for the powerful Spellmonger of Sevendor.

The Mad Mage of Sevendor, a subversive part of her mind corrected.  That’s what some had taken to calling him.  Since his return from Anghysbel with Nattia and Lilastien and the rest of his expedition, Minalan had been acting strangely.  She’d witnessed it herself.  Tyndal’s explanation, intended to mollify everyone’s concerns, had been helpful, but they did not excuse the odd behavior and uncharacteristic conduct of the Spellmonger.

Her Westwoodmen and the Sky Riders of the Sevendor Mewstower were both perfectly positioned to watch the Spellmonger, since the disastrous Magic Fair.  Minalan had haunted the workshops in the new castle and the bouleuterion since the raid.  She wasn’t actively spying on him, but when her extended family or her Sky Riders witnessed something they felt their leader needed to know about her liege and former master, they did not hesitate to bring those concerns to her.

She’d heard tales of him shouting into the night at no one from the new castle’s battlements, muttering to himself in unknown languages, barking arbitrary orders and embarking on sudden, unanticipated projects that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the raid.  There were reports of rage, despondency and melancholy, confusion and moodiness, belligerance and even black despair.  Dara had witnessed his newfound madness personally, though it hadn’t seemed extreme in her experience.

But she knew he was doing . . . something with that damned magical Snowflake in the mountain.  The whole place glowed, upon occasion.  During his exile, his subjects had gotten used to Sevendor Castle being a quiet place in the distance.  Now that the Spellmonger was back in Sevendor, they didn’t know if they should expect another dragon attack or a sudden rain of biscuits over the domain.  It kept them a little on edge.

Dara was more circumspect about Minalan’s behavior and more concerned with his motives.  She could handle a bit of unintelligible muttering or her former master suddenly bursting into song or verse.  Even normal magi did that sort of weird crap all the time.  What she couldn’t contend with was the fatalistic turn Minalan had taken, since the raid.  There was a grim resignation in him that was new and unwelcome.  When he looked around at Sevendor and Vanador and all the people who were closest to him, it was with unfamiliar eyes . . . and a disturbing lack of empathy.

That bothered Dara, as she banked left over the confluence of the two rivers.  Ordinarily, Minalan would be absolutely livid and unrelentingly driven by something as impactful as the kidnapping of his nephew or the capture of a trusted retainer like Olmeg the Green; she could not fault him for his loyalty to his family and friends.  Yet he seemed emotionally detached from this fight in a way she’d never seen him.  That bothered Dara more than anything.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t committing his every resource to the effort, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it, somehow.  He was approaching this raid in a more cold and calculated way than she was used to.

That disturbed her deeply.  She was used to a Minalan who was personally committed to every battle, every strategy.  Not one who saw the struggle ahead as something to get through until the more important matters required his attention.  That wasn’t like Minalan at all.

It wasn’t her place to judge the actions or motivations of her liege lord, but she could not help but be concerned with her former master’s mental state. It disturbed her to see him this way.  She’d never admit it, but it shook her confidence in his abilities.  The old Minalan might have failed, but he would have done his best.  This new version of her master seemed more likely to cut his losses and retreat if things went awry with his plans.

She rounded the southwestern tower and skirted around the long, low keep that warded the southern side of the fortress, careful to keep out of archery range – not the bows of the average human archer, but the insanely powerful weapons the Alka Alon employed, which had nearly twice the range.  Twice, now, her Riders had their birds hit by the elegant arrows of the transformed Enshadowed warriors while on patrol.  There wasn’t a range limitation on most magical spells that way, but the sorcerers of Darkfaller seemed preoccupied with other matters than sniping at her birds, thank the Flame.

Dara took that moment to signal to Davres, riding her wing a few miles away, with a magical flare that told him and the other two Riders to return to camp.  Then she reached out mind-to-mind to the Second Wing’s commander, Marati – one of the only other Riders with Talent enough to be issued a witchstone – and informed her of her plans.

Get your squadron ready, she advised the younger girl. You’ll take our place on patrol until the attack starts.  I want my Wing to have a chance for a nap, a pee, and a morsel before we have to fight.

I hope you get the chance, Marati replied, uneasily, into her mind.  Prince Tavard has sent one of his officers to me twice since we got here.  He wants us to start attacking the castle at once to ‘announce his presence and establish his authority’ before he attacks, she quoted, her mental voice dripping with scorn.  I’ve told him twice now that we are not under his command.  He refuses to understand that.

I should be back before he returns a third time.  I’ll deal with him, Dara assured her.  We follow Terleman’s orders, not Tavard’s.

That’s what I told him, but he tried to pull rank, Marati replied, her tone disgusted.  He even threatened to speak with the king about us if we didn’t comply.  Which I know is a hollow bluff, considering the politics of the moment.  Marati was the daughter of a baronet who was active in the politics of Castal and had a more acute knowledge of such things than Dara did.

Let them complain, Dara dismissed.  It won’t do them any good.  We’re not going to waste good spells on Darkfaller this early in the attack.  That wasn’t the plan, and we have too few effective munitions to squander so that Tavard can look more powerful than he is.  Just bide, prepare your Wing for action, and I’ll be there in a moment.

Dara resented Tavard’s attempt at directing her Riders – resented it, but expected it.  Minalan and Terleman had warned her that the prince would try to stretch his authority.  They had also instructed her to resist it, no matter what.  She wasn’t cowed by the royal bully or their titles.  She’d seen his incompetence in action several times, now, and she had no desire to subject her highly trained force to his whim.

Just to prepare her for the argument, as she brought Frightful in for a landing, she purposefully flew low over the growing knot of tents where she knew the prince and his commanders were using and persuaded Frightful to issue a spine-curdling hunting call to remind the knights of the Sky Riders’ power.  It was a little petty of her, but she didn’t mind.

By the time she had dismounted and given Frightful’s care over to her handler, Marati and her Wing had already taken off and begun their dawn patrol.  She was just getting out of the privy at the homestead the Mews had appropriated when she was confronted by Tavard’s officer, along with three other knights, who addressed her from their mounts.

“You are Lady Lenodara?” the man asked, haughtily.  It was clear he was already irritated as he peered down at her in the morning gloom.

“In this case, I’m Sky Captain Lenodara,” Dara corrected him, letting a little of her own irritation infect her voice.  “What do you want?”

The knight sat himself straighter in the saddle, and his expression grew more stern.  “I have the pleasure of delivering Prince Tavard’s orders to you.  I am Marshal Ormane, Lord of Anduvor, and these gentlemen are—”

“Of no concern to me,” Dara dismissed, as she began walking back toward her encampment.  “I don’t know them and their titles and pedigrees won’t impress me.  What does Tavard want, then?” she asked.

“His Highness orders you and your hawks to begin to assail the castle immediately,” Ormane instructed her.  “He wishes to demonstrate to the foe that we are adequately prepared to counter their magic with wizards of our own.  Since our original magical corps was . . . ordered away, he feels that is the best way to prove our superiority.  Get your birds in the air at once!” he commanded.

“No,” Dara replied, almost casually.  “Tavard can go ahead and charge the castle without getting my birds and my Riders pointlessly hurt.  That wasn’t a part of the battle plan,” she reminded him.

“His Highness sees fit to augment the battle plan,” countered Ormane, a scowl forming on his lips.

“His Highness isn’t empowered to do so,” Dara disputed.  “Count Minalan is the Marshal Arcane. He is in charge of this operation.  Viscount Terleman is who I report to.  Unless I get orders from either of them, I will follow the orders that I have.”

“Viscount Terleman is miles away from here, and your precious count appears to be mad,” Ormane snarled.  “Neither one is brave enough to face the foe, it seems.  In the absence of your superiors, you will submit your forces to Prince Tavard’s command.”  It was a statement, not a request, Dara noted.

“Master Minalan is preparing for the battle – the one we planned,” she emphasized.  “As far as Terleman goes, I spoke with him not an hour ago.  He did not authorize any departure from the plan.”

“You?  Spoke with Viscount Terleman?” Ormane asked, angry and amused at the same time.  “You’re just a girl!”

That really irritated Dara.  She stopped and turned to confront the four mounted warriors.  It was time for a lesson.

“Just a girl?” she asked.  “I’m a magelord, gentlemen, and the former apprentice to the Spellmonger.  I won my witchstone when I was just thirteen years old.  A few days later I faced a dragon – my first dragon.  I’ve faced more since then.  I made the Great March through the Wilderlands and still had time to go hawking with Prince Tavard.  I fought for hours over Olum Seheri, the very lair of Korbal the Necromancer.  I spent most of the last year flying sorties over legions of goblins in the Magelaw.  I’ve faced a godsdamned giant, my lords, and it wasn’t even my toughest battle.

“So, yes: I am ‘just’ a girl,” Dara concluded.  “The way that Count Minalan is ‘just’ a spellmonger.  And your precious prince is ‘just’ a knight,” she added, with open contempt.

“You really dare defy the prince?” Ormane asked, appalled.  “That’s insubordination!  If not treason!”

“I am following my orders, Marshal Ormane,” Dara explained, patiently.  “If Prince Tavard understood the importance of that in battle, perhaps he and his vassals would not have lost a third of Gilmora, his palace at Wilderhall, and all of Farise.  Not to mention yon castle,” she said, thumbing over her shoulder.

“I could have you arrested and face charges, girl!” warned the knight.  “I would be well within my authority to do so!  I endured the defiance of your subordinate because I didn’t credit her with the sense to understand the importance of the situation, but I was told you were experienced enough in military matters – as unbelievable as that sounds – to know your proper duty to your prince as his sworn vassal!”

“I am not acting as a vassal right now, Ormane,” Dara sneered back.  “I am acting in my military capacity, following my designated orders.  If Prince Tavard wants to swish over to the Westwood and insist I bow to him to make himself feel more important, I’ll be happy to.  But in the field I follow the orders of my commander, who is following an intricate battle plan agreed upon by King Rard, himself.  Not the whim of a man who has lost every major battle he’s fought.  I don’t need that to stain my honor or burden my conscience by losing a battle because I didn’t do what I was told to do.”

“But I’m the one telling you what the prince wants, now!” Ormane insisted.  “His Highness insisted!”

“His Highness can insist all he wants, but my Sky Riders obey my commands, and I obey Terleman’s,” Dara shrugged.

“I can have you removed from command and replaced!” threatened the knight, gripping his reins tightly.  His hand didn’t move to his sword hilt, but even that wouldn’t have cowed Dara.  Instead, she burst out laughing.

“You?  You are the lieutenant to a second-tier commander in this operation,” Dara reminded him.  “I’m the Sky Captain of Sevendor.  In the unlikely event you tried such foolishness, none of my Riders would agree to take over the Mewstower, under those circumstances.  If you were really lucky they wouldn’t assail your encampment and have their birds hunt your precious war horses like squirrels.  They certainly wouldn’t take orders from you, Tavard, or anyone else Tavard might want to send to try it.”

“I have my own men who could replace you!” insisted Ormane.  “There are plenty of expert horsemen who could take your mount and—”

“And not survive the moment,” Dara finished, evenly.  “Our birds are picky about who mounts them.  Not only are your fat-arsed knights too heavy to fly, they’re too stupid,” she taunted.  Do you know how air pressure works?  Air resistance?  Draft?  Drag?  Lift?  Gravity?” she asked, letting her anger get the best of her.  “Do you understand how hawks work?  How they hunt?  How they fight?  Unlike riding otherwise sensible horses into each other, there’s skill, ability, and knowledge that goes into being a Sky Rider.  You cannot replace us because you aren’t us, and you never will be,” she said, her voice dripping with undisguised scorn.

“It cannot be that difficult, if a mere girl can do it,” Ormane shot back, as his men began to move to his flanks in support.

“Again, you try to diminish me by my sex and my youth,” she said, shaking her head sadly.  “I just got back from a four-hour patrol, and I want to eat and get a nap in before the battle . . . which will begin soon after the sun rises, and that’s less than an hour from now.  Instead, I’m wasting time dueling insults with you.  Despite the fact I’m winning, I’m going to decline Tavard’s request and go get some sleep.  Do not compel me to take further action,” she warned, darkly.  “I am not in the mood.”

“You will regret this, Sky Captain Lenodara!” Ormane declared.

“No, I won’t, Baron Ormane,” Dara sighed.  “I won’t even regret this,” she added . . . and made contact with the man’s horse.  It didn’t take much convincing to persuade it that there was a large and dangerous snake behind it.  In moments it was running off across the darkened field, terrified.   The men-at-arms looked at her, surprised, and then urged their horses after their commander.

“No,” Dara sighed as she watched them depart, “no regrets at all.”

Chapter Eight

A Commander In Readiness

Terleman

Terleman inspected his warmagi with a highly discerning eye in the early hours of the morning, long before dawn.  They had lined up on the plaza at his direction, fifteen to a line and three ranks deep.  It was unusual for warmagi – usually the most individualistic of warriors – to submit to rituals usually reserved for the infantry, but then these were not ordinary sparks.  These were some of the most experienced, deadliest wizards in the kingdom preparing for an incredibly difficult and complicated assault on a relentless and powerful foe.  He could not help but compare the effort to the assault on the Mad Mage’s citadel in Farise, where he had been the one in ranks.

But the two battles were miles apart, in terms of difficulty.  In Farise they were facing one high mage and a couple of dozen Imperial-style warmagi, as well as a few hundred guards.  Oh, there had been undead involved, but that had counted for little.  Simple animated corpses were a nuisance in battle, but rarely a decisive force unless used in great numbers.  In Darkfaller there would be far more difficult foes to contend with.

The assaulting troops were different as well, however.  Almost all of the sparks he inspected were armed with irionite and had practiced with the potent spells the witchstones allowed over the course of many battles.  They were armored in Yltedine steel, polished to a mirror-like sheen, and equipped with all manner of warwands, battle staffs, and mageblades of exquisite quality.  They were still far from uniform in their presentation, but Terleman did not mind that.  He tolerated quite a bit of individual choice in their panoply.  In his experience a warmage worked best when he had the tools he was most familiar with at his disposal.

Indeed, in his estimation any five of the men he’d assembled for the Darkfaller assault could have taken out the Mad Mage’s entire citadel without support.

Terleman made few corrections or criticisms of the men as he inspected them, but he made a point to address each warrior personally and take their measure.  He also drilled them on their orders, the plan, and the many contingencies he’d prepared should things go awry – for things always went awry in battle.

But Terleman was justifiably proud of this unit.  They were tough.  They were strong.  They were powerful.  They were survivors.  They were killers.

And they were his to command.

Finally he returned to the front of the group and addressed them all.

“This,” he began, with a certain measure of drama, “is going to be one of the toughest fights of your life.  Until the next one,” he added, drawing a few chuckles from the men.  “You are all veterans of many battles, and I would not insult you by telling you how daunting the odds of our success are.  We have incomplete intelligence on the foes we face.  We are depending on untested magic to bring down their defenses and transport us to Darkfaller.  I trust Count Minalan’s spellwork, but then this is a novel situation even for the Spellmonger.  I am anticipating more than a few surprises.

“But that is not what I want you to focus upon.  Our mission is very well defined.  We are not going in to lay waste to the enemy.  We are not trying to destroy the castle.  We are not even trying to attack their leadership or eliminate their position.  The goal of this mission is to locate and rescue the hostages that were taken at the Magic Fair.  That is of foremost importance.  Any piles of bodies you leave behind will be entirely secondary to the point of the mission.  We want our people alive,” he emphasized.  “We need them to be brought to safety.

“Most of you have fought beside me in Vanador,” he continued, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the ranks.  “You’ve seen the Enshadowed sorcerers in action.  You’ve seen what the draugen can do in battle.  Some of you have even faced Nemovorti.  And I don’t think even one of you hasn’t left a pile of scrug corpses behind you.  So you know the power of the forces that you’re facing.”

There was a brief disturbance as the men reacted to something behind him – but Terleman did not turn to see what was happening.  He wanted to use the momentum he was building to effect.  “The hopes of all the kingdom’s magi rest on your shoulders, and that is a mighty burden to bear.  That undead bitch, Mycin Amana, stole more than three hundred of our folk  We need to prove to our people that we can strike back, reclaim our magical kindred, and make the Nemovorti pay for the temerity of thinking that they can assault us with impunity.”

As he was speaking, he could feel Minalan and his staff arrive next to him, led by his aide, Anjak – that was the source of the disturbance.  The Spellmonger’s presence was unplanned, but not unwelcome.  Terleman prided himself on never acting surprised, as it was detrimental to command for the troops to see him surprised, so he turned naturally toward his liege and friend to allow him a few final words.

“Would the Marshal Arcane like to address the men?” he asked, as if it had been planned.

“I would,” nodded his old friend.

To Terleman’s eye he looked tired and worn.  He knew that Minalan was still recovering from his injuries, but he could also guess that the last few days had been taxing to even the Spellmonger’s capacities.  Minalan was girded for war, wearing his dragonscale armor, fighting harness, and mageblade, and he had a new, unusual looking staff in his hands.  Terleman was certain there was a story behind it, and he looked forward to hearing it.

“My friends, Viscount Terleman has summed up the motive for this mission with perfect clarity: up until now, we have fought the dark foe in lands far away from the center of the kingdom.  Today we shall be battling on the very doorstep of the capital.

“I have no doubt that you are prepared for that,” he said, giving Terleman an appreciative glance.  “You have proven yourselves in battle to the extent that you have caught the eye of perhaps the greatest warmage of our age and have been included in this sortie because you are the finest of the sparks in the kingdom.”  Minalan paused, and looked out across the magelit troops with wrinkled eyes.

“But now you are fighting under the watchful eye of three duchies and a king.  Rumors of battles and stories of wars fought far away are one thing; a threat to the very heart of the realm is another matter altogether.  We must not fail,” he insisted, with sudden intensity.  “We must not.  For it is not only our poor captives we need to rescue; we need to demonstrate to the kingdom that we are so powerful in our might that mere lances and swords are no threat to us.  A prince of the realm will be on the field, leading his own troops.  Knights,” he said, with a certain contempt in his words.  “Distinguished lords of the realm.  They want to re-take Darkfaller by siege, the old way.

“We need to show them that the old way of making war on each other does not apply, anymore.  Mycin Amana cares nothing for catapults and siege towers.  She laughs at the idea of a cavalry charge.  Korbal works with arcane forces Tavard cannot even conceive of.  We face necromancy at Darkfaller, my friends, the darkest of sorceries.  We face a fanatical Alka Alon sorceress with vengeance and retribution on her mind – one who seeks to regain the good graces of her dark lover through conquest and destruction of his foes.  And we all know the lengths a woman will go to when she wants to impress a man,” he added, wryly.

Terleman joined in the chuckles with the rest of them, while Minalan went on to invoke their spirits on the eve of battle.

He had, indeed, had the experience of women trying to gain his favor or simply attract his attention through outrageous displays, extreme behavior, and convoluted schemes designed to invoke his interest and enflame his passions.  They had largely been to no avail.  While he had dallied with plenty of women, over the years, he found them uninteresting and unimportant, compared to the greater issues of the world.

They were a pleasing enough distraction, he’d found, and over the years he’d enjoyed the trysts he’d aloowed himself when circumstances had permitted.  But his heart had never softened toward any of them, even in the midst of physical passion.  Such occasions were a release, an enjoyable diversion from the stress of duty.  But he forgot them as soon as they were done.  He’d found no woman who had excited his interest beyond the bedchamber.  While pleasing in form, perhaps, he found them inconsequential in most other ways.  And when their antics to distract him became too severe, he had not hesitated to end the relationship abruptly, without concern of their feelings.

It was not that he disliked women; on the contrary, he had the greatest respect for his professional peers.  But most women lacked Pentandra’s subtle insight or Carmella’s brilliant competence.  Noutha Venaran held his respect for her fierceness on the field, not her femininity.  And he could appreciate the political cunning behind the beauty of Duchess Rardine without coveting either.

Terleman had never lacked for admirers, that was true.  He’d always been considered handsome, and his career as a soldier had sculpted his physique in ways that attracted plenty of potential suitors.  With success, experience, and a rise in position he had always found a few women in his wake who harbored aspirations of matrimony with him.

He had found them all wanting.  When their interest rose to obsession and impeded his work in unacceptable ways, he had no trouble rejecting their proposals and blatant innuendo without regard to their feminine sensitivities.  More than once he’d had a woman he’d bedded who had fixated on becoming his bride removed from his chambers in ways that the chivalry would find unacceptable to their sense of propriety.

Terleman didn’t care.  He might have been knighted by fortune, but he was a warrior, first, not some ambitious knight with aspirations of large holdings and dynastic ambitions.  He had vowed to himself long ago to never allow a woman to interfere in his path, and he had kept that vow religiously.  They just held no interest for him.  Even while his friends and comrades discussed such things with eagerness, he remained silent.  He could appreciate the happiness they seemed to reap from their wives and girlfriends, but he had no desire to pursue such things himself.  The very idea was repugnant to him.

Unfortunately, he had found, the more unwilling he was to consider a bride the more his would-be suitors seemed to be enthralled by him, and the more unreasonable their antics became.  It was as if his rejection of marriage and its attendant passions was a challenge to the women he’d encountered.  The more he resisted, the more they redoubled their efforts.  It was as if they thought that one more grand party, one more exquisite gown, or one more feeble flirtation would be enough to catch his eye, turn his head, and force him to consider the benefits of their charms enough for his heart to claim them.

In truth, such antics were pathetic to his eye.  When they were compounded by the deceit and subterfuge their sex was famous for, he became disgusted.  Women were not honest players in such games.  Every flirtation concealed a secret motive, every seduction disguised a deeper game that Terleman was just not interested in playing.  And when they elevated the importance of their desires beyond their worth, it was all too easy for him to dismiss them, often with open contempt.

There were more important things to concern a man than the feelings of a woman, he knew, for women were inclined to purposefully complicate simple pursuits into intentionally confusing engagements.  They were inconstant in their affections and disingenuous in their objectives.  Terleman had no time for that, nor did he respect their tenacity when faced with his rejection.

Only with men did the warmage feel a tithe of the comfort Trygg’s priestesses promised a woman’s touch could bring to a man’s life.  He’d found that possibility unexpectedly, in Farise, and had discovered it a relief from the pointless and often inane ideas of romance that women bore.

Men revealed their passions boldly, like a war banner, and eschewed the frivolity of Ishi’s twisted manipulations in favor of honest, forthright desire.  He’d long ago dismissed the disapproval that some voiced over such pursuits.  Their judgment about his interests in such things was of no concern to him.  Unless they were bold enough to draw a blade about such matters, he ignored them.  He kept his private affairs private and would allow no one to affect them without consequence.

That was one benefit of fighting under Minalan’s banner, and under his command: the Spellmonger had long known his preferences and had never once suggested that they were misplaced.  Even with his own seemingly blissful domestic life, Minalan had mentioned his lack of a bride only in political terms.  And his wife had wisely refrained from inflicting on him the incessant matchmaking that most women were afflicted with.

He respected his countess for that, among other reasons, her bravery included.  He’d witnessed how she’d been prepared to fight at the Siege of Boval Vale, and her bold actions against Isily of Greenflower had impressed him.  Terleman appreciated the power of sacrifice for a greater good.  And if his future as a bridegroom and family man was what he had to sacrifice in order to become the world’s finest warmage, it was well worth it, in his eyes.

But he could appreciate Minalan’s invocation of Mycin Amana’s motives, as well.  For one thing he disliked intensely was a woman’s viciousness.  There was a difference between being fierce in the face of a struggle and being intentionally vindictive over a matter of the heart.  He could respect the former; he despised the latter.

That was the benefit of an alliance with a strong and valiant young man like Anjak.  His protégé had caught his eye for his achievements and his boldness, not his fair face or muscular form.  Nor had he tried to use his relationship with Terleman to his advantage, as a woman might.  Anjak constantly strove to impress him and be a good companion – nothing more.

There was no ulterior motive in his love, no ambition beyond his own enjoyment of the affair.  His affections were freely given as a matter of respect and friendship and a growing love.  His passions were reserved for private moments, not used to elevate himself above his fellows or flaunt his influence with their commander.  He was discreet and understanding of Terleman’s desires.  And he was steadfast in his love without worrying about losing him or being discarded for a rival.

If not a sworn Andrusine, Terleman and Anjak had formed an intimate bond that confounded his political enemies and stymied the womenfolk of the kingdom into frustration.  That, alone, made it a worthwhile relationship.  But the honest acceptance of Terleman’s passions without reservation or condition had opened his heart to the man in ways no woman had ever discovered.  Nor was he jealous of Terleman’s affections.  Their friendship had only grown with their quiet passions, and both men were content with that.

“ . . . we are not only fighting for the Magelaw and the kingdom, at this hour,” Minalan was droning, as Terleman finally abandoned his musings, “we are fighting for humanity.  And in doing so we are proving to the entire kingdom and the whole Five Duchies that we, alone, have the power and the capacity to drive the enemy from our lands.  And any other enemy who would dare raise their swords against magi in the future!” he finished, evoking a cheer from the troops.

Minalan could always be depended upon for a good rousing speech before a battle.  Terleman had seen that as far back as Farise.  And it spared him the need of wasting his own energy on such things.

“Thank you, Marshal,” he said, giving his commander a quick bow.  “The men are inspected and ready to deploy.”

“Then let them see to their affairs and prepare to go through the portal,” Minalan said, loudly.  “Good luck and may Ifnia and Duin favor us this day.”  That got another cheer, as Terleman turned to the Spellmonger.

“So you will be beginning the effort in the chamber of the Snowflake?” he asked.

“By necessity, I’m afraid,” Minalan agreed, as they began walking toward the unfinished castle.  “I have yet to create the means to build a portal remotely.  But with this,” he said, gesturing toward his new staff, “I should be able to direct the thaumaturgic energies required harness the power of the molopor and put us inside the castle without mucking around with a siege.”

“What of the necromantic shields?” Terleman asked.  “You have a counter for them?”

“I believe I do,” Minalan said, around his pipestem.  “They are cleverly built, for Alka Alon sorcery.  But I shall attack the fundamental underpinnings of their spells in ways they will not anticipate.  By the time you come through the portal and assault the central keep, we should be able to cast whatever spells we require.  And I will be countering their necromantic power, as well,” he revealed.  “Not enough to banish the undead from their stolen bodies, unfortunately, but certainly enough to discomfit them.  At least,” he admitted, quietly, “that’s my theory.”

Terleman raised his eyebrow.  “You haven’t tested it, then?”

Minalan shrugged and sighed tiredly.  “It’s been ten days since the raid, Terl.  I’ve been busy creating wonders this world has never seen before.  I haven’t had the chance to test them, yet.  Indeed, this is the test.”

“You’ll excuse me if I feel somewhat uneasy about that,” Terleman pointed out, as they approached the great gate of the castle.  There was no actual door there, yet, but it was being built, he knew.

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve depended on an untried spell in battle,” Minalan pointed out.  “Are you getting fearful in your old age?”

Terleman chuckled.  “It’s the unexpected that intrigues me about battle, Min.  If we knew the outcome beforehand, then why bother with the bloodshed?”

“Well spoken,” Minalan approved, as they paused by the great gate.  “In truth I’m more than a little concerned, myself.  But we are short of time, and are forced by circumstances to take a few chances.  It cannot be helped.  But then again we are far better prepared for this than we were when we faced the Mad Mage.”

“I was just thinking about that,” Terleman admitted.  “I was scared shitless the night we assaulted the citadel.  I was convinced I would not live out the night.”

“But you did,” Minalan agreed.  “What I’m curious about is what you think of our chances?  Your candid view, please,” he added.

“Fairly good, actually,” Terleman considered.  “We have the element of surprise, new magic, and a potent distraction in Tavard’s army to assist.  And I have the highest confidence in my men.  They are truly the best, most powerful warmagi in the world,” he assured Minalan.

“They will need to be, for this to work.  And I’m anticipating casualties,” he reminded him, unnecessarily.  “More, perhaps, than at Olum Seheri, just because of the noncombatants involved.  But . . . well, to bring up a delicate point,” the Spellmonger murmured, “the last thing I want to see is the next ambitious Nemovort dressed in the bodies of one of these excellent sparks.”

“That would be daunting,” Terleman agreed.

“So take care to contend with the bodies of the fallen,” he advised.  “In any way that would keep them from being recovered and used by the Nemovorti.  They prefer their hosts to be alive to house their vaunted souls.  But a warmage’s corpse can be raised in the normal manner if it is discovered intact.  We must deny them that resource.”

“I shall see it done,” Terleman agreed.  “Good luck, Min.”

“Good luck, Terl.  This one should be . . . interesting.  Now go find your place and be prepared to attack the moment you come through the portal.  I’ll let you know mind-to-mind when the right moment comes.”

Terleman watched his old friend walk briskly away, his guard trailing behind him, and waited for him to disappear within the shadowy confines of Sevendor Castle before he returned to the staging area with Anjak.

“Any final instructions, Viscount?” he asked, brightly.  He was already armored and armed.  He did not need inspection.  Terleman knew that he was prepared.  That was one of the things he appreciated about Anjak.

“I think you know what to do by now,” Terleman assured him.  “Protect my back while I’m directing the battle.  And . . . Minalan has asked that we ensure that any of our fallen comrades not fall into the hands of the Nemovorti.  You know why,” he added, darkly.

“I understand, Viscount,” Anjak nodded.  “I shall see it done.  We’re still to attack the central keep?”

“That is where the highest-value prisoners are being held, according to our intelligence,” Terleman agreed.  “The Vanadori under Azar will attack the southern keep, the Sevendori under Tyndal will attack the northern, and we’ll assault the center.  Reserves will be called in as needed, of course.  Minalan will direct the battle from the top of the northern keep, with Mavone’s Vanador Guards protecting him.  Smaller units will take and hold strategically important positions around the castle, while the main defense of Darkfaller will – hopefully – be preoccupied with Tavard’s horsemen.”

“And we’re all going through . . . that?” Anjak asked, skeptically, gesturing to the stone archway that had recently been constructed.  “Instead of the Ways?”

“Minalan says he can establish a portal with accuracy,” Terleman answered.  “I have no reason to doubt him.  He also says he can bring down the necromantic defenses.  He does have access to some powerful resources,” he reminded.

“But . . . they say that he is mad,” his protégé said in a low voice.

“He may well be,” Terleman admitted.  “That doesn’t mean he isn’t sincere . . . or that he won’t be effective.  I’ve known Minalan since Farise.  He rarely makes promises that he cannot keep.  If he is mad, his madness will not keep him from doing what must be done.  Now, let’s see if our unit commanders are ready,” he sighed, peering to the east.  “Dawn beckons.”

One by one he called out to each of the captains who were leading the warmagi into battle as he walked back across the plaza toward the arch.  He was fairly certain that they had ensured their own men were prepared for combat, as all of them were seasoned veterans and knew how important this raid was.  He was gratified that there were no problems or complications brought to his attention.  Compared to most of the other armies he’d been in, the magical corps was in excellent condition.

“Get back to your squadron and prepare yourselves,” he ordered Anjak, who gave him a quick salute before trotting off.  Then he reached out to Minalan, mind-to-mind.

Have you gotten into position? he asked, wasting no mental words on meaningless salutations.

I’m in front of the Snowflake now, Minalan confirmed.  Tanno Amberil is warming up.  I should be ready in moments.

Tanno Amberil? Terleman asked, confused.

My new staff, Minalan explained.  It’s Alka Alon for ‘Lever of Worlds.’.  I can use it as a pereginator until I can build something more permanent.  That’s a thaumaturgical device that can link two disparate points through a properly prepared enchanted portal, he explained.

The new words whirled in Terleman’s head.  He was no enchanter, but he had a warmage’s appreciation of the art and a commander’s understanding of how such enchantments could aid in combat.  Impressive.  You learned a lot, in Anghysbel.

Lifetimes of knowledge, Minalan agreed.  With a real pereginator I’ll be able to establish a permanent portal between Vanador and Sevendor.  Or between Sevendor and anywhere else.  It will allow us to get beyond the seven-hundred-mile limit between Waypoints.

There’s a limit on Waypoints?  Why? Terleman asked.  He had no idea there was such a limitation.

It has to do with the curvature of the planet, I believe.  As useful as they are, the Ways are not particularly efficient for transport.  I can do better.  It was not a brag or a boast, but a simple, confident statement.

You realize that this will change everything, Terleman pointed out.

Of course, Minalan dismissed.  But everything is about to change, anyway.  I’m just trying to make it change to our benefit.  You do realize that Mycin Amana taking Darkfaller opened a new phase in the war.

Clearly, agreed Terleman.  She’s attacking the heart of the kingdom.

She’s doing much more than that, Minalan corrected.  It’s how she’s attacking that’s important.  She’s barely using gurvani, for one thing.  They’re too unruly, undisciplined, and ineffective for her purposes.  They have to be fed and supplied.  And they are far too slow.  She intends to establish her own little base of power in Castal before Korbal wakes up from his stupor, he explained.  Then she’ll expand it to cover as much territory as possible before he can object.

And she’s going to do that with undead?  And a handful of Enshadowed? Terleman asked, skeptically.

She has more planned than that, Minalan admitted.  That’s the other reason for this raid.  We’re probing her capabilities.  I need to find out more details about what she is planning.  She’s hiding something from us, he accused.

Of course she is, Terleman agreed. But if she has an army beyond what she’s shown at Darkfaller, so far, she’s hiding it well indeed.

The Nemovorti are good at that.  I suspect some sort of necromancy is involved beyond the experiments they’ve done with the draugen and the undead.  That’s why I need to challenge her personally.  I need to get her to reveal her plans.  There was an unusual intensity to his mental voice.

Terleman was silent for a moment.  He was used to Minalan’s boldness, by now, and appreciated his thaumaturgic genius . . . but this made his friend sound almost paranoid.

Personally?  I don’t recall that being part of the battle plan, he pointed out.

There is more at play than just this battle, Minalan answered.  It is just a single move in a larger game.  Speaking of which, before you contacted me, I got word that Tavard is advancing on the castle with his troops.  He should be in sight of the castle walls, by now, and if things go according to plan Mycin Amana is sending out a delegation to insult him properly before the battle.  You should prepare.

We are entirely prepared, Terleman said, resolutely.  As soon as you open this portal, I’ll have the first elements moving through.  I do hope you can be accurate with your spells, he added.  He didn’t like to criticize his friend and commander, but they were using untested magic in the raid for the first time.  He felt justified at expressing some anxieties about the things he could not control.

Of course I can, Minalan dismissed.  Ah!  Tanno Amberil is ready.  It should only take a few moments to establish the portal.  Then you can attack.  Tell them I said to bring the fire to Darkfaller, Terleman.  And good luck, he added, as an afterthought, before breaking the connection.

Terleman heaved a deep sigh.  He was anxious about this battle, and not just the untried portal enchantment.  Minalan seemed preoccupied by things other than combat, and that almost never boded well before a battle.  He’d seen entire armies wiped out because of distracted commander.

But this was the task ahead of him, and he could do no more than his absolute best to ensure the outcome.  He took another deep breath and activated a spell that magnified his voice across the crowded plaza.

“Minalan is in position!” he announced with a bellow, and he allowed all of his doubts and insecurities evaporate.  This was what he was made to do, after all.

Chapter Nine

A Prince In A Parley

Sir Festaran

“Are you entirely certain this is wise, my prince?” Sir Festaran asked, skeptically, as he rode in the front line of the advancing troops.  He was mounted on his finest charger, a big bay brute he’d been training on for a week with Tavard’s troops in Castal in anticipation of the battle.  It was the match of any of the steeds in the prince’s guard, he’d noted, and superior to most of the other mounts in the vanguard.

Prince Tavard, however, wasn’t impressed.  Indeed, the man seemed entirely troubled.  Confident to the point of brashness, perhaps, but troubled.

“It is perhaps the wisest maneuver in this entire battle,” Tavard assured.  “A few wizards infiltrating the bowels of Darkfaller isn’t going to dislodge that undead bitch from my keep.  It takes fighting men, well-mounted, to win a battle such as this.”

Sir Festaran wisely kept his counsel to himself.  There was no siege train coming to Darkfaller Village that he’d heard of, and the mercenary archers the prince had hired had only arrived the night before, exhausted with their quick march across Castal.  Apart from some hastily conscripted peasant infantry the army seemed almost entirely composed of knights, sergeants, and mounted men-at-arms.  A credible force, perhaps, and gloriously appointed, but it took more than lances to take a castle, he knew.

Instead, he broached another subject as the pre-dawn glow in the eastern sky illuminated the way ahead.  “My prince, may I ask what demands you will impose on the usurper?” he asked, politely.

That brought a hearty laugh from Baron Arthedes of Pamona, the nobleman Tavard had promoted to field commander for this sortie.  He rode a sable stallion that was one of the few mounts that could match Festaran’s in speed and bulk.  His armor was exquisitely enameled in a pale blue, with tiny golden horseshoes littering his hauberk and helmet.  The barding on his mighty horse was similarly appointed.

The baron’s fief was near Castabriel, and he was a clear favorite of the prince – likely because of his enthusiastic flattery and devotion to Tavard.  He was accounted as one of the leading military minds in Castal, as well as a splendid gentleman off the field.  Festaran had spent the previous night rolling dice with the man and his staff.

“That is simple, Sir Festaran,” he sneered, confidently.  “She must remove herself and her filthy minions from Darkfaller and flee to whatever hovel in the west she sprang from, under penalty of her life.  Else we will force the gates and storm the keep,” he pronounced, as if the execution of the plan would follow as a simple matter of course.  “With seven thousand men in the field, the sorceress cannot fail to see the weakness of her position.”  The baron spoke with confidence bordering on arrogance – perhaps a helpful thing, if one was addressing the troops under one’s command before battle, but within the close council of inner leadership Festaran had expected a more sober manner.

There were only a few thousand cavalry in the field, after all.  The bulk of the army was settling into Darkfaller Village and preparing its defenses.  Only the most senior and high-born knights had been invited to accompany the prince into battle, while lesser houses and conscripts were hastily digging into the village.  While it was certainly a formidable force, Festaran estimated that it was not great enough, or diverse enough in its composition, to compel Mycin Amana to quit the great Darkfaller Castle.

“And if she does refuse, Excellency?” Festaran persisted.  That earned him a scowl from the baron’s aide but drew a chuckle from the prince.

“Then she will see the true might of the Castali chivalry!” promised Tavard.  “Some of the most ancient houses ride to war this day.  Their fury is immeasurable.  Their honor is at stake, and they shall not relent until they have seen this invader’s head on a spike above Darkfaller’s gates!”

“I believe that Sir Festaran is inquiring as to how we proceed, Your Highness, if the Witch Queen refuses our demands,” suggested Count Moran, who rode nearby.  He wore ornate jousting armor, Festaran noted, not particularly suited for other kinds of battle.  Indeed, he looked uneasy on his horse compared to the rest of the knights in the line.

“I will direct my forces to form up a line, whilst two special honor squadrons of a dozen knights apiece mounted on the fastest chargers shall quickly speed ahead to seize the gates,” Baron Arthedes revealed.  “Once they are forced open and secured, the foe will be forced to send forth their own men to attempt their defense.  But that will give us plenty of time to push ahead with the vanguard and gain first the outer bailey, and then the inner.  At that point, the overwhelming numbers and undeniable valiance of our army will send the Witch Queen into despair and lead to her surrender.”

“And that is all, my lord baron?” Count Moran asked, skeptically.

“That should suffice,” the baron pronounced.  “There is no objective that a group of sufficiently motivated knights cannot achieve, if history is to judge.  I assure you, gentlemen, I am a scholar of such matters.  I took Duin’s highest mysteries at Relan Cor,” he boasted.  “I have read the works of the greatest minds on the subject of warfare, and their wisdom is quite clear,” he promised.  He seemed very impressed with himself for his literacy, Festaran noted.  Count Moran, however, was not impressed.

“Please explain your reasoning, Baron Arthedes,” the Castali prime minister asked, patiently.

“Our foe is weak and disorganized, which Count Adrocal’s classic Lessons in Warfare suggests promises defeat,” the baron recounted.  “She enjoys no support of the countryside, which Adrocal also insists is essential for a defender to hold if they seek victory.  Warfather Mirmadon’s Litany of Battle is quite clear that a defending force must have control of the villages in its sphere in order to expect to resist an aggressive attacker.  Further, the warfather relates that a strong, disciplined aggressor can quickly sap the will of the defender through decisive action, particularly when the element of surprise is at hand.  As we enjoy both, we should expect a quick victory, according to the sages.”

Count Moran was not impressed by the wisdom of the sages, apparently.  He looked skeptically toward the baron and the prince as they rode.

“Were not those learned men facing mere rebellious artisans, or their fellow feudal peers in the contests they discuss, my lord?” the prime minister asked, pointedly.  “For we seem to have a foe of vastly different capacities than those in antiquity.  Those horrid wyverns, for example,” he added, as he pointed to a pair of the gigantic reptiles flying in the distance.  There were entirely too many of the bloody things in the sky, in Festaran’s opinion.

“The principles of battle are a constant, regardless of the foe,” dismissed the baron.  “Victory inevitably comes down to valor, commitment, and steel.”

“And what if the day goes awry, my lord?” Count Moran persisted, unconvinced.  “What is your plan, then?”

The baron heaved a great sigh.  “If, as unlikely as it may be, we find ourselves overmatched, we shall retreat to the village and prepare for siege,” he proposed.  “We can send archers to harass them on the walls while we prepare a breeching party.  Darkfaller might be strong, but the will of the Castali is stronger!”

It was, Festaran knew at once, an appallingly bad plan.

“And what of magic, my lord?” he asked, boldly, as his heart sank at the thought of the coming battle.  “In my service to Count Minalan I have witnessed many times in which magic played a key role in the outcome of a contest.  Mycin Amana is, by all accounts, an adept sorceress,” he reminded the baron.

“Magic will make no difference in this fight!” Prince Tavard declared, sharply.  “I know the magi have made progress in Gilmora through trickery and deception employing their arts, Sir Festaran, but there is no room in this contest for such things.  We shall retake Darkfaller with lance and steel, not spells.  Had not my mother compelled me to send away my magic corps, we would not need your presence,” he reminded Festaran.  “I agreed to your inclusion in this attack to mollify my father, not because I feel we need even one mage in our retinue.”

The prince’s animosity toward magi was well known, and for good reason, Festaran knew.  Prince Tavard had been humiliated over and over again by Minalan and his fellows in the last few years, and he blamed the Spellmonger for not saving his firstborn infant son from the dragon attack on Castabriel a few years ago.  That antipathy had been made more severe when Tavard had to hire Minalan to provision his troops by magic during the prince’s disastrous Maidenpool campaign.  More, some mage had stealthily taken his summer capital at Wilderhall just a month ago.  And that was while Terleman and the Vanadori army had conquered a goodly portion of Gilmora like a hot knife through a snowbank.

But that was no reason, in Festaran’s estimation, for the prince to hire mercenary warmagi from the Kingdom’s greatest adversary, save the Dark Lord himself.  The Merwyni Knights of Nablus were former Censorate warmagi, and they were armed with irionite.  But they had no loyalty to the prince that his coin had not purchased, and the lessons they learned as auxiliaries could very well be used against Castalshar in the future.  It was poor judgment, in his opinion, for the prince to have hired them against the Magelaw.

It was likewise poor judgment for a mere knight to bring such a sensitive subject to the prince’s attention moments before battle, Festaran knew.  Such decisions had seen promising careers end abruptly.

Instead, he focused on his purpose in accompanying Prince Tavard’s party.

“While I defer to Your Highness’ decisive judgement, my prince, it is my duty to inform you that we are approaching the limits of the enemy’s magical defenses,” he said, politely.  “In another fifty-four yards we will reach the frontiers of a most stalwart spell that will confound what little arcane resources we have.”

“So?” Baron Arthedes asked, mockingly.  “I see nothing, nor any reason to fear such things.”

“Of course, Excellency,” Festaran nodded.  “But my means of communication may be affected.  I have to notify Count Minalan of our position and disposition so that we may coordinate our attacks,” he reminded the man.

“Do so quickly,” growled the baron.  “Yon gate is open and beckons me like a comely maiden,” he pointed out.  “They send forth emissaries to treat with us.  Let your wizard know,” he commanded, before turning toward Prince Tavard.  “Are you ready to speak with them, Your Highness?” he asked.

“Let us get this done,” Tavard answered, resolutely.  Festaran heard a small sigh escape Count Moran.

“I shall join you in a moment, gentlemen,” Festaran assured them, giving Tavard a respectful bow before pulling his charger aside.  He removed the magical Mirror he had been given for the mission and prepared it by pouring a cup of water into the small bowl while the long line of horsemen began to form themselves for battle.

It took him far longer to establish the Magic Mirror spell than most wizards – Festaran’s Talent was comparatively weak, compared to other warmagi.  But soon he heard the faint, tinny voice of Ruderal emitting from the basin.

“Hello, Fes!” the lad called cheerfully through the spell.

“Hello, Rudy,” Festaran replied.  “I wanted to inform Count Minalan that Prince Tavard is about to entertain an embassy from Darkfaller.”  He glanced up and counted the transformed Alka Alon who were striding so purposefully toward the small knot of horsemen guarding the prince.  “There seem to be seven of them, though I cannot tell you much more about them than that, from here.  I cannot tell if Mycin Amana is among them,” he warned.

“I will let Master Min know,” the apprentice affirmed.  “The troops out on the plaza are ready.  Everything seems to be going to plan,” he said, enthusiastically.

“It often does, just before it goes horribly awry, in my experience,” chuckled the knight.  “You should also tell Minalan that His Highness has aspirations of a quick seizure of the castle by surprise.  Which is entirely against the battle plan, but that’s what Tavard desires.”

“Master Min thought he might,” frowned the boy.  Festaran could just barely see his magical reflection on the surface of the tiny enchantment in the gloom of dawn.  “Indeed, I think that’s part of his plan.”

“If he does, an awful lot of these valiant knights won’t leave this field alive,” Festaran predicted with a frown.  “That saddens me.  But Prince Tavard and Baron Arthedes seem determined to prove themselves capable of retaking the castle without assistance.  And without proper sappers, artillery, or archers.  Our prince seems to lack reason and I question his leadership.  Not out loud, of course, but . . .”

“Bide, and I will inform Master Min,” Ruderal promised.

“I will keep the enchantment active,” Festaran agreed.

While he was waiting, he did the best he could to watch the battlefield negotiations from a distance.  Count Moran seemed to be introducing the prince’s party to the line of glowering Alka Alon, and while Baron Arthedes seemed to puff up during the discussions, Prince Tavard mostly remained quiet and tried to appear regal.  It was unfortunate that he was only mildly successful in that, Festaran decided.

He had no enmity with the prince, of course – a gentleman respected the position and rank of his superiors unless there was an honorable reason to do otherwise.  He found Tavard a reasonably agreeable companion, as a man, after spending a week in the orbit of the Castali ducal war court.  Festaran had been as surprised as anyone when Minalan had given him the assignment; originally, Sire Cei had been detailed for the duty, but after consideration the Spellmonger had decided that Festaran’s magical abilities made him a more useful liaison to the prince’s army.  It was an acceptable substitution, according to Count Moran, the prime minister.

A young knight does not turn down such an opportunity, of course – thousands of his peers would be tempted to taint their honor for the chance to ride to war at the shoulder of the future heir to the kingdom.  Men had spent careers bragging about such honors, he knew, his own father included.  He’d been telling the story of how he’d crossed lances with the Count of Bontal Vales as a squire at Chepstan Fair for years, now.  Royalty had a radiance that illuminates all in its wake, he’d found.

Yet as personally pleasant as Prince Tavard had been in camp, Festaran was deeply troubled by what he had witnessed during the preparations for the assault.  Perhaps he was spoiled by the foresightful management of the magi, but he’d watched and waited for days while the prince had tarried unbearably.

Festaran expected most military commanders of any importance would have a staff capable of executing their orders – he was one such functionary himself, after all. But Tavard seemed content to allow his subordinates to handle nearly every element of the campaign, as long as they ensured his (often petty) directives were fulfilled.  The prince contented himself with sitting in his campaign tent with his fawning gentlemen, receiving reports largely from Baron Arthedes – who assailed the prince with vainglorious assurances of their victory and the prowess of the ancient houses gathered in his cause – or by Count Moran, who delivered a nightly account that was starkly accurate about the state of the army and (more importantly) the state of ducal politics.

The prince seemed far more eager to hear the baron’s reports than the count’s, Festaran noted.  Count Moran seemed a good prime minister, a man who attended to the duchy’s affairs on behalf of Tavard with a great deal of seriousness.  He certainly did not favor Sevendor and the magi, due to their disruptive nature, but he was devoted to good governance for the duchy . . . despite Tavard’s wishes.

Festaran had developed a lot of sympathy for Moran in the last week.  He was still recovering from his captivity at Wilderhall, but had insisted that he accompany Tavard on his campaign to regain his largest castle.  Festaran could see why.  The duchy was in trouble.

That pained him to realize, as a loyal Castali knight.  But as he listened to Count Moran’s nightly litany of the state of the duchy, it became clear that Tavard’s administration had suffered greatly since he’d donned the coronet.

Castal was broke.  The treasury was deeply in debt, thanks to the repairs to Castabriel and Tavard’s adventure in Maidenpool.  The once-robust revenues from Farise had ended with the fall of the province to renegades.  The renegades’ aggressive assault on Castali merchant ships had reduced revenues from import duties, as well as crippled the coastal companies who ran much of Castali shipping.  The lack of payments from the occupied territories in wealthy Gilmora had produced an unexpected deficit in the duchy’s budget.  The outbreak of rebellion in the Westlands had cost thousands of ounces of gold to put down . . . and that was after the expensive adventure the prince had backed fighting the Magelaw in the first place.

An entirely new set of loans had been made to the coronet to fund Tavard’s ambitions to build a fleet of ships capable of recapturing Farise.  Each ship would cost thousands of ounces of gold to build, and the effort would take years. Meanwhile, the merchants and temples who had extended the prince credit were expecting payments . . . and those were coming up short.

Worse, to Festaran’s mind, was Tavard’s neglect of other matters he considered essential to good governance.  He had used the excuses of the dragon attack and the series of wars to put off appointing new lawfathers and lawbrothers to important posts in the duchy, and the courts were delayed as a result.  Indeed, several ecclesiastic duties that fell to the duke were behind in their affairs, as approvals to civic positions usually staffed by the clergy languished in the capital while Tavard was preoccupied with his wars.   There were disputes between great houses that needed his judgement.  All things that were a duke’s responsibility, languishing with Tavard’s inattention.

It was a sobering realization that the state of the duchy was so poor.  And while Festaran would not forget his honor or his duties to the prince, his respect for the man and how he treated his office had declined in the week he’d been in camp with him.  The war-time fellows who’d come to his banner call were dismissive of the civil affairs that seemed to constantly annoy the prince.  They suggested dice, instead, or jousting to pass the time.  The barons and lords who had provided his troops curried his favor with hunts and races and seemed determine to distract Tavard with such pursuits.

Indeed, it seemed only Count Moran was dedicated to any sort of good governance.  Among Tavard’s court he was the only serious-minded official that the young prince would listen to, albeit grudgingly.  He kept the very minimum of essential work flowing, during the campaign, and quietly chided Tavard to do his duty.  He was, in Festaran’s estimation, a reasonably decent administrator.  He was no warrior.  But he sat in his tournament armor facing off with a bunch of belligerent Alka Alon, moments before battle.

It was disturbing to Festaran’s mind that the duchy might suffer less from the loss of its sovereign duke than the prime minister falling in battle.

“Master Min says to be sure to remind Tavard he’s not supposed to try to take the castle,” Ruderal suddenly said through the enchantment.  “Other than that, he’s ready to launch the assault.”

“I am not certain that His Highness will be inclined to listen to me,” Festaran predicted.

“I don’t think Master Min expects him to,” Ruderal replied.  “I think he just wants to be certain that one of his men reminded him of the plan.  Which is part of his greater plan.  You know how twisty his plans can be.”

“The Spellmonger is a wizard with great and subtle wisdom,” Festaran observed, diplomatically.  “Ah!  It appears that negotiations are at an end.  The parley is done.  The prince and his party are riding back to the line.  It won’t be long now.”

“Is their necromantic defense still operating?” the apprentice inquired.  Festaran checked with magesight.

“Yes, it’s still there,” he reported.  Ruderal leaned away from the connection for a moment, then returned.

“All right how about . . . now?” he asked.

The young knight once again brought his magesight up to see the tangle of sorcery that enshrouded the great castle.  It was, he noticed, starting to diminish in intensity and activity.

“Something appears to be happening,” he acknowledged.  “It seems to be . . . thinning, I suppose you could say.”

“Master Min says it will take a few moments,” Ruderal agreed.  “But once their defense is down, it will take time and effort to restore.  We will have a brief period where we can attack in full force.”

“Baron Arthedes is calling the line into readiness,” Festaran reported, as horns began to sound up and down the long line of cavalry.  “The Alka Alon are returning to the castle gates.  I suppose I should join the rest of the men.”

“Be careful, Fes!” warned Ruderal.  “This is going to be a rough battle, on your side.  Watch your back and stay alert.”

“I will, Rudy,” Festaran assured.  “You do the same.”

The boy made a face that Festaran could tell was a scowl.  “Don’t worry about me, I’m getting stuck with the reserves.  Noutha’s unit.  We only go in if things appear hopeless.”

“Then I hope you don’t get deployed, for both our sakes,” Festaran said.  “Farewell!”  With that, he emptied out the little cup and returned it to its pouch before he nudged his horse forward to join the prince’s party.

“The Magic Corps is ready, my prince,” he reported, as soon as he returned to Tavard’s position.  “How did negotiations go?”

“They are determined to hold the castle and made several unreasonable and insolent demands of us,” Tavard related, his eyes narrow with fury.  “They were also quite insulting.  I thought the Alka Alon were supposed to be gracious and polite?”

“These are renegades, Your Highness,” Festaran reminded him.  “They are exiled from proper Alka Alon society because of their arrogance and belligerence.  Not at all like the Alka Alon council, or their lovely Emissaries.  The Enshadowed believe that they are the rightful rulers of this land, and they act with such temerity as a result.”

“They shall feel the steel of the Castali and reconsider, then!” bellowed Baron Arthedes, who seemed to be in a state after the discussions.  “No one insults my prince that way and lives to see sunset!”  To emphasize his point, he handed his lance off to his squire and received a magnificent two-handed sword in return.  He unsheathed the long blade and raised it defiantly overhead.  “I’ve ordered my two squadrons to act at my signal,” he announced, his face splitting into a wolfish grin as two small units of cavalry suddenly sped off after the Alka Alon.  “They will begin their operation as soon as they reach the gates.  We shall feast over their corpses tonight, my prince!” he assured.

“They would already be limping, if that damned Hawkmaiden had followed my orders,” Tavard said, sulkily.  “Surely they would have been more attentive to our discussions if they’d borne the brunt of an attack from the sky.  And a lot less arrogant,” he added.  Festaran could barely contain himself at the irony of the statement.  And the judgement of his friend Dara.

“My lady Lenodara is fiercely loyal to Count Minalan,” Festaran explained, almost apologetically.  “She will follow his orders to the last.  Apropos to that, my prince,” he continued, “Minalan wished me to remind you that the object of this sortie is not to attempt to take the castle, but to provide distraction for his surprise assault.”

“Count Minalan can do as he wishes,” dismissed Tavard.  “I will do as I wish.  I will contend with any recriminations after we have control of Darkfaller again.”

That earned a scowl from Count Moran, and Festaran was tempted to join him.  But if Minalan had predicted the prince’s obstinacy on the matter, then he had included it as part of his greater plan, Festaran suspected.  Festaran kept his peace.

The two squadrons of cavalry were making good time, chasing up the hill toward the great open gates of the keep.  Their banners were unfurled, and their lines were well-constructed.  It was an adept cavalry charge.  He held his breath and watched as it passed the point where the fading lines of the thaumaturgical defense were placed.  When it passed unmolested by spell or glyph, Festaran started to breathe again.  Perhaps some portion of the baron’s plan would work.  Such surprising things happened, in battle, he knew from personal experience.

But then one of them fell from his saddle, and then another.  Their line did not falter, to their credit, but something was cutting down the cavalry.

“They’re defending, my lord,” Count Moran murmured.  “Sorcery, perhaps?”

“Bah!  It is mere archery,” dismissed Baron Arthedes.  “A few snipers attempting to respond to our unexpected assault is all.  Some losses were expected, but—”

The man’s explanation ceased as a yard-long arrow suddenly blossomed in his forehead, penetrating through his helmet, his skull, his brain, and protruding solidly from the back of his head.  His eyes went wide for a moment before he slumped and then fell from his saddle.

“Incoming arrows!” Festaran shouted, riding in front of Prince Tavard and raising his shield protectively.  “Cover!  Archers!” he called out, as the prince’s bodyguard followed suit.

“How can they possibly hit us at this range?” Count Moran asked, astonished, as his eyes searched the skies.  “We’re a hundred yards beyond their range!”

“Not with sorcery, my lord!” Festaran reminded him.  “And the Alka Alon are adept with the bow.  Indeed—”

He stopped, as a long arrow thudded into his shield – and penetrated it completely, only an inch from his arm.  Around him he watched several more deadly shafts streak from the sky and pick warriors from their saddles with grim efficiency.

“Ishi’s Tits!” Count Moran swore, as the line of commanders descended into chaos.  Bodies began littering the field, and horses began screaming in pain as the occasional arrow missed its human target and found equine flesh.  “These shafts are everywhere!  And they aren’t even volleying!”

“Hold the line!” Tavard bellowed, from behind a line of knights seeking to protect him from the snipers.  “Do not break!  Hold the line!”

“My prince, perhaps it would be best if you withdrew out of range!” Count Moran suggested, with the force of insistence.  “The duchy would be poorer if we lost you to an unlucky shaft!”

“I shall not quit the field in the face of a few blows!” Tavard proclaimed, as another arrow flew inches past his face.  “Call the order to charge!”

“Charge, Your Highness?” Festaran asked, surprised, as the order went out.

“We are doing nothing but taking damage, right now,” Tavard explained.  “Cavalry on the move is far more effective than merely presenting a target.  If our fellows have taken the gates, then a swift charge may gain the day.  Nor will they expect such a bold move,” he reasoned.

That’s because it’s monumentally stupid, Festaran told himself.  As he peeked over the rim of his shield to see if there were more incoming arrows, he was dismayed to see a long line of corpses – both human and equine – lining the road to the castle.  Both sorties were dead to the last man, peppered with arrows.  The great gates of Darkfaller stood open, still, mocking the attackers.

But that wasn’t the only thing he saw.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a fluttering shape launch itself from the top of the long, rectangular keep that made up the southern wall of the castle.  And then another.  And another.  In moments the air was filled with such shadows.

“Wyverns, Your Highness!” Festaran reported, pointing with his sword hand while he kept his shield raised.  “They’re sending them in strength to harass us from the air!”

“We cannot escape their range,” Count Moran observed, crestfallen, as the line of knights started to shift.  “Would you not withdraw now, my prince?” he pleaded.

“Withdraw?” Tavard said, scornfully.  “Because of a few shafts and some overgrown bats?  Bring me my lance!” he instructed a man-at-arms.  “The gates stand open!  This is our opportunity!  Prepare to charge!” he called out.  A moment later a horn bleated the appropriate signal to do just that.

Festaran was certain that was the very last thing wisdom would dictate in this situation – but he had been given an order by his sovereign prince.  No gentleman could ignore that.

As he watched the sky fill with sinuous wings and saw yet more knights of distinguished lineage drop from their saddles from snipers on the walls, he heaved a sigh and couched his lance.  It was four hundred and twenty one yards between him and the great open gateway of the castle.

He wondered how far he would go before fortune took him from the field.

Chapter Ten

An Apprentice In Doubt

Ruderal

The Snowflake of Sevendor was pulsating with greater frequency as it constantly transformed, filling the chamber with a bright and eerie glow.  The young apprentice could tell that the thaumaturgic energies it drank in and manifested were increasing as his master stood in front of it, staff in hand.

It wasn’t his normal staff – Master Minalan had several, of course, some of them quite specialized.  There was his famous warstaff, Blizzard, a potent weapon that had seen him through one victory after another.  There was his thaumaturgical baculus, known as Insight, a powerful tool the Spellmonger used to investigate and explore arcane energies in his complicated enchantments.

But this one was different.  It was new – Minalan had only recently constructed it out of the strange materials he’d brought back from his mysterious expedition – and it had no implanted enneagram inside it, yet.  But it throbbed with power just as the Handmaiden did, as it floated over his shoulder, which was pulsing in time with the Snowflake, as it always did when it was close by.

The new staff was also throbbing in unison with the two potent enchantments, as Minalan used it to control the various fonts of thaumaturgic power the Snowflake produced.  Ruderal stopped and took a moment to appreciate the sheer mass of arcane energies – of every octave – it seemed to be drawing out of the Snowflake.  It was like nothing he’d ever seen, even in the presence of the gods.

“What is it, Ruderal?” Minalan asked softly, not taking his eyes from the staff.

Ruderal tore his attention from the mighty enchantments at play and focused instead on his master.  Minalan was in full armor, prepared for battle, his dragonscale hauberk and Yltedine steel helmet reflecting the glow from the magic.  But his master’s enneagram was even more interesting than the thaumaturgic display.

When Ruderal peered at someone just the right way, he could “see” or sense a tangled pattern of energy known as an enneagram.  That was what the magi called the reflection of a sapient entity’s self-awareness.

Though it had been confusing when he’d first developed the power, Ruderal had quickly learned to read the patterns and identify certain manifestations with certain qualities.  He could tell when someone was insincere, for example, or lying.  Or if they felt good or bad about themselves or others.  Or any number of other subtle layers of thought and emotion present in someone or something smart enough to realize that they were a unique and self-aware being.

Most creatures’ enneagrams were simple things, reflections of the most basic needs and desires, fears and anxieties that most living things were heir to.  Human beings were very complicated, compared to a dog or a horse, but mere flickers compared to the complex and sophisticated enneagrams of the Alka Alon.  The few gods he’d met had even more expansive and intricate patterns, and the enneagram of the Celestial Mother that lie within the Snowflake was unimaginably complex.

But Minalan’s enneagram was like nothing he’d ever seen.  It had been altered significantly since his return from the jevolar.  Every day a new pattern warred with Minalan’s own for control over the man, it seemed, as if both were attempting to assert dominance.  They were all different, and waxed and waned over his master’s mind daily, sometimes hourly.  Sometimes two at once would invade his self-awareness, which caused some unfortunate effects.

Today, on the eve of battle, Ruderal was surprised to see the dominant “stranger” in Minalan’s mind was one of the more ruthless and dispassionate of them.  He’d gotten familiar with several of the interlopers and their effect on his master.  This one was coldly calculating as Minalan considered both the thaumaturgical aspects of the approaching conflict along with the purely tactical.  There was a kind of cooperation between the two parts of Minalan’s enneagram, he noted, as if two well-practiced tradesmen were engaged in a matter of deep craft.

That was a bit of relief, he had to admit.  When the strange enneagrams were unruly, Master Min’s behavior could become unpredictable.   Even dangerous.  This one wasn’t so bad, most times, in his experience.  There was a deep and dark streak in it, and a vein of pure hatred and pain, but it was also highly disciplined.  It could put aside its emotions as it did what had to be done . . . and Minalan seemed to be using it adeptly to achieve his own ends.

He drew a deep breath.

“I’ve spoken with Sir Fes,” he reported.  “The prince’s forces are in position and will likely start their attack in moments.”

“And our forces are likewise ready,” Minalan nodded, still watching the staff.  It was ablaze with fresh power.  “I’m preparing to open the first portal, now that their defenses are declining.”

“Could you not simply take them down, Master?” Ruderal asked, knowing he was speaking from ignorance.  What his master was doing was far beyond the knowledge he had about such matters; he was a third-year apprentice, not an accomplished thaumaturge.  And, of course, Master Min had knowledge few on Callidore possessed.

“It doesn’t quite work like that, lad,” Minalan said, haltingly, as he manipulated the energies.  “Necromancy has its basis in decomposition.  It harnesses the power of dying,” he said, a note of sadness in his voice.  “Something is always dying, actually.  When you base your spells on necromantic power, you are always assured of a good store of energy.  That’s what makes it particularly insidious.  To counter such a spell, certain . . . methods are required.  They do not take affect easily, or at once.  But we should soon see a dramatic diminution in their defenses,” he promised, resolutely.  “It will be temporary, but it should hold long enough for us to redeem our people.”

“When shall we begin, Master?” Ruderal asked.  He had a foreboding feeling about what Minalan was attempting.

“Soon,” predicted Minalan, breathlessly.  “Now that the counterspells are in place, our warmagi will be able to operate in Darkfaller  For a time.  And I can challenge Mycin Amana,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Master?” Ruderal asked, confused.  “Was that part of the plan?”

“It is part of my plan, Rudy,” Minalan assured, still studying the staff.  It was enwrapped in threads of arcane energy like a distaff.  “She must know what she faces, now.  She must know, and she must fear it.”

The pronouncement sent a shudder down Ruderal’s spine.  Rarely had the personable Minalan been so dire.  But, then, there was much at stake.

“What are your orders, Master?” he asked, straightening and throwing his shoulders back.  He knew what others were risking in this battle.  He would do no less.

“I’m about to send the first sorties into Darkfaller, from here,” he reported, as he used his right hand to peel off a layer of energy and direct it toward the Handmaiden.  “The portal should take them to the southern keep, where the least valuable prisoners are held.  Then Terleman’s troop will be placed in the courtyard before the main keep.  Then Tyndal leading the Sevendori who will seek the third portion of our prisoners.  And then . . . we arrive,” he said.  “On top of that northern tower.  And once we arrive, Mycin Amana and her allies will have no choice but to face us.”

Ruderal swallowed, hard.  It wasn’t the battle he feared – he’d been in battle, in the Wilderlands.  He had stalked and slain a powerful Nemovort, one of the undead Alka Alon who fanatically supported their leader, Korbal the Necromancer.  The fiend that he, alone, was responsible for releasing back into the world.  He had made it his mission to eliminate as many of those foul folk as he could.

But he feared the consequences of Minalan’s encounter with Mycin Amana.

Ruderal had undertaken a study of the Nemovorti, thanks to his unique role in their revival.  He had collected tales of each of them who had encountered the magi, or their Alka Alon allies.  He had memorized their names, their histories, their capabilities, and their weaknesses, all in an effort to counter their vile ideology and return them to their tombs.

Mycin Amana was a special case.  Like Korbal, she was incredibly powerful – and insanely vindictive.  She acted with the assurance of her own superiority in the universe.  And she had taken the body of the arcanely scarred Isily of Greenflower, whose bones had been caught up in the Castle Saleisus experiment, before her mind had been shattered and the breathing remains of the mage were taken to an abbey for care.

Ruderal wished that Master Min hadn’t been so kind to someone who wronged him so.  It was not the decision that he would have made.  There wasn’t room in the world for creatures who were so casual with other people’s lives.  Now that Mycin Amana had inhabited that body, she had powers and abilities that regular Nemovorti did not, Ruderal suspected.  Allowing Isily’s body to live had been a mistake.

But that had not been his decision to make.  He’d made plenty of mistakes himself, mistakes with disastrous consequences.  All he could do was own up to his responsibility and try to make things right.  In his way, he suspected that Master Min was attempting to do the same.  His enneagram seemed to suggest that.

Still, he felt obligated to question his decision.  A good apprentice did that.

“Master,” he began, slowly, “are you certain that’s wise?”

That earned a chuckle from Minalan.  “Of course not, Ruderal.  It’s entirely unwise, for many different reasons.  Still, we must take a few risks if we expect to win the reward.  In this case I hope to distract her, as much as discover her capabilities.  That necromantic defense, for instance . . .” he said, trailing off into a murmur.  “That is not classic Alka Alon sorcery.  It is novel.”

“Then why take the risk to confront her?” Ruderal pressed.  “If the point of the raid is to rescue everyone, why take the chance?”

“As I said, a distraction,” Minalan repeated.  “Now, go prepare yourself.  And be mindful of your defenses.  We are going into a battle zone, and I expect it to be heated.  We will leave in just a few moments.”

“Of course, Master,” Ruderal agreed, and went to where he’d stowed his kit.

He wasn’t a warmage, but Ruderal’s apprenticeship had been more vigorous than most.  While his peers were studying intermediate thaumaturgic theory and learning how to contend with clients, Ruderal had been to war, he had been sent on secret missions, and he had fought to survive.  As a result, he had collected a reasonable amount of second-hand armor and weaponry for this sort of occasion.

He was already wearing a padded gambeson but had decided to delay putting on his armor until the last moment – you never knew if the Spellmonger would need something quickly, and he hated being slowed down by the heavy hauberk that Tyndal had gifted him last Yule.  He shrugged it on over his shoulders with a grunt, and quickly fastened the matching weapons harness over it.  His mageblade went in a scabbard on his back, and he wore the special dagger he’d used to slay Gaja Katar on his left hip.  He had a selection of warwands as well that went into scabbards and straps on his harness.  He’d only made one of them, but he was wise enough to take a wide selection into such an unknown situation.

While he was strapping on his new boots he’d gotten in Gilmora – tall, knee length, made of thick leather and dyed a brilliant scarlet – he started to get a mind-to-mind contact.  It was Atopol.

Rudy, where are you? he asked, his mental voice sounding urgent.

In the chamber of the Snowflake.  I’m putting on my armor, he assured.  Master Min says we’ll be there shortly.  Why?  What’s going on?

I’m hiding up in the bulwarks, Atopol explained, someplace where I can get a good view of the battle.  That necromantic shield is collapsing.  I can do simple magic again.  And Tavard is attacking the southern keep, he reported.  He’s charging the outer defenses now.  Not terribly successfully, he added.

No one thought it would be, Ruderal agreed.

The Enshadowed are sending all their archers to that wall.  And they’re launching wyverns like mad.  The Sky Riders are starting to counter them.  But, he added, I spoke with Gatina not too long ago.  She’s worried.

It’s a battle, Ruderal reasoned.  It’s only wise to be worried.  I’m scared half to death, he reported, calmly.

She’s not worried about the battle, she’s worried about something she found in the crypts below the castle, Atopol explained.  She didn’t actually see it, but while she was talking with Alurra it scurried through the tunnels.  There was a . . . a smell.  Something big and bad is down there.

What kind of something? Ruderal asked, curiously, as he strapped on his helmet.  A troll?

No, although that would be bad enough.  It was something that scared every rat in the place, according to Alurra.  But she couldn’t tell what it was.  I just wanted to warn you, before you arrived.  I know how you feel about surprises.

Thanks, Ruderal offered.  In truth, he hated surprises.  They had a tendency to be awful, in his experience.  Master Min is pretty certain that there’s going to be a lot of stuff like that.  It can’t be helped.  We go to war with the enemies we have, not the ones we’d choose, he said, quoting his master.

Ah!  Terleman just showed up – just popped out of the ether near the central keep.  It looks like there’s another group that just appeared behind the southern keep.  I guess the battle is underway, then.

That will be Azar’s squadron, Ruderal suggested.  He wanted a prominent place in battle, so Min gave him that keep.  Those Vanadori are tough, he added with admiration.

They’ve had to be.  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know where I was and tell you about the new . . . whatever it is.  I hope it was helpful.

Vague warnings about unknown dangers lurking in the dark in the middle of a battle?  How could that be unhelpful? he asked, sarcastically.

“Come along, Ruderal!” Master Min called.  “It’s time!”

I have to go, Ruderal informed his friend.  I’m getting stuck with the reserves.  Master Min thinks it will be safer there.  Keep watch for me.  I think I’m going to be too busy to look everywhere at once.

Good luck, Rudy! Atopol called and ended the communication.

Ruderal tied up the bag he kept his kit in and threw it against the white stone wall, before heaving a sigh.  He might not ever return to take it back to his chamber, he realized.  But for good or ill, he was ready.

He returned to the main chamber, where Minalan was apparently ready as well.  Taren was there, he saw, the tall warmage leaning on his spear and smoking a pipe.

“Ruderal, Taren is going to accompany you with the reserves,” Minalan told him.  He was no longer focused on his staff, and he looked almost eager to go into the fight.  His master was facing the small arch he’d had added to the chamber, a smaller version of the great arch he’d built on the plaza, outside, where the troops were assembled.  The visiting enneagram seemed to have control at the moment, he realized.  He was hanging spells – battle magics designed to protect him in Darkfaller, Ruderal reasoned.

“Don’t worry, lad, we might not even get called in,” he predicted.  “I have a feeling that once the Spellmonger enters the battle, things will go quickly.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Ruderal said.  “Atopol says that Gatina heard something big and smelly lurking in the tunnels.  Not a troll.  Not a wyvern.”

“Just one?” Taren snorted.  “I’m not concerned.  Are you ready?”

“I suppose,” Ruderal shrugged.

“Are you scared?” Taren asked, an eyebrow arching.

“Decidedly,” Ruderal admitted.  His eyes flicked toward Minalan.  “There’s a lot of possibility for mayhem, this time.  We’re not defending.  I prefer to defend.”

“It’s the superior position,” Taren admitted.  “Things are a lot clearer when you’re defending.  When you’re attacking, there is a lot of ambiguity about what’s happening.  Just keep a clear head and do what you’re told,” he instructed.  “I’m going to be with Noutha, too.  I’ll keep you as safe as possible.”

“Terleman is through!” Minalan announced.  “Azar, too.  The third sortie is preparing.  It won’t be long now.  The fourth and fifth units are not quite ready, yet,” he added.

“Care to send me and the lad out, then, while you’re waiting?” Taren asked.  He was trying to act casually, but his enneagram revealed just how agitated he was inside his head.  “Unless you still need us here.”

“No, no, I can carry on for a few minutes on my own,” Minalan assured, absently.  “Here.  I’ll just transfer you,” he said, and pointed his staff at the small portal arch.  A moment later a sheen of iridescent magical power filled the space, like a thaumaturgical waterfall.  “Go quickly!” he said when it was established.  “I’ll be needing it to transport myself to the tower.”

“Good luck, Master!” Ruderal called.  Taren paused a moment and regarded his old friend, nodding encouragement.

“See you in Darkfaller, Min,” he said, softly.  Then he walked boldly through the shimmering wall of force.  Ruderal took a deep breath and followed him.

It was entirely unlike traveling through the Alkan Ways, he noted at once.  It was a simple step, not a few seconds of abject terror before you found yourself dumped on the other side.  It was as easy as walking through a door, just a little tingly as he passed through the field.  And then he was outside.

The plaza in front of the new castle was half empty in the light of the dawn, now that the assault parties had gone through the arch.  Only three groups were left milling around: the two reserve units and the medical staff.  Lilastien was leading that last one; she’d constructed an emergency field hospital across the far end of the plaza where she could direct the wounded to appropriate areas of care.  There was also an outdoor kitchen, he noted suddenly, and the smell of frying sausages filled the air.

Taren walked with him over to the reserves – one commanded by Noutha, the other lead by Sandoval.  Warmagi milled about restlessly, stretching and preparing spells.  Some even managed to look bored, Ruderal noted.  But their enneagrams told a different story.  Everyone was buzzing as they took stock of themselves and managed their fears and anxieties.  That was pretty usual, of course – he’d witnessed plenty of armies on the eve of battle, and the patterns were always the same.  Fear.  Regret.  Anticipation.  Dread.

“So are you among those who suspect Minalan has gone mad, Ruderal?” Taren asked as they walked.

He shrugged.  “I don’t need to suspect.  I can see that he’s gone mad,” he answered.

Taren seemed surprised.   “Really?  I hadn’t expected that you’d say that about your own master.”

“I prefer to be candid,” the young man said.  “He’s still in control, but there’s no way that he could be called sane by any reasonable person.”

“I’ve noticed him slip a few times,” the tall warmage admitted.  “But they were little things, nothing important.  I’ve heard rumors of him acting strange at Spellgarden and here, but I didn’t think much of them.  Min has always been a little quirky . . .”

“Quirky?  Certainly.  But this is something much more,” Ruderal said, as he paused his step.  “It’s like he’s constantly fighting someone else for control,” he explained.  “And every day it is someone different.  You’ve heard rumors?  I’ve seen him act mad.  He can usually pull the reins back and get control, with some encouragement, but that just means he’s hiding it better.  And sometimes he can’t.  He’s quite mad,” he pronounced.

Taren’s expression was thoughtful.  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I went to battle under the command of a madman.  But it does give one pause,” he admitted.  “When we were in Anghysbel I figured some of this might even out once we were back in lands where magic works.  Somehow I think magic has made it worse.  But he has gotten an awful lot done in the short time we’ve been back.”

“My master works like a madman,” Ruderal grinned.

“Let me know if it . . . if it gets worse,” Taren requested.  “I don’t want you to betray your master’s confidences, but if he starts acting dangerously, well, some of us want to know.  And we trust your judgement to let us know when we should be worried.  And . . . and perhaps take action.  For his own safety,” he added.

“I understand,” Ruderal nodded.  “I don’t want anything bad to happen to Master Min, either.  But if he did get dangerous, well, I’m doubtful I could stop him.”

“In truth, so am I,” admitted Taren.  “I’m not certain anyone could, anymore.  The new weapons and tools he’s having me work on since we got back, for instance.  Absolute genius, some of them.  I couldn’t have figured out how to construct the enchantments on my own, not without a thousand years of experimentation.  But once they’re built, well, he might be beyond the power for a human mage to stop him.  Or even an Alka Alon.  We’d have to get the gods involved, maybe.  Or the Sea Folk.”

“That would be unwise,” Ruderal said, instantly.  “If only a tithe of what my father told me is true, that would be a disaster for all of us.  The Vundel don’t see such things in terms of individuals, but of races.”

“So let’s ensure that it doesn’t become a problem,” Taren agreed.  “You and Alya are the ones closest to him.  Alya’s still a little mad herself, not to mention totally in love with the man.  So we’re depending on you to alert us if things go wrong in his head.  Perhaps we can do something about it before something bad happens.”

Ruderal nodded, as a horn call rose.  “I suppose that’s the signal,” he sighed.  “Are you with Noutha, too?”

“No, I’m with Sandy,” Taren said as he fastened the chin strap on his helmet.  “But I’m hoping we don’t get called in.  I don’t think we’ll be needed.  There are more than a hundred warmagi on the field today as it is, not to mention Minalan and three wings of Sky Riders.  If they can’t manage a rescue with that kind of force, we’re already in trouble.  Good luck, Rudy!” he called, and then left to join Mavone’s squadron.

Taren’s words echoed in his head as he joined the others under Noutha’s banner.

The young warmage looked quite dashing in her blackened armor, he thought, as she inspected equipment and quizzed everyone on their orders.  She was calm, on the outside.  But inside her enneagram was buzzing like a beehive.  There were older and more experienced warmagi there, but they had no trouble taking orders from the young woman.  She’d earned their respect, Ruderal knew, by proving herself on the battlefield over and over.  Indeed, some of the men had an almost fatherly pride in their young commander.

“Ruderal!” she called to him a moment later.  “I hear your master has entered the fray.  Pray tell me if you get any news,” she asked, as she looked over his kit.

“Of course.  But wouldn’t he call out to you, first?” he asked, confused.

“Maybe,” she conceded, “but things can get confusing in battle.  Just let me know if you hear anything, all right?”

“Like some unknown beast skittering through the tunnels under the castle?  Because Atopol told me that, not ten minutes ago.”

Noutha winced.  “I was more worried about wyverns and possibly dragons in the sky.”

“It might be nothing,” Ruderal suggested.  “Or just a rat that some Alkan sorcerer wanted to experiment on.  Or maybe it’s just a new kind of undead.”

“You have the most charming ideas,” she scowled.  “You look like you’re in good shape.  But it may be time for you to be fitted with a new mageblade,” she suggested.  “Your arms have grown in the last year, as has your height.  You should have a proper weapon to fit your frame.”

“A new one?” he asked, surprised.  “I don’t even really want this one.  But I’ll check with Master Min after the battle.  And I do have this,” he said, patting the long dagger at his side.  “Master Cormoran enchanted it especially for use against undead.  It can keep a Nemovort from coming back in a new body if it’s slain with it now, he says.”

“Then that’s a powerful weapon,” Noutha nodded, thoughtfully.  “Keep it close to hand.  You may well have need of it, today.  Darkfaller is crawling with undead, according to reports.”

The thought made Ruderal want to shudder.  He hated undead, generally, and the Nemovorti the worst.  There was just something entirely unnatural about a corpse walking, moving, or fighting.  The common types – fresh corpses quickly reanimated to do simple tasks – were easy to spot for him.  They barely had awareness, and therefore very weak enneagrams.  The Nemovorti’s enneagrams were similar to regular Alka Alon, but the draugen were different.  Those ancient sea creatures produced the most savage-looking examples in his eye.

“Taren says that we might not even get deployed, if everything goes well,” Ruderal pointed out.

“Minalan has been in battle for five minutes, already,” Noutha countered.  “I can’t imagine everything going well.  I think we’ll be needed.”  She froze, and her eyes clamped shut.  She was receiving a mind-to-mind communication, he realized.

A moment later they snapped open again.  “So much for your prediction.  Things have already started to go awry.  I’ve been told to ready my troops.  So . . . get ready,” she said, taking a deep breath.  Then she bellowed so that everyone could hear her.  “We’ve been activated!” she called out.  “Prepare to deploy!  I don’t know to where but expect to start fighting the moment you go through that arch!  Now!” she hollered.

Rudreal grinned, as he formed up in line with the warmagi.  They were moving, now, and their boredom and restlessness had given way to thrills of adrenaline and an intense focus on their spells.  And every one of them had a spike of confidence when their youthful commander yelled.  That was good, Ruderal knew.  Men that were confident in their commander fared better than those who were doubtful.

Now, if he could just manage that kind of faith in his master . . .

Part Two

Chapter Eleven

The Keep of Darkfaller

I walked through the portal into a blazing world of madness.

As I emerged onto the top parapet of the tower, I had an exquisite view of the chaos around me.  Sensing no imminent danger, I took a few breaths to take it all in and take stock of the situation.

My first thought was it was a bloody mess.

I’ve been in plenty of battles, some of which didn’t go the way I’d prefer.  Anything involving a dragon, for example, usually involves tragedy and hardship even if you win.  But a battle with a dragon is usually centralized as you marshal your forces against the foe.  This fight seemed to have the same sort of desperate energy, just playing out over a much wider swath.

The first thing I verified was that the necromantic barrier Mycin Amana and her Nemovorti had built was truly diminishing.  That was essential to our success, and it was only because I had recognized how to staunch the flow of power to it.  The new staff I bore was key to that strategy.  So was the ancient knowledge I’d picked up.  Reducing the effect of the barrier and its internal field allowed our type of magic to be used once again . . . though it hadn’t done much to stop the Nemovorti and their sorcerers from using theirs.

I was content with that.  We were jousting on a level field, now.

But as I surveyed the battle from my lofty vantage point, it was clear that the enemy had not given up in despair and gone home.  Quite the contrary, there were furious fights spread out across the great inner bailey of Darkfaller.  The Nemovorti were providing a stout defense against the unexpected attack, even as they sent forth troops to contend with Tavard’s premature and ungainly assault on the southern keep.  I had sent in the first of the sorties only ten minutes ago, and already there was stiff resistance to their assault.

The first unit had been transported directly behind the southern keep, over which a thick spiral of wyverns was flying, splitting their attention between the attackers in the bailey and Tavard’s stalled charge in the outer.  There were dozens of them, their bat-like wings fluttering menacingly as they climbed and dove against our people.  Hundreds of hobgoblin archers manned the top of the keep, firing wave after wave of crossbow bolts down on both sides of the wall.  A line of undead menaced the warmagi in the courtyard, though our forces were holding the perimeter handily.

Things were just as chaotic at the central keep, where Terleman’s company was hard at work assailing the doorway into the castle.  They were making some progress, I could tell, by the splintered remains of the outer doors.  They were working on the portcullis within the gate, now, while keeping at least a hundred undead at bay from the rear.

Fires smoldered in a score of places, the result of warmagic spells, and the occasional explosion or sheen of arcane force flashed across the face of the castle in the early morning light.  It was a testament to Terleman’s effectiveness that there were dozens of bodies of undead scattered in a ring around the attackers.  At least, I hoped they were undead.

Closer at hand, the company that had taken on the northernmost keep was hard at work pounding through the trap doors that led to the main keep, below.  Tyndal led them, a good man for that sort of work.

I had decided to change things up, for this one, taking the opportunity to attack from the roof, not the ground.  I had several good and compelling strategic reasons for this – as the oldest part of the castle, the gatehouse below was fiendishly well constructed and reportedly well-defended.  But the real reason I elected for a rooftop assault was because I wanted a good view of the entire field, and this provided me the best vantage for that.

But the tower I was on was not undefended; there were at least two companies of gurvani and hobgoblins up here, sniping at us with their short bows and lobbing javelins from behind wooden blinds and crenels.  Undead might be shit at good siege tactics, but the goblins understood the importance of cover.

Not that it was doing them much good.  Lorcus was spending his pent up rage by blasting them with maniacal abandon, a wand in one hand and his mageblade in the other as he tried to work his way toward the doorway leading down.  A pile of furry black bodies stood as a testament to his effectiveness.  Several others were fighting to methodically strip the tower of its defenders, but Lorcus was inflicting a squad’s worth of damage on his own.  He was also laughing like a lunatic, which was a little disconcerting to me.  I’m sure the goblins agreed.

There were smaller companies assigned to other tasks, like taking and holding the bridgehead in the smaller of the two villages and keeping the northern castle from getting reinforcements by blockading the gatehouse, below, but I could not easily see them from here.  I had to trust that they knew their business.

Overall, I was pleased with how the initial assault was going, no matter how disorganized it seemed.  It was clear from our progress that we had taken them by surprise.  I wasn’t the only one to think so; Tuaa Folauga was dominant in my head, the ancient human ancestor who had participated in scores of battles across several worlds.

I was impressed with Folauga’s ability to quickly assess the situation and give me the benefit of his memory.  Despite his underlying hatred and despair, he had a scientist’s ability to observe the situation dispassionately and objectively.  And even though he was unfamiliar with our mode of fighting, he was quite adept at reducing the chaos in front of me to its constituent components to inform his assessment.

Folauga thought we were making a good show of it.  I was inclined to agree.

“Count Minalan!” Tyndal called out from behind me, having fought his way up the exterior stairs to the tower.  “I was wondering if you’d be attending this affair!”

“I had to get everyone through,” I said, without looking over my shoulder.  I’d seen him approach.  His armor was bloody, but it wasn’t his blood.  Indeed, he seemed in good spirits as he leaned on his staff.  “Things appear to be going well in my absence.”

“We’ve made some progress,” he admitted, as he joined me.  “It only took us about three minutes to clear the top of the tower.  That was easier than busting through the gatehouse.  Those scrugs are the last remnants of resistance,” he said, nodding toward where Lorcus was gleefully blasting goblins off the walls.  “We should have control of the entire section shortly.”

“How fares Tavard’s army?” I asked, curiously.  They were the one major portion of the battle that I could not directly see from here.

“Rondal says they’ve stalled their advance about a hundred yards from the southern gates,” he reported.  “They’re taking sniper fire and limited volleys from the castle, but the wyverns are doing more damage than the archers.  We should be seeing – oh!  There they are,” he said, glancing up.

I did the same, just as a shadow passed over us in the morning light – and then another, and another.  The elegant forms of giant hawks were gliding in overhead in perfect formation as they flew south to engage the wyverns.  There were more than a dozen of them, part of Dara’s Mews and part of the new Castali Mews, flying together.

“Air support!” I said, pleased, Folauga’s appreciation of the development fresh in my mind.  “Good.  Any response from the Nemovorti, yet?”

“They were caught by surprise, completely flat-footed,” he related with a grin.  “They’d begun to shift the bulk of their troops toward the southern tower when Terleman showed up in the middle of the bailey.  That’s why there are so many bodies around the base of the keep.  There were a few Enshadowed with them, too.  We’ve had a few random attacks by sorcery, so far, but nothing we can’t handle,” he assured.

“It will take them quite a while to restore their necromantic defenses,” I predicted, as I looked around.  “I suppose we should take advantage of that as best we can.”

Just then there was a loud cracking sound coming from the central keep.  It echoed between the widespread walls of the inner bailey.  I quickly used magesight to see what was happening, just in time to see Sire Cei recovering from bashing in the great iron portcullis of the castle with his war hammer.  He seemed pleased, as Terleman’s troops moved inside.

“Just what I was thinking, Master,” Tyndal agreed.  “Should we begin our own descent through this tower?”

“Bide,” I murmured, as I moved the focus of my observations to the top of the central keep.  “I want to be certain all of our elements are in place, first.”

It didn’t take long to make mind-to-mind contact with the other military commanders.  Terleman reported quick progress after the breach in the gate made the giant iron portcullis a tangled wreck.  Azar’s force was likewise about to enter the southern keep, despite the arrow fire and the occasional wyvern attack.  Wenek’s merry mob of his hand-picked Pearwoods warmagi – a rough-and-tumble force he’d been slowly cultivating for years – was holding the southern side of the bridge and the eastern gatehouse, now.  And Dara reported success in the skies over the south, even though her Sky Riders were technically outnumbered.  The gurvani who rode the backs of the giant wyverns were no match, one-on-one, for the battle-tested falcons and the Riders who were armed with magical munitions.  The gurvani riders seemed to be using only their mounts’ beastly claws and some crossbows.

Lastly, I checked with Sandoval, back in Sevendor.  He was in charge of both reserve units.  Depending on how things went he would send in Noutha’s unit, first, and then either deploy at my direction or lead his troops in the task I’d assigned for them.

“It looks like we’re ready,” I said, with Folauga’s blessing in my mind.  “We have temporary control of the field and the skies and clearly have the initiative.  We can begin the second phase.”

“I’ll inform Rondal,” Tyndal agreed.  His fellow former apprentice was coordinating the battle from Sevendor before he transported in.  He hadn’t been happy about that – his intended bride was wandering somewhere around this massive castle, and I had to invoke his duty to keep him from joining the storming parties.  There were already plenty of sparks eager to cross wands with the Enshadowed; experienced battlefield coordinators were much harder to find.  “And Lorcus,” he added, as the mad Remeran kicked the final hobgoblin defender away from the door leading to the interior of the tower.  “He’ll be excited to go fetch his bride.”

I nodded in assent and then tried to decide how I could be the best support for my troops.  I took a moment to banish Tanno Amberil into the hoxter pocket built into one of my rings and conjure Blizzard, instead.

My battlestaff had been recently and hastily improved in anticipation of this battle.  It still had all the features it had previously enjoyed, but my new-found arcane knowledge had improved its abilities dramatically.  Aza’methet really understood how to make something magically destructive, and though it was still crude by its standards, it was a work in progress that held real potential, in its minds.

Folauga liked it, as well.  It wasn’t the concussion lance or the pulsed disruptor weapon he was most used to, but it was similar enough in concept to provide some familiarity.

And now it was time to field test it.  Starting with the door that led downstairs into the tower.

“Everyone!” I called, as I strode over to where Lorcus was catching his breath.  “Phase two is beginning.  Stand back,” I warned, and then raised the staff.

The door was thick oak bound with iron, with a few security spells cast on it to prevent it being taken easily.  I chose an appropriate spell from Blizzard’s arsenal.  In a moment a field of arcane force had violently splintered it into a thousand pieces . . . as well as a goodly portion of the stone door frame.  When the dust cleared, I could see stairs going down and the bodies of a few hobgoblins who had been caught in the blast.

“At your convenience, Lorcus,” I announced, nodding to my vassal.  He gave me a grin and then motioned the other warmagi to join him – including Olmeg’s wife, Caerwyn.  I was pleased about that.  Once they found the prisoners, it was likely they would need medical attention.  Two other magi surprised me by their inclusion in the party: Atopol and Hance.  The elder Furtiusi paused before he went in.

“Thank you for doing this, Minalan,” he said, sincerely.  “My daughter is somewhere in there, we think.  At least, that’s where she told Cat she’d be waiting for us.”

“Be sure to look for my nephew, while you’re down there,” I suggested.  “But get everyone you can to the exit point, as quickly as you can.  And keep them calm.  We won’t activate that spell until we’re sure we have as many prisoners out of here as possible.”

The white-haired master thief nodded, took a breath, drew his blade – a long, black-painted mageblade – and plunged into the dusty darkness of the keep.

More than half of our company was behind him, leaving just Tyndal and a handful of bodyguards around me.  That was fine; there wasn’t a living goblin left on the parapet.

I was just returning my attention to the battle when the entire top of the tower was rocked with a kind of green lightning – the kind the Enshadowed sorcerers liked to throw around in battle.  I couldn’t tell where the attack was coming from, but as soon as it arose I was able to use Blizzard to counter it.  I knew the Alka Alon battle magic inside and out, now, and I wasn’t about to let a second-rate attack deter our rescue party.

“There, Master!” Tyndal pointed, as we searched for the origin of the assault.  His keen eye had spotted a trio of Enshadowed lurking in a wall turret ostensibly for archers.  Magesight revealed them readying a second attack.  They were all in their old-style larger forms, their thin and lanky arms waving as they gathered energy for a more dramatic push.

“Thanks,” I muttered, as I brought Blizzard to bear.  I had a selection of spells to choose from, everything from Imperial warmagi to Alka Alon enchantments to a few novel spells I’d come up with myself.  I could only guess at their defenses, of course . . . but with the memories of three Alka Alon rattling around in my head, I quickly made a very good guess, and chose the assault spell accordingly.

A moment later the entire tower disintegrated around them, the very stones turned to fine powder.  Defensive spells are great at turning, absorbing, or countering offensive magic.  They’re not terribly effective against a sudden fall from forty or fifty feet in the air.

“Nice!” Tyndal approved with an even bigger grin.  “Oh!  Another one!” he called out, pointing his own mageblade to the roof of a hall in the bailey where he’d discovered another Enshadowed sorcerer preparing an attack.  “My turn!”

For the next few minutes, we identified as many points of resistance as possible and eliminated them.  I kept about a hundred additional undead from attacking Terleman’s rearguard by making them temporarily five times heavier than they were used to being, which slowed them down enough for the rearguard to handle – some of them even broke their legs under the sudden increase in apparent mass.

A few moments later Tyndal and I fought two vicious draugen who had scaled the bailey side of the tower.  Then we turned our attention to a company of maragorku goblins who was trying to flank the central keep and attack Azar from the rear.  A sheet of thaumaturgical plasma from Blizzard’s arcane arsenal turned their central nervous systems to mush before they got within hand-to-hand range.

“You’ve improved that staff, I see,” Tyndal said, as he was wiping his mageblade clean.

“Dramatically,” I agreed, as I searched for a new target.  “But it’s just a trial piece, now, until I can build a new one.  Something more elegant and efficient.”

“When you’re ready to abandon Blizzard, keep me in mind,” he suggested.

“Shouldn’t you make your own weaponry?” I reminded him.

“Master, I’m used to getting your hand-me-downs,” he pointed out.  “You gave me Slasher, remember?”

I paused to chuckle.  That first mageblade had been army-issue, barely better than a plain piece of steel, capable of holding only a few simple spells.  Just about every mageblade in this battle was better than that, now.  “And what happened to that blade?” I prompted.

“I lost it in Gilmora, fighting siege beasts,” he admitted sullenly.  “But I’ll take much better care of Blizzard, I promise!”

“We shall see,” I said, as I felt the beginning of a mind-to-mind communication.

Minalan, we’ve gained the main hall of the keep, Terleman reported.  But we’re meeting stiff resistance.  There are at least three Nemovorti here, holding the stairs against us.

The stairs up, or the stairs down? I asked.

The stairs going up.  I’ve already dispatched a squadron to the dungeons to find the prisoners, he reported.  But if we lose control of this hall, they’re going to have a hard time getting back out.

Do you need my help? I asked.

Not yet.  But I might, if I can’t contend with these three on my own.  I’ll let you know.

As soon as the contact with Terleman was broken, another came in from Dara.

Master! she began, excitedly, the bloody knights are going to try to charge the bloody gate!  Some idiot down there thinks that they can overrun it before they can be closed against them!  But the wyverns are terrifying the horses, and that’s keeping them from charging.  There’s at least three or four hundred gurvani holding them, and twice that many undead moving out to attack the cavalry.

Anything you can do about it? I asked.  Much of our store of magical munitions had been depleted in the Winter and Spring wars, back in Vanador, but I’d given the Sky Riders priority when it came to resupply.  Only a few of them were actually magi, but the enchanters Dara worked with had become adept at providing arcane weapons that could be used by the non-Talented Riders.  Dara was generally conservative about how she employed them – she’d been in battle enough to know the limitations of her armaments.

There was a pause.  I could try to break up the wyverns, I suppose, she finally answered. If we came in hard, in formation, we could probably get them scattered enough so that Prince Tavard could retreat in good order.  It will take a few minutes, but I could probably do that much.

Tell Ruderal, I ordered.  He’s in communication with Sir Festaran, our liaison to Tavard in the field.  But they’re using a magic mirror, so it might take a while to get the message to him.

Festaran is down there? she asked, with alarm in her voice.

He was one of the few acceptable representatives for the prince, I explained.  Sire Cei was his first choice, but he was needed for Terleman’s company.

Why would you do something like that?  Ashes and cinders! she swore in my head.  He’s not a full mage, he’s just a sport!

He’s a knight mage, I corrected, and he can take care of himself in battle.  He’s been in a few, I reminded her.

Not against this kind of dark horde! Dara countered.  He’s going to get himself killed with the rest of the iron-heads, down there!

Well, I suppose you should do something about that, I proposed.

She ended the conversation at once.  I noted a change in the pattern of the Sky Riders and their magnificent steeds almost immediately.  They broke off from their harassment over the keep and began forming up for an attack run.  I wasn’t certain if Dara’s concern was for an old friend and comrade, or if there was something more behind it, but she seemed very determined, suddenly, to drive off the wyverns diving at the knights.

“I just got word from Lorcus,” Tyndal told me, when the contact ended.  “He’s made it down to the ground floor, and now he’s about to take the stairs down to the dungeon.  Gatina is leading them.”

“I’m sure her family will be pleased to see her,” I nodded, as I scanned the bailey below.  I noticed another draugen trying to scale the tower.  I took a moment to produce a fifty-pound rock from a hoxter pocket and send it plummeting to its second death on the ground, below.  “Any other news?”

“Wenek is holding off a company of undead and finds it frustrating that they don’t feel pain.  He says half of his spells are useless against them.”

“Then he should use the other half.  Anything else?”

“Azar is encountering stiffer resistance than he anticipated.  It appears some of the reinforcements to the southern keep came in by tunnel, not overland.  He says it’s nothing he can’t handle.”

“What about the prisoners?” I asked.

“He hasn’t gotten that far, yet,” Tyndal admitted.  “Oh!  Incoming!” he called, as he whirled around.  A stray wyvern – riderless – had decided we looked tasty and was rapidly approaching at a glide.  “Allow me,” he said, drawing a warwand and sheering off its left wing with a savage plane of thaumaturgical force.  It careened out of control and hit the outer wall, far too low to be of any danger to us.  “That’s my third wyvern,” he said, smugly.  “Oh, and Rondal wants to know what to tell the reserves.”

“Tell them – bide,” I said, as I felt yet-another stirring of mind-to-mind contact, this time from Azar, himself.

Min! he called into my mind.  We’ve got a problem!  His mental tone was urgent, more urgent than I was used to.

What kind of problem? I asked, as I whirled to face the southern keep.

Well, a few heavy infantry hobgoblins and maragorku are holding one half of the great hall with a couple of Enshadowed, but we’ve gained the door down to the dungeons, he reported.  I’m not worried about them.  But there’s something creeping down there that’s . . . I don’t know, he confessed. It’s something big, and it’s taken one of our lads already.  He sounded troubled by that.

Taken? I asked.  Not just slain?

No, it grabbed him as they were descending.  It came out of a crack in the wall.  A big crack, he added.  We couldn’t see what it was, so we just sealed it up and kept moving.  But we can still smell it down here.  Hells, I can smell it in the main hall.

You want me to ready the reserves? I asked.  Or do you want me to come take a look?

Just ready the reserves, he decided.  I don’t think we’ll need them, but . . .

I’ll do it, I agreed.  Just get those prisoners out of there.

That’s the job, he affirmed and ended contact.

I was about to call to Noutha and tell her to get her people ready when something happened – something arcane.  Suddenly a great wave of thaumaturgic power erupted from the central keep and formed a kind of rapidly gyrating field around the entire castle.  Not just thaumaturgic power – it was clearly necromantic in nature.  It was like the shield I’d disabled, only more potent, I could tell at once.

“Uh, oh,” Tyndal said, as he stared at the new, throbbing field.  “Someone’s casting spells.”

“That’s got to be the Nemovorti,” I guessed.  “Mycin Amana herself, I’d wager.”

As if to confirm my suspicions, Terleman reached out to me through the mind-to-mind connection.

Min, what in three hells was that? he asked.  I felt something, but I can’t identify it.  And half my spells have failed, he complained.

It’s another necromantic shield, I informed him, as I banished Blizzard and returned Tanno Amberil to my hand.  Bide, and I’ll investigate, I promised him.

The staff immediately got to work analyzing the energy once I directed it.  I had not yet chosen a paraclete for it, so I had to do much of the work myself, with the help of the Magolith that floated behind my shoulder.  But soon the striekema heart of the staffhead began relaying to me the nature and purpose of the enchantment that now surrounded the keep.

It was concerning.  I saw at once that this field differed, in part, from the greater shield that had surrounded Darkfaller.  That one I had severely restricted.  It had acted as a kind of filter for thaumaturgic energy, severely depressing the octaves of power used in Imperial style magic and most simple Alka Alon songspells, while permitting – and even enhancing – the necromantic energies that the Nemovorti and their servants depended upon.  It took away the ability to access the Alka Alon Ways and it inhibited the mind-to-mind communication spell we used for communication between magi.

But this smaller field was more powerful than the greater one – and it had a separate source of power.  Any enchantment of that magnitude is going to have to have some font from which the thaumaturgical energy needed to power it springs.  The Umbra, in the Wilderlands, was created by the power generated from sacrifice, for instance, and while I did not know the source of the Veil around Lilastien’s Tower of Refuge, I assumed that the Alka Alon Council had managed something sophisticated, clever, and sustaining to power it.

This one was using necromantic power, certainly, but the source of that flow was clearly contained within the tower, Tanno Amberil told me.

It was also much denser, it reported.  Unfortunately, the lack of a paraclete frustrated my attempt at more information.  With a sigh I summoned Insight into my left hand and established a connection between the two tools.  With the older baculus’ assistance it was far easier to interpret and analyze the information presented to me.

I almost wish I hadn’t.

The dark and twisted field around the keep actually boosted necromantic energy, magnifying its effects and efficiencies beyond what the Magosphere usually would tolerate.  As Vivant power is more common and diffuse, there was a natural dampening of necromantic energy in most places with any reasonable biosphere.  This field entirely countered that effect.  Within the great keep the Nemovorti would enjoy a greatly enhanced ability, without much effect on the sorceries of their Enshadowed servants.  Meanwhile, our valiant warmagi would be at a detriment.  Their Imperial-based spells would likely fail to work, and their enchantments would be greatly diminished.

I was about to relay that to Terleman when something tugged at my imagination.  A certain curiosity from Tuaa Folauga’s memory urged me to consider the matter another way.  It was not his memories as a warrior that were prompting this, I noted, but those of when he was a scientist studying the fundamental nature of the universe.  Reluctantly, I allowed his consciousness to take over the assay.

I don’t have the words to describe the things he examined, either in Narasi or in Old High Perwynese.  The latter would describe it as a “Comprehensive Quantum State Analysis,” but that doesn’t adequately describe it.  Alka Alon is similarly thin with terms that can convey what Folauga requested Insight seek from Tanno Amberil’s delicate perceptions.  All I knew was that Folauga was impressed with the abilities of the staff, as it would have taken several very sophisticated, very large machines to have accomplished the same in his own life.

But after his consciousness had appreciated the nature of the information he’d gleaned, I had a much better understanding of how Mycin Amana’s spell had been constructed, its nature, how it was powered . . . and its weaknesses.  There was a deep quantum component.  There was a dimensional magic component.  Reality, itself, had been slightly altered – squeezed is, perhaps, the best inadequate term for it.  As Folauga’s consciousness receded back into my subconscious, I understood what she had done.

The malicious bitch had conjoined a portion of the Otherworld here in our physical reality.  That keep now stood in two worlds at once.  She had done it elegantly and with great sophistication.  But it had been done with purpose, and it would be much harder to un-do than the outer necromantic shield had been.

“Ishi’s tits,” I whispered to myself, followed by an oath from Folauga’s memory that involves feces, a bucket, and a small mammal that is too difficult to relate, out of context.  Then I returned to Terleman.

You said half your spells failed? I asked.  Which ones?  Your Imperial magic?

Well, yes, now that you mention it.  Why? Terleman asked.

You have that Enshadowed sphere of irionite I gave you, correct?  The Alkan spells you select from that sphere won’t be as affected as your normal spells.  Don’t even bother with Imperial spells or enchantments, they’ll barely work, if at all.  And start to make your way to the ground floor and prepare to withdraw, I ordered.

But why?  We’ve got control of the entire place, at the moment, and Sire Cei is starting to free the prisoners!

Because it’s a trap, I told him.  And we walked right into it.

Chapter Twelve

Unexpected Complications

“Call the reserves, now,” I ordered Tyndal, sharply, as I broke my connection with Terleman.  “Tell Noutha to get her company ready to deploy.”

“Where to?” he asked, as he scanned the chaos below.

“I don’t know yet,” I confessed, “but it’s looking like Terleman is going to need my help, so I’m considering sending her to relieve Azar, at the southern keep.”

“That might be a good idea,” Tyndal agreed.  “Look!”

He pointed down at the courtyard, below, where suddenly every hall in the domestic range of the complex seemed to open at once, allowing hundreds, no, thousands of people to escape.

No, not people, I realized at once.  Former people.  Undead.

Nearly every castle has what is known as a domestic range.  All of mine did, save the new Sevendor Castle.  Castles can be an excellent defense against most foes, but they are absolutely miserable to live in, most of the time.  So we build smaller halls in the inner baileys to house people in far more comfortable accommodations.  Darkfaller had an extensive domestic range that filled much of the northern and eastern parts of the inner bailey, and we had largely ignored it.  The prisoners were in the keeps, after all.  The domestic range was where – theoretically – the human slaves of the Nemovorti had been kept.

But now it was apparent that many of those the Enshadowed had kept around to do menial tasks in the upkeep of the fortress had been sacrificed to provide shock-troops to Mycin Amana in defense of Darkfaller.  They seemed “fresh,” too, as if they had been animated recently.  They showed little sign of the gradual decomposition that sets in after a dead body has been raised.  It occurred to me that it would raise a lot of necromantic energy, although not enough to power the spell that hung over the central keep.

But it did send a few thousand more enemies into the battle at a key point.  The undead flooded the inner bailey moments after the dark enchantment had been cast; perhaps they’d been summoned by it.

Suddenly Terleman’s rearguard was fighting for its life, as was Azar’s; those warmagi who held the entrance of those keeps were hard-pressed to defend their positions as the wave of undead struck them.  Another group headed for the northern tower I was standing on.  Tyndal quickly ordered a half-dozen of his men to begin flinging defensive spells below to break the tide before it crashed against the gatehouse.

“I’m going to have to send Noutha to support Azar,” I concluded to Tyndal, as I assessed the changing situation.  “I have to do something about that spell,” I said, gesturing with Insight.  “I’ll send her and her company in as soon as she’s ready.  You hold this position,” I commanded him.  “This is our fallback.  We can still use Imperial magic here, so use it well and keep this place secure.  As soon as we have the prisoners free, gather them in the great hall on the ground floor.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, curiously.

“I’m going to make sure everyone else is progressing in their tasks and then I’ll go relieve Terleman,” I answered.  “Just not the way he expects.”

As Tyndal began overseeing the defense of the tower and issuing orders to his subordinates, I checked in with Dara.

How fares the attack? I asked.

Still ongoing, she answered, but we’ve kept the wyverns off the horses, for now.  I got word to Festaran, through Rondal, finally.  He’s trying to get the knights to rally for a retreat now.  He’s already saved Tavard’s life at least once, so far.

So have you, I reminded her.  It isn’t a bad thing for a sovereign duke and future heir to the throne to owe you a favor.

That’s not why I’m doing this! she insisted.  That’s Fes, down there!

Keep up the attack, I ordered, things are starting to get ugly in here.  Just focus on protecting the cavalry.

All right, but I’m running low on munitions, she reported.  We all are.

Next, I checked with Azar.  He was enjoying a little more success, but he was not pleased with the challenge his rearguard suddenly faced.

I hate undead, he confessed.  A man is slain, he should stay on the ground.  They take a lot more killing than a living foe.

Do what you have to do, I agreed.  Terleman is in trouble.  I’m sending the reserves in to assist you.  Have you found the prisoners, yet?

They’re almost all up here in the great hall, he said, proudly.  We drove the hobgoblins upstairs and hold that staircase.

Good.  As soon as you have them, you’re going to fight your way across the courtyard to my position.

That’s going to be tough with all those walking corpses out there, he warned.

That’s why I’m sending you the reserves.  Terleman can’t cast most of his spells, right now, but you can.  Get them out of there quickly, as soon as the reserves arrive.

After I was done with Azar, I contacted Wenek.

How is your situation? I asked him.

Boring, compared to the commotion I see in the castle, he complained.  You brought me all the way here to guard a bridge?  There’s a line of two or three hundred undead outside, a company of goblins, and a handful of Enshadowed, but they’re keeping their distance, he reported.  I’d go out there and piss them away myself, but you told me to hold.  So I’m holding.

Can you turn command over to a subordinate and join me for a little fun, then? I asked.  It will be dangerous and probably get us killed, but you’ll be facing the Nemovorti by surprise.  It would give you a chance to stretch your legs a little, I promised.  I could almost hear the grin in his reply.

Give me two minutes, and I’ll come through the Ways, he agreed, happily.  Just me, or do we need help?

You’ve got one of the other Enshadowed irionite spheres we captured in Vanador, I explained.  Those are going to be the ones that are most effective, inside the central keep, now.  So, no one goes to this party without one.

Delightful, he said. I’ll bring my mace.  I didn’t know if he was being serious or sarcastic or both, but that’s just how Wenek was.

I could have called in a few more High Magi who were armed with the spheres, but I didn’t need a squadron, here; I just needed someone to watch my back.  Wenek might be uncouth, rude, sadistic, and savage, but he was adept at warmagic and always itching for a fight.

I spent the next few minutes coordinating with Noutha, and then opened the portal and directed it in front of the southern keep.  As soon as I started to see her warriors pouring out of the shimmering field and laying into the undead, I was satisfied.  Azar was supported, Tyndal had this tower well in hand, and Dara was contending with the wyverns that were threatening the prince.  It was about that time that Wenek showed up through the Ways, coming in through my stone.

“So we’re going to rescue Azar?” he asked, as he prepared his armaments.

“We’re going to attack the cause of his weakness,” I countered, as I banished Insight and brought Blizzard back into hand.  “He’s on the ground floor, trying to rescue prisoners.  Mycin Amana and her coven of Nemovorti sorcerers are at the top of the tower.  We could go in from the bottom and fight our way to the top, but I think it would be better to confront her directly.”

“That’s . . . how many Nemovorti did you say?” he asked, skeptically.

“I don’t know,” I confessed, as I prepared the portal with Tanno Amberil.  “The necromantic barrier is keeping me from peeking in.  We’re going to have to destroy whatever it is she’s concocted to keep it up.  So, we’ll have to do this the hard way,” I said, apologetically.

Wenek shrugged.  “I like the hard way,” he decided, smacking his palm with the head of his mace as I cast the portal spell.  To emphasize the matter, he stretched his brutal short-hafted mace overhead and gave it a couple of practice swings.

The portal spell I was using was pure dimensional magic that depended on the massive power of the Snowflake.  Like the Bovali Molopor, the big crystalline construct had the capability of cleaving the dimensions in some remarkable ways, if you knew how to do it.  Technically, we were transporting back through the small arch in the Snowflake chamber, and then re-transporting ourselves back to the top of the central keep.

It wasn’t as elegant as I prefer, but I was still learning how to use the dimensional magics that Aza’methet had burned into my memory.  Eventually I’d refine the spell, but it was sufficient for this sortie.  From my readings with Tanno Amberil, I knew that the necromantic field wouldn’t stop us from slipping between the dimensions the way it interfered with the Waystones.

“Ready?” I asked, as I banished Tanno Amberil and drew Twilight from its scabbard on my back.

“I’m as giddy as a maiden on her wedding night,” Wenek assured me with a grunt as a shimmering arcane field appeared before us.  “Let’s go!”

We plunged into the field, and in a few seconds, we emerged on top of the central keep among the wooden machicolations that ringed its peak.  Unfortunately, I miscalculated slightly, and we appeared about a foot and a half above the floor and took a bit of a tumble.

“Uh!” Wenek grunted again as he rose to his full height.  “That’s going to take some getting used to!”

“Sorry!  I’m still learning how to do that,” I said.  I looked around, blade in hand, to find very few defenders were manning the top of the keep.  Indeed, there was one Enshadowed warrior up there along with a handful of maragorku, likely there for field observations.

Wenek didn’t waste a moment.  He unleashed a powerful bolt of arcane energy from his fingertips and blew the Alka Alon warrior off the top of the tower at once, then gave a wordless war cry before he plunged into battling the goblins.  I gave one of them a blast from Blizzard, then turned to select my next target only to find that Wenek had bludgeoned his way through four of them in short order.  He stood over their bodies, surveying the carnage.

“Thanks,” he said as he looked up at me.  “I’ve had a lot of pent-up energy since the battle started.”  Do you understand why I brought Wenek?

“Let’s find the door,” I nodded, sheathing Twilight and looking around.

It didn’t take long.  Whoever was in charge of security now at the keep didn’t think there was much danger of someone attacking them from the top of the castle and hadn’t secured the two doors that led down from the wide expanse.

Darkfaller’s central keep was impressive.  It had been built only sixty years ago, at the start of Castal’s campaign against Gilmora, so it was reasonably modern in design: a tall barrel keep supported by six smaller towers clinging to its sides.  The fighting deck on top was built solidly enough to hold siege engines, if necessary, though there were none in evidence.  There were at least fifty good spots for defenders to employ archers against any attackers, below, and the overhanging machicolations were well constructed to allow someone to drop a rock or a bucket of flaming pitch or even just take a healthy crap on anyone who tried to assault the massive keep.

Instead of trap doors, there were staircases that led down from two of the six towers.  Wenek and I chose one and headed down the stairs.  I’m sure he was bursting with wisecracks – he’s funny, in battle – but he wisely kept them to himself.  Sneaking into an enemy fortress isn’t the time for jokes.

The stairs led to a great hall, below, that I’m certain was once Tavard’s personal chamber when he was in the fortress.  It took up most of the level, I could see, although there were a few anterooms and private chambers ringing the walls.  It was garishly appointed with rich tapestries portraying gallant Castali knights fighting the Alshari Wilderlords and the loyal Cotton Lords of Gilmora – pure Castali propaganda, I knew.  The ceiling above had been painted with scenes of the Narasi gods, to prove how pious Tavard was.  The chamber was ringed with tables and cabinets, all richly made, and there was a magnificent gilded chandelier hanging over the center of the room.

But it was also filled with Nemovorti.  Six of them, to be exact.  And Mycin Amana was among them.  There were also about a dozen Enshadowed, most in their old warrior forms, leaning on spears or moving pieces on a map of the castle.

Three of the undead lords were directly casting spells, magesight revealed. And all three were gathered around a table that bore an eerily familiar construct.  Mycin Amana herself was in consultation with two others – male, and warriors, I saw.  She sat in what had to be Tavard’s thronelike chair.

I was gratified that we had been stealthy enough so that no one noticed us enter.  Wenek immediately took the initiative by braining two of the Enshadowed warriors from behind with his mace, sending a splash of blood across a very expensive tapestry.  Wenek doesn’t mind not fighting fair.  Indeed, he seems to prefer it.

I didn’t want to feel left out, so I used a burst of blue flame from Blizzard’s tip to immolate two others who were standing nearby.  Alka Alon sorcery, of course – our Imperial spells weren’t working, I could tell.  They died screaming in agony.  That attracted everyone’s attention.

“Nice place,” Wenek commented, as he moved to engage another Enshadowed.

“You!” Mycin Amana screamed in surprise, which I found gratifying.  “How did you—?” she began to ask, as two of the Nemovorti stood protectively in front of her.  One had an iron spear, similar to a normal Alka Alon dueling spear only fueled by necromantic power.  The other had a great sword, which was unusual.

“I’m a wizard. We do that sort of thing,” I said, as I blasted a third Enshadowed warrior, this time with a plane of arcane force that sliced him in twain at the waist.  “I was in the region and wanted to pay my respects to Prince Tavard, but . . .”

Our sudden attack disrupted the spell castings of the three female Nemovorti, I was pleased to see.  They looked on us with a mixture of horror and disgust on their pale, tattooed faces.  Whatever power those tattooed runes had, they did nothing for their beauty.

“Stop this at once!” Mycin Amana commanded in Alka Alon, while her guards moved aggressively forward toward me.  I would be lying if I said it wasn’t intimidating.  The one with the greatsword was clearly experienced with it and had a body that looked like it had been familiar with one before its demise.  The other one spun his spear into a loathalas stance, a classic Alka Alon style.

I sent the Handmaiden to fly in front of me and set it pulsing warningly.

“An excellent idea,” I said, loudly and in the same language, as I took up a rasalas stance, Blizzard held parallel to the floor in front of me.  It was a pose that suggested pause.  It was also one that could easily be wielded against the loathalas.  While none of my Alka Alon ghosts were haunting me today, I’d practiced enough so that Minalan – my original ego – had picked up some things.

Tuaa Folauga had his own opinions.  He sized up the remaining foes in the room and began evaluating our tactical possibilities.  I wasn’t interested in tactics, though; I was here for information . . . and to provide a distraction.

I glanced over at where Wenek was crushing the last Enshadowed warrior’s kneecap with his mace as he held his face in magical stasis with his other hand.  There was a gleeful, determined expression on his face.

“Wenek!  Hold!” I directed him in Narasi.  With a shrug he stopped beating the warrior and released the spell, sending him crumbling toward the floor, screaming piteously.

“A few moments of discussion?” I proposed to Mycin Amana.  That was an Alka Alon phrase that had a lot of subtle meanings, particularly in a situation such as this.  “I don’t believe we had the usual proper introductions before the battle began,” I added, in Narasi.

It was startling and deeply disturbing to be addressing Korbal’s consort while she was dressed in the pale, bluish body of my one-time lover turned rapist and the mother of some of my children.  Thankfully Mycin Amana had not added the accessories of tattooing to her face.  The gaunt cheeks of Isily’s face and the drawn pale skin conspired to make her a mockery of her living self.  The yellow glow from her pupils against the light blue of her eye whites wasn’t helping.  Isily once had pretty eyes.  I clung to Tuaa Folauga’s dispassionate nature as I tried to concentrate on this very important discussion.

“I sent a delegation to your prince, this morning,” Mycin Amana countered, also switching to Narasi.  “He made a lot of bold demands and ludicrous promises before he tried to attack my castle.  He’s likely dead, now.”

“I’m afraid I was running late this morning and was unable to attend,” I pointed out, reasonably.  “I was hoping for a few brief words before the hostilities commenced.”  In truth, she was completely justified under Alka Alon customs of warfare to reject the request, but I was hoping her curiosity would get the best of her.  It was a good wager.

“Very well, I grant you a brief truce,” she added.  “But there is no need to introduce yourself.  You are Count Minalan the Spellmonger of the Magelaw, if I understand your race’s beastly customs properly.  You’ve risen far in your small world, in a very short time,” she praised.   “And, of course, I remember you attacking me below Olum Seheri.  And slaying me.  You disrupted my plans,” she said, accusingly.

“It was a difficult time for us all,” I conceded, finally letting Blizzard rest casually on the floor.  “We humani are forced to be brash, due to our short lives.  I wish to be just as brash in order to converse with you for a few moments.  I thought a battle would be an excellent way to do that.”

She gave me the grace of a smirk, which looked odd on Isily’s face.  “So it seems.  And what did you wish to ask, Spellmonger?”

“I wanted to know what would persuade you from quitting this campaign and returning to Olum Seheri – or wherever else you choose to go,” I said, reasonably.

She looked amused.  “I am in the process of reclaiming Castabriel for my lord Korbal.  By the time he awakens, he will have a seat in the heart of the realm he intends to conquer.  Together we shall swallow your entire miserable colony and use it for our purpose,” she promised.

“To what purpose?” I asked.  “To overthrow the Alka Alon Council?  To invite retribution of the High Kings to stomp out your rebellion?  To risk the attention of the Vundel when your race is already on probation?  Really, my lady, have you considered the consequences of your action?”

She smiled, revealing her blue teeth . . . which sickened my stomach.

“Then it is true, that the Spellmonger has glimpsed the wider world,” she said, softly.  “Here I thought you a mere wizard or warlord.  You do understand why we do what we do, then.  Facing the High Kings and the Vundel is precisely what we intend.  Your race is simply a helpful means to do so.”

“And why would you do that, my lady?” I prompted.  “You must know that the world has but three thousand years left, before magic dies – and the world with it.  Contending with the only power on the planet that can challenge that fate is foolish,” I condemned.  “You have the molopor already.  If you wish to escape that fate, I encourage you to use it to find a better world on which you can spend your immortality.”

“Immortality was never my goal,” she countered.  “That is just a benefit.  My goal is to see Korbal made chief of this world.  Or, if he falls, I shall rule it myself – and then an answer to the looming danger can be assessed.  If anything, that unpleasant circumstance won’t be solved by the Alka Alon or the Vundel, else they would have done so.  The High Kings are impotent against this; indeed, it is they who wish to flee this world, not us.  They have no incentive to save it, as long as they have recourse to the molopors.  They will flee like cowards and leave Callidore behind,” she pronounced with a sneer.  “Only Korbal and the Enshadowed have the will to find an answer.  Once we have power.”

“Ah!” I said, holding up a finger.  “Then there are some things we agree upon!” I observed.  “That was entirely my assessment of the Alka Alon Council.  They have no interest in pursuing a remedy to the crisis that faces both our races.  Nor do the Vundel have the power to correct the problem.  So it must be left to us poor humani to resolve the situation,” I proposed.

I got a chuckle out of her – in some circumstances I might have counted that as a point in my favor.  But the sound that came out of her undead throat in Isily’s voice was ghastly.

“You ephemeral barbarians are barely a step up from the gurvani,” she said, contemptuously.  “You are adequate temporary hosts, and useful enough as servants, but you have no capacity to move the heavens.”

“In general, no,” I admitted.  “But I might be a special case.  Indeed, I have come upon some information of late that suggests a plan that might, indeed, save the world.  That would be much easier to do if I wasn’t preoccupied with an invasion of my homeland.  Therefore, it might be in both our interests if you withdrew from Castal,” I suggested, reasonably.  “By holding the molopor, you are actually serving my purpose in leveraging the Alka Alon Council.  Perhaps even the High Kings.”

“That is an interesting proposition,” she nodded.  “And how would you provide this leverage?”

“I’m already working on it.  My race and yours have had a . . . contentious past,” I said, diplomatically.  “While you were in your tomb, the Alka Alon Council did not always live up to its mandates in regards to my people.  As a result, our once-great civilization fell.  Of course, the Enshadowed did not help matters,” I added, darkly.  “But our history has fostered a sense of distrust in their ‘wise platitudes’ and sage advice.  I am cordial with the council, but I am not trusting in it.”

“Nor should you be,” she agreed, jutting her chin in the air defiantly.  “They are nearly powerless.  Administrators.  Bureaucrats,” she said, with distaste.  “They are weak.  They will be easy to defeat.”

“I am suggesting that they need not be beaten, but can be persuaded,” I pointed out.  “With adequate leverage they can be bent to will.  I have that leverage,” I promised.  “I can either use it to fight you and Korbal, or I can use it to achieve our mutual goal of saving Callidore.  I would prefer the latter.  It saves time.  And lives.”

She considered.  “What proof do I have of this?”

It was a reasonable question.  I was, I knew, making outlandish claims about things far above my theoretical understanding of the world.  Like a five-year-old boy coming up to you and betting that he could tear the moon out of the sky.

“I have recently achieved a greater understanding of dimensional magics,” I explained.  “More I will not say, but the presence of our troops here, beyond your defenses, should suggest that I know what I’m talking about.  In addition, I have the attention of the gods,” I pointed out.  I wasn’t bragging, exactly, but I know I sounded a little smug about it.  “Divine magic is capable of things mere necromancy is not.

“And I have discovered some secrets about your own race’s history that give me some encouragement,” I continued, softly.  “Secrets that they very much do not want known.”

“You seem to be very well connected and well-informed, Spellmonger,” she said, indulgently.  “And I don’t think you are lying.  The host I now bear knew you personally,” she added, lightly.  “Unlike other hosts, I know more of her life and her memories.  She had a great affection for you.”

My heart crumbled when she said that.  I was filled with a multitude of emotions.

“You . . . you have her memories?” I asked.

“She was a special case – an experiment,” Mycin Amana explained, as she stood.  “I credit Karakush for suggesting it and discovering her whereabouts.  We used a novel process to transfer my consciousness into her body.  She wasn’t quite dead, when we began.  The result has been impressive,” she admitted.  “This host, alone, has very unusual powers, for a human.”

“She was caught in an experiment that went wrong,” I informed her.

“Oh, of that I am aware,” Mycin Amana nodded.  “I will credit your race with some breathtakingly unusual capacities, in regards to magic.  From the gods to snowstone to . . . bluestone,” she revealed.

“So you are aware of—” I began hesitatingly.

“As time in this host went on, I began to get more and more of her memories.  She was admirable, for your species.  A keen mind and a sharp intellect.  A certain knack for simple magic.  But an intriguing mind for theoretical studies,” she conceded.  “And a decided obsession with the Spellmonger.”  She fixed me with a penetrating stare.

I didn’t know whether to blush or vomit.  I stifled both impulses.

“We have a certain history of our own,” I conceded, warily.

“At the least.  But among the flashes of her memory were some surprisingly intelligent insights on certain elements of thaumaturgy, I think you call it.  She was quite inspired, in her crude way.  The device she constructed to channel those energies, for instance, was unexpectedly effective, if crudely contrived.  I decided to re-create it and . . . refine it,” she said, gesturing over to the table, around which the three sorceresses were still crowded.  “When you add in certain improvements, you can augment the power of the matrix significantly enough to affect reality.  It provides a conduit to the forces available from the other dimensions for use.”

“You’ve tapped into the Otherworld,” I observed.

“More like I’ve convinced a portion of the Otherworld, as you call it, to coexist with this keep, for a while.  A fascinating technique.  It has many advantages – if one of the Nemovorti is slain here, for instance, there is no possibility of loss or degradation of their spirit before implantation.  Indeed, transference itself is far easier under these conditions.  I applaud her innovation, if not her vision.”

“Her name was Isily,” I said, without meaning to.  “Baroness Isily of Greenflower.”

“I am aware,” she said, giving me a cold smile.  “Sometimes I think I still feel her, somewhere deep inside,” she said, tapping her breast.  “Just fragments, but they coalesce into real memory, from time to time.  Perhaps she even influences me,” she admitted.

“She could be quite persuasive,” I said, trying to dismiss the uncomfortable line of discussion.  It did not serve my purpose.  “But what say you to my proposal, Mycin Amana?  Withdraw and work with me, or persist and perish?”

“Why would you work with us, when we have treated you so poorly?” she asked.  Another reasonable question.

“If it brought an end to this war and a lasting peace, I think negotiations could occur.  Again, I have leverage over the Alka Alon Council.  And friends among the gods.  I think I could forge a truce that both would accept.”

“And the Vundel?” she asked.

“Believe it or not, I have some favor among the Sea Folk,” I revealed.

“The snowstone,” she nodded.  “A fascinating development.  They crave it.”

“Another proof of my veracity,” I pointed out.  “But not my only advantage.  I have recently become acquainted with allies beyond the power of the Vundel,” I teased.

She sniffed.  “And you think those sorts of powers are yours, alone?” she asked.  “For the Enshadowed have our own allies.  Korbal knows of powers that can grind the Vundel like fish.  They have already given us the guidance we need to achieve our goals.  They have given us opportunities to press our claims against the High Kings.  And they have given us the tools we need to project our power as we see fit.  Go and witness those tools, Spellmonger,” she said, nodding toward one of the wide windows in the chamber.

I gave Wenek a glance to tell him to watch my back for treachery, then slowly walked over to the southern-faced window.  The sun was already beaming in at a sharp angle, as it rose over the eastern wall.

I stepped to the sill and peered out . . . and down.

There was a battle going on, below, as Noutha and her men was attacking the undead that had been unleashed upon them.  A crowd of people stood behind them – our prisoners, I realized.  I could even see Azar and Noutha fighting shoulder to shoulder . . . but they weren’t fighting undead.

They were fighting a spider that had sprung up out of the ground.  A spider with a body the size of a team of warhorses and eight long, spindly legs the size of a ship’s mast.  It was laying waste to the warmagi with several of its arms.  With horror, I recognized it – though my eyes had never seen it before.  But Tuaa Folauga’s had.

It was called a Paranchek.

The Nemovorti had brought a curse into this world.

Chapter Thirteen

Mycin Amana

“What in nine hells have you done?” I whispered as I stared below.

“Behold the bounty our allies have gifted us,” Mycin Amana said, smugly.  “Isn’t she lovely?  A natural killer, easy to control, and entirely incorruptible.  So much better than gurvani.  So much better than dragons.  I was skeptical, at first, when the others proposed using them, but this shall prove an interesting trial.”

My blood ran cold.  I knew how that trial would end.

The Paranchek were not native to Callidore.  They were bred millions of years ago by long-dead empires just for the reasons Mycin Amana had given me.  Tuaa Folauga had faced them in battle on a dozen worlds.  His ancient adversaries had employed the species in the expansion of their maniacal empire.  It was, indeed, a supremely deadly species and easy to control, once you understood how.  They had no compunctions about taking life and could not be moved by empathy or appeals to decency.  They did not betray.  They did not surrender.  Their size and lethality made them nearly unstoppable when they went to war.

And they were smart.  That creature attacking my men, down in the courtyard, was easily as intelligent as a human or Alka Alon.  In time, I knew, it would grow more so.  That didn’t make it any easier to reason with, because the Paranchek eschews communications with other species, save their masters.

“You have brought a terrible thing to this word,” I said, as I turned back to her throne.  “So much worse than dragons.  If you only suspected the danger in this, you would refuse – no matter what the cost!”

She looked triumphantly amused.  “Your terror tells me otherwise,” she smiled.  “I find your race intriguing; so willing to throw your lives away fighting the inevitable, but so fearful of that which you do not understand.  These new pets will be useful against you, I think.”

“They will become a terror on the world – for my race and yours,” I countered, my voice quivering.  I could not let the implications of the beast overwhelm my argument – that’s what she wanted.  “But it doesn’t change the underlying situation.  It just makes it more horrific.  I implore you: work with me to save the world.  Else I will bring down on you defeat and disaster that will challenge your imagination.  That is my proposal.”

She scoffed.  “You think I can be moved by such an empty threat?” she asked.

“I think you will consider it,” I shrugged.  “Because I will be making the same offer to your fellow Nemovorti.  One of them – if not more – will accept, I wager, because it will give them an advantage . . . particularly once Korbal is finally gone.  Which he will be soon, despite your best attempts at sorcery.  You may extend the process by keeping him in torpor, I suppose, but how long can you preserve that rotting body?” I asked.  “Not long.  Without my assistance, he will be dead soon – permanently.  And then what?  Which of you will take his place?  Or will you destroy yourselves fighting each other for power?”

The other Nemovorti looked at each other, startled expressions on their faces.

“The Enshadowed are united in their commitment!” she insisted, her nostrils flaring.  “We will conquer you.  We will challenge the High Kings.  We will prevail!”

“Not that united,” I said, shaking my head.  “I’ve been approached by a number of your associates, recently, making various proposals.  Perhaps even some of those in this room,” I said, scanning the grotesque faces of the undead who were now glaring at me with their yellow eyes.  “Some have been quite intriguing.  I haven’t made any decisions, yet, but as it becomes known that I am willing to negotiate in a reasonable fashion – and that I hold the power to change the fate of the world – I am certain that some of you will be willing to cooperate out of a desire for advantage.   You may well conquer, but you will not prevail.  Not without me.”

“Do not insult me by bragging of powers you do not possess!” she barked, angrily.  Clearly, the prospect of betrayal by one of her colleagues was alarming to her.  From what I understood, Mycin Amana was attempting to keep the Nemovorti together whilst Korbal slumbered.  That was hard, when you’re dealing with an ideology that is essentially self-serving.  And many of the Nemovorti were psychopathic in the belief of their own superiority.  Keeping them disciplined and organized had to be difficult.  “No humani conjurer is going to change the fate of this world.  The idea of it is laughable.”

“What proof would you require to believe me?” I asked.  “Can you make snowstone?  I can – and I did.”

“That was an accident,” she countered, sharply.  “Of all people, this host understood the details of that spell.  She also knew that it was mere chance.”

“The first time,” I conceded.  “But I believe I can now repeat the feat.  Indeed, I require it, if I am to be successful in my endeavors.  But the fact remains that you and your people did not do it.”

“You cannot even make irionite,” she pointed out.  “You must steal scraps of it from battlefields!”

“That is no longer correct,” I smiled.  “Indeed, I’m working on a batch of it, now.  Something else that I will require.  Soon there will be witchstones in the hand of every village witch and traveling footwizard – and stones of great power for the warmagi.”

“You lie!” one of the Nemovorti sorceress screamed.

“Occasionally,” I admitted, “but not at the moment.  So hear me well, and take it to heart,” I said, as I returned to my place in front of Mycin Amana.

“I do have the power – and the understanding – to save Callidore.  I have a duty to do so.  If the Nemovorti will withdraw back to the Mindens and end this senseless war, then I am willing to cooperate with you, and will pursue no further conflict.  But only to the extent that you are useful to my purpose.  Those who enlist in my effort will be spared.  The rest . . . well, there are many forces in the world who despise the Enshadowed.  Powerful forces.  It is inevitable that some of them will eventually eliminate you,” I said, earning a flinch from some of them.  “I have no compunctions about inviting those forces to do so.”

“All you show is your own weakness!” one of the two warriors sneered.

“A strong man will lift a great stone with his hands,” I agreed, “a weaker man uses a lever.  But with a long enough lever, the weaker man can move much more mass than the strong.  I show my leverage here: without my intervention, Korbal has but months of life ahead of him.  You can ignore me and watch him die, or you can reason with me.  And I’m a reasonable man.”

The warrior with the great sword strode over to me.  I tried not to tense because that might have sent the wrong message, but it was hard.  The undead host was significantly taller and more broadly built than I.  I probably smelled better.

He looked from me to the Magolith, which was still hovering around my right shoulder.  “The only reason you were able to harm our master was because of that thing,” he said, nodding toward the floating artifact.

“Well, I did design and build it,” I pointed out.

“And you say that this thing is the only mechanism to preserve his life?” he prompted.

“If you had discovered another, then you wouldn’t ask that question,” I observed.

“Then we must have it,” he concluded.  “The truce is at an end,” he pronounced – and lunged for the Magolith.

In that moment, a number of things happened at once – or in very quick succession.

For one thing, the ugly Nemovort with the greatsword was blasted across the room the moment his skin touched the surface of the Magolith.  I had established an enchantment on it to prevent anyone from messing around with the thing, based on a near-perfect specimen of blood coral that was now incorporated into the metal mantle that enwrapped the sphere of irionite.  I hate for people to mettle with my personal things.

But something else strange happened, as well: behind his shoulder there was a brief apparition that chose that moment to manifest.  A woman’s body and face appeared, just for a moment, her form hazy and translucent.  It wasn’t unfamiliar to me – it’s what people look like in the Otherworld, before they learn to control their appearance.  It took but an instant for the indistinct blur to sort itself out into a recognizable face . . . which I also recognized.

Isily.

Not the misshapen, grotesque mockery of the woman who sat before me, but the original, human woman.

I was shocked by the unexpected appearance and the unexpected nature of the apparition.  This was Isily’s ghost, that was the only explanation.

She opened her mouth, and while the Nemovort flew across the room in an arcane blast, I heard her words like they were being shouted from the bottom of a very deep well.

“Minalan, you have to stop her!”

As if I needed the encouragement.  The corporeal form who crouched on her stolen throne in front of me was not Isily, it was a millennia-old demented fanatic.  I had been sincere in my offer to work with her, under my conditions, but I had little expectation that she would agree. It wasn’t in her nature.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by the appearance of Isily’s shade – whatever arcane contraption Mycin Amana built had, indeed, juxtaposed this tower with the Otherworld, where the shades of the dead can appear.  Indeed, they might reside there – we just didn’t know.  It is not a popular realm of study, amongst the magi.  Perhaps Taren, may the gods bless him, knew the most of the realm, thanks to his tenure as Warden of Greenflower.  He’d encountered the dead there repeatedly, sometimes at his initiative.  Bluestone had some powerful effect on the realm, it was clear, and Mycin Amana’s inclusion of the mineral clearly had created an effect.

But when the ghost of your dead lover appears in a moment of crisis, it can be disconcerting.  Trust me.

Indeed, it was so distracting that I didn’t notice Wenek taking some initiative of his own by throwing his mace at that same construction.  It flipped end over end between Isily’s apparition and me suggering one of those haunting moments where time slows to a crawl.  I could see Mycin Amana’s visage behind the ghost, screaming in alarm.  Despite the many potent forces in the chamber, no one, and nothing, tried to halt the plain, basic expedient of a hurled missile.  Out of the corner of my eye I watched as the weapon careened into the delicate construction and shattered it.

When it collided with the device, a powerful wave of arcane energy – largely necromantic in composition – exploded across the chamber.  I wasn’t prepared for that, either.  Indeed, I stood transfixed as the wave of power plowed across the room and impacted everything in it, living and dead.

It wasn’t a nice, clean explosion. The irionite and bluestone lodged in the wooden framework shot out in all directions.  It was an arcane sphere of force, as the powerful thaumaturgic strands of energy tangled against each other and lashed out.  My brain throbbed with the reality-straining effects of the blast.

It was similar to what happened at Castle Saliesus, but worse in terms of both power and the effect it had on everyone.  I think if the Magolith hadn’t been there protecting me I could have died.

As it was, I was driven to my knees and nearly lost my grip on my staff.  The blast also affected the Magolith, which fluttered to the floor.  Wenek was a little further away, but he was thrown across the room and left unconscious.  The three Nemovorti sorceresses were sent sprawling and senseless, as was the other warrior.  Only Mycin Amana seemed to handle the blast, likely because of her affinity with the Otherworld provided by her borrowed teeth and bones.

It took me several painful moments to collect myself and catch my breath.  My ears were ringing.  My nose was bleeding.  Tuaa Folauga’s memories were screaming at me to get up and fight, even though there was no imminent danger.  As bad as the blast had affected me, it had removed the Nemovorti as direct threats for the moment.

Except for Mycin Amana.  She was too busy screaming her outrage to attack.  She wasn’t unaffected, but she seemed in better shape than her fellows.

The moment I marshaled my resources, I gave her a long, meaningful look and pulled myself to my feet.

“You ended the truce,” I said, hoarsely as I retrieved the Magolith while I pointed my staff at her in a direct threat.  “What happens now is on your head.”

“You will pay for this, Spellmonger!” she shouted.  “I will make you suffer!”

I shuffled over to Wenek and hefted his unconscious body onto my shoulder.  He was not an easy burden to carry.  Indeed, he had put on a lot of weight in the Pearwoods, and he was in full armor.

“I’m already suffering,” I huffed, as I pulled his arm over my shoulder.  Wenek was not a thin man.  “I made you a reasonable proposal.  The next time I come here, I will be of an entirely different disposition.  Think on that,” I said, and began heading for the door to the stairs.

The blast had the Magosphere ringing like a bell, and having the focus to cast a spell was unthinkable.  I would have gladly called for assistance, if I could have.  I Instead I slowly pulled Wenek down the stairs one step at a time.

About two flights down he began to awaken.

“Min?” he croaked.  “You said to destroy it,” he offered, apologetically.

“I did,” I agreed.  “And you did.  Good job.  But don’t try to cast anything right now,” I warned.

“I can barely stand,” he said with a mirthless chuckle.  But he managed to get his feet under him, which helped the effort.  “Where are we going?”

“Down,” I pointed out as he stumbled on the next step and almost fell over.  I noticed he was bleeding from his ears.  “Let’s go see how Terleman is getting along.  And then there’s a giant spider outside,” I reminded him.

“Terleman!  That’s right,” he croaked.  “We’re here to rescue him.”

“Support him, more like,” I corrected.  “But I think what you did may have helped.  Or maybe not.  We’ll have to see.”

“Min?” he asked me, suddenly.  “Why did you offer to work with those bastards?”  He sounded genuinely concerned.

“It wasn’t a serious offer,” I explained.  “I wanted to sow dissension among them.  I knew Mycin Amana wouldn’t be open to the idea.  But I wanted her to think that any of her colleagues might be.  Now she’ll be suspicious of all of them, I think.  She’ll be looking for betrayal behind every move they make.”

“Oh,” he nodded, and then seemed to regret it.  “That makes sense, I think. Yeah, that was smart.  I was worried there for a moment.”

“Don’t be,” I sighed.  “The Nemovorti are doomed, they just don’t realize it yet.  But now they know that I have alternatives to the fate they believe is in store for them.  That, alone, made it worth the effort.”  Ishi’s tits, Wenek had put on weight.  “Can you stand by yourself, yet?”

“Let’s see,” he said, pulling his arm off of my shoulder.  With great concentration he managed to keep his feet.  “I suppose I can.  That was . . . that was . . .”

“Incredibly brave,” I finished.  “And a bit suicidal.  But incredibly brave.”

“Thanks.  I was trying to help.”

We paused on the next landing as we both felt a change in the air – in the ether, actually.  Whatever effect had been caused by Wenek’s destroying Mycin Amana’s device, it seemed to be fading as we got farther and farther away from it.  I could start to feel the tingling feeling you get when your rajira feels magic again.  It’s akin to your hearing returning after your ears have been temporarily deafened.

“I can . . . do you feel that?” he asked, confused.

“Yes,” I agreed.  “Let’s see if . . .” I muttered, as I pulled the Magolith from my pouch where I’d stowed it.  With a little encouragement, the green sphere’s knot coral took my direction and started floating overhead once again.  It was a bit shaky, but then so was I.

“There!” I said, with some satisfaction.

“Yeah, that’s pretty,” he grunted, and continued his descent.

Every step down we took seemed to make the process easier.  I don’t know if leaving the proximity of the blast was helping, or if we were just recovering as we descended.  But when we came to the third landing and startled a gurvani who was coming up the stairs Wenek had no trouble slamming the scrug against the wall and plunging a dagger into him.

We were six landings down when we came to the first of our men – a warmage I’d not met before.  He looked at us curiously, his warwand drawn, until he recognized me.  Terleman had sent him up to investigate, apparently, after the blast.

“It was like all of them just stopped,” he explained, as he helped us down the stairs.  “There was a wave, and then the Nemovorti and the draugen just kind of collapsed for a moment.”

“And Terleman didn’t manage to get away?” I asked.

“Get away?” the warmage scoffed.  “He had us lay into them with blades while they were out of commission.  The normal undead weren’t affected as much,” he added, thoughtfully, “but they did slow down a bit.  Captain Terleman didn’t want to waste the opportunity.”

“And the prisoners?” I prompted.

“We got them out,” he informed me, with a grin.  “As soon as that blast happened, he sent them across the courtyard to the northern tower.  With escorts,” he added.

When we arrived on the ground floor, Terleman had clearly gotten control of the level, as his men were standing sentry amongst a pile of bodies.  They let us pass quickly to where he was taking stock of the situation in the great hall.

“Minalan!” he said, surprised, as we arrived.  “I was worried when I couldn’t contact you!”

“Couldn’t be helped.  Wenek destroyed the thing that was causing the field effect, and it temporarily dampened other magic.  Like Greenflower, only different,” I explained.

“That blast affected the entire castle, but we can do Imperial magic again,” he nodded.  “I’ve gotten the prisoners away.  We can start the withdrawal any time.  Unless we should just go ahead and finish the job,” he added, a bit of eagerness in his voice.

“No, we withdraw,” I insisted.  “We staggered them temporarily, but . . . have you heard from Azar?”

“No,” he confessed.  “Last time I heard from him he was asking for reinforcements.  The undead had blockaded the gatehouse to the southern keep, and he couldn’t break free.”

“I sent him the reserves.  But then a . . . giant spider attacked them,” I informed him, while I tested out the extent of my recovery by casting a few small spells.  Restoratives, rejuvenating enchantments, just the typical Imperial warmagic that can keep an exhausted spark on his feet after a rough patch.

“Did you say a giant spider?” he asked, skeptically.  “How . . . giant?”

“As large as a wagon,” Wenek said, shaking his head.  “And that’s just the body.  It didn’t look good, from up there.”

“We should go check on Azar,” I suggested.  I didn’t feel like checking on Azar, I felt like falling over for a nap, but duty beckoned.  “That spider is trouble.  And there might be more of them.”

“More?” Terleman asked, alarmed.  Then he straightened.  “All right.  I’ll get a squadron together.  Most of my men went with the prisoners, but I have a few picked warriors with me yet.”

It only took a few moments for him to gather the remnants of his company, about a score of warmagi who hadn’t been injured and were still in the fight.  That is, until I told them what we might be fighting.  That made them hesitate a bit.  But the appearance of a few draugen lingering on the upper levels convinced them that it was time to go.  The defenders of the keep were starting to get organized again, and while our unexpected attack had given them pause, they were still far more numerous than we.  Indeed, by the time we were ready to quit the hall, a collection of maragorku and draugen were challenging the sentries, and we were forced to close and bar the door before withdrawing to the inner bailey.

The courtyard between the keep and the walls was a scene of carnage.  Hundreds of undead were still milling around, harassing our people in an unorganized manner.  Goblins and the occasional Enshadowed were sniping from cover, making a retreat both desirable and difficult.  There were several fires smoldering amongst the domestic range of residence halls, and spots of organized resistance were everywhere.  Everyone knew it wouldn’t be long before they managed to regroup and conduct a counterattack.

We took a moment to regroup ourselves, once we were outside.  Terleman ordered his men into a defensive formation, calling for spells to discourage stray arrows that might be headed our way and preparing more offensive spells.  Everyone was still feeling the ringing effects of the blast from above, but with a little concentration and focus they were able to construct a reasonable defense.

We were all starting to feel better about our chances when we came around the corner and saw the Paranchek.

It was still crouched in front of the doorway to the southern keep, a few hundred yards from our position.  Wyverns fluttered menacingly overhead, being chased by giant hawks, and though the undead were still shuffling around aimlessly, there were a lot of them.

But the huge arachnid that had sprung out of the ground in the courtyard was still holding Azar and his men at bay, keeping them from crossing the courtyard to relative safety.  Indeed, it had strung a few webs to keep the raiders bottled up in the gatehouse.  It looked like an untenable position.

“Gods, you weren’t jesting about the giant spider,” Terleman noted with a shake of his head.  “I was hoping it was just you being delusional.  It’s bigger than you said!”

“We only saw it from a distance,” I said, defensively.  “Scale is hard to judge from that far away.”

We stood in silence for a moment as we tried to evaluate the task ahead of us.

The Paranchek easily had a forty-foot leg span. It stretched across the gatehouse door, facing Azar’s diminishing forces and slicing at them with its wicked front claws.  They were more like a scorpion’s claw than a normal spider’s front legs and they were as sharp as a sword, as the pile of bodies it was collecting bore testament.  It used its other legs to bar the way out of the keep.  There were strands of web as thick as a ship’s anchor chain strung across the front.  Even the gurvani and the undead gave it a wide berth.

Watching the thing fight was unsettling.  It moved fast, far faster than you would suspect something that large could move.  There was a small ring of warmagi trying to fight it, but they weren’t having much luck, even with magic.  It’s short tail lashed out a few times, catching some unfortunate victims with its sting, while other legs merely pinned some raiders to the ground.  The horrific looking multifaceted eyes could see everywhere at once, it seemed, allowing it to attack in front of it and behind with equal facility.

“We’re supposed to fight that?” Wenek asked, skeptically.

“If we don’t, Azar will die,” I pointed out.  “As will most of those prisoners.  We don’t have a choice.”

“How do you propose we proceed?” Terleman asked, already planning the battle ahead.

“Fire, perhaps,” I suggested.  “Or cold.  I don’t imagine spiders like either of those.  But it may come down to our blades and our most destructive spells.”

“Too bad we don’t have a really, really big boot,” Wenek lamented as he drew his mageblade.  “Ishi’s tits, that thing is big!”

I considered how Lord Tiny, the giant we’d faced a few months back, would have managed the thing, when Wenek mentioned the really big boot.  But then I realized I might have the equivalent.

I reached out to Dara, mind-to-mind.  Dara, has Price Tavard retreated yet? I asked.

Retreated?  No!  The idiot is trying to rally for a charge, she reported.  I’ve been keeping the wyverns at bay, but he’s just using that as an opportunity for one last glorious cavalry charge.  He still thinks he can take the castle.

He cannot, I promised.  The place is still thick with undead, gurvani, and Enshadowed.

Well, we cleared most of the archers off the battlement, she informed me, which is why Prince Ironhead thinks he can take the castle.  But what is that . . . that thing inside the bailey?

A giant spider, I revealed.  Which is why I called to you.  We need some assistance.  I was wondering if you had a certain wand in your arsenal . . .

It took a few moments to coordinate things, from there, but before long Terleman was ordering an attack on the giant spider’s rear – from a distance.  A volley of assorted arcane blasts and improvised missiles started to get flung at its tail.  It took a little while for it to notice us, but eventually we convinced it to leave Azar and his people alone and address the irritant from behind.

That’s when the second spider burst out of the ground behind us.  It was just as large as the first, and it seemed a little more animated.

“This is starting to get complicated,” Terleman murmured, as he looked back and forth between the two.  The new spider began moving toward us menacingly.

“Just keep blasting at them,” I ordered.  “I’ve sent for help.  All we can do is keep them busy for a few moments until it arrives.”

“You ordered a giant boot?” Wenek chuckled.

“The equivalent.  But keep them from reinforcing each other.  They work really well in groups,” I warned. “Once they start coordinating their attacks, we’ll have a much harder time of it.”

Terleman continued looking back and forth between them.  He pulled his staff, Warmaster, into a defensive position and began casting spells.  So did everyone else.

It was going to be a long day.  And it wasn’t even midmorning, yet.

Chapter Fourteen

Flies In The Web

Darkfaller was already a mess.  The spiders did nothing to improve the situation.

There were no lines in this battle, save for the ragged string of defenders caught against the gatehouse.  They were keeping a loose formation against the onslaught of the great spider, though they were not well equipped to do so.  There wasn’t much defense you could offer against a beast that could raise itself dozens of feet over your head on its massive legs, and then just as quickly drop its body down to eye level.  The slashing claws of its front legs were vicious, like scimitars ten feet long, able to impale a man or cleave him in twain with a lightning-fast strike.

The smell was what got to me.  There is a distinctive odor associated with the Paranchek, one that evoked some very bad memories in Tuaa Folauga.  It was acrid, like something evil was burning somewhere.  He associated that smell with terror, grief and despair.  You don’t ordinarily think that spiders have a smell, but that’s because they’re usually too small to notice it.  But with an arachnid this size, the odor was overpowering.  No one who smelled it would ever mistake it for anything else again.  It was worse than a dragon.

But I found its fighting style interesting – though it was clear the monster could have been doing far more damage to the warmagi in front of it, it only struck when someone tried to break away from the formation.  Nor did it use its most lethal weapons; indeed, if someone tried to get away from the defensive line, it seemed more interested in pushing them back with its creepy legs, not slaying them outright.

A few daring souls had managed to get far enough away to chance escape, but the spider’s long legs quickly dragged them back.  If they persisted, only then did it employ a harsher strike.  It seemed more like a cat trying to keep a litter of kittens in place than a predator attacking prey.  It had only relaxed its diligent pursuit when we’d stung it too hard on the rear to ignore anymore.

The other spider, however, seemed determined to plow its way across the courtyard to join its fellow and toss aside any who challenged it.  It had emerged from a tunnel or well from below – there were many such that crisscrossed the vast compound, tying the various keeps and towers together with hidden accesses and underground escape routes.

The spider was large enough to have to enlarge whatever hidden entrance it had come through, as well as demolition a few of the small buildings nearby.  It had struggled through the opening only briefly before its powerful legs got the leverage to pull the rest of its body up and into the morning light.  It took just a moment to shake the dust and debris off of its partially hairy body before turning its attention to its objective: us.

“Which one do you want to take?” Terleman asked me, as he hefted Warmaster.  We were standing nearly back to back, now, as the warmagi around us prepared their weapons and cast their spells.

“You think we should divide our forces?” I asked, surprised.

“I think if we don’t pay attention to both of them, we’ll be like so many flies caught in a nasty web,” he suggested.  “If you can distract that one long enough to let Azar get free, I can probably keep this one occupied with the forces I have available.”

“Distracting it will be easy,” I considered.  “Killing it will be much harder.  These things take a lot of killing,” I warned him.  Tuaa Folauga’s memories were filled with scenes of battle against these creatures – often times when they were armed with powerful weaponry and advanced armor.  I didn’t bother to mention that to Terleman, of course.  There was no need to distract him from the task at hand.  But even naked and immature, the Paranchek were incredibly hard to kill.  They could absorb a tremendous amount of damage and still remain lethal and belligerent.

“I imagine they will,” he agreed.  “I suppose I shouldn’t restrain myself.”

“Not if you want to live,” I agreed, taking a deep breath.  “And watch the tail.  Never forget that stinger in the tail,” I advised.

“Poisonous?” he asked, as he took a few things out of his belt.

“Worse than wyvern stings,” I agreed.  “Neurotoxins.  They’ll paralyze you to the point of death . . . so it can consume you later.  One sting and you’re gone.”

“Well, that sounds delightful,” he said, sarcastically, staring at the thing as it approached.  “All right.  Let’s get to it, then,” he nodded to me, gravely as the spider from the north bore down on our position.  I gave him a single nod in return.

“All right, half of you with me!” Terleman bellowed, building a sphere of protective force around himself.  “The other half with Count Minalan!  For the Spellmonger!” he cried, and charged the spider.  While I appreciated his enthusiasm, Terleman did set expectations rather high for me.  I looked around at the dozen or so warmagi who were suddenly looking to me for direction and inspiration.  Then I looked up at the other spider, who was turning around to look at us with those alien, multifaceted eyes.

“All right,” I began addressing them with a sigh, as Tuaa Folauga’s experience stepped in.  “Everyone pick a leg.  Except for its belly and its eyes, they are the weakest portion of that thing.  Pick a leg and do everything that you can to hurt it – preferably holding it in place.  Half of its strength lies in its maneuverability.  If we can take that away from it, we have a chance.  Questions?  Then let’s stomp this thing!”

There were some ragged cheers from the group, led by Wenek, who seemed almost recovered from the blast he’d endured.  He conjured a broad battle axe from a hoxter and began jogging toward the monster.  The others followed, brandishing their weapons and spreading out to select the long, creepy-looking limb they had chosen to attack.

I readied my own spells – in particular some of the Alka Alon spells that were swimming around the Magolith.  Since I was the leader, I went after the left claw, one of the deadly ones.  Before I joined the men I got in contact with Dara.

How are things coming? I asked.

We’re about to start our descent, she answered.  Me and two wingmen.  Make sure it's presenting a good target.

We’re going to try to pin it in place for you, I promised.  Just don’t miss.  We’re going to be close to it.

I broke contact and sprinted ahead to join my men, hoisting Blizzard to direct the spell I’d chosen.  It was a sophisticated attack that directed a stream of thaumaturgical energy designed to scramble the neurology of an organism.  I carefully aimed the staff, sang the mnemonic under my breath, and allowed the power of the Magolith to pour through.  It hit right at the juncture of its limb and its body, as it began to flail at its attackers.

It had an effect – in a moment the long, scimitar-like claw was dangling from its shoulder, only occasionally twitching.  I felt a wave of accomplishment at that, while I watched the others use a variety of spells and physical attacks against its other limbs.  Wenek was hacking at one of the middle legs at the feet with that massive axe, while the others were using everything from mageblades to a length of chain to strike at the others.  There were other spells going off, too – one which seemed to wither one of the long back legs to the point where it could no longer bear the thing’s weight.

I prepared a second spell for the other claw, while I studied the spider’s horrific face.  It had taken a fair bit of damage, I could see – Azar’s company had wounded it repeatedly.  The lower portion of its hideous compound eye had someone’s mageblade sticking out of it, I noted, and the wound seemed to have mortified  a great portion of the organ.  There were plenty of others scattered across its head, some still sparking or smoldering.

But it was a long way from dead.  Indeed, it was only mildly pissed off, from the way it was acting.  It’s hard to understand the body language of a spider, of course, but it didn’t seem upset.

It was time to change that.

While the warmagi were doing a credible job fouling each of its legs, I cast a powerful, dazzling light in front of its wounded compound eyes.  Folugua knew that while the things had very acute eyesight, they were so sensitive that such flares could confuse it and even temporarily blind it.  It would recover quickly, but for a few moments it struggled to contend with the concerted attacks on its limbs because it couldn’t see very well.  About that time Wenek managed to hack through the spindly “foot” of the thing with his axe, which had to hurt, and did little to improve its mood.

I hammered at the other front claw, which was whipping back and forth in front of it blindly, using another bit of Alka Alon sorcery that increased the apparent mass of the entire leg until it was difficult to lift – difficult, but not impossible.  But it did cause it to misjudge its swings and strikes, which was helpful.   With one claw dragging and the other unreasonably heavy, it had little way to coordinate its attack.  Unfortunately, its vision was clearing rapidly.

That’s when Dara and two of her Riders swooped over the wall, just barely clearing the crenelations, and flew at the thing’s face.  Its vision had cleared enough for it to detect them and it reacted – not by attempting to swat them away, as I’d suspected, but by recoiling in what I could only assume was fright.  Dara’s wingmates expertly lobbed a couple of sky bolts at its face, but it had taken far more damage than that and shrugged it off.  When Frightful cut lose with a hunting cry, however, the great spider backed up and nearly cowered at the sound . . . and nearly crushed the remaining defenders behind it.

Thankfully Azar had gotten the prisoners free while it was distracted by us.  They’d skirted around the battle, hugging the walls of the keep until they could make a break for it across the courtyard.  While they were braving small groups of undead and the occasional squadron of gurvani, I had to imagine that was preferable to being cornered and trapped by a giant spider.

“Take your shot, Dara!” I shouted.  I don’t know if she heard me or not, but she climbed a hundred feet over the flailing creature and activated a spell.

We were poor, in terms of magical munitions since the Winter and Spring wars.  Most constructs took months to build and enchant, and even simple battlefield enchantments were time-consuming and expensive to produce.  But that did not make the Sky Riders helpless or even ineffectual.

Dara, in particular, knew her craft.  She employed a simple wand with a hoxter pocket she was very familiar with.  In a moment a giant, forty-ton boulder appeared in the sky above the spider.  A moment later it plunged resolutely toward the ground, smashing through the horrid thing’s back and driving it into the dirt with the force of gravity.

It wasn’t quite a giant boot, but it got the job done.  Not even a Paranchek could contend with a rock that size falling on it.  The great spider died.  It still twitched, and a few of its massive limbs jerked uncontrollably, but it was dead.

The strike produced a rousing cheer from the warmagi, and a few of them gave the thing a last couple of hacks before helping their fellows from behind the corpse.

Dara, I called, mind-to-mind, can you drop that wand to me?

Certainly, she agreed.  But it’s empty now.

I know, but it’s the only one we have that can hold something that size.

You’re going to put the boulder back into it? she asked, curiously.

No, that would take too long, I decided.  But I have another idea.  Can you and your Riders fly at the other one?  Apparently, they don’t like birds.

Most bugs don’t, she conceded.  All right, we’re nearly out of ammunition, anyway.  At least we can scare the damned things!

It took a few minutes for her to fly low enough to drop the wand in the right place, but I got it about the time Azar and the remainder of his company trotted up.  His face was streaked with blood and dirt and spider goo, and he’d lost his helmet and sword somewhere, but he seemed hale enough.

“Thanks, Minalan,” he said, solemnly.  “I’m not certain how much longer we could have held out.  That thing was fiendishly fast.  I stuck my blade in its eye, but it didn’t even seem to notice.”

“I was wondering who did that.  They have an amazingly high tolerance for pain,” I informed him.

“I know!” Wenek spat.  “I gave it three of my best spells and it didn’t even blink.  I had to hack at it with the bloody axe!”  He sounded offended about it.  Wenek liked causing pain in combat.  Azar just liked killing things.

“Master, where to now?” Ruderal asked, surprising me.  Then I remembered he’d been with Noutha’s reserves.

“We have another spider to contend with, and then we all get to the northern tower and protect the prisoners,” I proposed.  “It won’t be long before the Enshadowed manage to regroup enough troops out of this chaos to come after us.  I want to be long gone before then.”

“Minalan,” Azar asked, quietly, “what happened up there?” He glanced at the central keep.  While the tangled skein of necromancy was no longer enveloping the great tower, there was still something odd about it.

“I had a brief discussion with Mycin Amana.  It did not go in her favor.  I’ll tell you about it later,” I promised.  “Or ask Wenek.  He was there.  Hells, he’s the one that caused the explosion.”  Azar nodded, satisfied

The second spider was worse than the first, largely because it wasn’t protecting anything, it was just killing – friend and foe alike.  I don’t know what kind of controlling spells Mycin Amana was using on it, but it apparently wasn’t enough to keep it from inadvertently slaying undead or goblins or even Enshadowed who got in its way.  I’m certain that from its perspective it was hard to distinguish between us all.

Terleman had done a decent job of keeping it at bay, however, mostly with gouts of flame and some impressive arcane pyrotechnics.  Spiders don’t like fire, it seems.  Neither do they like birds.  When Dara’s wing flew at its face, it almost panicked, which was gratifying to everyone who wasn’t standing behind it.

But I now had an answer for the beast.  I joined the attack, along with Azar, Wenek, and the other warmagi, and we began pushing the giant horror back . . . until I could get close enough.

Then I popped it into the gargantuan hoxter pocket and it was gone.

That caused another rousing cheer from the men.  Any time you can make a giant, belligerent spider disappear, you’re going to earn some respect.

But I’d also been correct, that the Enshadowed were regrouping.  Indeed, just as we vanquished the spider a few hundred gurvani were being organized around the open gate of the southern keep, including several draugen.  There were some very competent Enshadowed sorcerers preparing to rush at us from that position, draining every last defender from the keep to add to their forces.  There were perhaps two score of us left on the field, so we were clearly outnumbered.

“Time to retreat,” Terleman observed.  “That’s probably more than we can stand.”

“They aren’t the only ones gathering,” Wenek agreed, nodding towards the center of the domestic range, where lines of maragorku were starting to form.

“Recall your company, Wenek,” I ordered.  “Have them meet us at the northeast tower.  We’ll head there directly.  Kill any undead who get in your way, but don’t go out of your way to leave the group.  We’re done, here,” I pronounced.

“But my company was guarding the bridge!” Wenek objected.  “That was our entire mission!  That’s how we’re supposed to leave,” he reminded me.

“I have contingencies,” I promised.  “Just get them there.  The enemy knows that’s the quickest way for us to escape, without magic.  That’s where they will be sending their troops in anticipation of our retreat.  I don’t plan on being there.”

The rest of the battle was relatively easy, after the Paranchek.  We had, indeed, managed to rescue all three groups of prisoners, and most were already huddled in the northern keep.  We carefully threaded our way past the foe, fighting only when necessary.

Even Prince Tavard got a chance to avenge himself a bit.  While the goblins and Enshadowed were forming up to fight us in the courtyard, he was able to get about a thousand of his horsemen to charge their rear.  The attack didn’t do a lot of damage, from the reports I got later, but it did keep them in disarray for a few critical moments before he retreated once again.  That gave us time to cross the great inner bailey without having to contend with a charge from the south.  They managed to close the great doors to the keep shortly thereafter, once the knights had charged and fallen back, and by that time we were already approaching the door of the northeastern keep.

Tyndal was waiting outside for us with a squadron of his men.

“I see this place has a bug problem,” he quipped with a grin.  “I watched the battle from above.  That was hot work, from what I could tell.”

“I prefer dragons, in all honesty,” Azar agreed, with a tired sigh.  “Giant spiders?  What new horrors are they dreaming up?”

“Get everyone inside,” I ordered.  “I expect they’ll rally their wyverns for an attack, next.  I’d like to get under cover and let the Sky Riders retreat.”

“Uh, we still have to get everyone back to Sevendor, Master,” Ruderal pointed out.  “I’m not sure if we have enough who can travel the Ways to do that.”

“We don’t, at the moment,” I agreed.  “And I’m not certain that the etheric distortion the enemy was using has cleared enough for us to do so.  Nor do I have an archway here.  Without one, I can only transport a few folk at a time.  But don’t worry, I have a plan,” I promised.  “Just get everyone inside.”

I’m certain that Mycin Amana thought we’d panicked and made a poor tactical decision.  Indeed, that was the impression I’d tried to give her.  From her perspective – or whoever was directing the defenses – we’d gotten everyone free from the dungeons but then fled away from the gates that led to the bridge that crossed the river and into a single keep that was far from the exits to the castle.

That was by design.  In thinking that we’d trapped ourselves like stupid humani, she could take her time in boxing us in and re-capturing her prey.  That gave us a little more time to prepare.  I spent it discussing the situation with Mavone, mind-to-mind.

You see, I’d purposefully kept Mavone and his special troops in reserve.  One of our contingencies required it.  Once we settled on a plan, I ended my contact with him and took a moment to address the hundreds of prisoners who were crowded in the great hall of the keep.  I picked a few out by eye: Olmeg the Green, of course, and then my nephew Larask, Banamor’s assistant, and Lorcus’ wife Callwyn – who seemed determined never to leave his side again – Alurra, Pentandra’s apprentice who was being protected by Ruderal, all of them.  Their faces all looked at me expectantly.

“This,” I announced as I lit my pipe, “has been a terribly long morning.  But you are free, now, or almost.  The gate is closed and blocked, so we are safe for the moment.  We’ve struck a hard blow at the enemy with this attack.  We’ve not only saved you all, but we’ve deprived Mycin Amana of fresh bodies to fill her ranks.  That, alone, is a victory in this struggle.”

“But how are we going to get out?” demanded one of the prisoners, panic in his voice.

“Don’t worry, I have a plan,” I soothed.  “Sire Cei?”

“Here, Sire!” the Dragonslayer said, loudly.  He and Noutha had apparently been keeping the prisoners calm and safe, along with the other warmagi.  The big Wilderlord strode across the hall to join me.

“I think it’s time for your part in this,” I suggested.  “Would you mind terribly knocking a hole in the back of this tower?”

“Of course, Your Excellency, it would be my pleasure,” he assured.  “Which wall?”

“The one closest to the river,” I suggested.  “It need not be large, but at least big enough to permit us to pass.”

Sire Cei nodded, and the crowd parted as he went to select his spot.  Then he wound up his warhammer, invoked his power, and drove it against the massive blocks that Tavard’s ancestors had piled up to build this place so many years ago.  With one mighty blow he knocked four of the blocks completely through.  A second blow penetrated to the other side – a distance of more than twelve feet through the rock.  A third blow widened the hole admirably.  He walked through and then returned to assure us that it was traversable.

On the other side, when the dust cleared, there was a new bridge spanning the river: the Instant Bridge we’d captured in Vanador.  I’d had him erect it, when we were ready to leave.  Mavone was waiting on the other side of it with a hundred of his best men, keeping any of the enemy’s pickets away.  Just a mile beyond it was a wooden platform sitting in the middle of a field, bearing a small archway I’d had prepared and Mavone had deployed from a hoxter pocket.  I didn’t want that innovation seen by Mycin Amana and her minions.  Such things were best kept secret.

Only a few hours after the attack began, we led the prisoners and the surviving warmagi across in the bright morning sunshine.  I only felt a little bad about leaving such a gaping hole in the base of Tavard’s castle, but it was a small price to pay for victory.  I wasn’t sure he was going to see it that way, though. Such breeches are expensive to repair.

Azar lingered behind with me, as Tyndal and the others calmly brought the survivors over the bridge.  He looked disturbed, under the dirt, sweat, blood, and spider ichor that painted his face.  He’d been rather close to the beast when Dara dropped her boulder.

“Minalan, a moment?” he asked, uncharacteristically quiet.

“Of course,” I agreed, moving us to the side while the eager survivors poured across the bridge.  I figured the spider had upset him, somehow.  I was entirely wrong.  “What is it?”

“How does one know, as a man, when fate has intervened in his life?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” I said, honestly confused.   “You think you escaped death, or . . .”

“No, no, Death is my mistress,” he assured me without a trace of irony.  “I have no issue with her.  It is Fate with whom I spar.  You are accounted a man wise beyond just the ways of warmagic, by our fellows.”  Clearly something was making him uncomfortable.

“I . . . I try to speak the truth, as I see it,” I offered.  What in two hells was I supposed to say?

“Just so,” he agreed.  “And your life has prospered accordingly.  Therefore I see you as an appropriate counsel for this matter.  How does a man know when he needs to seek something better in life?  Or at least the chance of such a thing?”

“You are unhappy with your position?” I asked, surprised.  He shook his head and sighed.

“Nay, I am quite content with ruling Megelin and leading my knights,” he assured me.  “But I had an experience that made me question if I am, indeed, on the path Fate has set for me.  I have oft understood that I will die, someday.  Likely violently.  That has not changed.  But I have come to question how I live,” he emphasized.

I really had no idea what he was talking about.  So I nodded sagely.  That’s what wizards do when we’re confused.

“That is common to all men, at a certain age,” I conceded.  “Even me.”

“Just so,” he nodded, smiling.  “Thus I seek your advice: how does a man know when the course of his life has changed, and how does he tell it from a passing fancy?  I question whether Fate has presented me with a clear sign, or if I am subject to a mere whim.  Whether I should follow the path that seems clear, or take a chance on the possibility of something better.  Or worse,” he added.

Oh, shit, I thought to myself.  Azar was considering getting religion.

“Well, my friend,” I began, after a deep breath, “as in all great matters of the soul, a certain element of reflection and contemplation is required in order to make such a decision.  Self-reflection,” I suggested.  “When a man considers changing the course of his life, it is best that he do so from a place of knowledge of what he truly desires, not what sudden whimsy suggests – though it be incredibly alluring.

“Only then can he decide whether Fate or the gods or whatever controls our lives has truly spoken to his soul, or if he is merely distracting himself from weightier matters.  If you think you’ve been called to some other path, then give it all due consideration before you take any drastic measures,” I warned him.  “Many a pilgrim has discovered himself far from home, penniless and running from bandits because he made a foolish vow one drunken evening.”  That sounded like appropriate enough advice for just about any problem, I figured.  I did not want to lose Azar to the clergy.

“And if I feel that this new course does, indeed, reflect my inner desires?”

I shrugged.  “Then pursue it as steadfastly as you would any other precious thing,” I suggested.  “If you are truly called to this course, then denying it only leads to regrets.  And regrets lead to failure.”

“Of course,” he nodded thoughtfully.  “A simple solution.  Thank you, Minalan.  You have helped me greatly.”

“Anytime, my friend,” I assured him, slapping him on the shoulder.  I really didn’t tell him anything particularly profound, that I could tell, but sometimes just hearing a reassuring voice giving basic, unadorned advice is what a man needs.  I just hoped it didn’t lead to him resigning and wandering off in the wilderness to become a hermit, or something.  Then I’d feel stupid.

While I was crossing the bridge with the last of them, I was surprised to see Gatina and Atopol, the Cats of Enultramar, appear nearby.  They were carrying something between them, a small but heavy chest.

The girl smiled and presented it to me.

“It’s everyone’s irionite,” she explained.  “When Atopol confirmed the attack was going to happen, I broke into the central keep and stole it,” she said, proudly.  “I thought you might like to redistribute it to everyone, when we get back to Sevendor.”

“She just had to steal something,” complained Atopol, rolling his lavender eyes expressively.

“I merely stole it back,” she argued.  “Besides, they didn’t need it.  We do.”

“Yes, we do,” I agreed, taking the box in one arm.  “Thank you.  And I believe you were the one who alerted us about the Paranchek – the spider,” I corrected.  “You saw it in the tunnels?”

“I . . . well, I smelled it,” she answered, wrinkling her nose.  “I never actually saw it.  I’m glad that I didn’t.  I’m not fond of spiders.”

“After today, I’m not either,” I agreed.  “But you have a reward coming for your heroic action,” I pledged.  “As soon as we get everyone settled, I will see one is given to you.”

A few minutes later the last of us crossed the bridge, where Mavone was waiting for us.  Most of the unit commanders had congregated near me by then, as we traded stories of the battle and congratulated each other on a job done well.

Of course, there were casualties.  Thirty-one of the prisoners had died in the escape, many of them attacked by undead or gurvani as they fled.  Nineteen warmagi had fallen, too, eleven of them to the great spiders.  There were many wounded, as well, and some who needed immediate medical attention.  The field medics we’d brought busied themselves with bandages and spells against shock and the like as they waited for everyone to cross the bridge.  Dara and her forces had retreated across the river, as well, screening the skies against wyvern attack.  She’d lost two Riders and a bird in the fight.

But in general the Raid on Darkfaller had been a stunning success.  Indeed, it had gone far better than I expected.  We had our people back.  We had damaged the castle.  We had diminished Mycin Amana’s forces.  Even Tavard declared it a victory . . . at first.

And, most importantly to me, I had proven that the Spellmonger was back.  And more powerful and clever than ever.

Chapter Fifteen

Reunions

The plaza in front of Sevendor Castle was crowded with tearful reunions that morning as we finally came through the portal from Darkfaller.  The surviving prisoners and the victorious warmagi were scattered across the snowstone cobbles, the autumn sun bright overhead.  I kept the portal open, of course, as Mavone still had to remove the bridge, recall the Sky Riders, and retreat from the field.  But I was back home in Sevendor, after a successful battle, and for the moment my most immediate worries were diminished.

At the far end of the plaza, Lilastien was running the open-air aid station, where the medics she had trained assessed and addressed the wounds and conditions of the survivors and rendered more extensive aid to the many warmagi who’d ended up as a casualty of this adventure.  I wanted to go check on the wounded, of course, both out of genuine concern and because it was my duty.  I had led these men into danger.  I had a responsibility to ensure that they were being treated well and that they saw me thanking them, even if they were dying.  It was a burden of leadership.

But there were hundreds of reunions taking place betwixt the arch and the hospital.  Family and friends of those taken at the Magic Fair had heard the word that their loved ones had been rescued, and it hadn’t taken long for half of Sevendor Town to rush to the new castle to greet them.  Banamor was meticulously keeping track of who had survived, who had perished, and who had been referred for medical treatment at the gate.  His assistant, Ravalon, stood nearby, his eyes red with tears . . . but despite his ordeal, he’d grabbed a scroll and a scrap of pencil from his master and begun assisting in keeping track of everyone.

Banamor himself looked uncustomarily moved by the reunion.  He was staring down at the lists he’d prepared when I broke ahead of the queue of arrivals.  I didn’t mind pulling rank – it was my castle, after all.

“Note me down in the records as ‘survived,’ please,” I asked, politely.

“Min!” the man said, looking up, startled.  Then a tired grin broke out on his face.  “Thank you!  We’re nearly done, here, actually, only . . . fifty-five left on the other side, according to this,” he said, gesturing with the scroll.  “Once Mavone comes through, we can call it a day and go have a drink,” he proposed.

“There’s still much to do before I can relax,” I warned him.

“Thank you, Excellency, for . . . for doing this,” Ravalon said, fresh tears coming to his eyes.  “I know it was less than a fortnight, but we were tempted into despair down in those cells.  Thank you for coming for us,” he said with genuine gratitude.  I did not know him well, as Banamor hired him while I was in exile, but by all accounts, he was an adept administrator and a worthy young man.

“Magelord’s prerogative,” I assured him.  “I couldn’t very well force Banamor to train a new assistant.  It was cheaper and easier to raid the castle.”  That produced a smile and a chuckle from both of them.

Just ahead of us stood my apprentice Ruderal, I saw as I turned away from Banamor.  He was escorting Alurra through the crowds, likely looking for Pentandra.  It struck me how much the lad had grown while he was in exile with me in Vanador.  He was on the cusp of manhood, now, and carried himself as such.  Alurra just looked tired and worn, but more calm than most in the crowd.  A flash of pride washed over me as I approached the two.

“Are you looking for Pentandra?” I asked.

“Yes!  She’s over there,” Ruderal said, pointing through the crowd.  “It would be an honor if you would assist me in bringing Alurra back to her, Master,” he added.  I do enjoy a polite apprentice.

“I’m not a godsdamn trophy, you know,” Alurra swore, irritated.

“Yet you are prized,” I countered.  “Pentandra has been beside herself with worry over you.  That hedgewitch, Old Antimei, was instrumental in locating the prisoners because she was worried about you.  Indeed, if it hadn’t been for you this entire rescue might not have happened,” I pointed out.

“I told you!” Ruderal said to Alurra, who gave an exasperated sigh.  “You became a symbol!”

“I don’t want to be a symbol!” she snorted.

“You get used to it,” I consoled her.  “But the sooner Penny sees you, the happier I’ll be.”

“Make way for the Spellmonger!” Ruderal shouted, forcefully, as I tried to pick Pentandra out of the crowd.

I really wish he hadn’t said that.

Thus far, I had been able to return with little interruption – I had duties to attend.  But as soon as Ruderal’s call was heard it seemed as if every head in the crowd turned toward me.  Then the cheering began.

When you are young and ambitious, oftentimes you yearn to hear people screaming their acclaim for your noble actions.  The truth of the matter is that it is quite disturbing, when it happens to you.  Alurra’s disdain for being a symbol was quite well-taken.  People naturally want to invest their own emotional energy in someone they consider a hero, and it can be quite draining to bear that responsibility.  It can be intoxicating, the first time it happens, but over time it merely reinforces your insecurities about all that you have done wrong.

But these people needed their symbol.  They needed their victory.  Sevendor had been attacked by the enemy twice, now, and being able to strike back was a sincere emotional need.  As it was my duty as the Baron of Sevendor to retrieve the prisoners, it was also my responsibility to make the people feel good about it.  There was a political use for it, of course, and I was not blind to that.  But more importantly, there was an emotional need for it, I understood.  So I smiled, raised my staff in the air triumphantly, and took on the burden of acclaim for several solid minutes.

But Ruderal’s shout had produced the desired effect, too: when he indicated the direction I wanted to go, a path opened up along the way as if by magic.  And suddenly everyone was watching the official return of Alurra to Pentandra, who stood at the far end of the corridor.

“The quicker this is done, the sooner it is over with,” I murmured to Alurra, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“This is awful!” the girl said, but stoically straightened as Ruderal took her arm and began to lead her toward her mistress.

“This is necessary, I’m afraid,” I consoled her.  “Just be happy no one is expecting you to make a speech.”

Pentandra stood with Old Antimei, and when Alurra was close enough they both ran forward and swept her into their arms.  There was another cheer from the crowd.

“Baroness Pentandra, I return your apprentice to you unharmed,” Ruderal said, loudly and with a great deal of pride in his voice.

“Thank you, Ruderal,” Pentandra sighed, as she released Alurra.  “And thank you, Minalan.  I owe you a debt.”

“It was an astonishing effort by all of Sevendor, and all the Magelaw,” I demurred.  “For Sevendor!” I shouted, earning another throbbing chorus of cheers.  Alurra looked highly embarrassed.  Ruderal nearly preened.  The cheering stopped when it became apparent that there would be no more emotional announcements, and Pentandra cast a privacy bubble around us.

“Sincerely, my thanks, Minalan,” she said, gratefully.  “And you, too, Ruderal.  I’m so happy she’s back that I could burst!” my old friend sighed with relief.

“It’s only been a couple of days,” dismissed Alurra.

“Young lady, you were in a dark lord’s dungeon for nearly two weeks,” reproved Old Antimei.  “Allow us a moment to be grateful!”

“I want Lilastien to look her over,” Pentandra said, picking at the girl’s disheveled hair.  “And then back to the Tower Arcane for a hot bath, a good meal, and some rest.  I’ll be back in touch once she’s safe and cared for.”

“Goddess!  I’m fine!” Alurra insisted.

“Listen to your mistress, she has your best interests in mind,” I counselled her.  “Ruderal and I have many to visit, now.  You go see the medics, and then go home,” I ordered.  The girl gave a sigh of resignation and allowed Penny to guide her by the shoulders through the crowd.  Before we departed the bubble of privacy, Old Antimei gave Ruderal a penetrating look.

“Thank you, Ruderal,” she said, solemnly.  “You were very brave.”

“I allowed her to get taken, it was my responsibility to get her back,” the boy said, modestly.

“It was still brave,” Antimei insisted.  “So you have my thanks.  And . . . I like the boots,” she added, her eyes flicking down to the lad’s crimson boots.  They did look rather dashing.

The next reunion I saw was among the most important, to me, personally.  My sister Ladra and her eldest son, Larask.  They were waiting patiently for me to conclude my business with Pentandra.

“You brought him back,” Ladra said, her entire frame shaking as she regarded me through tear-soaked eyes.  “Thank you, little brother.”

“I wouldn’t let him languish – I promised you,” I reminded her.  “Besides, if I didn’t do it, you would have stormed Darkfaller yourself to get him back.”

“You don’t know how close you are to the truth,” her husband, Rask, assured me, his hands protectively on his boy’s shoulders.  “She’s been beside herself with worry.”

“We all have,” I assured him.  I looked down at my nephew.  Larask seemed no worse for wear, under all the dirt and grime.  But there was no blood.  The lad looked up at me a dazed expression on his face.  “I had no idea that you’d gotten rajira!” I said.  “This was an unusual way for me to find out.”

Larask blushed a bit.  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he admitted.

“I find myself surprised,” I assured him.  “From what I understand, you have a full measure of rajira.  When things settle down a bit, we shall discuss finding you a suitable apprenticeship or send you to an Academy,” I promised.

His expression was a mixture of concern and gratitude.  I knew the boy tolerably well.  He bore a strong resemblance to my mother and sisters, though he had his father’s eyes.  He’d spent most of his life here in Sevendor, as his father Rask was one of my own father’s apprentices and he’d worked in the bakery in town since its founding.  No doubt he had plans to follow the family business and take an apprenticeship with his father or one of his uncles.

But his rajira changed all that.  From what Banamor had told me, he had a fairly powerful Talent that demanded training, although he had no discernable sport Talent.  He was reasonably bright, and though he knew how to read a bit, he was by no means bookish. Growing up in Sevendor had prepared him for the idea of a career in magic, but so far as I knew he was the only one of my nieces or nephews who had displayed rajira.

In a lot of ways, he reminded me of me, at that age.  I’d planned on becoming a baker when I was his age before my Talent had unexpectedly emerged.  Only I didn’t have an uncle who was the most famous mage in the land, not to mention a senior noble.  Larask had options I couldn’t dream of when I was his age.

I also understood how daunting those options might be.  Indeed, just about everything is daunting when you’re twelve or thirteen years old.  Getting rajira and then being kidnapped and thrown into a dungeon for a fortnight couldn’t have helped matters.

I continued my way through the crowd, Ruderal in tow, stopping and speaking with a dozen others who were reuniting with their loved ones.  Things thinned out a bit as we reached the far end of the plaza.  A few soldiers from the castle had been stationed there to keep the crowds away from the field hospital, but they let us pass without a word.

There were scores of blankets spread out in neat little rows in preparation for receiving the seriously wounded.  I was gratified that only a third of them appeared to be needed.  A hut at one end of the hospital was being used as a surgery, while Lilastien’s nurses and medics tended to the less seriously wounded out on the blankets.  I was surprised to see the old Alka Alon sorceress leaning against the side of the surgery, hands in the pockets of her white coat, merely surveying the patients.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” I observed, as Ruderal and I joined her.

“It isn’t,” she agreed, a small smile on her lips.  “I was anticipating a lot worse, to be honest.  I’ve only had to do one amputation, and that was just a couple of fingers.  I managed to stitch a bowel back together, remove a half-dozen arrows and crossbow bolts and suture them up, treat a couple of spell shock cases and set two broken bones – an arm and an ankle.  A few of the worst cases I’ve already sent to Henga.  Most of it my assistants have dealt with,” she said, proudly.

“I didn’t want a lot of casualties.  We came in, we came out again,” I nodded.  “It was fast and efficient.  Except for a few unexpected spiders and an arcane explosion, it went as close to plan as I could ask for.  How are the rescued prisoners?”

“Better than I feared.  A little malnourished, some bruises, and a sprained ankle, but nothing worse than that.  Congratulations,” she said with a tip of her head.  “You pulled it out of your ass again, Minalan.  That was quick work, too,” she acknowledged.  “I heard about the spiders from a lot of them.  They sound horrible.”

“They’re worse than horrible,” I sighed.  “They’re from off-world.  Like the dragons.  They’re called Paranchek, or at least they were, about a million years ago.”

“They’re also known as the subulaar and the ormex,” she informed me, calling on her own ancient memories.  “As soon as I heard about them, I recognized them.”  She gave me a look that told me she understood precisely what their presence entailed.

“I have a specimen for you to examine,” I said, showing her the hoxter wand.  “When you have time, of course.  Their presence is a problem.”

“Yes, it complicates a good many things,” she sighed.  “It will have to wait, though.  I just got word that Fallawen’s labor has begun.  As soon as I’m done here, I’ll be headed to her castle to prepare for delivery.  I suppose you need to prepare as well,” she reminded me.

“The snowstone spell,” I nodded.  “That’s good news, I suppose.  I’ll gather my notes and equipment – after I conclude all of this,” I said, waving toward the crowds.  I – pardon me,” I said, holding up a finger.  I was getting a contact, mind-to-mind.

Minalan!  It appears you were victorious! the mental voice of Loiko Vaneran spoke into my mind.  May I come through your Waystone? he asked politely.  I have just come from the prince’s camp at Darkfaller Village, and I have your Sir Festaran with me.  And I’d like to see my daughter, he added.

A moment later the two men manifested through the Ways next to us.  Sir Festaran looked like he’d been through a battle, but was not wounded, I could see.  Indeed, he looked calm and almost pleased.

“The king sends his compliments on a successful raid,” Loiko reported, after greetings were done.

“His Highness is less pleased,” added Sir Festaran.  “Indeed, he is quite put out by the fact that you blew an unnecessary hole in his castle.  But he also admits that this was a victory.  He and his men – those who survived – are celebrating in Darkfaller Village.”

“How were his casualties?” I asked, somberly.

“Nearly four hundred killed, thrice that wounded,” Festaran reported.  “It would have been half of that number had he heeded my counsel to retreat.  But his pride and his honor would not let him quit the field until he had charged.”

“I’m sure the wives and children of the dead will be placated by his sense of honor,” I said, dryly.  “It was a foolish decision.  It was helpful, actually, in that it distracted the goblins at the gate from moving on my position, but it wasn’t particularly bright.”

“His Highness is a man of great passion,” Festaran said, diplomatically.  “I begged him to withdraw, but he ignored me.  If it hadn’t been for the Sky Riders intervening, we would have lost half our men to the wyverns.  Even Prince Tavard had to admit that – after he’d been angry with Lady Dara for not departing the plan and attacking the castle directly.  He still bridles at the idea that he was within Darkfaller’s very gates and yet did not take it.”

“We did not have sufficient force to do so,” I pointed out.  “This was a probing raid, and we learned a great many things about their defenses.  It will take a substantial force to dislodge the Nemovorti from Darkfaller.  Prince Tavard should understand that, now.”

“The prince is of the opinion that he could have retaken the place, had he sufficient support,” Loiko informed us.

“The man is an idiot,” Lilastien pronounced with a frown.  “May the gods help you if he ever actually sits on the throne.”

“His man Count Moran is intelligent,” Festaran offered.  “If he becomes Prime Minister of Castalshar, someday, we can at least expect sound policy.  If His Highness permits him to govern properly,” he added.

“Regardless, Tavard needs to pull his troops back out of Darkfaller Village,” I warned Loiko.  “That’s entirely too close to the castle.  Feinting a siege is one thing, but lingering there will only invite Mycin Amana’s attention.  We managed to damage her operations and set back her plans, I believe, but she still maintains a considerable force, both mundane and arcane.”

“I wager His Highness is going to be reluctant to give up the village,” Festaran said, shaking his head.  “His officers – those who survived – are urging him to begin building siege engines and prepare for an assault.”

“It will take us months to build a force capable of that, not to mention the arcane weapons we’ll need,” I pointed out.  “Perhaps by spring, if we are diligent and careful.  Tavard would be best served to retreat to Castabriel and see to its defenses.  I think Mycin Amana will begin making moves on his capital as soon as she is able.”

“I will pass that counsel to the prince . . . and the king,” Loiko said.  The implication was that Rard would force Tavard to do what I asked.  “His Majesty plans to render honors to you and your troops, in a few days,” he reminded me.

“Another banquet,” I said with a sigh.  “How . . . delightful.  Yes, I will be in attendance,” I assured him.  “As well as the Curia of Counts.  There are great matters that need to be put before the Curia, matters that concern the entire kingdom.”

“Including Merwyn’s incursions into Remere.  His Majesty is particularly concerned about that . . . as is the Duke of Remere.  You sent your man Astyral to contend with that, did you not?”

“He’s scouting the situation for me,” I agreed.  “I will turn my attention to that matter as quickly as I can.  Since I have a large number of warmagi deployed here already, give me a few days and I’ll handle it,” I promised.

“Rard will be delighted to hear that,” Loiko nodded.  “Indeed, after Darkfaller it is the matter most pressing on his mind.  It has been rumored that Duke Clofalin is considering withdrawing Remere from the kingdom if it is not dealt with expediently.”

“Really?” I asked, though I had heard the rumor myself from Pentandra.  “Then I will certainly do what I can to manage the situation.  Thankfully, King Rard has granted that power to me by naming me Marshal Arcane.  I trust he will back any action I take on his behalf?”

“Any reasonable actions,” Loiko agreed.  “That would not include any territorial concessions.  But if you could kindly show Duke Andrastal’s troops to the frontier, I think you will find His Majesty willing to endorse any course you choose.”

“Then consider it done,” I agreed.  “In a few days – I’ve just gotten word that Lady Fallawen is in the early stages of labor.  This will be the first attempt I have to re-create the snowstone spell.”

Loiko was well aware of my desire to do so, of course – he’d been my court wizard before he’d taken the position of Rard’s.  But while he was a well-educated and experienced mage, he was a warmage first and foremost.  His brow wrinkled with skepticism at the mention of the Tera Alon noble’s pregnancy.

“Is that really a priority, Minalan?” he asked.

“It is,” I assured him.  “Indeed, it is vital to our efforts.  You will see in time,” I promised.  “But it would also be amiss if I did not spare the good lady my full attention for this birth.  Her pregnancy was blessed by Trygg Allmother herself,” I reminded him.   “One does not snub the mother goddess in her works.  Or any other,” I sighed.  “Indeed, as soon as I am done here, I shall lead those who wish to accompany me to the Everfire at the temple, where I will make pilgrimage and offer my thanks to Briga for our victory.”

“Briga and not Duin?” Lilastien smirked.  “Wouldn’t the war god be more appropriate?”

“I shall let Prince Tavard pray to his patron, I shall pray to mine and Sevendor’s.  Our raid was successful because of stealth, misdirection, and surprise – all requiring a good deal of creativity and inspiration.  Besides, it’s always good for a lord to cultivate a reputation for piety.”

“Perhaps I will join you, after I speak with my daughter,” Loiko agreed.  “How did she fare in the battle?”

“By all accounts she led her troops magnificently, as we have come to expect,” I reported.  “She commanded the reserves in a masterful way, by all accounts.  Ruderal was in her company,” I said, putting my hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Do you have any commentary on Lady Noutha’s leadership?”

He looked uncomfortable with the attention, but I could always trust Ruderal to give an honest assessment.  I wasn’t sure that the boy even knew how to lie.

“My lord, Lady Noutha accounted herself a true warrior and leader of men,” my apprentice said after a few moments’ consideration.  “When we came through the portal, we knew not what we faced, save that we were to relieve Viscount Azar in his effort to rescue the prisoners.  When we emerged to face the . . . the giant spider—”

“What?” Loiko snapped.  Sir Festaran looked similarly startled.  “A giant spider?”

“There were two of them, actually, but the first of the monsters was harassing Azar,” I supplied.

“Lady Noutha did not flinch,” Ruderal continued.  “She coolly began giving orders to the men and laid into the beast with her own sword and spells as calmly as if she were sparring with practice swords.  She was passing bold, my lord.  Indeed, she protected Viscount Azar himself, when he had fallen under one of the spider’s legs.  She dealt it several blows until Azar could bring himself to his feet, and together they drove it back from the prisoners.”

“It sounds as if Dara won’t be the only one securing honors at court,” I chuckled.  “You have a worthy protégé in Noutha, Loiko.  She has also been instrumental in Rondal’s effort to drive the Nemovorti from the Westlands.  I see great things in her future.”

It’s never a bad idea to tell a doting father how proud he should be of his child, I knew from personal experience.  While I knew that Loiko and Noutha’s relationship had been strained for many years since the Farisian campaign and his remarriage – particularly when she had become a renegade and fought for Sheruel’s armies in the Wilderlands – I also knew that he regretted the split and had been working to repair their relationship.  Noutha had served for nearly a year as one of his special warmagi at the royal palace in Kaunis, before she had joined Rondal.  Apparently at least some of those old wounds had been healed during that time.

“Then I should go praise her and hear the tale of the battle from her own lips,” he smiled.

“And I shall go seek Sire Cei and see what duties he wishes me to undertake, now that my service to the prince is at an end,” Sir Festaran added.  “After weeks in the field, I find myself yearning for the simple life of an assistant castellan once again.”

I bid the two men farewell while Lilastien smirked behind us.

“Ah, politics,” she sighed.  “It’s almost adorable to see you humani do it.  You know you’re going to have to go back before the Alka Alon Council, now, and report on your discussion with Mycin Amana.”

“How do you know I had a discussion with Mycin Amana?” I asked, surprised.

“Because I know you well enough that you couldn’t resist the opportunity,” she explained.   “Am I incorrect?”

“No, no,” I admitted with a sigh.  “We spoke.  Briefly.  It was unproductive, in terms of the battle.  But I did manage to discover a few things and plant a few seeds.  She’s obsessed and insane, convinced of her own superiority and ultimate triumph.  Her fellow Nemovorti are following her because she’s strong, not out of any innate sense of loyalty.  But it gave us a chance to bring down her defenses and interfere in her plans, for the moment.”

“And how was it seeing her in Isily’s body?” Lilastien asked.  “It’s a morbid curiosity of mine.”

“It was . . . awful.  It was strange.  It made me feel sick,” I confessed.  “And there’s something else . . . while we were talking, just before the end of our truce, Isily’s ghost manifested there in Darkfaller.  Just for a moment, but it was clearly her.   She warned me to stop Mycin Amana,” I reported, quietly.

“Her . . . ghost?” Lilastien asked, suddenly interested.

“Yes, because of the bluestone device Mycin Amana built, using Isily’s original Greenflower design.  She was pulling in necromantic energy and twisting it in ways I’ve never seen before.  Well, in this life,” I added.  “But I’m glad it’s over.  It was remarkable and appalling at the same time.  I don’t doubt that it will have consequences for the future,” I finished, darkly.

“What kind of consequences?” she asked, cocking her head curiously.

“I don’t know.  But I need to find out.  And when dealing with such matters, there’s really only one authority you can discover that from.  Religion,” I said, a little sadly.  That made Lilastien wince.

“I know,” I said, and heaved a sigh.  “Come along, Ruderal.  It’s time to go to temple.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Flame That Burneth Bright

It was quite the procession that I led down from Sevendor Castle that day.  In addition to the many warmagi who wanted to express their gratitude (or sorrow) to the gods, hundreds of prisoners and townsfolk joined me as I slowly walked through my beautiful magelands, across the drawbridge, and past the millpond north of town.  Plenty of them peeled off to visit a tavern or (in some cases) the bathhouse, but I have no doubt that most in the line that stretched behind me had some genuine religious feelings they wanted to express.

Sevendor Town’s Street of Temples was, of course, dominated by the broad red dome of Briga’s sanctuary, but there were large temples to Huin, Trygg, and Ishi, as well as a number of smaller shrines and houses of holiness along the way.  The temple district had grown impressively during my exile, the way any religious ward in a prosperous town does as the people invest in their spiritual institutions.  Trygg’s temple was quite well-appointed, thanks to the close proximity of Holy Hill Abbey in a nearby domain, and even Huin’s temple – usually one of the poorer institutions in a town – was fairly ornate and well kept.

But Briga’s temple was splendid, thanks to the drawing power of the Everfire – and the indulgence of a certain wealthy patron.  When you have a visible manifestation of the divine that can be easily witnessed springs up in your town, it’s only natural to attract pilgrims from hundreds of miles around.  The elegant dome and regal-looking entranceway was usually crowded with such religious tourists, but I had sent Ruderal ahead to warn the high priestess of the temple that the Spellmonger was coming, and requested that the inner sanctuary that housed the Everfire be cleared.

“I wish to pay my devotions privately, after my victory,” I explained to the vermillion-robed priestess personally when we arrived.  “It should not take long, but I feel the need for some solitary contemplation with the Flame that Burneth Bright.”

“We’ll have to cancel this afternoon’s devotions,” she conceded, “but it seemed to be a light crowd before you arrived.  It is good to see you return to Sevendor, my lord,” she added, sincerely, as she bid the great doors to the inner sanctuary be opened for me.  “The Temple missed your guidance and leadership.”

It actually took a little while to completely clear the chamber, but I didn’t mind.  I just stared at the steadily burning column of flame that emerged from the snowstone without a source of fuel and rose thirty feet toward the round hole in the dome, above.  It was pure flame, a jet of plasma that rose in a perfect column and only slightly tapered toward its top.  When the last priestess had left, closing the door behind her, I spent a few more moments contemplating its purity and sublime nature before I sang the childhood blessing my father had taught me.

There are plenty of invocations to Briga, of course – the Goddess of Inspiration inspires that sort of thing – but I used that one because it was easy to remember and childishly simple.  A sort of teasing joke between me and the goddess.

“I was wondering when you were going to invoke me,” her voice came from behind me as I watched the Everfire.  “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“For my victory?” I asked without turning to face her.  “Perhaps.  We rescued the majority of those who were taken from us.  I offer my gratitude for any divine inspiration you may have provided.”

“I was speaking about you surviving your wounds and your successful return from Anghysbel,” she said, joining me beside the eternal flame.  “You’ve had many military victories.  Escaping from death is a little more dramatic.”

“If you recall, I didn’t escape death,” I reminded her.  “I just got better.  But thank you – the poison was particularly bad.  If it hadn’t been for Lilastien’s aid . . . did you have anything to do with that?” I asked, turning to her.

She was dressed in a red and yellow gown that was similar in tone to the scarlet habits the priestesses of the temple wore, but cut in a far more flattering design.  Her red tresses spilled out over her shoulders like a cascade of flame.  Briga turned and regarded me thoughtfully.

“I may have helped, here and there,” she admitted.  “The gods have very limited control over the Tera Alon,” she explained, “but I might have suggested a few things to the sorceress while she was treating you.  I am a goddess of healing too,” she reminded me, “although that is not one of my major spheres of influence.”

“Then I thank you for that,” I said with a bow.  “My body is healing well, according to Lilastien.”

“But how is your soul, Minalan?” the goddess asked, concerned.  “Few can experience death unscathed.  Especially when the price of recovery is madness.”

“Am I mad?” I asked her.  “I have other people’s memories in my mind, but I’ve maintained control.  And done quite well with it, I think.”

She shook her head, producing a few sparks because she’s showy.  “That is a difficult question to answer.  It is early, yet, and in truth I’ve had little experience with this sort of thing.  Madness is a tricky area.  It can manifest as obsession, distraction, severe moods, hallucination, fixation, delusion, even euphoria.”

“I’ve suffered from all of those, in various measures,” I reported.  “Not to mention intense anxiety, severe melancholy, self-loathing, and the occasional bout of utter despair.  When you’re charged with saving the world, it can be an emotional burden.”

“It is not a burden you must take,” she reminded me, gently.  “No one asked you to do this, Minalan.”

“Yet no one else can do it,” I pointed out.  “At least, no one else on this world.  What am I supposed to do?  Just say that it’s too hard and go tend to my estates?”

“That’s an awful lot of responsibility for you to assume over something that won’t happen in your lifetime.  If you walked away from it and did just go tend to your estates no one would blame you for it,” she offered.

“Because there would be no one left to blame me for it,” I countered.  “Like it or not, I’m a wizard.  One of you gods decided to bless me with the curse of rajira and opened up my simple human mind to the ability to contemplate the universe in ways other men can’t – and affect it in ways that are impossible without magic.  There is a measure of responsibility implicit with that.  And when a wizard sees that the entire world is at risk and he has the power to potentially do something about it, then he does it.  It’s what wizards do,” I said, flatly.

“There are other wizards in the world.  Few of them would accept that burden voluntarily,” she reminded me.

“None of them are me!” I said, a little more harshly than I intended.  “Yes, it will be hard, almost impossible.  Yes, I will face challenges and obstacles, defeat, and mistakes.  But how could I turn away from that just because it is difficult?  When the very real possibility that I will foul things up and perhaps even make them worse hangs constant on my mind?  When the prospect of failure means the death of every living thing in the world?  Really, are you trying to talk me out of saving the world?”

“No, no, Minalan, you mistake me,” she sighed.  “I sense your burden.  Most would consider it unbearable.  I sense your doubts about your abilities, and your confusion about the way forward.  I know you are suffering,” she said, biting her divine lip.  “It pains me to see you so, after you have sacrificed so much and done far more than anyone ever expected of you.  The hotter the flame, the more quickly the fuel is consumed.  I am just concerned that your soul will be consumed if you undertake this mission you’ve given yourself.”

“Well, as soon as one of the gods steps up and decides to handle the matter themselves, I’ll be happy to step aside,” I informed her.  “Until then, I’m the only chance this world has, unfortunately.  Besides, how could I live with myself and the knowledge that I could have done something but didn’t?” I asked, turning back to the Everfire.  “I’m not that kind of man.  I’m not that kind of wizard.”

“And it’s driving you mad,” she observed.  “Oh, the voices in your head and the memories you’re experiencing aren’t helping, but it is your own fanatical dedication that is leading to true madness,” she warned.  “You’ve been given power beyond the scope of any mage in history.  Beyond even what the Alka Alon can do.  And you have knowledge beyond what even the Vundel and the Met Sakinsa can boast.  All crammed into a single human mind.  Being so focused on your purpose invites your self-destruction.  Why have you not taken advantage of the Handmaiden’s aid?” she asked, pointing toward the Magolith.  “Did not Lilastien suggest it might help?”

“Lilastien was making a guess,” I countered.  “Perhaps well-informed and insightful, but a guess nonetheless.  What happens if I use it and things get better . . . and I lose the knowledge I need to save the world?  Then all of this suffering is for naught,” I said, a wave of despair washing over me.  “My dedication to this task might be unhealthy – to me, personally – but without it can you tell me I’ll succeed?” I challenged.

“No,” she said, softly, with a sigh.  “But then I cannot tell you that you will succeed in any case.  This is a dangerous game, Minalan, with the entire world at stake.  There are risks you cannot imagine implicit in your decision to move forward on this path.  There are matters of fate and prophecy over which none of the gods has control – particularly me.  And that is just in the human realm.  At some point your mission will require you to challenge the very powers of this world,” she predicted.  “They will not always be receptive to your goals.”

“Then I will make them!” I snarled.  “I did not endure death and flirt with madness to be lightly turned, Goddess.  I am committed.  I will use every power at my command, every scrap of knowledge in those long-dead memories to see this task done, before I die – or die in the attempt,” I promised.  “This morning I faced a dark lord dressed in the body of my rapist and was willing to bargain with the fiend in order to see this done.  That’s after I woke with a dream of a beloved wife and children slain in a war that was over a million years ago, a dream so real I wept with despair upon waking.  Other mornings I enjoy self-loathing, crippling despondency, or worse.  I will not suffer such curses just to turn aside from the task at hand.  If the powers of the world wish to stand in my way, then I will challenge them.  It may mean my death or worse, but I will challenge them!”

“Of course you will, Minalan,” she said, a little condescendingly.  “You’re stubborn.  You’ve always been stubborn.  But now you are also obsessed.  That can be a potent combination.  I just don’t want you to become consumed by your own passions.”

“Then add more fuel to my fire, or whatever it is you do,” I proposed.  “I will do my part or die trying.  You do yours.”

“I am trying to,” Briga said, patiently.  “That is why I’m here.  If this was another mortal considering this task, I might consider it foolish, as well as dangerous.  But you are not them, not any longer.  You’ve transcended your fellows, Minalan, and all I can really do is offer you comfort, guidance, and what inspiration I can.  We are both traveling in unknown territory.  And I am just as concerned as you are.  More, I am concerned for you, and not just your task.  You do not deserve madness.”

“’Deserve’,” I said, bitterly.  “What an ugly little word.  I am suspicious when people use it, because they usually are indulging in rationalizing their actions.  How do I not ‘deserve’ this madness?  I walked up to a cosmic horror and nearly begged for it.  I was foolish enough to think that I could save the world, and stupidly asked for the power to do so, though my sanity might be the price of that knowledge.  It might have been a foolhardy bargain, but it was the one I made.  Whatever I did before that doesn’t matter, anymore.  The price of wisdom may have been my mind, but it was a price I was willing to pay.”

“And now?” she prompted.  “Do you still think that it was a worthy bargain?”

I gave a hollow chuckle.  “Ask me again when I’ve saved the world.  Or in the afterlife.  Until then, I have taken on this challenge, and I will not relent until it is done – and for that, a little healthy obsession and fanatical dedication is actually useful, don’t you think?  Without it I would be sorely tempted to lay aside this burden and live out my life thinking that I was never capable of the feat.”

“Rampant egotism is also a sign of madness,” she pointed out with a chuckle of her own.

“It’s also the stock-in-trade of all good wizards,” I agreed.  “Without it, we would not dare attempt to change the world the way we do.  Not one of my successful colleagues isn’t overflowing with their own ego, even the quiet ones.  If I have it to a greater degree, well, chalk it up to my rampant ego.  The one the gods blessed me with,” I said, cutting my eyes toward her.

Briga sighed.  “Of course.  Just allow me to bring some perspective to you, from time to time.  You might find it helpful.”

“I do and I will,” I promised.  “I am not so egotistical as to think that I surpass the gods and can eschew their divine wisdom.  Speaking of which,” I said, turning back to her, “Lady Fallawen is in labor.  She is expected to deliver her children shortly.”

“I am well aware of that,” Briga nodded.

“Well, I’m going to use the birth as an opportunity to recreate the snowstone spell,” I informed her.  “As you were instrumental in the first spell, I invite your participation in this attempt.  Divine magic is required,” I reminded her.

“I shall assist,” she agreed.  “But I think you will need a more formidable tool than you have constructed.  The striekema – you have it with you?” she asked.

I shrugged and pulled forth Tanno Amberil from its hoxter.  The staff was taller than the goddess, but she took it easily from me and examined it closely.

“Yes, this mineral can detect and manipulate arcane energies at every level,” she pronounced, a moment later.  “And though such magic is not my sphere, I can tell you have done an adequate job of harnessing those powers.  Adequate, but not ideal.”

“Well, I’m just getting started on it,” I muttered.  “I’ve only been back a few weeks.  Work like this takes time to finish.”

“Let us see if I can help,” she said . . . and walked into the center of the Everfire with the staff.

There was a spark of alarm in me as I watched her do so.  Usually the Everfire burned so hotly that an unprotected human could not come near it – there were railings around the base of it to keep that sort of thing from happening.  But Briga walked blithely through them and deep into the core of the fire.

It immediately began to burn more hotly, and I was forced to back up as the Goddess of Fire bathed in the energies it released.  The plasma on the surface of the flame turned bright orange and then began to shift toward white.  The pillar of fire leaped up overhead until it extended far beyond the limits of the dome.  I’m certain it looked quite impressive, from the outside.

I watched anxiously as the flame surrounded her, until I could only see a vague shape through the fire of the goddess and the staff.  The staff began to glow brightly, the way something does when infused with divine magic because the gods are showy that way.  For nearly five minutes it burned brightly, to the point where I considered shielding my eyes from the light and seeking shelter from the heat.

But then Briga stepped out, once again, the staff in her hands.  It continued to glow even as the Everfire itself diminished back to its normal proportions.

“There,” she said with a satisfied smile.  “I know I’m not a true goddess of magic, but I have done what I can to improve it.  To strengthen it.  This artefact responds and reacts to energy, and fire is but energy expressed.  I hope it helps,” she said, handing the still-glowing staff to me.

“Isn’t it still hot?” I asked, hesitantly, before I grasped it in both hands.

“Credit me with a little foresight,” she chided.  “I would not do such a thing if it could harm you.  Indeed, when you are grasping this staff now no flame will harm or hinder you, mundane or arcane.  Among other benefits.”

“Just what did you do?” I asked, curiously, as I regarded the glowing rod.

“I don’t have the technical language to tell you – or even truly understand it myself,” she confessed.  “A lot of the divine is manifested through intuition, and I used mine to alter its structure at the quantum level to make it more efficient.  At least, that was my intention.  It’s an experiment, of sorts.”

I took a moment to use my conscious mind to probe the staff.  Indeed, she had done . . . something to the atomic structure, I could tell.  It was smoother, somehow – which isn’t really an accurate description of what she had done, but there were no words I knew to describe the effect.  Not on Callidore, at least.

But my long, insane experience of Aza’methet’s bizarre consciousness had given me my own intuitive understanding of such things.  Briga’s treatment had improved the rate of flow and the sensitivity of the device in ways that were both subtle and profound.  It took far less effort to detect the lines of energy swirling around us at all times, I could tell.

Just to be certain, I tested it by calling forth a manifestation of all of the flows of arcane power in the chamber.  In an instant they were revealed: the clunky lines of thaumaturgical power that were used in the temple’s construction, the flow of natural nodes of arcane energy the Everfire attracted from the surroundings . . . and the delicate but potent divine forces that swirled around the goddess, and to a lesser extent the Everfire itself.  They were revealed to me in breathtaking clarity, far easier than before.

As a further trial I began to use the staff to summon some whisps of that divine power from the Everfire and began concentrating it, the way one does when using plain, ordinary magic.  As I did so the goddess’ eyes got larger and more fearful.

“Minalan!” she said, anxiously.  “What are you doing?”

“It’s merely an assay of its power,” I said, as calmly as I could.  “I need to know what it can do.”

“You’re experimenting with divine energies!” she reproved.  “Mortals aren’t supposed to do that!  Even wizards!”

“If any wizard can, it would be me,” I pointed out as I pulled one thread of divine power away from the flame after another.  The accumulation was tiny, compared to the amount of normal thaumaturgical energies I could have manifested with the staff.  But it was also significant.  It didn’t take a lot, I knew, to have great effect, once it was directed.

“This is that rampant egotism I was speaking of,” she warned, shaking her head.  “Minalan, you cannot mess around like this!  The nature of divine power is a mystery even to the gods!”

“I might be better informed,” I soothed her, quietly.  “But your alarm is appreciated.  Tell me, how much do you think I was able to harvest?”

She looked at the tiny, brightly glowing sphere that hung in front of me and blinked.  “There is no way to quantify such a thing,” she argued.

“An estimation, please,” I asked, as I used the staff to maneuver the bead of divinity around the chamber.  “What could you do with this amount of power?”

“Build a really big fire?” she said, exasperated.  “I don’t know, I don’t use the stuff consciously.  None of the gods do.  Divine effects are a product of our intuition, which in turn is a product of the powers that the human collective unconscious grants to us.

“Theoretically?  You should be able to do all sorts of things with that.  Reality-bending things,” she added, anxiously.  “Divine power isn’t subject to the same metaphysical restraints as mere thaumaturgy.  But because of that it can behave unpredictably.  It is quintessence, itself – the fundamental building blocks of reality.  No mind, mortal or divine, can contemplate the potential of its use or its effects.”

“But it can be directed, else we wouldn’t have this lovely pillar of flame in the middle of town,” I pointed out.

“Directed, but not controlled,” she stressed.  “It works across all dimensions in ways we cannot even contemplate, due to its nature.  There are no established rules about its use.  Not even by the gods.  The few who have studied it have ever given up understanding its complexities because it is simply too unpredictable and subject to the influences of too many forces – some that are not just unknown, but unknowable.  For the sake of the flame, Minalan, stop it!” she said, becoming shrill as I pulled one more strand of the stuff from the Everfire.

“Well, it seems to be behaving itself,” I pointed out as a star-like bead of raw power floated in front of me.

“Yes, but you aren’t!” Briga said, exasperated.  “You know not what you do!”

“That’s pretty much where I operate best,” I chuckled.  “Fascinating . . . Tuaa Folauga would call this a ‘fundamental quantum instability,’ and declare it entirely impossible to exist,” I said, as I examined the divine spark with the staff.  “The quarks are all in a state of perpetual uncertainty.  As if they could become anything at any time, given the proper nudge and direction.  It truly is remarkable.”

“It’s flaming dangerous, is what it is!” the goddess insisted.  “What I do know about it is that it responds to consciousness in ways that are entirely unpredictable and unknowable.”

“Yet you use it all the time,” I pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean I understand it!  I just will it to do something, and then I hope it turns out all right.  It isn’t even a conscious thing,” she stressed.  “Whatever manifests is a product of my unconscious . . . which is a product of the human collective unconscious . . . which is notoriously fickle.  That’s one reason the Alka Alon are terrified of us human gods.  We use powers that not even they understand or can easily access.”

“Oh, I am aware,” I smiled.  “The only Alka Alon who could even attempt it spent thousands of years practicing and honing their skills to do so.  And only for a few very specific and relatively minor tasks.  Yet its potential is remarkable.  Could I manage immortality with it, I wonder?”

“If you want to risk wandering around until the end of the universe, perhaps,” Briga warned.  “But I wouldn’t recommend it!”

“Yes, that might be a little foolish,” I conceded, still staring at the tiny sphere through the auspices of the staff.  “It violates the rules of reality by its very nature.  I am guessing that its use would require a very disciplined mind or a clear and resilient desire to manifest it usefully.”

“No human being has the capacity to be that disciplined,” Briga warned.  “Even the gods don’t dare attempt that sort of thing because they realize how unbelievably stupid it would be!  It is quintessence, the embodiment of potential.  Its capacities cannot even be imagined, much less controlled.”

“Yet the subconscious manages to do it,” I argued.  “That’s what you said.  Is that what formed the Snowflake?” I asked, curiously.

“It was a factor, yes, I believe,” Briga said, looking visibly agitated.  “You borrowed some from me in your delirium.  I had no idea how it would affect the universe until you manifested the Snowflake.  That could not be predicted or planned.  Such things were not meant to be used by mortal minds.”

“Meant by whom?” I challenged.  “If there are no rules for its use, then I cannot be violating them.”

“They aren’t rules they are just . . . guidelines,” she said, biting her lip again.  “We gods understand the potency of divine magic, even if we don’t understand the mechanics.  You don’t need to know about the molecular effects of combining oxygen, fuel, and energy in order to start a fire and boil a kettle,” she reasoned.

“So let’s put the kettle on and see what kind of tea we can make,” I proposed, reasonably.

“It doesn’t work that simply, Minalan!” she insisted, still watching the divine spark between us.  “I beg you not to meddle in such power lightly!”

“Oh, I’m not, I’m not,” I stressed.  “This is just a little experiment.  I need to know how to work with the stuff, if I’m going to be making more snowstone.  But what shall I do with it, I wonder?”

“Send it back into the Everfire,” she suggested.  “Let it dissipate on its own.  Things might get a little . . . unpredictable in Sevendor for a few days, but . . .”

“Oh, that would be a waste,” I said, shaking my head.  “While I have it here, I think I should try doing something useful with it.”

“Like what?” she demanded.  “Kill us all?  Even me?”

I looked at her, surprised.  “It could kill a god?”

“It’s what we’re manifested from!” she snorted.  “It might not kill me, but then again it might.  That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Minalan, we don’t know how it works!  We don’t know what the laws and principles of it are!  It’s not like other thaumaturgical power, even Vivant and Necromantic energies.  At best, you could push it into something and surround it with intention and desire, and maybe – maybe – it would transform into something useful.  But you don’t have the experience or the understanding to guide it, beyond that,” she warned.

I nodded.  But I was not dissuaded.  Tuaa Folauga’s memory was, indeed, fascinated by the impossible node of energy we were witnessing.  He understood the quantum nature of the universe far, far better than I ever would.  His studies of the astronomical forces had given him some insight into the matter, but that only informed his absolute wonder at its existence.

I could not waste this opportunity, I realized.  Perhaps it was the excitement of battle, perhaps it was the intrigue of my conversation with Mycin Amana, but I was feeling daring.  I manifested Blizzard from its hoxter pocket.

“Minalan?  What are you doing?” Briga asked, a worried tone in her voice.

“Improvising,” I answered, as I regarded the battle staff.  It was somewhat depleted after the battle and needed some thaumaturgic maintenance.  I’d tinkered with it a bit but I had been considering how to improve it for a while, now, even before I’d gone to Anghysbel.  There was a long list of better features I’d been considering, but I had been too busy working on Tanno Amberil to do much with it.

Perhaps, I considered, I could let the divine energy manage my desires for me.  It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Minalan!” Briga insisted.  “You’ve never worked with divine power before.”

“There is a first time for everything.  I need to experiment a little, so . . .” I trailed off as I used Tanno Amberil to direct the tiny sphere of energy toward the tip of the larger staff.

I closed my eyes and envisioned the weapon I wanted, what I wanted it to do, how I wanted the paraclete within to respond to my commands and directions.  I needed something useful against dragons, wyverns, and now giant spiders – not to mention undead and goblins and whatever else the universe threw at me.  I was very specific in my desires, and I focused on my intent as the ball of divine energy seemed to melt against the staff head.

I opened my eyes to witness the shimmering sphere of quintessence glide down the entire length of the staff, transforming it utterly.  The smooth, steel-reinforced weirwood shaft changed utterly as I studied it, becoming as smooth as glass and somewhat translucent.  I could feel the paraclete within being altered from its original enneagram into something . . . different.  The magical matrix around the weapon subtly shifted, in places, while in others the change was more pronounced.  And the power implicit in the staff seemed to grow exponentially.  In just a moment there was a kind of flare, as the light from the weapon grew brighter and then diminished.

Briga exhaled, when the impromptu spell was done and the divine energy was consumed by the process.  The battle staff gleamed from end to end, now, a slender and more balanced shaft with a more pronounced, almost crystalline staff head that was vaguely pointed.  The paraclete throbbed within.  I could feel it under my hand and in my mind.  It was just as belligerent as before, but somehow more refined.  There were new capabilities there, I knew, and novel means of destruction and protection.

“Blizzard is no more,” I pronounced, as the fire goddess watched me.  She seemed more relaxed now that the power had been used up.  I sent Tanno Amberil away and balanced the reborn staff in both hands.  It was lighter but still substantial.  It was longer, more like an Alka Alon dueling spear than a quarterstaff.  I gave it a mental command and the head melded into a long, sharp spear blade.  Another one produced a decidedly wicked-looking axe head.  Yet another transformed the axe into a morning star on a chain.

“You used divine power to create a weapon?” she asked, skeptically.

“To improve a weapon, actually.  I had some enhancements in mind.  This far exceeds my expectations,” I said, pleased at the result.  I did the first four Alka Alon warm-up positions with it.  It moved as if it had been created for no other purpose than to be an extension of my arm and my will.  “Besides, there are plenty of precedents.  Duin’s Axe,” I reminded her.  “Ovartas’s spear.  Even your fiery bow.”

She blushed a bit at the last one.  “That was according to myth.  And they were made for the hands of the gods.”

“And this was made for the hand of a mage,” I countered.  “A suitable weapon for the Spellmonger.  The Marshal Arcane,” I corrected.  “If I’m expected to go around winning battles and killing monsters, I need to have suitable accessories.”

She sighed again, this time with irritation.  “If you must,” she conceded.  “It looks like it could protect you pretty well in battle.”

“We will find out.  If I wasn’t already tired I would be tempted to test it.”

“What are you going to call it?” she wondered.

“If the last incarnation was Blizzard, then this is . . . Avalanche,” I decided.  “I name thee Avalanche!” I pronounced in Alka Alon.

Maybe I was being a bit dramatic.  Briga rolled her eyes.

“You magi are always so . . . so hokey!” she groaned.

Chapter Seventeen

Azar’s Boon

It’s traditional to hold a feast or banquet after a successful battle, but I declared the celebration postponed for a day until some of the wounded could have their injuries addressed and treated.  That also gave everyone a night to recover after the stress of a weeklong preparation.  That was a boon to the many taverns in town, as many wanted to drink to celebrate the victory, drink to console themselves over friends lost, or drink to forget their ordeal in the dungeons – and the foul spiders.

As for me, I just wanted to rest.  I’d had a busy day.  I purposefully neglected my journal.   I spoke with Alya by Mirror and discussed the day’s events and then collapsed into bed in my old workshop in the tower of old Sevendor Castle.  I didn’t even have the energy to drag myself across the courtyard to Spellmonger’s Hall, which was being prepared for Alya and the children’s return.  Though our apartments in the new castle were technically complete, in terms of structure, there was still a great deal to accomplish before they would be ready for us to move in permanently.  I did not arise until midmorning the next day.

I wasn’t the only one feeling weary.  For the weeks since the Magic Fair most of Sevendor had been devoted to the effort of rescuing the prisoners.  Even as Sire Cei and Sir Festaran resumed their duties administering the barony and the domain, many of the servants and retainers were just as tired as the warriors who participated – and now they had a feast to prepare.  Worse, King Rard had sent word for a quick council to discuss the raid at his palace in Kaunis. And I was obligated to attend.

But worst, still, was the fact that Aza’methet had reared its ugly heads in my memory that morning.  As soon as I recognized the glimmers of the monster in my mind, I grabbed a quick breakfast and fled to the chamber of the Snowflake.

Thankfully, it was the more cowardly of the two personalities that was dominant, again.  The rampant paranoia that infused its consciousness was difficult to manage but was far preferable to the psychotic belligerence the other side presented.  The cavern of the Snowflake provided a certain level of security to the ancient monster.  The Snowflake was also mildly fascinating to it – perhaps not completely novel, but certainly more interesting than military planning or court politics.

I try my best to take advantage of that when it happens, and I was lucky enough to be in Sevendor at the time.  The previous day’s experience with Briga and the subsequent reconstruction of Avalanche had kept my interest focused on thaumaturgy and enchantment, especially as it concerns divine magic.

Of all of my borrowed memories, only Mel Thenreyal and Aza’methet had any experience with divine magic, although both of them used different terms and had different conceptions of the mysterious energy.  Of the two, Aza’methet had a more comprehensive knowledge of the subject.  The occasion allowed me to indulge my curiosity in the matter, including pursuing the theoretical underpinnings of some of the enchantments I envisioned building.

Foremost among these was rebuilding the portal we had used to raid Darkfaller.  The Karshak had constructed the main portal well, providing Sevendor with a means of transport beyond the Ways and the roads.  The temporary arch I’d had Mavone deploy to Darkfaller to facilitate our escape worked, we had proven, but without me actively using Tanno Amberil to connect them it was just a pretty archway on a wooden platform.  I needed to refine that, as well as build some enchantment that would allow it to function without my active participation.  I was too busy to be a glorified coachman.

Aza’methet’s knowledge of dimensional magic was vast; matters of time and space, location and direction, and the dizzying types of physical and nonphysical dimensions were common knowledge to the creature that had hidden itself away from the universe for millions and millions of years in the cracks between realities.  The answers I was seeking were relatively simple, in comparison.  As it was, Aza’methet had given me insights into the Alkan Ways that neither of the two master sorcerers in my head understood.

The problem was translating the ancient horror’s knowledge into something that I could understand and apply in the situation I found myself in.  I had begun to construct a new set of magical runes to encompass some of the concepts, but it was a slow and tedious process, requiring an extended period of contemplation before I could adequately render the concepts into a symbol.  I hadn’t really constructed a magical language before, though I had used several, so it took a lot of effort.  But I was having at least some success.  The portals I was developing would use this new set of runes, and they could be taught to a thaumaturge or enchanter who had a deep enough understanding of the underlying concepts.

This was particularly important, at the moment.  King Rard had made it clear that my next highest priority after the Darkfaller raid was to staunch Merwyn’s incursion into Remere, a bit of opportunistic adventurism from Duke Andrestal during our continuing crises.

Currently, my former court wizard, Count Dranus of Moros, was leading the defensive effort in conjunction with his fellow Remeran counts in the region, and I had sent Astyral there with his new bride to oversee the effort and scout out the situation for me.  But there was no doubt that I would need to bring additional troops and the bulk of my Magical Corps to bear on the subject, and soon.  That was one reason why the portal was my most pressing enchantment.

The portal would allow me to transport large numbers of troops, supplies, and arms across the continent without having to bring them by means of the Alka Alon Ways, or – more depressingly – send them over land.  The trial of the enchantment at Darkfaller had been a success, allowing us to get our troops in place and rescue the prisoners as simply as walking through a door.  I aimed to use the device against the Merwyni in a similar fashion, and soon.

The emergency meeting of the royal War Council the next day was likewise important.  It was small, as such things run, just the senior commanders, the minister of war, the prime minister, the court wizard, and the king and queen.  In general, they were pleased with the result.  Prince Tavard, however, was not.

Indeed, as we sat around the beautiful new table in the Chamber of War at Kaunis, the young hothead fumed at me and Terleman over how we’d conducted the raid – despite its clear success.

“My liege,” he began, when it was his turn to speak, “I beg you to address the mistakes the Spellmonger – apologies, the new Marshal Arcane,” he corrected, stressing the title into a mockery, “made in the conduct of this raid.  He had an opportunity to strike at the heart of the enemy, and yet by his own admission he merely chatted her up.”  His eyes cut to me suspiciously.  “I was not informed of his intention to confront the Witch Queen, which could have factored into my own plans.  Nor did he release the might of the Sky Riders on Darkfaller when it could have made a difference in the battle.  This forces me to question the wisdom of creating this new office when the results have been so lackluster.”

Terleman spoke before I or the king could.  His voice was sharp.

“Your Majesty, the goal of the raid was to rescue the prisoners and probe the defenses that have been erected at Darkfaller – the arcane defenses,” he emphasized.  “It was not to take the castle.  Indeed, we had inadequate forces to do so.  As it was, we faced much stiffer defenses than we anticipated, both mundane and arcane.  Had we elected to make the attempt, we would have failed.”

“Ah!” Count Moran, the Castali prime minister said, as if he’d caught Terleman out.  “So, you admit that your magical corps was inadequate to the task!”

“On the contrary, it was quite adequate for the task we were given,” countered Terleman.  “And it succeeded on every point with a minimum loss of life.  Even against the unexpected defenses.  My point was that we were attempting to learn of those defenses, not conquer the castle.  Now that we are aware of them, we can take steps to neutralize them.”

“Your plan lacked boldness,” Tavard said, shaking his head.  “If you had but a little initiative, you could have—”

“Lost good men in a foolhardy attack?” Terleman finished icily.  “Perhaps it is your doctrine to conduct an assault without properly assessing the enemy's strengths and weaknesses, Your Highness, but as a military man I find it more useful to have that knowledge before I go to battle, not afterwards.”

“Enough!” Count Mendeku, the war minister, insisted testily.  His gray eyes flashed towards both sides of the table but lingered on Prince Tavard.  He was far more of a naval officer than an army officer, having come from the Castali coast, but he understood basic strategy enough to understand our reasoning.  “The battle plan was executed as it was intended and as it was approved.  This was a victory for us, Your Highness, not a defeat.  Please treat it as such.”

“And what did we win?” Tavard persisted.  “A few hundred prisoners?  Now Darkfaller has a hole in it and is no closer to being taken.  How can you possibly consider that a victory?”

“Because what is at stake is far more than one castle, no matter how large it is,” Queen Grendine scolded.  “There is a threat to the heart of the realm,” she reminded her son.  “There are goblins not fifty miles from here, now, and undead roam across the lands that your ancestors painstakingly conquered and held for centuries.  Do try to keep things in perspective, Tavard!”

“Why are you taking their side?” the prince asked his mother plaintively, his voice nearly a whine.

“I take the side of the kingdom!” Grendine answered, crossly.  “I suggest you do the same if you want to inherit it someday.  Thanks to you there is an infection growing at the heart of our realm.  This operation was the first lancing of that boil.  We must handle this delicately, lest it spread across the kingdom.”

Rard wisely intervened before his son could reply.

“The mission was a success, and I thank all who fought so valiantly on behalf of the kingdom.  I will be calling a special court to that effect in a few days to reward those who risked their lives for our sake.  And the Curia is in a few weeks – if you have issues of a military or strategic nature, that will be the proper place to discuss them.  For now, I am more concerned about Merwyn and Farise than I am who gets credit for this raid.”

“I wish no credit for a battle in which the objective was not taken!” Tavard said, sullenly.

“Then you will be given none, Your Highness,” I agreed.  “This raid was a test.  We passed.  I am already at work preparing a more complete attack for the spring.  Perhaps then we can give you back your castle.”  Yes, it was perhaps a bit more condescending than was politically wise, but I was growing impatient with Tavard.  It’s one thing to be an entitled snot, it is quite another to fail to learn from your mistakes.  I forestalled his predictably angry retort by reporting on my preparations for the upcoming campaign against the Merwyni, and that seemed to distract everyone.

The ceremonial royal court celebration of the victory happened a couple of nights later after we had our own raucous celebration at the old Sevendor Castle.  As we were the domain most affected by Mycin Amana’s attack, the redemption of our lost fellows and the reuniting of families and colleagues was properly celebrated with an impressive amount of ale.  I gave numerous honors and rewards to the principal leaders of the battle, and for a few hours, it almost seemed like old times in Sevendor again.  There was singing, dancing, music, merriment, entirely too much drinking, and not a little vomit in the courtyard as a result.

By comparison, the state celebration at Kaunis was a stuffy and staid affair.  Royal court functions tend to be that way, so I wasn’t surprised.  Everyone was dressed in their finest garb and on their best behavior.  Nobility from across Castal were in attendance, as were the Duke and Duchess of Alshar as well as representatives from Remere and Wenshar.

But it was boring as hell, compared to our party in Sevendor.

State banquets in Kaunis were becoming a regular affair that Grendine was slowly turning into a tradition of ceremony, pomp, and dignified excess.  They were beginning to follow a predictable pattern.  A small pre-court reception where the attendees could mingle and have a cup of wine while the throne room was being prepared, then the long procession of nobility according to rank into the chamber.  The court proceedings themselves were fairly standard, but Grendine was adding many distinctive touches to Castalshar’s official ceremonies to make them undeniably royal in nature.  Then there was generally a banquet, some dancing, and exchange of small gifts and pleasantries before everyone retired for the evening.

There were some highlights that cling to my memory.  Rard granted honors and rewards to several of the senior officers, including Tavard and Terleman, a fact which I think both men resented.  Several knights from Tavard’s army were called before the throne and honored for their bravery on the field.  So was Dara, who the king granted an estate in Gilmora for her intervention in the battle, protecting the prince and heir from the deprivations of the wyverns.  That startled my former apprentice.

She was even more startled when Prince Tavard and Princess Armandra likewise granted her an estate in central Castal, one renowned for its hunting mews, for her timely rescue.  It was clear to all that it was an honor begrudgingly made, but I believe that the princess insisted.  She spoke very highly of Dara for rescuing her husband on the battlefield and thanked her sincerely when she made the award.  I don’t think Dara was prepared for that.

That wasn’t the most surprising thing that happened at court, however – an occasion where surprises are rare by design.  When the herald called forth the officers of the Magical Corps to be honored, Terleman, Wenek, Mavone, Rondal, Tyndal, Noutha, and Azar dutifully stepped forward and were lauded for their bravery and puissance on the field at Darkfaller.  Rard handed out estates to each of them like he was distributing sweets at a temple festival.

But Azar, surprisingly handed his scroll back to the herald and begged to address the king.

“Your Majesty,” he began in his low, hoarse voice, his eyes looking up at the king beseechingly, “I am quite happy with the lands I already possess in Megelin, and seek no others.  But I do wish to impose on the court at this hour and beg a boon of you.”

Rard and Grendine both looked surprised.  I think everyone was, a bit.  It’s rare that a peer of the realm refuses such rewards from the throne.

“Go on, Viscount Azar,” Rard finally agreed, after glancing at his wife.  “What boon do you desire of me?”

After our conversation at Darkfaller, I half expected Azar to request that a temple or abbey be established or something equally spiritual.  That giant spider had discomfited him in a way that even dragons had not.  But I confess, he surprised me as well by his request.

“Your Majesties, I am a warrior, veteran of scores of battles,” he began thoughtfully.  “I have fought in Farise and in Olum Seheri and led my men against the dark foe in the Penumbra for years.  Yet never have I felt closer to death than that day in Darkfaller.  The beasts we faced, the heat of the contest – well, I was near certain that I would embrace my mistress, Death, before the sun set.

“Yet I was saved from that ignoble fate,” he continued, his eyes downcast.  “When the hour was darkest and I had resigned myself to dying in battle, I was spared.  The agent of my rescue was unexpected, but no less welcome.  For Lady Noutha led her reserves bravely and resolutely through the Spellmonger’s portal to attack the rear of the foe and give me enough respite to marshal my forces when we were at our weakest.”

“So . . . you wish to grant your estate to Lady Noutha?” Grendine asked, confused.

“Nay, my queen, though I leave that to your consideration,” the warmage sighed.  “I must tell you that I have never seen such a vision of fury as when Lady Noutha emerged from nothingness, her mageblade in hand, and contested the day with the beast.  I was on my knees in the dirt, my face bloody and my soul preparing for death when she came for me.  Her visage was as terrible as it was lovely.  Her aim was true and her strike was resolute.  Never in all of my battles have I been favored to witness such a passionate and deadly reply to the foe.”

I watched with a certain amusement as Lady Noutha blushed at the almost poetic recounting of her military action.  I also glanced at her father, Loiko Vaneran, who seemed quite pleased at hearing of his daughter’s prowess.

“We are well acquainted with Lady Noutha’s service to the realm,” Rard nodded.  “She has been a stalwart during her tenure here amongst my guard.”

“Then you have seen the attention to duty that any good soldier should perform,” agreed Azar.  “But my liege you did not see the vision of destruction that she made in Darkfaller.  I was struck, at that moment, that she was as lovely as Death, as brutal as a storm, and possessed of a fury Duin himself would envy.”

“So what honor would you have us bestow on her, Viscount?” Grendine asked, amused.

“Your Majesties, in front of this court I confess my love for the maiden and propose marriage to her, with her sire’s permission,” he proclaimed, quite unexpectedly, as he turned to face Noutha.  “We have little acquaintance outside of the battlefield, but I cannot deny my heart after such a moment.  She fought shoulder to shoulder with me through the fiercest of trials and did not waver.  She risked her life most bravely to accomplish her mission.  And she dealt death to all who opposed her as savagely as any warrior could ask for.  I ask her now to become my wife,” he said, proudly.

There was a collective gasp at the request – no one had anticipated Azar’s boon, it seemed, not even me.

If we were surprised, Noutha was clearly shocked out of her skin.  Her eyes were wide with absolute astonishment, it appeared.  Her father looked no less surprised.

“You . . . you want to marry . . . marry me?” she squeaked, in a most unwarrior-like manner, her mouth agape in a most unladylike fashion.

“I do, my lady,” Azar assured her, confidently.  “Come to Megelin as my bride and Viscountess.   Defend my flank, as I will defend yours.  Stand with me upon a pile of our enemy’s corpses and join your heart with mine: for I love you,” he insisted.

There was absolute silence in the hall for a moment as we all tried to digest what Azar was proposing.

Finally, Queen Grendine cleared her throat.  “Well.  That was a passionate proposal, if I’ve ever heard one.  I don’t know which god would be more pleased, Trygg or Duin.  But the boon has been asked.  I do not think the throne has any objection to such a pairing,” she said, glancing at Rard, who gave a small nod.  “What say the lady’s father?”

Loiko slowly stood, his eyes dazed, and gave a short bow to the thrones.

“Your Majesties, I . . . I have no objections, either, as long as she is willing.  She has been her own woman for years now.  The choice is hers,” he said, regarding his daughter quizzically.

“Very well,” Rard nodded.  “If the crown has no objection, nor does your father, what say you to this proposal of marriage, Lady Noutha?”

I felt for the girl in that moment.  She was more than a decade younger than Azar, easily, and while not unattractive in appearance her demeanor had not drawn many suitors to her, from what I understood.  While she did not seem troubled by exerting her femininity for an occasion such as this, I knew full well that she was more comfortable in armor than she was in a gown.

But few men as a result would have considered her as a bride.  Female warmagi rarely marry, due to their profession, and her father’s position in court likely kept most men from even considering the idea of a union just on political reasons.  But more likely it was her reputation that had kept suitors at bay more than that.  What man wants a wife who is a more superior warrior than most of the Royal Guard?

Azar apparently did.  He looked at her beseechingly, and there was no trace of equivocation on his face.

“I . . . I . . .” she stumbled, looking around her in confusion before she finally returned her gaze to her suitor.  Then something came over her, as she struggled for some guidance.  I know not what inner thoughts compelled her, but I did see her square her shoulders as she took possession of herself.

“I . . . I accept,” she finally decided.  “I will become your wife, Viscount Azar.”

I’ve never seen a man look happier to hear that.  Azar, who enjoys a bloody battle more than a drunken party, who counts Death as his mistress, who had slain thousands by his own hand had never looked more proud as he swept Noutha in an embrace in front of the royal court.  Noutha, for her part, looked more fearful than anything else.  But what maiden has not been fearful of the prospect of marriage?  None with any sense – and I knew Noutha had plenty of sense.

I considered it a good match, despite how unexpected the proposal was.  They were both passionate about warfare and entirely committed to their mastery of the art.  Noutha had been so determined that she had taken up arms in service of Sheruel as the renegade Lady Mask.  Azar had been the stalwart foe of the Penumbra since the Siege of Boval Castle.  They were two of the bravest people I know.  If they could find happiness together in pursuit of their mutual love of violence, who was I to object?

Of course, the entire court burst out in cheers and applause at her acceptance.  Everyone likes a good love story.  Even one that promised to be as bloody as Azar and Noutha’s.

After the close of ceremonies, during the elaborate state banquet, Pentandra and Alya cornered me and demanded to know if I’d known about the proposal.  I, of course, pleaded ignorance.

“I really had no idea,” I admitted.  “Azar came to me immediately after the battle and asked me a couple of vague questions, but I thought he was considering taking holy orders or something.  Not contemplating marriage.”

“But then you are notoriously dim about such matters, Husband,” Alya reminded me, teasingly.  “I never would have suspected Azar to give his heart to anyone.  But perhaps he has met his match in Noutha.”

“I think it’s a good pairing,” Pentandra decided.  “Azar has served Anguin admirably as Ducal Executioner.  And he’s held Megelin steadfastly for years, now.  Noutha has been instrumental in leading warmagi against the Nemovorti in the Westlands.  She’s been one of Rondal’s most trusted lieutenants.  With Noutha at his side, Azar could build a real dynasty in the Magelaw.”

“Do you really think they would have children, though?” Tyndal asked skeptically, as he and Rondal joined us.  “That’s a frightening prospect!”

“Only to our foes,” Rondal dismissed.  He looked pleased about the matter.  “Noutha really is a good warmage and an excellent officer.  But I didn’t think she had an ounce of romance in her heart.  Violence, vengeance, and valor, yes, but not romance.”

“Every woman has a shred of romance in her,” insisted Pentandra.  “Even the most plain.  And the most . . . deadly.  Indeed, there could well be a correlation of the two extremes.”

“I suppose I never would have fancied her like that, after fighting her in battle,” Tyndal shrugged.  “At least she’ll be familiar with her new fief.  She took most of it by force during the early stages of the war.  Hells, perhaps Azar can slake her lust for destruction.”

“I think it more likely that she will tame his own desire for violence,” Alya considered.  “It’s hard for a man to want to go to war when he has a wife.”

“I suppose that depends on the wife,” Tyndal considered.  “In this case, he wouldn’t be leaving her behind.  But this does shake things up a bit in the Magelaw,” he reminded me.  “Do you think that her previous allegiances to Sheruel and the Enshadowed pose any danger, Master?” he asked me.

“I certainly don’t object,” I agreed.  “She would make a delightful vassal, despite her previous service to the Penumbra.  I count her as fully reformed.  Has she not proven herself over and over again?  She fought at Olum Seheri,” I reminded them.  “If she was ever to betray us, that would have been the perfect opportunity.”

“I agree,” Rondal nodded.  “She’s shown no disloyalty during the Westlands campaign.  She’s not the kind of girl I’d choose, but then Ishi makes hearts of all shapes and sizes . . . and degrees of lethality.  And I find it amusing that Azar has finally found a wife,” he admitted.  “I never thought he would.”

“It took a battle with a giant spider to lure her out, I suppose,” Tyndal grinned.  “Trygg’s grace, Azar was one of the last confirmed bachelors in the Magelaw,” he pointed out.  I suppose there’s just Mavone and Taren left, now.  Even Gareth is getting his wand waxed, now,” he said, shaking his shaggy blond head.

“Gods, can you imagine the little demons of destruction their children will be?” Rondal asked, cocking his head.  “Imagine an entire family of little Azars and Nouthas.”

“Azar’s boon is a boon for the entire Magelaw,” Pentandra insisted.  “We will need stalwart warriors and astute warmagi for generations to come.  We must find some fitting tribute to their pairing.  I wonder when the wedding will be?”

“Among a flurry of many,” my wife pointed out.  “First Sandoval and Astyral, now you two and Azar . . . I think it’s sweet!”

“Do you know who won’t be terribly pleased about this, once they understand the implications?” Pentandra asked, an eyebrow raised.  “Our fair prince and his party.  They already suspect the magi of conspiring against their old order.  Now that the magi are marrying and producing a new generation of little wizards and witches they’re going to get terribly alarmed.”

“Plenty of magi marry other magi,” Tyndal countered with a shrug.  “It happens all the time in Sevendor.  Look at Olmeg and Lorcus.  They married two witches.  It’s what wizards do,” he insisted.

“Those two aren’t ordinary wizards,” Rondal observed, as the couple were seated next to each other at Loiko’s table.  I did not envy the conversations that had to be going on there between the three of them.  Loiko and Noutha had only recently repaired their estrangement.  I knew that he’d had little hope for her to have any kind of traditional marriage and had never really pushed for such.

But now he had Azar as a potential son-in-law.  Just the dowry discussion alone would be uncomfortable, I suspected.

“They are two of the most deadly people I’ve ever met,” Rondal continued.  “Azar charged a bloody dragon by himself, in Vorone.  Noutha has taken on an entire company of goblins for fun.  The people who should be worried aren’t the knights . . . it’s the bloody Nemovorti.  Once they realize what kind of couple they are going to be, I don’t doubt that Korbal will be quaking in fear in Olum Seheri.  Or he should be.”

Chapter Eighteen

The Twins of Tuervakothel

The night after Azar’s proposal at the royal court was cool in Sevendor, promising an early end to summer and the commencement of the harvest season.  We had successfully relocated our household back to the old castle and I had tried to settle down to focus on the enchantments I was working on, when I wasn’t planning the upcoming battle against the Merwyni.

Of course, struggling against the chorus of ghosts who haunted me daily had almost settled into a routine by then, but there were days when one of them would make me veer off into either obscurity or flamboyant activity.  I was hoping I’d be able to settle down for the upcoming winter season and it would provide me the opportunity to quiet my thoughts.

But Trygg doesn’t care what I think.  More than an hour after I had gone to sleep that night Ruderal woke me up with news: Lady Fallawen was close to delivering her babies in Tuervakothel, and Lilastien wanted me to attend.

It wasn’t a ceremonious occasion; even though I was technically her overlord; the purpose of me attending her birthing was to advance my own knowledge of the snowstone spell I had spent years deconstructing.

Our research led to the conclusion that a human birth was necessary to generate the Natal Spark, the tiny surge of divine energy that was (I theorized) the catalyst for activating the effect.  Dunselen and Isily had all but confirmed this in their horrid experiments.  Fallawen had volunteered to participate, and she fulfilled my criteria: a (technically) human birth to a baby who had been exposed in the womb to some magically based trauma.

Fallawen certainly fulfilled that standard.  She had been attacked only a few months ago while she was late in her pregnancy by the Enshadowed, as they rescued Mycin Amana from the dungeons of Tuervakothel.  The fight had been fierce, and both Fallawen and Lady Varen were wounded in that battle.  Varen still bore a strong limp and had to walk with a cane from that episode.  Lilastien had confirmed that Fallawen’s twin boys had reacted by magically latching on to their mother’s thaumaturgical shroud as a result.  By all rights, she should have been the ideal subject – and she was willing, which was helpful.

But then there were complications, not the least being her not-quite-human status.  The Tera Alon body she had enjoyed for the last several years was genetically based on the physiology of the objectively gorgeous Valley Folk by Lilastien, as she had determined that that mysterious race or sub-species had the idea physical form.  But that template had been augmented by a number of pure Alka Alon traits to allow the Tera Alon to utilize magic after the style of their people.  Every Tera Alon had a high degree of rajira, but that was not where their gifts ended.  Each one enjoyed perfect pitch, for instance, and an innate sense of rhythm that the average human being did not.  They were natural musicians.  They also had perfect balance, incredibly keen eyesight and hearing, incredibly manual dexterity, superior endurance and strength, and an almost complete immunity to most of the diseases that humans are heir to.

But are they really human?  Human enough to manage the snowstone effect?  That was the question. And it wasn’t the only one.

Part of the original spell had involved me invoking Briga, the Fire Goddess and patroness of my house.  That divine energy, in addition to the Natal Spark, was undoubtedly important.  But these boys had been blessed even before they were conceived, during the occasion of Fallawen and Sir Ryff’s eventful wedding.  No less than seven gods had heaped blessings on them.  Did that augment the necessary divine intervention?  Or did it dilute it?  I just didn’t know.

I had prepared an entire suite of equipment for this birthing, everything from simple savistators to Tanno Amberil, the insanely sensitive thaumaturgical staff I’d crafted out of Stonetrunk’s Heart.  It was by no means finished, yet, but in conjunction with my baculus, Insight, and the occasional bit of help from the Magolith it was the most adept tool I had to detect and examine thaumaturgic energies.  Even if the experiment failed, I would have an incredible amount of information about how it failed.

Once word came from Lilastien, I had Ruderal gather up the equipment, stuff it into a hoxter, and summon a number of interested parties I hoped could assist me in the spell . . . and help clean up if it failed catastrophically.  While that was not a huge possibility, I knew it was irresponsible of me not to make such preparations.  That included Taren, Master Ulin the Enchanter, Onranion, and Lady Varen to thaumaturgically monitor the situation.   Alya, Sire Cei, Sir Festaran and Birthsister Bemia attended for moral support.  Everyone was anxious.  Indeed, I think it was one of the rare occasion where the onlookers were more anxious than the incipient parents.

Oh, Sir Ryff was beside himself with worry, but his essential ignorance of the situation shielded him from the level of concern that the women in our party had.  And Fallawen’s innate sense of trust for Lilastien’s skills as a midwife convinced her that nothing would go wrong.

As it happened, nothing did.  And that was part of the problem, I think.

Tuervakothel was chilly, at that time of night, as I brought Alya and Ruderal through the Ways to Lilastien’s Waystone.  We came through in Fallawen’s bedchamber, which the Sorceress of Sartha Wood had converted into a birthing chamber.  Fallawen was slowly walking around the exterior of the room, clinging to the walls as she resolutely kept moving.  One of Lilastien’s assistants accompanied her, holding her hand and whispering encouraging words to her.

Fallawen had a determined expression on her face, but it was clear she was in discomfort.  Considering the size of her tummy right now I could appreciate that.  With twins, she looked even larger than Alya had ever managed in her pregnancies.  I was impressed she was just on her feet.

“Should she really be walking around like that?” I asked, curiously, as Ruderal began extracting my equipment and setting it up in one side of the chamber.

Lilastien nodded.  She was wearing her white coat of office, complete with paraphernalia appropriate to her art, and carried the medical data device she had not let out of her sight since Anghysbel.

“She’s doing fine,” she said softly as we watched her turn around and continue walking back the way she’d come.  “She’s been in labor for over thirty hours, now.  But the contractions have only started quickening in the last hour.  She’ll deliver before morning, I wager.”

“Safely?” I asked, suddenly concerned.  I liked Fallawen.  I liked each of the Emissaries, but Fallawen had gone above and beyond the scope of her duties in her alliance with humanity.  That had earned her a special place in my heart.  In many ways she was the most human of the three.

“What kind of doctor do you think I am?” Lilastien asked, mildly offended.  “I’ve got over a hundred babies safely delivered in my record, I’ll have you know.  I’ve delivered them in surgical suites with robotic assistance and a full pharmacopeia, and I’ve delivered them in the middle of the woods with a rusty knife and a bit of twine.  I know my business,” she assured.  “I only lost two out of all that number, and those were thankfully rare congenital effects, not due to my mismanagement.  And I’ve never lost a mother,” she assured me, confidently.

“That’s good to know,” I nodded, as I watched Fallawen breathe her way through a contraction.  It looked painful, and I winced in sympathy.  “How is she feeling?”

“How is she feeling?” Lilastien asked, incredulously.  “She’s about to pass a couple of pumpkins through something the size of a peach.  She’s in pain,” she emphasized.  “I’ve done what I can to make her comfortable, but there are limits to that sort of thing.  Even with magic.  Her vitals are stable and well within normal parameters,” she said, consulting her pad.  “No signs of pre-eclampsia or other complications.  Blood pressure is elevated but normal for a humani delivery.  I don’t anticipate any problems.  But even an easy birth is traumatic,” she reminded me.  “The danger is quite real.”

“I’m gratified it is you who are watching over her,” I said, in my best paternalistic voice.  Certainly Lilastien was old enough and jaded enough to dismiss such flattery, but she was also wise enough to accept it.  Everyone likes to be told that they’re doing a good job, after all.  “I will set up my equipment and stay out of the way.  Let me know when it is . . . time,” I said, uncertain of just when that moment would be.

“I will, Minalan,” she assured me, tucking her pad under her arm.  “Just remember that my first duty is to Fallawen and her babies, not your spell.  I’m just as academically curious as you are, but my patients come first.”

“Of course,” I assured her.  “Fallawen and Ryff are the priority, as are their sons.  What is that incense, by the way?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.  There was a sharp, acrid smell in the air.  Tuervakothel was such a well-designed and aesthetically pleasing place that encountering such a strong smell seemed incongruent.

Her thin eyebrows raised I in surprise as she chuckled.  “Ethanol and peroxide, in various formulations.  And iodine, if needed.  Antiseptics,” she explained as if I were a barbarian.  “Shall I burn some mint or rosewood?” she asked, amused.  “Perhaps some sage and cedar?  Any particular evil spirits you’d like to banish?”

“Self-doubt and bad luck,” I decided, “but I will defer to your judgment.  Carry on,” I encouraged her, and moved out of the way.

It didn’t take long for me to set up my apparatus and detail various observers to their specific duties.  Taren and I reviewed Dunselen’s protocols and our updated improvements, but even that was finished in less time than I anticipated.  I found myself starring at Fallawen and her attendants clustered around the delivery bed and waiting for things to begin.

Things, apparently, were reluctant to begin.

This is not unusual, I knew.  Labor and delivery were complicated things, affected by factors that are difficult to predict and impossible to anticipate.  Alya had one difficult birth and one relatively easy birth – Minalyan and Almina, respectively.  In both cases she endured more than a day’s worth of hard labor, the birth pangs of that wracked her form crashing across her in ever-increasing waves.  It was difficult to bear, as her husband.  Any time you see your beloved wife in pain you resent the source . . . even when that source is your soon-to-be-beloved child.  If you have any kind of masculine honor your first duty is to your woman, not your child, by Nature’s design.  After all, you’ve known her a lot longer.

But I was glad that Sir Ryff was being consoled and counseled in the outer chamber.  It is difficult to watch someone you love suffer, and there was no doubt in my mind that Sir Ryff was so devoted to Fallawen that he would have easily traded the lives of his sons for hers, should it be necessary.  I do not diminish the nobility of maternal suffering in the slightest by acknowledging the crisis every future father endures while he is waiting for Trygg’s ultimate blessing.  Too often, we all know, that blessing involves the sacrifice of his wife.  The Allmother’s holy temple makes that all too clear in the two-day rite that informs you of the facts of life when you are in your early teens.

Indeed, when I checked on the man after I grew bored waiting for something to happen it was clear that he was beside himself with worry, despite Sire Cei’s steadfast support.  There were no screams from within, as of yet, nor were there worried looks by her attendants sent to fetch things for the midwife.  That seemed to console him somewhat.

But that look of fear and confusion that haunts every new father’s face was present in gracious plenty.  I knew it well.

Near midnight, Lilastien announced that the final stages of the birthing had begun.  Sir Ryff retired to a bench and began smoking heavily, as well as accepting a strong ale from Sire Cei.   I retired to the chamber and began my own ritual, more arcane than social.  I began by lighting a taper and inviting Briga to attend.  Understanding the importance of the birth, and owing me a favor or two, the Goddess of Fire promptly appeared and did . . . well, whatever it is a goddess does when her sphere does not quite involve a birth. She was discreet enough to use some divine trick so that I was the only one really aware of her physical presence, likely to avoid distracting the mother and the midwife in the middle of a delivery. Briga was technically the patroness of foster children and the avenger of abused children.  She didn’t have a lot to say about mere birth.  The lives of the god are complicated.

When Lilastien announced the final delivery, moving between Fallawen’s outstretched knees, there was a serious tone to her voice.  One of her attendants began playing a harp to help soothe the mother in labor and welcome the newborn with pleasant music.  It was apparently a traditional Alka Alon tune.  When the harp music began to play, I started my spell.

I did everything right, according to our protocol.  I invoked all the proper runes at all the right times.  I did everything that I’d done a decade ago that fateful night when the Snow That Never Melted fell.  I pulled in arcane power, used the Ryleth rune in my spell, and invoked the help of the goddess who – this time – was standing only a few feet away.

To say that there was no arcane effect would be mistaken.  There was some result of the spell.  But as the crown of the first baby passed through the gates of life, the flash of thaumaturgic energy that result spread out . . . and didn’t do a damn thing to the silica in the area.

“That’s one healthy boy!” Lilastien proclaimed, a few moments later, after examining Lady Fallawen’s first born.  “Apgar is good, no troubled respiration, heartbeat is strong.  And he’s a big one,” she added, proudly.  “Nearly nine pounds and twenty-two inches!”

I had no real idea if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I swore and kept with the spell.  The lovely thing about Fallawen’s birthing was that I had two chances to affect the surroundings with the spell.  As the howling baby boy was cleansed and swaddled by the nurses, Lilastien delivered the afterbirth and spoke encouraging words to Fallawen – who looked entirely traumatized, until her eldest son was laid on her breast for a moment.

What followed was as heartfelt and incredible scene of maternal bonding as I’ve witnessed, my own wife included.  I knew Fallawen had been reluctant to consider bearing Sir Ryff’s children for a variety of reasons.  But the moment she had her own baby on her breast, she was instantly transformed.  Her fear and regret had fallen away as she was smitten with the new bawling charge that was laid on her.  Trygg Allmother’s power to invoke the maternal feeling in a scared young woman was as real and as potent as any spell.

Far more potent, for example, than my snowstone spell.  Nothing had bloody happened, from what I could tell.

Oh, there was a sudden release of arcane power that filled the space I’d delineated with my spell.  But nothing had turned white.  Indeed, it was difficult to tell that anything had really happened at all.  It was a professional disappointment.  I tried not to let that show as I watched Fallawen bond with her baby.  I managed to make a tiny little red magemark on the sole of his foot as he nursed.  Great epics had been written about what happened when the seniority of twins was mixed up, and I did not want any of that to happen in my barony.  That sort of thing can lead to all sorts of unpleasantness: duels, acrimony, the occasional war over inheritance.  I had enough problems at the moment.

At Lilastien’s urging Fallawen began to nurse the hungry infant until a fresh contraction wracked her body and sent her face into unpleasant contortions.

“The second one is coming fast,” Lilastien warned both of us as she resumed her position between Fallawen’s knees.  “Vitals still look good,” she added, as she motioned for fresh towels.  “You’re still quite well-dilated.  And you’re doing splendidly, dear!” she assured Fallawen.  “But you may want to put the first one away for a moment.  I’m thinking the second is going to demand your attention.”

Reluctantly she allowed the nurses to take the now-quiet baby to a cradle.  I waited for Lilastien’s nod, then began my second gathering of power.  Briga was standing off to the side like a quiet flame, trying not to get in the way, while my own assistants prepared the chamber once again.

Fallawen was clearly exhausted.  So much so that she barked for the harpist to cease her playing as the worst of the birth pangs railed her body.  She seemed annoyed by the attempt to keep her calm when calm was not her natural inclination.  Indeed, she entered her second delivery with the determination of a lioness, I am proud to say.

An hour later Sir Ryff’s second son was born, hale and hardy.  And my second spell seemed to work no better than the first.

“Eight and a half pounds, good Apgar, and nineteen inches!” Lilastien announced when she held the babe in her hands finally.  “Scalpel,” she ordered her assistant, as she began to tie off the umbilical cord of the second infant.  “You did perfectly, dear,” she assured Fallawen.  “No mother has ever done better, I promise.  You’ve given your husband two healthy boys.  No man could ask for more.”

A wizard, on the other hand, might just ask for more.

Once again, there was a decided effect: magical energy was transformed by the working and released in a burst within a defined area.  But once again nothing turned white, and there was no real indication that anything much at all had happened.  Master Ulin performed a dozen different thaumaturgical assays in a few moments and shook his head.  Likewise Lady Varen shrugged and laid down her baculus.  Even Taren gave up after a few minutes of studious examination of the surroundings.

As disappointed as I was, I did not want to communicate that to Fallawen.  She’d worked hard for almost two days trying to deliver her babies.  They were fine, as was she, perfect specimens of humanity – slightly flavored with Alka Alon.

The second twin was quickly cleansed and checked for vitality while Lilastien delivered the afterbirth and tended to the episiotomy.  I wisely avoided watching the procedure.  There are some feminine mysteries that men should just not witness, if they are able to avoid it.

Indeed, I was a bit more concerned with my own failure.  As Briga disappeared in a puff of cold fire and smoke after I thanked her, I consulted my assistants about the result.  They had readings to report, but nothing remarkable.  For whatever reason I had failed to get better results than Dunselen and Isily.  That made me irritated, for some reason.

To console myself in my professional failure, I indulged myself in a social success.  I announced the births to the anxious father and his supporters in the outer chamber.

“By Trygg’s grace, Lady Fallawen is delivered of two healthy and hale sons – praise and blessings on House Ryff of Hosendor!” I announced, earning some ragged cheers.  “Mother and children are doing fine,” I added.  “As soon as Doctor Lilastien approves, you may come in and meet your boys, Sir Ryff.  Sire Ryff,” I amended.  Currently Ryff was a tenant lord, holding Hosendor on my behalf.  But I figured he and Fallawen deserved to own the land he held, now, considering the incredible loyalty he and his bride had demonstrated while I was in exile.

“How was it?” Alya asked me, after the uproar died down.

“Bloody, painful, and disappointing, from a thaumaturgical perspective,” I reported.  “The births went well.  Twenty fingers, twenty toes, four slightly pointed ears.  The spell . . . not as well as I’d hoped.  Even with two chances.”

“I’m certain it’s just a matter of making a few adjustments,” she dismissed, which was gratifying.  There are many reasons I loved Alya.  Not berating me for my failures is one of them.  “We’ll have other opportunities,” she assured me.

“I know,” I sighed.  “And I cannot say I’m that upset about it.  On the one hand, I wanted there to be more snowstone.  On the other, wherever I make more snowstone is going to get harvested by the Vundel.  I’d truly rather it not be so close to home.”

“Sire Ryff seems happy,” she observed, as the knight entered the birthing chamber, Sire Cei behind him and Sister Bemia at his side.

“Why wouldn’t he be?  Those boys were as robust as any baby. More than Minalyan, perhaps.”

Alya made a face.  “It was a difficult birth,” she reminded me.  I realized at once my social mistake.

“Of course it was,” I soothed, “and we weren’t too far from giving birth in a mud hut, somewhere.  You did magnificently delivering our son,” I insisted.  “It was probably that dust-up during our honeymoon that caused all the problems,” I reminded her.  “But all ended well.  We have a fine boy who takes after his mother, as he should.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she said, wanly.  “I am proud of my children.  I just want to be certain you are, too.  They aren’t all just magical experiments.”

“Of course not!” I objected.  “I love them dearly, and you twice as much for birthing them.  I am not too disappointed,” I assured her.  “The spell was secondary, compared to seeing the scions of Hosendor born this evening.”

“Evening?” Alya asked, amused.  “The sun rises, my husband.  It has taken all night to bring them into the world.”

“So it is,” I agreed, as I glanced out of the open window of the tower and saw the light of the dawn.  “A long night, but a good one.  No matter what happened, thaumaturgically speaking.”

“My husband, I think I might scream if I hear the term ‘thaumaturgically speaking’ used in reference to the birth of a baby again,” my wife insisted, giving me a look.  “Fallawen was under a lot more pressure than I was, when I gave you Minalyan.  Please respect that,” she reminded me.

“I do, I do,” I assured her.  “She did magnificently.  Sire Ryff should be proud.  He has two healthy boys who fulfill the ideals of both of his parents.  Two new vassals,” I emphasized.  “A very good thing for Sevendor.  I’m just disappointed that my spell didn’t work,” I confessed.  “It would have simplified things if it had.”

“I am just as happy that it didn’t,” Alya revealed.  “That might be more than she could contend with, on top of everything else.  It’s hard enough just to be a new mother.”

“I cannot argue with that,” I agreed.  “She has a difficult road ahead of her.  As does Sire Ryff.  He’s got to raise Tera Alon sons, now.  There is little preparation for that.”

“There is little preparation for being a parent to merely human children,” she reminded me.

“True, Fallawen and Ryff have no harder challenge ahead of them than any parent.  That is not to diminish their task, but acknowledge their difficulties.  Imagine having two Minalyans to care for,” I pointed out.

“Or three,” Alya agreed.  “I don’t know how Pentandra did it, with triplets.  Twins almost seems bearable.  But a single baby seemed more than I could contend with, if I’m to be honest.”

“One was more than enough to best my talents,” I agreed with a sigh.  “Still, it is a double blessing, and one I am happy to endorse.  Sevendor needs this kind of sign.  We face many foes.  And we need strong men to build a strong future.”

“They are babies, Minalan!” Alya chided, slapping me gently on the arm.  “Do not burden them with a future they cannot envision!”

“I’m just trying to manage our own babies’ future,” I reminded her.  “They shall need good and loyal retainers as they navigate the world after we are gone.  Having a couple of handsome, faithful young lords to our east holding such a strong position will be a boon.”

Alya rolled her eyes.  “Must you always think in terms of politics or warfare?”

“I’m thinking in terms of magic, as well,” I countered.  “There is every chance that at least one if not both of these lads will have a healthy measure of rajira.  They will be magelords,” I predicted.  “And so close to Sevendor they’ll be well-schooled in both Imperial and Alka Alon magic.”

That did not seem to mollify her much.

We spent another hour or so at Tuervakothel after the birth, drinking wine and discussing possible names for the boys.  Narasi tradition was to avoid naming them for two weeks to ensure the babe lived, which the Alka Alon thought was pure superstition.  But it had the benefit of giving the parents plenty of time to come up with something good.

Lilastien finally joined us for a glass just before we left.  The Sorceress of Sartha Wood looked tired as she gratefully downed her wine.

“That went better than I expected,” she confessed, when she held out her cup for more.  “She handled delivery like a goddess.  I’m sorry the snowstone spell didn’t work,” she added.

“We’ll try again,” I sighed.  “I think we learned some things, though.  I’m going to discuss the results with Taren and Varen and Ulin, when we get a chance.  I know something happened, I just don’t know what.”

“I felt it happen,” she agreed.  “Both times.  Did your new staff show you anything?”

“Tanno Amberil,” I said, presenting it proudly to her.  “The Lever of Worlds.  And yes, it showed me quite a bit.  The Natal Flare was there, the power was flowing into the spell, Briga was providing the divine energy, the rune was cast properly . . . it should have worked.  I wish I knew why it didn’t.”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out,” she dismissed, tiredly.  “You always do.  How are . . . other matters?” she asked, searchingly.

I knew what she was referring to – the rotating roster of long-dead memories that waxed and waned in my brain.  Lilastien of all people had a right to ask about it – not only was she my physician, but she had her own ghosts to contend with.

“There are better days and worse, and this one has been better,” I admitted.

“Are you still taking treatments with the Handmaiden?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“When I feel the need,” I said, glancing up at the Magolith.  “They do help, I think.  Why, do you need to borrow it?”

“No, no, or at least not yet,” she admitted.  “I’m holding myself together.  But it can be a struggle.  Better days and worse,” she repeated.  “Sometimes it’s brilliant, it really is, when you figure out something important because someone long ago knew it as a matter of course.  Other times you wonder what in five hells they were thinking, they act so foolishly.  Sleeping is difficult,” she confessed.  “That’s when I have the most trouble.  I quit counting the number of times I’ve woken up screaming in terror.  And I had to stop myself from slaying one of my nurses out of hand, a few weeks ago.  That would be bad for morale.”

“More than likely,” I agreed.  “Still, I understand what you’re saying about the brilliant parts.  I never could have created Tanno Amberil without knowing what I do about ancient magic.  And that led to the portal spell I’ll be using to go fight Merwyn in a few days.  If I decide to fight,” I added.

That got both of her eyebrows raised.  “You might not?”

“I’d prefer not to,” I revealed.  “It would be a bother, and might get me killed.  Oh, I doubt it, but you never know.  I’m wondering if I can just take a page out of the Imperial histories and just bribe them to go away.  That would be cheaper than fighting.”

“If you bribe them, how do you know that they will stay bribed?” she asked, curiously.

“You give them a reason to stay bribed,” I decided, after thinking a few moments.  “Like demonstrating to them just what a terribly bad idea it would be to fight, compared to pocketing the money and returning home.  After seeing how quickly I can move troops by portal, and seeing the Sky Riders fly overhead, well, that might make a bribe seem more worthwhile than a fight.  I’ve got great things planned.”

“You always do,” Lilastien said with a tired smile.  “One more cup, then I’m going to sleep for a couple of days.  The nightmares might be strong, but right now I’m willing to risk that for some real rest.  Thirty-nine hours of labor!” she snorted.  “It usually takes an Alka Alon female less than eight.  You humani really do things the hard way.”

Chapter Nineteen

Count Andrevar

A few days later, the morning air in northern Remere filled my nose with oddly exotic scents as I smelled the harvest from the fields around us.  Autumn was coming quickly, here, and you could taste it in the breeze.

I’d never been to northern Remere before, and I had to admit that it was somehow more charming than the cosmopolitan southern Remerans would ever admit.  Indeed, there’s a lot of good-natured sneering at the folk from this close to Merwyn and Wenshar.  But it was a beautiful place, even in the middle of a war.

I had activated the portal to Sevendor in the portable arch at dawn, and for the last three hours there had been a steady line of men and horses marching through to join the Remerans already gathered here.  Count Dranus had encamped his ten thousand men – mostly local conscripts, a few household guards, and a couple of mercenary companies he’d hired – in the easternmost fields of his lands, directly in the path of the Merwyni advance.

Astyral and his staff had joined him a few months ago and had been carefully gathering information on the battlefield, the foe, and the local wine selection for weeks, now, all in preparation for this day.  For the Merwyni were marching west again, trying to conquer as much land as possible before the cold season brought their advance to a halt.

“The commander of the army is Count Andrevar, a younger cousin to Duke Andrastal,” Astyral informed me as we prepared the negotiation camp a few miles ahead of our main force.

I’d brought the latest version of the Sudden Fortress to house our discussions, and it was impressive.  An honor guard of three hundred Remeran knights guarded our perimeter as a score of warmagi and our field staff prepared to greet our attackers like gentlemen.  “The two are not close, but Andrevar is dutiful, it seems.  Despite the duke’s recent policies,” he added, inviting me to ask.

“And what policies are those?” I prompted, as we settled into chairs around the grand-looking round table that was built into the fortress.

“Higher taxes on most of the cities of the Great Valley,” Astyral said, ticking them off on his fingers.  “Investment in new warships flying the duchy’s flag.  A levy on ecclesiastical estates.  A few minor feuds with major peers of the realm.  A dozen different ducal edicts that make trade harder and punish certain great houses in subtle ways while rewarding others.  And a general high-handedness that is starting to grate on the nobility.  Andrastal is full of elaborate schemes and brutal power plays in the court,” Astyral explained.

“Interesting,” I nodded.  “That bodes well for my proposal.  I am surprised that the Merwyni haven’t made it this far, yet,” I pointed out as I continued to conjure supplies from hoxter pockets.  Cases of wine, hampers of victuals, tapestries, rugs, and other essential supplies appeared out of thin air.  “From what I understand, they took a fair amount of territory earlier in the year.”

“They tried,” agreed Dranus, who smiled as he watched me work.  “About half of their force are local conscripts and petty lords.  The other half are professional mercenaries.  They have a decent sized magical corps with them, some High Magi even – all Knights of Nablus.  They made good progress . . . until I took the field with my own warmagi.  Once they came up against us the brunt of their advance was halted.  Or at least slowed,” he reported.  “We had one serious battle at the Fords of Laravel where we drove them off.  After that they did little more than skirmish and probe.  In fact, this is the first time they’ve moved the main body of their army in weeks.”

“They don’t sound very committed,” I observed, as I finally took my seat.

“They aren’t,” agreed Astyral.  “Indeed, they don’t have any defined objectives, from what the prisoners have told us.  That’s part of their reluctance.  Duke Androval essentially told them to come here and see what kind of trouble they could start.  Since half of the army has relatives on this side of the frontier, they are naturally reluctant.”

“Nor is Count Andrevar committed to the campaign,” Dranus suggested.  “Twice he has declined to lay siege to important castles in his path.  He’s kept pickets on them, but he won’t engage.  He’s had plenty of opportunities to advance against us, but he lingers just out of striking range and only sends his scouts.  I’m guessing he sees this entire campaign as a waste of time, lives, and treasury.”

“He’s not wrong,” I decided, conjuring a magemap that Astyral had prepared.  “Sieges are expensive and time consuming.  If he was serious about taking territory, he’d indulge in that.  As he hasn’t . . .”

“Then he’s likely not serious,” Astyral agreed.  “You plan on exploiting that, I take it?”

“It seems wiser than actually fighting him,” I answered.  “I’ve brought nine thousand men with me, and a whopping big magical corps, freshly blooded at Darkfaller.  That gives us roughly the same numbers, and probably a stronger force than he commands.  If we can convince him it would be foolish and pointless to engage us directly – and far more lucrative to march back to Merwyn,” I proposed, “then I’m confident he’ll choose the latter course of action.”

“You intend to bribe him?” Dranus asked, surprised and amused.

“I intend to bribe the hell out of him,” I confirmed, with a smile.  “I’m the Marshal Arcane, now,” I reminded them.  “That gives me a lot of latitude and independence when it comes to handling this sort of thing.  I’ll be getting my official charter at the Curia in a few days, but Rard was clear about my appointment.  When he gives me an assignment to protect the kingdom like this, I can do more or less what I want.  And since Duke Cloafin has made it clear that repelling Merwyn is essential to his continued participation in the Royal Court . . .”

“Wouldn’t a decisive military victory be a better course of action?” Dranus asked, his dark eyebrow rising against his bald pate.  “Teach them a lesson that they cannot molest Castalshar or Remere lightly?”

“I considered that,” I admitted.  “But it occurs to me that losing a few thousand men on both sides serves no one . . . but subverting the Merwyni force without a fight and turning them against Duke Andrastal serves many.”

“You think a bag of gold will be enough to do that, Minalan?” Astyral asked, skeptically.

“It only begins with gold,” I assured him.  “Just wait until they arrive and you’ll hear my proposal when they do.”

I have to admit, I was a bit better-informed about the situation than I pretended to Astyral and Dranus.  Pentandra had given me an extensive briefing on Merwyn’s political state before I formulated my plan – I just wanted to hear what my men had discovered to confirm it.

The fact was, according to the Alshari Garden Society, that Duke Andrastal’s actions in the past few years had been no less than despotic.  Most likely in reaction to the establishment of Castalshar, he had abandoned much of the restraint that the dukes had traditionally kept before Rard crowned himself king.  It was as if he felt the old rules no longer applied when it came to how he treated his people.

Andrastal had spent the last few years directly undermining the other power blocks in Merwyn by a variety of means.  His political foes had either met unlikely deaths or had been taxed or otherwise checked by his edicts and regulations.  Merwyn had an impressive civil service, a holdover from its time as the heart of the Imperial Magocracy, and Andrastal had unleashed them on all who opposed him even mildly.  There had been isolated riots scattered across the duchy, particularly in regions far from the capital and central urban areas as a result.  From what Pentandra could tell he was raising funds and building warships from those funds . . . and they came largely from his internal foes.

The Merwyni fleet was already noteworthy.  Merwyn was the only one of the Five Duchies that kept a standing navy, ships that were owned and whose captains were appointed directly by the duke and his unique Minister of the Navy.  More than thirty ships flew Merwyn’s standard from their masts.  Andrastal wanted twice that number.

That was cause for concern.  A decent-sized navy made sense for Merwyn, as the rebellion-minded merchant fleet in Cormeer had a history of disruptive behavior.  The old Sea Lords might have lost power centuries ago, but there were still plenty of Cormeeran captains who saw no problem with raising the black flag and attacking rival merchants from the north when they could get away with it.  Having a standing navy to keep an eye on them and mette out official retribution just made sense.

But to expand the size of the ducal fleet to the extent that Andrastal wanted was expensive . . . and hinted toward ambitions overseas.  So he’d been gouging the counts and barons of the marches and his rivals in the ducal court to raise the funds to build his fleet.  That did not bode well for the kingdom.  And it had many of his vassals on the brink of rebellion . . . or at least muttering darkly to each other.

The Remeran incursion could well be the last straw.  The very march lords Andrastal been squeezing were now expected to provide troops and treasure so that he could jab a stick in King Rard’s eye.

His cousin, Andrevar, had always been popular at court: younger, opinionated, and devoted to the people both in his lands and in Merwyn at large.  But he was third in line of succession, after Andrastal’s two sons.  He’d spoken out against Andrastal several times, but he was too powerful for the duke to crush politically without raising a stink and a possible rebellion.

So Andrastal had rewarded him with command of an unpopular military mission that was likely to either fail or kill him.  Andrevar was too honorable to refuse and too smart to succeed.  Attacking Remere alienated nobles on both sides of the frontier.

Even the inclusion of the Knights of Nablus as his magical corps had been designed to squash the rivalry.  If Merwyn had proceeded with mere mundane troops then likely Remere could have dealt with the matter without outside assistance.  But once the knights magi of the order began using irionite to crush Remeran defenses, they had more or less mandated that I – or the other High Magi – get involved in the response.  Either we would lose and prove the Merwyni a superior force or we would win and slay Andrevar in the process.

I envisioned a third way.  If Andrastal was foolish enough to send me his biggest rival as punishment, I felt obligated to return the gift . . . good and hard.

Just before noon, Lorcus arrived on horseback with the Merwyni delegation.  He’d acted as our herald, being familiar with the territory, and had ridden to the Merwyni vanguard with a few men and a flag of truce.  He had persuaded Count Andrevar to meet with the Count of Moros and the famous Spellmonger before advancing any further and had promised full safe conduct.  A few local hostages had volunteered for the duty.  As they held lands on both sides of the frontier and were kin with some of the enemy’s officers they felt little fear in doing so.

When Andrevar and his staff eventually came through the magically conjured gates of the Sudden Fortress, they were astonished.  After introductions between his staff and mine, he said as much.

“I had no idea this outpost was here,” he confessed, his tall brow furrowed in confusion.  “I rode this way myself not three days ago with our scouts, and this hill was barren!”

“Many unlikely things are possible with the Marshal Arcane of Castalshar,” I assured him.  He was a tall gentleman in his late thirties, clean shaven and with hair cut short for the campaign, I was guessing.  He had a regal bearing and rode a magnificent sable warhorse . . . and his armor looked functional, not tournament fare.  “Indeed, that is why I invited you here, to discuss such matters.”

“What is it you wish to say, my lord?” he asked, as he and his men dismounted.  “Be mindful, I will not yield to a wizard’s tricks.  I shall not expose my men to unnecessary danger,” he warned.

“Nor would I expect you to,” I assured him, smoothly.  I had the noble Prince Maralathus in my mind at the time, and the Alka Alon prince understood diplomacy and tact like none other of my ancient memories.  “I just wish to know your mind, before we fight, and let you know mine.  I think things will fall more easily that way.  Wine?” I proposed, as Ruderal opened the double doors to the fortress.  “It’s Bikavar, from Alshar.  Not Cormeeran, but you might find it an interesting change.”

Andrevar had brought a score of men with him, half of them honor guards, in case things went sour.  They stayed in the outer portion of the magical compound and kept a wary watch.  The rest joined their commander within, where wine and a few fresh delicacies from Sevendor’s markets had been laid out on a trestle: bread, smoked meat, cheese, fruit, shellfish, relishes of several varieties, all the sorts of foods a man misses when he’s been on campaign for a while.  The Merwyni gracious accepted the refreshments.  They’d been eating hard tack and salt pork and drinking army beer for weeks, now.

“So you used magic to produce this installation?” the senior Knight of Nablus, Lord Commander Aleem, asked skeptically.

“We used magic to place it here,” Astyral explained, as he filled a trencher from the table.  “We have several of these at our disposal – they come in handy in the wars in the Wilderlands where castles are few and far between.  But you needn’t worry about taking it.  We will remove it by this evening, if our discussions go well.”

Lord Commander Aleem was clearly impressed by the feat, but seemed even more impressed by the number and nature of the sophisticated enchantments we used so commonly.  The Knights of Nablus might have access to irionite, but they weren’t doing much more than boosting their normal range of spells with it.

“So, our spies tell us you have near twenty thousand men marching down on us,” Astyral began, when we settled ourselves around the table.

“Near enough,” conceded Andrevar.  “Ours tell us that you have barely half that number.”

“Until this morning, when Count Minalan arrived with another ten thousand,” Dranus offered.  “Two thousand of his own new countrymen from Vanador.  A thousand Wilderlords, eager for the fight.  Four or five thousand mercenaries.  And hundreds of warmagi,” he said, fixing Lord Commander Aleem with a stare.  “High warmagi.  Fresh from the field and ready to contend with their fellows from Merwyn.”

“Hundreds, you say?” Andrevar asked, skeptically.  “You have this irionite material, then?”

“In gracious plenty,” I agreed.  “And we’ve learned to use it to great effect.  We must, to contend with the dark forces we face from the west.”

“I told you, my lord,” Lorcus reminded the count.  “Those are rough lads.  We just got done assailing the largest castle in Castalshar and walked away with almost no casualties.  I’m good at what I do – they’re better,” he assured.

“There is no possible way that you managed to get ten thousand more troops deployed here!” one of the mercenary captains in the Merwyni delegation sneered.  “Our scouts would have seen your column days ago!”

“Did they see us build this outpost?” I countered.  “We did not come overland, my lord.  We came by magic.  And within an hour I can have half as many more join us.  We play at war much differently than you do.”

“You would have to, if you have brought Wilderlords from the far west to challenge us,” the captain said skeptically.  “Or are they merely Castali knights dressed up as the fearsome Wilderlords?”

“Oh, they are quite real,” Astyral assured him.  “They ride steeds half again as heavy as yours and tilt in tournaments with live blades.  Count Marcadine is a close ally of Count Minalan and granted us a thousand of his best for the occasion.  As a Gilmoran, let me assure you that their reputation is quite understated.  There are still regions of my country that have not recovered from their campaign half a century ago.”

“And yet Gilmora flies the Rose and Sword,” Andrevar pointed out, referencing Castal’s banner.

“Parts of it,” chuckled Astyral.  “Indeed, I rose in rebellion against the Duke of Castal just a few months ago.  My barony is now pledged to the Alshari Magelaw – Count Minalan’s seat.  As is a third of Gilmora, now.”

“We take the practice of war and conquest very seriously, gentlemen,” agreed Dranus, as the Merwyni exchanged glances.  “We’ve had to, to survive the invasion from the Mindens.  I give you every assurance that if you decide to cross swords with us now, you will be defeated.”  He didn’t say it boastfully – Dranus is not a boastful man.  He’s not even a real warmage.  He was an administrator.  But because of that his pronouncement carried additional weight, I could see.  He was merely stating a fact, not making a claim, and that had an effect on the Merwyni.

Still, there was resistance to the idea of defeat.  Another one of the mercenary captains shook his head sadly, as if he was bargaining with fools.

“We are not likely to fall for a wizard’s tricks,” he sighed.  “The Free Companies have been fighting wars since the Magocracy.”

“But have you been winning them, my lord?” Astyral asked, pointedly.  “Or have you been merely skirmishing with each other just enough to justify your stipends from your patrons?  In the Magelaw we fight against a foe that cannot be bribed away.  Hundreds of thousands of gurvani have assailed our lands.  Dragons have burned our cities and castles.  Yet we have survived and learned to fight in new ways.  Deadly ways.  I dare say that it would not take more than a week for us to demolish your force utterly, with what we have in the field at the moment.”

“Actually, I can spare no more than three days for this,” I added, casually.  “I have the Royal Curia to attend in a few days.  I might have to take more dramatic action if things press on past a single day.  Nasty business, slaying thousands, but if I must . . .”

“The reputation of Minalan the Spellmonger is well known in Merwyn,” Count Andrevar admitted.  “You are respected there even by your foes,” he said, his eyes cutting to Aleem.  “Yet it is doubtful that you can manage what you propose.  We have the momentum and the initiative.”

“Neither of which will make much difference,” I countered.  “Look, Andrevar, I respect your position, but I also recognize your weakness.  And I am being truthful when I say I don’t have a lot of time to contend with this incursion.  It’s just going to lead to ten thousand Merwyni deaths and a few hundred Castalshari deaths on my conscience.  I would rather just skip the entire affair,” I said, affecting boredom.

“And thus the bargaining begins,” chuckled the count.  “Just what do you propose, Spellmonger?  A quick tournament, we both claim victory and back to our frontiers?”

“Something a little more meaningful than that,” I said, standing.  Indeed, I knew from history that about half of the wars between Remere and Merwyn had been settled in such a way.  But I wanted more from my declared foe than that.  “May I ask first how well disposed to Duke Andrastal you are, my lord?  Do you love him like a brother?”

That was a remark designed to goad the man.  According to Pentandra’s sources Andreval’s older brother, Andarman, had been “accidentally” slain at a tournament by Andrastal’s eldest son more than a decade ago.  The blow had permanently affected court politics in Merwyn and had tainted Andrevar’s perspective on his liege.  Andrevar winced.

“No, I would not say that we are that close,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“And would you say that your cousin has governed wisely and with the benefit of the people in mind?” I added as I began a slow pace in front of the man.

“That is a Merwyni affair,” Andrevar deflected.  “The gods shall judge the measure of the duke, someday.”

“I propose that we make that judgment sooner, rather than later,” I said, as I turned to face him.  “I am thinking that you actually despise your cousin for what he has done to your family and to Merwyn.  I would guess that you have seen his abuses and his corruption firsthand, and understand his excesses far more than mere spies would guess.  Indeed, I would venture that the only reason you have not raised your banner in rebellion is that you fear you have not the strength to do so, if others do not join your cause.”

“I am no traitor to the duchy,” Andrevar said, his eyes narrowing.

“Of course not,” I agreed.  “But the interests of the duke are not always shared by the duchy.  Your cousin has been poorly serving the coronet he inherited.  He has pursued power more than good governance.  He sees Rard’s crown and wants his own, so envious is he.  And he does not care whom he must crush in order to do so.”

Andrevar was silent, but I could tell by the expression on his face and that of his men that I was speaking some truth to them.

“Merwyni politics is . . . complicated,” he murmured, finally.

“Then let us simplify it, my lord,” I offered.  I snapped my fingers and summoned a chest from a hoxter pocket.  The Merwyni blinked in surprise.  I opened it and a moment later they were slack-jawed.  “Twenty thousand ounces of gold.  Yours, if you depart the kingdom and return to your frontier.”

“We will not betray our duke!” Aleem said, his voice quivering.  I could tell he was not truthful.  Or merely unconvinced.

“The payment isn’t to betray your duke,” I soothed.  “It is to remove you from Remere.  If you should use it to, say, hire mercenaries, however . . .”

“Even if we did, I have no guarantees that others would rise to help,” sighed Andrevar.  “The nobility fear repercussions if they lose.  There has been some talk about . . . removing Andrastal, but . . .”

“I understand, politics can get messy,” I agreed, sympathetically.  “Which is why I also offer you this, Lord Commander Aleem.”  Another hoxter produced another chest.  When I opened it twenty small green translucent spheres were arrayed across a white cloth.  I had been manufacturing irionite for weeks now that I had perfected the technique.  The chest contained more stones than the entire Knights of Nablus owned between them.  They were on the small side, compared to the witchstones my warmagi were used to carrying, but they were all larger than the largest sliver the Knights of Nablus were reputed to carry.  I was gratified to see Aleem’s eyes bulge.

“Irionite!” he breathed.  He could not tear his eyes away.

“Enough for an entire company,” I agreed.  “Irionite is growing more common in Castalshar, gentlemen, while it is passing rare in Merwyn.  If you pledge to return to Merwyn without pressing your attack, I pledge to grant all of this to your order . . . as a gift from the Spellmonger.  Of course, once you do accept it and the oath I will impose, I expect you to use it wisely to shape the future course of Merwyn’s politics.  These are potent armaments,” I reminded the former Censor.  “But they are no match for mine,” I added, as the Magolith obligingly floated close to us.

“That . . . that is a kingly offer,” Aleem admitted, finally looking up at me.  “You would require that we swear allegiance to Castalshar, then?”

“Not at all,” I shrugged.  “The oath I require makes no mention of allegiance, merely good ethical use.  And it requires that you attend me and help me remove a stone from a mage who has been found abusing it.  Thankfully, those sorts of problems have been rare, so far.  But if you were to throw your wands into Andrevar’s service, say, in a rebellion against an unjust ruler, then I would encourage that as good ethical behavior.”

I could tell I’d tempted the man.  Gold might interest a mage, but glass compels his attention.

“So you wish to send me back to Merwyn a rebel?” Andrevar sighed.

“I wish to help you struggle against Andrastal’s unjust rule,” I countered.  “I am assuming you have friends who might join you, do you not?  With this coin as a basis, and the men that you have under your command, you could make considerable progress against the duke before he even knew that he was being assailed, I would imagine.”

Andrevar looked conflicted, his eyes dashing back and forth between the irionite and the gold.  It was time to persuade him more.  A third chest appeared, filled with a variety of unusually shaped objects.

“Battlefield enchantments,” Astyral supplied with a grin.  “Fresh from Sevendor’s bouleuterion.  Explosions, implosions, fields of fire, berserker balls, glyphs of warding and misdirection, spells that can blow a hole in the side of an enemy keep as easily as cutting through the rind of a cheese.”

“These are the simple ones,” I admitted.  “Our best spells we keep for ourselves.  But I offer them to you, should you decide to rebel against Andrastal.”

Aleem seemed even more tempted.  I was clearly getting to Andrevar, but he wasn’t quite ready to agree, yet.

“Perhaps if we went outside and reviewed the troops while you considered the idea, Your Excellency,” proposed Dranus, standing.  “Count Minalan has arranged a bit of a display to show you the quality of troops we have brought.  I think you and your men will find it informative.”

“No harm will come to you or your men, you have my word as the Count of Magelaw,” I promised.  “But you won’t want to miss this show.  Especially when the alternative is seeing it arrayed against you on the battlefield.  Go on, bring your glasses.  This will take a few minutes.”

After we’d all piled out of the Sudden Fortress and gathered around a high spot overlooking the road, a line of Wilderlords three horses wide began to ride by.  Gone was their rustic armor.  Ordinarily the Wilderlords preferred a coat of iron plates set into a boiled leather cuirass, but Vanador had convinced them of the utility of a solid breastplate of Yltedene steel.  Their shields were just as broad as traditional, but they were embossed with strong straps of the same light material across their face.  Their lances gleamed menacingly in the afternoon sun, and their mighty horses pawed the ground like they were ready to charge already.

And then came the Vanadori Guard.  Sandoval had sent his best two thousand infantry, all uniformly armored and armed in Yltedene steel, their identical helmets the product of Dradrien efficiencies in manufacture.  I’d had three hundred of the elite join the sampling of Wilderlords for this display.  They did Sandoval proud.

“Those are your troops?” Andrevar asked, confused.  His own men weren’t nearly as well armored, I could see.

“Less than a tithe,” I admitted.  “The rest are in camp, preparing to march against you.  Thousands of them.  Including four thousand mercenary archers.  But they won’t be the worst of your worries, should you reject my offer,” I said, nodding toward Ruderal.  My apprentice had prepared for this, and was in contact with Dara, mind-to-mind.  A moment later a shadow from overhead flew by, startling the Merwyni mightily.  Frightful let out a defiant hunting cry as she swept over us, close enough where I could smell bird.  Ten of her wingmates followed in close formation.

Where treasure and magic had no effect, and splendid displays of cavalry and infantry had changed no minds, the falcon’s cry did the trick.  Several of the Merwyni swore oaths and looked genuinely afraid, like mice being hunted.  They might have been brave men, but they had never faced something so unexpected as my Sky Riders.

“The giant hawks!” Aleem breathed.  “I had thought them but a myth!”

“They are quite real, I assure you,” Astyral said with a smirk.  “Count Minalan has charge of three entire Mewstowers of them, now.  More than a hundred birds, arrayed for battle.”

“Four,” I corrected.  “We just built a new one in Gilmora, outside of Barrowbell.”

“I really must keep up with the news better,” Astyral sighed.  “You should see them in battle, my lords: they can sweep a man off his horse before he knows he’s being hunted.  A swipe of those steel-clad talons can shred a company of warriors into sausage.  The Sky Riders are daring warriors, and bear some of the most sophisticated magical armaments we can contrive.  Why, their sky bolts alone can impale a man to the ground before he knows he’s been struck,” he bragged.

“That is . . . I would not have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes,” Aleem said, solemnly.

“It really is a simple choice, Count Andrevar,” I said, quietly, as my troops rode, marched, and flew by for our review.  “You may face all of these dangers later today and for the next few, until you are driven from our lands.  Or you can accept our offer, accept our gifts, and make war on your wicked cousin in the name of righteous justice.”

“I . . . I suppose I would have to consider your proposal,” he finally admitted with a sigh.  He could not tear his eyes away from the giant hawks.  “For Merwyn, after all.”

“For Merwyn,” I agreed, realizing he’d already made up his mind.  “Why don’t you and your men discuss the matter?  And to sweeten the deal, if you pledge to rebel against your cousin I will lend you the four thousand mercenary archers I brought with me – assuming you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I assume that you will keep our agreement quiet?” he asked, suddenly looking at me.

“Oh, of course,” I agreed.  “That serves my purpose as well.  Believe me, no duke likes to hear of one of his fellows being overthrown by a conspiracy.  It makes them nervous.  But if you succeed, I can guarantee better relations with Castalshar,” I promised.

“It would not be easy to usurp the coronet,” he said, biting his lip unconsciously.

“Of course not.  But I have some of the wisest warmagi in the world with me.  I’m certain they can give you some idea about how it can be done best.  Swiftly would be advisable, but Merwyn is a large place.  It might take some time.  Here, how about I refill your glass while you and your men discuss it?” I offered, helpfully.  “My wizards have prepared a little display to entertain you while you deliberate.  Just some colorful lights and such, but we find ourselves amused by such spells.”

I caught the slight nod Count Andrevar was giving himself as he considered the possibilities: overthrowing his hated cousin, get revenge on his son for his brother’s death, rescuing his duchy from corruption, assuming the coronet himself . . . it was not a hard decision for him to make.  Indeed, he would never have a better chance, and he knew it.

“I think we might just have a bargain, Count Minalan,” he sighed, as he committed himself to the task.  “Assuming you won’t interfere.”

“Believe it or not, my schedule is completely full,” I admitted.  “Adventures in Merwyn are simply out of the question.  But I wouldn’t mind watching from afar.  More wine?”

Chapter Twenty

The Royal Curia of the Counts

I had to admit, the new gardens at Kaunis were lovely in the autumn.  It was Luin’s Day, the Autumnal Equinox, and the brisk breezes that heralded the coming season had been flirting with the land for days, now.  The gardens still thought it was summer, however.  They had been extensively and meticulously planned, and after a few years of careful tending they were beginning to show their promise, even in the waning of the year.  I was particularly appreciative, as I had tried to produce a similarly complex set of gardens at my estate of Spellgarden, back in Vanador.  Even with magic it had been hard to turn the rocky, poorly constituted soil into something that would produce the effect I wanted.

Kaunis was in a lower latitude, and enjoyed a far milder climate than the Wilderlands.  Even as the trees around us were changing colors the garden squares were ablaze with flowers.  There were hundreds of varieties in the well-tended beds that stretched between the government buildings.  My only complaint was the predominance of yellow roses.  They made me uncomfortable, for some reason.

The Curia had dragged on for three mind-numbing days as the peerage of the realm gathered to discuss the state of the kingdom and pledge their financial support for the crown.  It had been a long, intensely boring series of eloquent speeches and obsequious screeds advocating one policy or another.

I had participated as much as I could, including producing the corpse of a giant spider at a dramatic moment during the discussion of the Darkfaller Raid.  Prince Tavard thought I had been lax in not pressing our perceived advantage and re-taking the castle.  I used the stinking corpse, conjured from the hoxter pocket which had slain it, to convince the peerage that Tavard was mistaken in how easy it would have been.

It was a bit theatrical, I admit.  It was also highly effective.  None of the chivalrous lords who commanded the defenses of the kingdom could come up with an effective counter to the prospect of the Paranchek spider.  A cavalry charge might slaughter an unruly mob of peasant coscripts on the field of honor, but a spider the size of a siege beast?  This was far beyond their capabilities.  Ishi’s sacred tits, it was far beyond their imagination.

Yes, it was a melodramatic moment of pure showmanship, but that was part of my job as Marshal Arcane, now.  I was officially in charge of defending the realm from unnatural threats; if there was a more unnatural threat than the eight-legged monster I’d produced for my peers, I wasn’t aware of it.  Oh, perhaps the Formless, someday, but until they escaped their ancient prisons the Parancheck spider would suffice.

While certainly much good, authentic business had been conducted in the last few days, the endless speeches and objections and proposals had challenged my already tested sanity.  King Rard had presided over a contentious band of senior nobles who felt completely justified in airing every minor grievance they pretended to suffer.  We were the ones paying the kingdom’s bills, after all.  We deserved the right to criticize how that money was being spent.

I was just as guilty as any of them.  I had stood and passionately advocated for an outrageous outlay from the Royal Treasury to fund the office of the Marshal Arcane, after having the title foisted on me without invitation.  Prince Tavard had objected strenuously, of course – and I could not easily argue with some of his points.  I had asked for as much as I could, under the circumstances.  Pentandra had advised me to do so, despite my misgivings at the excessive spending of the crown.  In the end, I got what I needed, but not what I asked for, and had to count myself fortunate.

But three tedious days of discussions amongst the most flamboyantly elite in the kingdom was taking a toll.  By Luin’s Day I just could not take any more mindless oratory.  Mid-morning I decided I had to use the privy, and scuttled out of the grand hall.

Such excursions are expected, during the Curia.  Even noble bladders and bowels are subject to the whims of the gods, and plenty of counts left the proceedings to their staff to monitor while they “took the air” for any number of good reasons.  I actually did have to pee, but that was merely an excuse to escape the stuffy confines of the Curia hall.  Rard and Grendine had spent an extravagant amount of the treasury’s coin to ensure that the highest nobles in the land could take a crap in the most luxurious surroundings money could buy and I planned on taking advantage of that.

I was surprised, however, when I found my way to the ornate door discretely marked with the sigil denoting a privy when I happened to run into my liege lord.

Not Rard – as a Count Palatine I had sworn fealty to Anguin of Alshar, and thence the king.  But as Baron of Sevendor I had technically sworn my oath to the local count – Count Antonar of Lensely, to be precise.  The old gentleman was just emerging from the required chamber as I was trying to enter.

I had met the man only once before, at a brief appearance at Chepstan Castle during one of Arathanial’s tournaments before I had been made a baron.  It had been a short introduction quickly overwhelmed by other matters, and I hadn’t exchanged more than pleasantries with him.  I think he was cautious about getting too close to the first magelord in the kingdom, and I had been far more worried at the time with the antics of the Warbird of West Fleria than I was how I presented myself to my titular count.

When I faced the old man at the privy door, however, it struck me just how much he resembled Baron Arathanial.  His face was broader and his stature taller than my friend, but there was no denying the distinctive Lensely features.  Indeed, in studying Antonar I got a good glimpse of what Arathanial would likely look like in another decade.

“Excuse me!” he said, politely, as we were both startled.  Then he paused and cocked his head.  “Count Minalan, I believe?  Baron of Sevendor,”  he corrected, placing me within his territory.  “Ah!  And the new . . . new . . . Marshal Arcane?” he asked, turning the title into a question.

“The very same, Count Antonar,” I agreed, and offered a smile and a short bow.  “What a coincidence!”

The old man snorted.  “Not at all, I’m afraid.  All of this business is tiring to those with a keen mind.  I find I’d rather spend my time in the palace taking a crap on a gilded privy than listening to it from my gilded peers.  Really, all of this could have been settled on the first day.  It’s poor planning to have to spend Luin’s day cooped up here, so far from home.  Tell us how much is our tribute and let us be done with it, I say.”

“Well,” I considered, “if a count is to part with as much coin as the kingdom requires, I would think that buys him a little time to vent his spleen in front of the throne.  It makes us all feel a bit better about the payment, I suspect.”

He snorted.  “Too true, I’d wager.  So the rumors are true?  Your exile has been revoked?”

“It took a little persuasion, but yes,” I agreed with a sigh.  “I am returned to Sevendor, now.  I need to devote a little attention to my land.  It was well-managed during my absence, but a man desires to see his lands respond to his personal policies and thrive.”

“Good sense, that,” Count Antonar agreed.  “I’ve paid some attention to what you’ve done in Sevendor.  It is said that the entire Sashtalian war might have gone differently, if you magi hadn’t intervened.  Now there are two Lensely baronies, instead of one.  I credit your influence for that.  I know my cousin Arathanial certainly does.”

“Sendaria and Taravanal are both well-managed once again, with good Lensely’s in command,” I assured him.  “Gods willing, Sevendor will be sworn to a long line of Lensely’s in the future,” I added.

He looked at me curiously.  “You have no ambition to succeed me, then?” he asked, a bushy white eyebrow cocked.

“I already have a county to command, and one thrice the size or more of the Bontal Vales,” I reminded him.  “I am content to be a baron in Castal.  It has always been my opinion that a good count cannot manage more than one county and give fair consideration to both.  If I might ask, though, why are you curious about such a thing?”

It was a valid question.  Rarely does a count consider his succession.  While the office does include some territorial benefits, it concerns military matters far more than civil.

“Why, because I have three strong-willed daughters who have married weak-willed husbands,” he chuckled.  “Nice fellows, all.  None of them are adequate to the task.  When I pass – or retire,” he quickly added, “I will not be leaving my office to my heirs.  It will be open.  Indeed, I’ve been asked to consider who I might name as my successor, and your name has come up quite often.”

“Well, while that is flattering, I have enough on my trencher to satisfy me, my liege,” I chuckled.  “Find some stout-hearted soul who can devote his full attention to it, not a magelord who gets distracted by the inconsequential matters of the world.  Perhaps your cousin, Arathanial,” I proposed.  “If he took your place, his eldest son could inherit Sendaria while he still has his father alive to consult.  And Arathanial seems well-equipped to bear the burden of the county.”

“That was my intention,” he confided.  “I’d like to keep the office in Lensely hands, if I am to be truthful.  Still, a good count considers the welfare of his lands first, not his family’s legacy.  If you think Arathanial is capable . . .”

“As capable as any Castali baron,” I assured him with a smile.

Of course, that wasn’t saying that much.  As much as I admired and supported Baron Arathanial for his wisdom and his devotion, the fact was that he was just about middling as a war leader.  That is, he understood the forms of war that had been prevalent since the Conquest and practiced them faithfully.  But that did not mean he understood how to fight beyond them much.

Like most of his chivalrous brethren, he preferred a gallant cavalry charge and a raucous party afterwards to a simple plan to defeat the enemy.  That meant he’d make a good count in Castal – but that was about it.  While he could likely prepare for a traditional invasion from the knights of Bocaraton, for instance, if he’d had to face the ghastly foes we’d seen in Darkfaller the man would have been far out of his place.

“You think so?  Interesting,” he said, as he stroked his beard and regarded me.  “It is said that his younger son eyes one of your vassals for a wife.  The one who . . . flies?” he offered.

“Lady Lenodara of Westwood, called the Hawkmaiden,” I agreed with a grin.  “A most virtuous maiden, and a canny war leader,” I assured him.  “If she is agreeable, he could not have made a better choice.”

“It is said she was born a commoner,” he ventured, cautiously.

“As was I, Excellency,” I reminded him.  “Those with ambition can escape such petty matters.”

“Quality does tell,” he agreed with a sigh and a nod of his head.  “I’d like to meet the girl.  Nothing official, I just want to lay eyes on her and hear her speak for herself.  Is there any way you can arrange it?”

“I shall, my lord.  She is my former apprentice,” I informed him, which made him thoughtful.  “She is dear to me as well, so I will not hesitate to advocate for her, as you do for your young baron.”

“Let me know when and where, and I shall be delighted to attend, Count Minalan,” he agreed.  “I’d better get back in there – you never know what’s going to happen when you go take an innocent piss.  I might have been named to some office I don’t want, by now.”

I chuckled at that and bid the gentleman good-bye.  I truly did enjoy the Lenselys, after all.  They were as pompous and arrogant as any Riverlords, but they had a certain rustic style to them.

After I had completed my business in the privy, I was equally surprised to see Pentandra waiting for me, when I made my escape.

“You have a moment, Min?” she asked casually.  Of course that put me instantly on edge.

“Always, for you,” I agreed.  “Shall we walk the grounds?”

“Anything to escape that tortuous and self-serving blather in there,” she said, nodding over her shoulder to the Curia Hall.  “By Ishi’s well-visited vestibule, I don’t think I can stand another sob story about reluctant peasants and poor harvests!”

“Oh, you can’t blame them, really,” I pointed out.  “No one wants to pay more to the crown than they have to.  But I empathize.  Fancy a walk through the grounds, before we go get bored to death?”

“Let me pee, first,” she agreed, and disappeared within.

A few minutes later we were strolling arm-in-arm through Grendine’s gardens.  I was surprisingly at ease, after the stress of the last few days, and just happy to be enjoying the company of my friend without political intrigue, dire warnings and obsequious courtiers around me for a change.

“You look . . . better,” she began, as she stared at me for a moment.

“Better than what?” I countered.  “A freshly slaughtered pig?  I count that as a compliment,” I said, wryly.

“Better than you did in Henga,” she observed.  “I was worried we’d lose the Spellmonger there, after he came back from Anghysbel.”

“In many ways you did,” I admitted, softly.  “I am not the man I was when I left.”

“Which I anticipated,” she revealed.  “Still, I am grateful for your return.  And I am sorry I let things get into such a state in your absence.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I shrugged.  “Things would have gone into the chamberpot if I was here or not.  You did well, considering what you were challenged with.”

Pentandra made a face.  “I hashed things up so much I deserve a beating.  Still, we avoided all-out civil war.  I count that as a victory.  Terleman may yet get to keep the slice of Gilmora he conquered.”

“Only if I conquer Farise,” I reminded her.

Rard had made the pronouncement just a few days earlier, when the subject arose.  Terleman’s conquest of some of the richest of the Cottonlands had sparked a heated response from Prince Tavard.  If Mycin Amana had not stolen Darkfaller from Tavard, the two might still be fighting over Gilmora.

But as a result of Terl’s impressive string of victories, the Magelaw now stood to absorb a far wealthier portion of the kingdom under its banner.  The knights of Castal had not given Tavard even one victory.

So the king had declared that whomsoever ended the threat to shipping the Farisian pirates posed would receive the lands Terleman had conquered so quickly.

In a way, it was disappointing.  After all, the magi of the Magelaw had meticulously followed the Laws of Luin and Duin in their conquest.  By Luin and Duin’s laws both we should be able to keep them.

Yet political expediency has a logic all its own.  Rard’s declaration had put one of the wealthiest portions of the kingdom into pawn, until either Tavard or myself could overwhelm Farise.  I was counting on my own skills, of course, but in truth I was no closer to defeating rebellious Farise than Tavard was.

”I have a feeling that you will,” Pentandra revealed.  “Tavard can’t find his pecker if he uses both hands.  You, on the other hand, spring surprises on your friends with every other breath.  Taking Farise should be an afterthought,” she suggested.  “Indeed, I don’t find it nearly as important as other matters at the moment, sadly.  Like the way you handled the Merwyni situation.”

I grinned.  “That was just a little applied bribery,” I explained.  “Count Andrevar was just looking for an excuse to usurp his cousin’s throne.  I gave him one.  I don’t even know if he’ll be successful, but if Merwyn is involved in a power struggle then they won’t be fishing in Castalshar’s troubled waters.  Besides, it kept Remere in the kingdom.  For now,” I added.

Pentandra looked impressed.  That was hard to do.

“But can you do the same for Farise?” she asked.  “I don’t mean to make it a personal challenge, but Duke Anguin is getting very frustrated with seeing his commercial fleet getting raided.  We’re running them in convoys, at the moment, but we’re still losing plenty of ships who get picked off if they stray from the protection we’ve managed.  Unfortunately, some of Alshar’s best warships and captains decided to flee to Farise during the Restoration.  It will take time to rebuild that capacity.  Unless . . . the Spellmonger can find a remedy,” she said with a grin.  “How do you plan to handle that matter?”

I considered.  “Likely through infiltration,” I finally answered.  “We have the capacity to slip into Farise through our contact in the Wizard’s Mercantile, thanks to your cousin Planus.  I’ll probably go in in disguise, assess the situation, and then take action based on the politics I find on the ground.  Then, when I need military forces I can bring them in through the portal,” I reminded her.  “That seems preferable than to march a couple of hundred miles down the peninsula again, or try to assail the Farisians with a navy I don’t have.”

“Yes, the portal,” she sighed, looking away.  “That is going to be a problem, you realize.”

I was surprised.  “A problem?  It’s a solution!” I argued.  “I was able to move hundreds of troops into Darkfaller without the Ways.  And thousands into Remere!”

“And then what, Minalan?” she asked, pointedly.  “It’s an incredibly impressive bit of enchantment, don’t mistake me.  But you’ve said you want to connect all the capitals,” she pointed out, “and the major commercial centers.  Don’t you think that might be disruptive?”

“Of course it’s going to be disruptive, that’s the entire point,” I said with a frustrated sigh.  “Commerce is almost as essential to prosperity as good defense – perhaps more,” I argued.  “Selling Yltedene steel in Falas, for example, or in Castabriel will be a boon to Vanador.  Imagine being able to sell wizard-cured timber all the way across the continent without paying some poor idiot to cart it all that way?  And pay the taxes and tolls?”

“That’s exactly my point,” Pentandra countered.  “Once again you’re using magic to disrupt the current methods of doing things, like with the agricultural wands and the Mirror Array.  That led to unexpected consequences,” she reminded me.  “Some of them were good, but now there are tens of thousands of peasants who have been displaced in Castal and Remere because they don’t have the work your wands saved them from.  Which means they don’t have rent, or enough money for food.”

“I’ve done what I can to mitigate that,” I admitted.  “It’s just taking a while for the rest of society to catch up to the new methods.”

“You should anticipate the same sort of thing with your portals,” she observed.  “Only more so.  The unemployed peasants don’t have any power.  Merchant houses and nobles who depend on tolls and taxes on merchandise moving through their territory do have power.  As soon as they realize what you’re doing with the portals, they will use that power against them – and you.”

“Let them try,” I dismissed.  “If I can stand against the Nemovorti and the Demon God of the Mindens then I think I can manage to defend myself in a few petty court cases.  This is too important an innovation to allow some greedy merchants to stand in my way.”

“I just want to make sure that you are aware,” she said with a shrug.  “I’m not opposed to it, particularly with the trouble Farise has given us in terms of our exports.  There are warehouses full of wine and olive oil in Enultramar that aren’t being sold because we can’t get them out of the Great Bay without the risk of them being stolen.  Selling them to Castal and Remere through the portals will be a boon for Alshar.  And a boon for the magi,” she reminded me.  “But it will also attract enmity that we can ill-afford.”

“The portals will change everything,” I insisted.  “Once I get them established then Sevendor will become the commercial hub of the kingdom.  And a center of learning,” I pointed out.  “The new magical academy there will draw in hundreds of more magi, which we’ll need to run the portals, the mirrors, and continue to staff the bouleuterions.  If I can find a place to put it,” I added.  “We’re running out of vacant land in Sevendor, thanks to the influx of people.”

Pentandra considered.  “Why not put it in the old Sevendor Castle, when you’ve moved into your mountain?” she proposed.  “You’re going to have to do something with that dusty old heap.  It’s redundant for defense, now, but it might have enough space to run a school.”

“That’s . . . that’s actually quite a good idea,” I admitted, as I considered it.  “That would keep them close enough to keep an eye on them, too.  I’ll speak to Thinradel about it.  According to the Karshak we should be able to start moving into our new apartments before Yule.  It will take some modifications, but . . .”

“You have people for that,” she dismissed.  “I’m guessing that you will be far too busy to invest yourself in that sort of thing for a while.  Assuming you’re . . . that is, if you—” she stumbled.  She had the tone that a good friend takes when they’re trying to discuss a delicate matter without embarrassing you.  I favored her with a smile.

“If I don’t go completely mad, you mean?” I asked, softly.

“Well, you’ve been half-mad since I met you,” she deflected.  “But yes, there is some concern among your friends that you haven’t been . . . feeling well since you returned from Anghysbel.”

“It has little to do with my feelings,” I said with a great heaving sigh.  “Indeed, my feelings aren’t even a consideration.  I have a room full of people in my head,” I reminded her.  “They get noisy, sometimes.  I cannot help that.  Indeed, all that I can do is make the best use of them that I can.”

“Your feelings might not be a consideration for you, but we’re still concerned,” she said, shaking her head.  “How are you feeling?”

“Today is one of the better days,” I admitted.  “No one in particular is wrestling for my attention.  Indeed, they’re all a bit quiet today, thank Luin.  Perhaps they are as bored with the Curia as I am.  That happens, sometimes.  Sometimes it’s worse.  It’s particularly bad if I get the same spirit haunting me two days in a row,” I revealed.  “It’s as if their influence gets stronger.”

“Which leads to more erratic behavior,” she nodded.  “That’s what is concerning, Min.”

“I am contending with it!” I insisted.  “It’s a struggle, but not beyond my capabilities.  Mostly,” I added, quietly.

“It’s that ‘mostly’ that I’m worried about.  I’m glad that you have good days.  What are the consequences of even one really bad day?” she inquired.

If it had been anyone else – Alya and Lilastien excepted – I might have gotten angry at that challenge.  But this was Pentandra.  She had known me a long time, and we had only grown closer over those years.  I had to trust her perspective and her judgement, even if I did not agree with her assessments.

“So everyone is watching me carefully without trying to look like they’re watching me?” I asked.

“Essentially,” she agreed.  “You have to admit, you’ve demonstrated quite the increase in your powers since you returned from the north.  It’s only been weeks and you’ve developed the portal enchantments,” she pointed out.  “You’ve been fiddling with the Everfire.  You’ve managed to counter necromantic spells I wouldn’t even know how to interpret.  And you’ve been yelling at the Alka Alon council like they were a village festival committee, instead of treating them with the respect you usually do.  It’s a dramatic change, Minalan.  We’re right to be concerned.”

“Of course you are,” I agreed, after a few moments of silent reflection.  “And in truth I am glad that you are.  Between you and me, I’m concerned myself.  But I can’t go around openly doubting my own sanity.  People would talk.”

“People are already talking.  I’m just gratified that you take the matter seriously.  Self-delusion is the hallmark of madness, in most cases.  When you start lying to yourself about what is happening, you court disaster,” she explained.

“I know, I know.  Which is why when this intolerably boring Curia is finished I plan on secluding myself in Sevendor Castle and quietly work on my enchantments.  Someplace where I won’t be watched by worried faces or frighten my own children,” I revealed.

“That’s probably wise,” she conceded.  “Just how long do you expect . . . well, them to keep bothering you?” she asked, referring to the ancient memories.

“Rolof said about eighteen months.  Perhaps a little longer, perhaps a little shorter.  The Handmaiden helps,” I said, nodding toward the Magolith.  “Some, but not a lot.  The problem is that I need those memories, right now, to do the things I need to do.  If you’re concerned about my sanity then eighteen months seems like an eternity.  If you want to see results from my work, then eighteen months is far too short a time to have access to that kind of understanding.  You do realize that I’m trying to work out a way to save the world?”

“That’s what I hear,” she agreed.  “And I’m supportive of that – I like this world.  But at what cost?”

I stopped and stared at her.  “What cost is too high to save the world?” I countered.  “There are no stakes higher than that.  And no sacrifice too large to make.  Even my sanity.  Even my life,” I emphasized.  “If you understood what will come to pass if I fail . . .”

“Not for three thousand years, yet,” she chuckled.

“Three thousand years can pass in the blink of an eye,” I promised.  “Believe me, I know.  It’s not as much time as you think, in the scheme of things.  But I do take your point,” I admitted.  “I need to be cautious.  I need to be deliberative.  And I do need good people around me to tell me when I’m failing.”

“And perhaps club you unconscious and drag you to your bed when you don’t listen,” she added.  “Please understand that it’s because we actually care about you, not merely because we fear what you might do.  I miss the old Minalan, as flawed as he was.  I’m hoping he returns someday.”

I sighed heavily, once again, as I stared at a bed of yellow roses.  “I do, too,” I agreed.  “Enduring all of this is a chore.  About a third of the time I don’t know whether to stand up or sit down to pee in the morning.  I have cravings for foods that don’t exist here.  And want to listen to music that hasn’t been heard in fifty thousand years.  The other day I saw a bug and suddenly missed a dear friend who also happens to be a bug.  Every now and then I look at my wife and am terrified of her,” I complained.

“That’s just good thinking,” Pentandra objected.  “But do be careful, Min.  That’s all I’m asking.  I trust you . . . but I don’t trust them.”

That was hard to argue with.  The problem was, I didn’t trust them either.  And I wasn’t entirely certain I could trust myself.

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-One

An Emissary’s Proposal

Taren

“So, how is your master today?” Taren asked Ruderal as the boy led him through the maze of scaffolding that filled the interior of the great chamber of the new Sevendor Castle.  He already knew the way, of course – he’d visited the place many times in the past.  But the path that led to the suite of workshops and libraries where the Spellmonger did his most intensive research changed as the dictates of construction demanded.

Thankfully that was nearing an end, to Taren’s eye.  The great pillars of the hall were being finished, and the elaborate series of internal balconies that overlooked the massive chamber were being constructed.  It would not be long now before the enormous castle would be ready to live in.

Perhaps its master would be sane by then.

“He is . . . petulant,” Minalan’s apprentice reported after a moment’s consideration.  “That usually means that it’s that one particular personality that’s haunting him – the Old Terra fellow who gets so nasty.”  The boy’s tone was apologetic, but Taren did not take any offense.  He’d known Min for years.  He could be plenty nasty on his own, if he was in that sort of mood.  “It’s one of my master’s least favorites, too.  I’m not fond of him myself,” he admitted, as they ducked under a catwalk.  Overhead two Karshak masons were carefully chiseling a decorative pattern across the archway.

“Which of them is your favorite?” Taren asked, suddenly curious.  Of all of Minalan’s confidantes, Ruderal would be the one to know that the best.  He could steal a glance at the Spellmonger and figure out which of the ancient memories was plaguing him.

“Well, that would likely be the Historian,” he decided.  “At least she’s the least gloomy.  She’s nice when she’s in there.  A little distracted, perhaps, but nice.  She makes him lecture me about the importance of history far too much, but I can contend with that.”

Taren found that interesting.  Like everyone in Minalan’s inner circle, he had been watching with trepidation since the expedition’s return from Anghysbel.  Even after Minalan had recovered from the poison he’d been infected with he did not seem like his old self.  Quite the contrary.  Taren had watched his friend transform from day to day, exhibiting a wild array of concerns and emotions.  He’d flitted from one project to the next, first breaking the secret of irionite and then disappearing for days while he worked on some new venture.  Trying to pin him down for any length of time had seemed impossible.

It was hard to argue with his results, however.  The grand archway on the plaza in front of the castle bore testimony to that.  It was a thaumaturgical wonder, and Minalan had created it in a matter of weeks.  The different blocks of stone that comprised its span seemed to work in perfect harmony to project the arcane field within using a minimum of power.  He’d studied it for hours, now, and still he didn’t understand its mechanism.

Apparently, the precision and cut of the stone was important, but the composition of the blocks was essential.  Materials that could conduct and insulate different octaves of arcane power seemed to produce a wave distortion effect when activated, and there was another bit of rock toward the top that seemed to direct the course of the resulting field, but beyond that Taren was at a loss.  The portal was elegant, sophisticated, and entirely beyond the ken of Imperial magic.  From what he had learned from Lady Varen it was even beyond the arts of the Alka Alon.

He found that more than a little troubling.  The Alka Alon were the masters of magic on Callidore by tradition, more adept at shaping the unseen powers of the world than any save the Vundel themselves.  They had, after all, instituted the Alka Alon Ways that could bring a man across a country in the span of three deep breaths.

Yet Minalan was returned from the jevolar for a few weeks, and he’d suddenly managed to exceed that remarkable achievement without batting an eye.

Taren knew that the portals were no miracle – Minalan was even developing his own set of runes to explain the essential nature of the thaumaturgy involved in their construction and use.  He’d shown Taren the first attempts at the work, and he was duly impressed.  Some of those symbols involved five or six different abstract concepts at once.  It was an application of Dimensional Magic, Minalan had insisted, wide-eyed, when he’d demonstrated them.  Like the Alka Alon Ways, only far more efficient.

Taren had doubted him, of course.  Right up until the Darkfaller raid.  Minalan had opened the Sevendor portal and sent an entire army to precise positions in an enemy held fortress with a couple of waves of his staff.  The archway provided a direct boulevard into the foe’s most carefully guarded defenses without the need for a Waystone – and in the face of a necromantic shield most magi could only begin to fathom.

But Minalan had done it as casually as if he’d conjured a flame to light his pipe.

That was remarkable by any estimation.  Taren was well aware of his friend’s capacities and education.  He was a fair thaumaturge, certainly, but not particularly advanced.  He was a better enchanter, using the complex rules of arcane theory to cast an impressive number of useful spells that had transformed Sevendor and Vanador and promised to change the entire kingdom.  There was no longer a plowman employed in all of the barony, now that the agricultural wands he’d helped create made that brutal, back-breaking job part of history.

But the portals were far beyond Minalan’s native capabilities, and Taren knew it.  He was getting advice from his ancient memories, learning things from their long-lost lives that provided the Spellmonger with secrets that no one could predict.  According to Minalan there would soon be a portal in every major city in the kingdom, allowing travelers and goods and armies to be transported from one side of the realm to the other in the blink of an eye.  And without a powerful adept involved.  Some might consider that sort of spell to be an impressive piece of applied thaumaturgy, but Taren knew better.  It was an entirely new field of study, one in which just one mage had any experience.

But that wondrous knowledge had come at a cost.

“Has he shown any continuing signs of degradation?” Taren asked Ruderal, quietly.  The apprentice glanced over his shoulder and searched his face for a moment – and likely his enneagram.  Taren didn’t mind.  He had nothing to hide.

“Of course,” he answered when he turned back toward their route.  “He’s unstable.  But he hasn’t proven dangerous, yet.  Just moody.  Don’t worry, I watch over my master,” he insisted.  Taren knew that he was, and he was grateful for that.  Ruderal had more sense than Minalan’s other three former apprentices put together, thanks to his special Talent.

“I just don’t want anyone getting hurt,” assured Taren, as they began climbing stairs up to the conservatory where Minalan and Varen were waiting.  “Including Minalan,” he added.  “Without him the rest of us would be . . .”

“Doomed?” Ruderal supplied, casually.  “I doubt that.  You and Pentandra and Terleman and the rest are quite capable.  Even Tyndal and Rondal,” he added with a chuckle.

“It’s the political situation that concerns me more than the thaumaturgical,” Taren corrected.  “Pentandra can scheme, I can enchant and theorize, Terleman can battle, Tyndal and Rondal can . . . do whatever it is that they do.  But it takes Minalan to keep us all together, pushing in one direction.  While that can be annoying, it is also very useful.  He’s keeping the magi together as a society, as much as anything else.  Without him we’d be fighting amongst ourselves and letting the knights walk all over us afterward.”

“He stood up for the magi at the Curia,” Ruderal defended.  “You should have seen him: lecturing them all about the dangers and horrors of the enemy and demanding that the kingdom support him in his fight.  Then he conjured that godsdamned giant dead spider from a hoxter and scared the piss right out of them all,” he said, admirably.

“I heard it about that,” chuckled Taren.  “It was well-done.  But that’s entirely my point: I’m just not dramatic enough to pull off something like that.  Terleman doesn’t understand subtlety.  Pentandra doesn’t tolerate audacity.  And Tyndal and Rondal don’t understand political necessity, I fear.  Well, Rondal might, now that he’s holding an office in court, but . . .”

“Yes, sometimes it takes the Spellmonger to make a point,” nodded Ruderal, astutely.  “So what is on his agenda for today’s meeting?” he asked, politely.

“The snowstone spell,” Taren answered, glumly.  “Min wants us to go over the details of Fallawen’s birthing and the failure of the spell.  Probably pointless,” he grumbled, “but if we don’t study it then we won’t know how to fix it.”

“Good,” Ruderal nodded, as he opened the door to the conservatory.  “My father will be here before the end of the year to collect another mountain for the Sea Folk.  We need to make more before we run out of mountains.”

“That’s our goal,” agreed Taren.  “If we can produce snowstone on demand we can make the entire Five Duchies prosper.  We might have to conquer them first, but they’ll prosper afterwards,” he pledged.

It was much quieter in this part of the mountain; there were few Karshak working here, and much of the work on this level had been completed years ago.  Minalan had been using the long corridor and the chambers on either side as laboratories, workshops, libraries, lecture halls, and storerooms for various rare and unique arcane materials.  There were vaults filled with crystals that had yet to be assayed, and volumes of esoteric learning so obscure that even he hadn’t heard of them before.

Ruderal finally opened the curved-top door to a familiar chamber, one of the little conference rooms Minalan liked for these intense sessions.  It was brightly magelit and not at all stuffy, thanks to the vents the Karshak had carved.

It was also well-appointed, with thaumaturgically-themed tapestries on the walls and shelves of reference books at hand.  Brightly colored rugs in simple geometric patterns and pretty colors padded his boots as he entered.  Tables and chairs littered the room, which was punctuated with the occasional cabinet that he knew from personal experience was stuffed with wine, glasses, plates, parchment and ink.  A large and elaborately carved sand table dominated the far end, where a mage could sketch out his plans or his formula and change it with a wave of his hand, not an abrasive bit of stone.

Lady Varen was already seated and drinking wine.  She flashed him a brilliant smile the moment she saw him.

Taren could not help but admire the Alka Alon maiden, transformed by transgenic magic into a stunningly beautiful human with slightly pointed ears and a taste for revealing clothing.  Her voice, while more human, was still enchanting, and those eyes . . . a man could get lost in them.  Or go to war for them.

“My lady,” he said, bowing casually as he paused.

“Lord Taren,” she replied respectfully in return, bowing from the neck.  A very slender and rather fetching neck, he could not help but notice.  Her gorgeous hair hung down in seemingly-random ringlets that framed it quite enticingly.  “You are well?”

“I’ll be better when we get this spell hammered out,” he grunted as he took a seat at the table.  Varen poured him a goblet of wine while Ruderal checked the supplies in the cupboard.

“I’ll go and fetch my master, and inform him you have arrived,” the apprentice announced.  “The last time I saw him he was insulting the Snowflake.”

“Insulting the Snowflake?” Varen asked, surprised.

“He’s vexed that it isn’t just giving him the answers he seeks,” Ruderal supplied.  “He thinks she’s holding out on him on purpose.”

Taren stared at the boy.  There was no sign that he was joking, he decided.  “You’re serious?”

“She might be,” Ruderal shrugged.  “If he called me names like that, I might be a little reluctant to share, myself,” he said, as he left the chamber.

“That sounds . . . concerning,” Taren murmured as the door closed quietly behind the apprentice.

“It would be twice so if the Snowflake answered back,” Varen pointed out.  “It was lovely to see you the other evening,” she continued, as if they were at a party and not a thaumaturgical inquiry.  “Fallawen is well.  I stopped at Tuervakothel before I came here to see the new babies.  They are . . . adorable,” she confessed, shaking her head as if she were embarrassed to admit it.

“Nature makes them that way so we won’t slay them out of frustration,” chuckled Taren.  “I had to contend with that when I was at Castle Salaisus and had to care for little Istman when he had colic.  If he wasn’t that cute, I would have traded him for a piglet and eaten the piglet.”

“That’s right, you have some experience with children,” she nodded, her eyes narrowing.

“Just to foster them,” Taren said, uncomfortably.  “If they hadn’t been Min’s I would have probably declined.  Children are a chore,” he pronounced.  “One should not acquire them lightly.  I almost pity Fallawen for the next few months.”

“Pity her?” Varen asked in surprise.  “According to your people’s lore, enjoying Trygg’s Blessing is the highest honor a woman can enjoy.”

“I’m not a woman,” Taren pointed out with a chuckle.  “Still, dabbling in fatherhood was . . . informative.  It teaches you humility and the meaning of responsibility.  I am still incredibly fond of Istman and his sister.  Perhaps, someday . . .” he shrugged.

“Fallawen looked quite happy,” counted the Emissary, frowning.  “As did Sir Ryff.  I think being parents agrees with them.  Sad that the births did not produce snowstone, as we theorized, though.  Still, it was quite an event to watch my sister Emissary endure the labor and deliver two healthy little boys.  Inspiring, even.  I’ve never seen someone so transformed in such a short amount of time.”

Before he could respond Minalan burst into the room, an unkempt sheaf of parchment in one hand, his baculus in the other.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he said, brusquely, as he threw his notes onto the table.  “I’ve been hoping for a chance to go over our findings and figure out where things went wrong.  Perhaps you two can give me some insights.  You both took excellent notes,” he added, glancing from Taren to Varen before flinging himself into his chair.  “Indeed, this is one of the most well-recorded thaumaturgical experiments I think I’ve ever seen.  A pity that mere documentation does not produce results.  So, what went wrong?” he asked, without the slightest bit of pleasantry.

In a way, Taren appreciated his businesslike approach.  But it wasn’t what Minalan – the old Minalan – would have done.  And he looked at them both as if he expected them to have an answer.

“Let us begin by going through the process of the spell and examining which elements did not meet our expectations, my lord,” suggested Varen, straightening her shoulders.  “If we can establish that then we can perhaps determine where we erred.”

“That is as good a place to start as any,” admitted Minalan with a huffy sigh.  He pulled the top leaf of parchment to him.  “Let’s start with the induction . . .”

For nearly two hours they meticulously ran through each and every phase of the spell.  Taren was intimately familiar with the terms and the process, of course; he had spent more than two years going through Dunselen and Isily’s notes on their attempts to re-create the spell.  The way that they had written it up had confirmed his own suspicions about the working: as improvised as it was, it followed the same basic structure as any spell or enchantment.

First, an underlying structure was created in the mind of the caster, establishing the nature and scope of the spell.  Runes appropriate to support that intention were cast to explain to the universe just what it was your mind wanted to accomplish and why.  Those runes worked in a particularly well-understood pattern, providing the mage a framework through which to push his power.  That power followed the wizard’s intentions in accordance with the rules of the runes, behaving according to long-established principles, and as a result manifested a method of action on the universe.  It was a simple matter of causality at that level.

But then there were some basic problems with casting the snowstone spell in those terms, Taren knew.  Even after reading of how Isily and Dunselen deconstructed the mechanism of the spell, there were issues.

Intention, for one – Minalan had only a vague idea of what he was doing when he had tried to rescue his wife and son that fateful night.  His intention had been to save his wife and child, not create a unique magical mineral.

Initial conditions were another factor.  According to the spell, at least one of the parents had to have a measurable amount of rajira, for instance, and there had had to be some sort of prenatal magical trauma involved in order for the baby to create a strong magical field around itself.  In Alya’s case that had apparently been the arcane duel between Lilastien and an Enshadowed assassin in Alya’s pregnant presence.

Dunselen’s work had confirmed that.  In the cases where the mothers had not been subjected to that level of trauma, there had been no field effect during the Natal Spark.  That had led to Isily cruelly inflicting such trauma on the pregnant girls she experimented with in unsavory ways.  It had chilled him to the bone when he had read her calm, detailed explanation of what was essentially torture to inspire that level of trauma.

The matter of divine energy in conjunction with the Natal Spark was also a factor – but Minalan had managed to convince his patron goddess, Briga, to be involved in the experiment.  It was that important, and as far as Taren could tell she had done as she was bidden.

Lady Fallawen had fulfilled every essential requirement for the spell to work, according to the records.  Her prenatal trauma had been inspired during the raid on Tuervakothel by another group of Enshadowed to recover Mycin Amana from Fallawen’s dungeon.  She and Varen both had been wounded in the exchange.  Thank the gods the babies had not been injured.  But it was certainly enough magical chaos for the twins to build their own protective shroud around themselves in response.

“That leaves the Withering Light,” Minalan sighed when they had established the rest of the spell’s fundamentals.  “That is the one factor we cannot account for.  Masa energy must play some role in the final transformation,” he concluded.

“What little arrives here, from what I understand, does little to affect anything beyond the Magosphere,” Varen pointed out, thoughtfully.  “It has a very slight effect on the etheric density of a place.  It varies, a bit, but it is a fleeting and temporary response.”

Taren frowned.  “Why does it vary, then?” he asked, confused.

“Masa is emitted from an extraordinarily strong gravitational field,” Minalan explained.  “A singularity, actually.  It is created when the fabric of reality encounters the event horizon of the singularity.  Part of it is swallowed up, the other part is sent flying through the universe.”

“But reality is a constant,” Varen pointed out, her pretty brow furrowed in concentration.  “Why would it have any variation?”

“Well, I said ‘reality’ but what I suppose I should have said is ‘matter’,” Minalan admitted in a mumble.  “The resulting particle – or wave, I suppose – that comes from matter’s destruction is transformed at the subatomic level into masa energy.  Hawking Radiation.  The Withering Light.”

“But you said a sufficient mass would slow or stop it,” Taren pointed out, remembering the discussions they’d had about the subject.  “Like that cloud, the one we call the Void.”

“Yes, of course, it’s going to stop some of it,” Minalan agreed, sounding a little annoyed.  “That nebula must be light years across with a dense pack of dust and hydrogen and such.  When masa energy slams into that it gets absorbed.”

Taren considered that.  He imagined a great cloud of dust, an unimaginably large one that was orders of magnitude larger than worlds or suns.  It would, indeed, be able to shade Callidore’s star system just like a shade tree.

Only, he realized, that might not be the most apt analogy.

“When Orvatas makes it rain,” he said, slowly, “that doesn’t mean we get wet.”

“What in three hells are you talking about?” Minalan asked, sharply.

“We’re thinking about this in terms of light and shadow, and that’s appropriate when its useful,” Taren finally answered, after a long pause.  “You’ve said yourself, ‘the brighter the light, the starker the shadows.’

“But consider it as rain, instead,” he proposed.  “When it rains, we get an unequal shower of water on us.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t get dry.  If we stand under a tree, for instance, then we greatly lessen the number of raindrops falling on your heads.”

“True,” Lady Varen nodded sagely as she considered his metaphor.

“But a few still manage to get down through the leaves and branches and get us a little wet.  Not so much that we feel wet, mind you, or at least not soaked.  But we can tell it’s raining because our tree – the Void, in this case – doesn’t keep all of the rain away.

“But if we’re standing under a parasol, without any spaces between the leaves of a tree to betray us to the rain, we stay far dryer.”

“But we don’t know how to stop masa energy without a great deal of mass,” scowled Minalan.

“Yet the tiny amount of Withering Light which does make it through the nebula is not a constant,” nodded Varen.  “It only varies slightly, but Taren is correct: it does vary.  Why?”

Taren considered a few moments more.  “Just because we get a sprinkling of masa energy doesn’t mean all of Callidore is enjoying the same amount at the same time,” he proposed, as his mind painted a picture of the matter.  “All of that masa is coming from one source, is it not?”

“It’s the strongest source,” conceded Minalan.  “It hails from the center of the galaxy.  There are others around, but that’s by far the largest.  But yes, most of the masa that makes it through the nebula originates from there.”

“But . . . we don’t always face that direction,” Taren reminded him.  “Our world rotates once a day.  That origin point stays stationary, in relation to us.  Which means that the mass of our entire world interposes itself betwixt us and the origin of the Withering Light every day . . . and then moves us around to directly face it half a day later.”

“Well, if the Withering Light retards etheric density, that would explain the daily fluctuations in the Magosphere’s density,” Varen agreed.  “Indeed, that would explain the hoana renvaresa – the minute, almost undetectable variation in etheric density that seems to happen daily,” she concluded.  “We always thought it had to do with the little green moon, but this actually makes more sense.  And a lovely topic for an academic presentation,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“That’s it!” Minalan suddenly exclaimed, half rising from his chair.  “That’s what Dunselen meant!  Sideral time!  Universal time!”

“What?” Taren asked, confused.

“It was something the old coot babbled at me right before we fought Isily,” Minalan explained.  “Something about Universal time, not standard time.  He thought there was a time component involved, but I wasn’t paying much attention at the time,” he confessed.  “Now it makes sense.  If he guessed that there was some correlation between Universal time – local sideral time, actually – and the spell’s quantum effect on matter then he might have been on to something.”

“Well, each iteration of the spell seems to affect just one particular lesser element,” Taren pointed out.  “Silica for Minalyan’s trial.  Phosphorus and Potassium for Fallawen’s twins.  Calcium for Castle Salaisus and Istman.”

“That is . . . that could well be the key,” Varen agreed, nodding slowly while she stared off into space.  “Depending on the volume or even the intensity of the sprinkling of masa energy available locally, that could affect which element is transformed.  All other things being equal,” she added.

“It is a theory that can be tested!” Minalan agreed, a little more elated than Taren would have suspected.  “Really, I can design a series of experiments that can detect which elements are indeed affected, if any, during the daily cycle.  With a little work with an ephemeris and some careful observation, we should be able to isolate the pattern and establish at what point the variation is sufficient to produce snowstone!”

“That’s . . . that’s a little brilliant,” conceded Taren.  “That could be the answer to the entire question.  If it’s that simple.”

“Simple?” Minalan scoffed.  “We’re talking about quantum radiation, Universal time, and the periodic table of the lesser elements.  It’s not simple at all.”

“It certainly suggests we make additional trials,” Varen agreed, eagerly.  “It might take a few, however, just to get the timing right.  And adequate experimental subjects,” she added.  “We shall need more pregnant humani.”

“I have Lilastien already screening potential subjects in Henga,” Minalan agreed.  “There are a higher-than-normal number of magi in Vanador, so we should be able to scrounge up a few who fit our criteria.”

“Honestly, I hate to leave that sort of thing up to chance and humani will,” Varen demurred.  “I think this is too important to risk.  We need a candidate whom we know is going to be committed to this trial.”

“That would be preferable,” Taren conceded.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Varen nodded, thoughtfully.  “Then I trust that you wouldn’t have any objections to impregnating me for that purpose then, Lord Taren?” she asked, casually.  “In the name of . . . science, of course.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Hawkmaiden Grounded

Dara

The route between Sevendor and Sashtalia was becoming so familiar to Dara by now that she barely registered passing over the familiar landmarks she and Frightful steered their way by.  The villages and rustic towns, the manor houses and small castles passed below her like she was traveling along a highway, not soaring five hundred feet above the tallest of Huin’s rural spires.

She hadn’t intended it to be this way.  She had been as tepid to Baron Arlastan’s suit as she could manage, considering how her duties as Sevendori Sky Captain had dominated her time.  Yet the handsome young baron had persisted, extending quiet invitations to her on a weekly basis and excusing her negative responses without recrimination.

Yet no matter how often and how thoroughly she had declined his invitations, they endured.   She had been invited to every party, every reception, every tournament where Baron Arlastan was planning to appear.  It was maddening, in its way; she had hoped that Taravanal would relent in its demands on her time, but the barony and the baron seemed determined to get as much of the Hawkmaiden as they possibly could.

She had declined or demurred at first.  Eventually, she started to attend just to mollify the man.  Sire Cei had advised her that maintaining good relations with the new barony was essential for Sevendor and that perhaps attending a few social occasions would placate Arlastan’s eagerness for a close alliance.  She had reluctantly agreed.

She understood Arlastan’s political motives.  The tournament and ball that the young baron had arranged was an outstanding opportunity to maintain a robust relationship with the rising power.  It was an opportunity to showcase his new regime to his neighbors and having the Hawkmaiden attend would be a great addition to his social reputation.  Sire Cei recommended being as boring as possible while there if she was uninterested in Arlastan’s quiet courting.

Of course, it was difficult to pull off being boring when you arrived at the tournament not in a coach, but on the back of a giant bird with a forty-foot wingspan.

After the brutal battle of the Darkfaller raid, however, she found it entirely impossible to be boring; the Taravanali nobles had hung on every word as she had recounted the deadly fight in the skies against the dark power’s wyverns, and then the heroic rescue of Prince Tavard on the field.  And when she told the tale of the pair of giant spiders that Mycin Amana had conjured up, they were awestruck by both the horror of the foe and the bravery of the Hawkmaiden and her Sky Riders.

Worse, her tale had done nothing to diminish Arlastan’s desire for a more permanent alliance with Sevendor – preferably by marriage.  Her marriage.  The more she spoke of that terrible morning over Darkfaller, the more his pretty eyes seemed to gleam.  He’d been a most congenial host, of course, epitomizing the chivalric ideals of hospitality and generosity, and he’d danced with her thrice at the ball after the banquet – more than any other woman there, she’d noted.

That was annoying, for it had sent tongues wagging amongst the female nobility in attendance.  Dara hated being the subject of gossip.  Every woman there seemed to be whispering behind their hands about her future as Baroness of Taravanal – when she had no such ambition.  Just managing the Mewstower and overseeing the Westwood was more responsibility than she’d ever truly wanted.  And now she had two more domains, one in Castal and one in Gilmora, that she was responsible for, too.  The idea of trading those worthy duties for a life of social obligation involving ball gowns and garden parties seemed awful.

But ashes and cinders . . . why did Arlastan have to be so bloody handsome and charming?

Dara could have easily ignored the idea of a political marriage if he’d been old, stuffy and unpleasant.  But he wasn’t.  He was polite, respectful, honorable and funny, as well as an adept dancer.  Indeed, he was just the sort of knight that most girls dream of.  He’d even taken a run at the listfield during the tournament, squaring off against his older brother (and future baron of Sendaria) in an exhibition match that saw him victorious, three lances to two.  The two of them made a great show of praising each other’s puissance in gently insulting ways afterwards like good brothers do.  If there was enmity in the House of Lensely, they had taken great pains to hide it.

He was also extremely well-read, for a knight.  In a land where only a tithe of nobles were even literate Arlastan had a passion for books born, he had confided to her, by the Luinite monks who’d been grooming him for a prestigious life as a lawbrother, had fate not brought him a barony instead.

He’d quoted her long strings of verse and actually understood their meaning.  He was fascinated by history, enthralled by poetry, and had a library that would have been the envy of any normal scholar in the Bontal Vales.  When he had chanced to visit her in Sevendor over the summer he had marveled at the size and scope of the town’s many collections of books and even joked that he was considering a war of conquest against the magelands simply to claim possession of them all.

And he was kind.  Many of his chivalrous peers made a show of good behavior while people were watching.  But Arlastan was kind to animals and children when no one was around.  He did not berate the commoners in his employ, though he was a stern manager of his estates, and he was as generous with his vassals as he was with his peers.  She’d even spied upon him when he and his family had been guests at Westwood Hall, using the manor’s animals to see how he acted when he thought he was unobserved in his borrowed chamber.  He had not disappointed her by changing his manner in private.

And he was incredibly well-muscled for a lord with such a bookish reputation, Dara had to admit to herself.

The fact was, Dara was attracted to the man but repelled by his position.  Had Arlastan been another village boy or a prosperous peasant she would have considered the idea of marriage more seriously.  But Arlastan was in charge of more than a dozen domains and was seeking to rebuild the Lensely dynasty in the Bontal Vales.  He had ambitions of acquiring further lands to the west and south of his holdings.  And he wanted plenty of children to rule them, someday.  To be married to the baron would mean giving up much of what Dara had built herself, and she was loathe to do that.

Thankfully, Arlastan had other potential interests.  The pretty daughter of the Baron of Bocaraton had also been in attendance at the tournament, and she’d overheard speculation about an alliance with the lands across the Bontal River.  Two of his chief vassals also had daughters or sisters they wanted to convince Arlastan to marry.  She’d watched with a mixture of relief and jealousy as he’d paid them attention at the event.  He’d been just as charming and affable with each of them as he had been to her.

But it was the Hawkmaiden, alone, who he’d invited for a short walk through his castle garden last night.  He’d treated her respectfully, even playfully, complaining about his itchy doublet and the stress of dealing with his vassals before asking her about Lady Fallawen’s recent birthing and the health of the Spellmonger – he’d even called him the Mad Mage of Sevendor, as the rumors of Minalan’s erratic behavior had even reached Taravanal.

More importantly, he had listened. He’d inquired about the state of her bird and her mewstower, and listened intently as she complained about losing Laretha to the leadership of the Castali Mewstower near Barrowbell.  He’d listened when she griped about having to deforest an entire mountain for the Spellmonger’s plans.  He’d listened – really listened – when she had grumbled about her sisters and brothers and their antics at rustic Westwood Hall, and the pressure they were putting on her to select a husband.  Arlastan had seemed sympathetic, and even asked some pointed questions that suggested that he was indeed serious about the possibility of marrying her.

That had made things worse, she realized.  If he’d only been callous or mean or deceitful in some way she could have dismissed the idea out of hand.  But she was genuinely developing an affection for the man that made her life . . . complicated.  He’d even favored her with a kiss before she’d mounted Frightful this afternoon for her return flight to Sevendor.  The memory of it was still on her lips.

Dara was musing about her problematic heart when quite unexpectedly something ran into Frightful in the air just as they were about to cross the ridgeline into Sevendor – rather, Frightful ran into something in the air, something unyielding.

For several panic-stricken moments Dara clung furiously to her straps as her bird tried to recover from the sudden collision.  She was finally able to get her wings back under her and corrected her flight before she fell completely to the ground, but there were several terrified moments during that struggle where Dara’s own heartbeats seemed to stretch on for hours.

She quickly scanned the skies for the offending obstruction, but saw nothing – no wyverns, no dragons, no wayward giant nightwebs.  Her heart pounded in her ears as she whirled a panicked Frightful around and reoriented herself on the horizon.  Without any apparent danger, Dara soothed her bird and brought her in to land in a pasture just shy of the ridge.

“What in seven hells was that?” she demanded, as she dismounted and began checking Frightful for injuries.  The giant falcon complained of a sore wing, but it didn’t seem to be broken – Dara checked with magic to be certain.  Nor did there seem to be any foreign spell or enchantment involved . . . until she chanced to glance toward the ridge with magesight and saw the problem.

There was some sort of magical field over the place, a sphere of arcane power that completely encompassed the entire domain of Sevendor.

“Ashes and cinders,” she fumed to herself as she examined the wide swath of swirling power that hung invisibly over her home.  “He’s up to something again!”

There was no mistaking the spell.  The field of power erected over her home was clearly designed to keep things out – people and hawks included.  She recognized the sort of magic that warmagi did to shield themselves from arrows, only this spell was far more thorough, she saw, than the protective fields they employed.  Indeed, this one seemed to be able to stop the very winds from penetrating it.  It was as if someone had erected a sphere of impenetrable glass over the entire domain.

There was only one wizard capable of doing that.  Her former master, Minalan.  The Baron.  The Spellmonger.  The Mad Mage of Sevendor, as Arlastan had called him.

Dara had shared the concerns of her friends and allies when Minalan had returned from his expedition wounded and near to death.  She’d been terrified for his life and worried about Baroness Alya and the children.  But even after he’d recovered from that grievous wound, Minalan had seemed changed.  Something had happened to him in the realm of the jevolar, and it had affected his moods, his character, and his judgment.

Ruderal had quietly explained to her what had happened, an unlikely tale involving ancient monsters and even older memories of long-dead spirits.  Minalan had gone to the north in pursuit of knowledge, but he’d been wounded in the hunt for answers, wounds that were not easily healing.  Yet he’d continued his work, producing the archway that stood so near the Mewstower and using it to brilliant effect for the raid on Darkfaller and the repulsion of Merwyni troops from Remere.

He’d seemed like the old Minalan during that battle, she’d thought, perhaps a bit more calculating and efficient, but still a capable and inspiring leader during a terrible fight.  He’d supported her resistance to Prince Tavard’s demands and directed her wings to the best effect, even when the two ugliest giant spiders in the world had suddenly appeared to mess with the battle plan.

But she couldn’t deny that he’d been acting erratically in other moments.  As impressive as the new portal enchantment was, his personal mannerisms were . . . off.  The gentle humor she’d grown fond of was replaced with an unpredictable array of strong emotions and bizarre actions that disturbed all who knew him intimately.  Sudden demands for eight quarts of juniper berries, for instance, or outbursts of long strings of melodic Alka Alon verse or an unprecedented fondness for ants were signs of a deteriorating mental condition, she was suspecting.  It went beyond the eccentricity some wizards displayed, or even cultivated.  Something was amiss with the Spellmonger.

Only Tyndal seemed unconcerned, assuring her that Master Min would eventually come back to them.  They just needed to be patient.  The Spellmonger’s touch of madness would fade in time, he had insisted.

Of course, now he’d enveloped her home with a bloody giant sphere of arcane force that prevented her from returning to Sevendor and nearly got her killed in the bargain.  Her patience was wearing thin.

She tried to figure out whom she could contact about it.  She considered reaching out to Minalan directly, mind-to-mind, but she was afraid of what he might reveal to her.  If he was in the middle of some great magical working, then such a call might disturb him at a delicate time if he bothered to answer her call at all.

Instead, she tried to contact Olmeg the Green.  She had a good relationship with the wizard, and she’d grown quite fond of his new wife.  But Olmeg didn’t answer her call – indeed, the spell failed to work for the first time in her experience.  That concerned her almost as much as the sphere.

She tried again with Banamor, with similar results.  Then Ruderal.  Then Marati, the other mage at the Mewstower.  Then every other wizard she could think of, as she started to panic.  She did not achieve a successful result until she lit on Zagor.

What seems to be the problem, Dara? the Wilderlands hedgemage asked her, when he finally answered.  Perhaps something to do with the barrier that just manifested?

There’s a whopping big sphere of magical force over Sevendor, she explained, appreciating the wizard’s laconic manner.  Some magi used mind-to-mind communication to near babble, which she found annoying.  But Zagor had always been spare with his thoughts.  He rarely used the spell, anyway, preferring to speak in person.  I just ran into it, in mid-air.  It’s like an invisible wall.  Frightful is not happy about it, she added.

A few of my people just told me about it, he reported.  They couldn’t even get to the bridge.  It extends beyond Tuervakothel.

Your people? she asked, confused.  She didn’t think Zagor had any people to speak of.

I am recuperating at my country estate in Hosendor after my time at Darkfaller, he revealed.  Planus and I are partners in it, and after spending a few weeks in a dungeon I thought some rest in the countryside would do me well.  The peasants naturally came to me when they couldn’t travel through the barrier.

You . . . have peasants? she asked, amused for some reason.  Zagor was about as unassuming a wizard as she’d ever met.  He looked like a peasant more than a wizard, most days, his plain pointed hat the only indication of his profession.  The hut he called home in Boval Village looked primitive, if comfortable.  The idea that he owned an estate – and with Planus, of all people! – was hard to imagine.

I do, he assured.  They came with the estate.  An interesting story for another time.  But I was here when the barrier was erected.

Well, it’s cutting magical connections, too, because I can’t reach anyone inside mind-to-mind, she complained.

I suspected as much, the hedgewizard agreed.  It is stronger than the barriers that the Fair Folk employ.  I am curious if anything can get through it from the other side or if it is absolute. His calm demeanor was infuriating, considering the urgency of the situation, but that was just how Zagor was.

I’d say it’s absolute, Dara guessed.  I can see flocks of crows crowding the other side of it.  But I cannot feel them, she stressed.  Not the way I normally do.  I can feel the birds on this side, but not those.  It’s as if they aren’t there.

This must be Minalan’s doing, Zagor suggested.

Of course it’s Minalan’s doing! Dara fumed.  He must be screwing around with that bloody Snowflake again or doing some other mad experiment!  Zagor, what can we do? she demanded.

About the barrier?  Be patient and hope it goes away.  About Minalan?  That is a more complicated matter.  The wizard did not seem nearly as upset by the predicament as she was, which annoyed her.

Be patient? she replied, in disbelief.  Hope it goes away?  What kind of help is that?

Wisdom, Zagor replied.  Dara, when you get to be my age you learn that most problems in life will resolve themselves with or without your interference.  If Minalan is experimenting with some new magical defense, I can only hope that he has the best interests of Sevendor in mind.  He is devoted to it, he reminded her.

And if he doesn’t have Sevendor’s best interest in mind?  Or if he makes some tragic, horrible, mad mistake and crushes it like a bug, or burns it to cinders, or fills that sphere with water? she demanded.  What happens then?

Then we will have a very interesting day, he concluded.  Either way, there is probably nothing you or I can do about it.  Minalan is working.  It is inconvenient.  But it is not yet tragic.

That is of scant comfort, she said, still irritated.

It is wisdom, he countered.  It is not meant to be a comfort.  But if you are truly concerned, I can attempt to call Lilastien.  I believe she is still in the Wilderlands.  She would respond, I think.

I think that’s a marvelous idea, Dara said.  If the Spellmonger is mad, then perhaps we need a Sorceress.  Please let me know what she says.  I’m . . . I’m worried.

I know.  I will contact you in a moment. And then he was gone.

Dara spent the next several hours studying the barrier.  It was extremely powerful, she concluded, a virtual wall of glass through which nothing but light could penetrate.  It was as if her entire home had been placed in a bottle.  Why would you want to do that? she wondered.

Just as soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer.  Dragons.

Sevendor had already been attacked by the beasts once, to devastating effect.  Dara had seen the true terror and destruction the monstrous worms could unleash on a helpless population.  They could withstand armies and archers and warmagi with impunity.  They were incredibly strong, incredibly tough, and incredibly destructive when they were in a rage.  She’d seen the results of their work in Gilmora, in Vorone, in Castabriel, and right here at home.  Hundreds had perished.  It could have been thousands, had it not been for her and Minalan and the other magi being clever.

That barrier would protect against dragons.  And dragonfire.  And goblin armies, human armies, siege beasts, wyverns, and possibly even the gods themselves.  A perfect barrier like that was the perfect defense against pretty much everything.  She suddenly understood why Minalan had indulged in such an extreme bit of enchantment.  She only hoped it wasn’t permanent.

Zagor finally contacted her as the afternoon heat was starting to set in.

Lilastien has been contacted and has been dispatched, he reported.  She thinks she can persuade Minalan to end his trials.

Thank the Flame! she swore.  I was starting to think I was going to have to head back to Sashtalia for the night.

You were in Sashtalia? Zagor asked, curiously.  Why?

I, uh, was the guest of Baron Arlastan, she explained.  He had a tournament and a ball for his senior vassals.  He wants to make it a tradition for Taravanal.

And he had you as his guest? Zagor inquired in a tone that made Dara want to blush.

Yes, she replied carefully.  He finds the company of the Hawkmaiden enhances his social reputation.

So the rumors are true, Zagor stated.  There was no judgment in his mental voice, but Dara felt a spark of outrage that her personal life had reached the ears of even Zagor the Hedgemage.

What rumors? she demanded.  What have you heard?

That the baron wishes to turn a bird into a bride, he answered.  I do not spread gossip, Dara, but I cannot help if I hear it.

Ashes and cinders, Zagor, is everyone whispering about my private life?

No one’s life is truly private, Dara, the wizard insisted with a quiet intensity.  You will fool yourself by thinking so.  There is a great deal of interest in the proposal.  Your decision will affect the lives of a number of people.

He hasn’t even formally asked!  I haven’t made any bloody decision! Dara sputtered.

And in not making one, you have made one, Zagor replied.  Your inaction affects others.  Your family.  Your friends.  Even Sir Festaran, he added.

Fes? she asked, surprised.  What’s wrong with Festaran?

He has been patiently waiting to see what your response to the baron’s offer will be.  In the meantime, he has followed other pursuits.

Dara was confused.  What other pursuits?  He was in a battle a couple of days ago, but . . .

Other pursuits, Zagor repeated, more strongly this time.  I do not spread gossip.  But I will tell you that he has been tending to the barony’s easternmost estate with especial attention to duty.  The lord of the estate has an attractive daughter, he revealed.

And . . . you mean . . . Festaran is . . . she stumbled, her mind racing.

It could just be that the lord finds the company of the Assistant Castellan of Sevendor enhances his social reputation, Zagor proposed.  But he has spoken of the beauty of the domain in glowing terms.

But what about the attractive daughter? Dara insisted.  What do you know of her?

I do not spread gossip, Dara.  But she is tall, comely, and, as of yet, unpromised.  She has a reputation for scholarship, good needlework, she enjoys riding and she plays the harp well.

And Festaran is interested in this girl? And he didn’t tell me? she asked, shocked at the idea.  She had been friends with the knight since he’d taken service with Minalan.  Dear friends!  Festaran told her everything!

I do not spread gossip, Zagor said, reasonably.  But I am wise enough to realize that a young man might find his interest in one maiden more attainable than another.  You are a busy wizard, Dara, and clearly hesitant to marry.

You think Festaran wants to marry me? she asked, a little aghast at the suggestion.

There is no mistaking the esteem that he holds you in, Zagor replied.  I see how he regards you.  I am old enough to know that expression and what it means when I see it.  If you were amenable to the idea, I have no doubt he would have asked you already.  As it is, he bides his time out of respect for you and your position, he explained.

I . . . you’re telling me that Fes is just waiting around until I am old and too fat to ride any more before he’ll ask me? Dara fumed, appalled by the idea.

No, Dara, Zagor said, quietly, I am saying that Sir Festaran is waiting for you to make up your mind about the matter and commit to a course of action.  And that while he is waiting, he is being distracted by more agreeable company.

I am plenty agreeable! Dara objected, hotly.  What is so disagreeable about me?

Have you elected to spend time with the man? he asked.   Have you indicated the slightest interest in him, apart from your duties?  Or have you held him at a distance to avoid confronting the affections he clearly feels for you?  A man might consider that, before he risks paying court to a maid, he counseled.

I just rescued him from a bloody wyvern attack not a week ago! she protested.

There was a pause.  Was it a romantic wyvern attack? Zagor asked, his mental voice tinged with amusement.

Not particularly, Dara admitted.  He thanked me profusely.  But he didn’t . . . I mean, I was . . . it was a busy time, she explained, lamely.

My point is that you have failed to display enough interest to persuade him to commit, Zagor observed.  He is still interested.  He will be patient, after all he has invested.  But he saw how you managed the issue of Gareth, and that is coloring his perspective.

Gareth and I are fine, now! she insisted.  Mostly, at least.  We talked about it in Vanador.  I know he and Fes are friends, but . . .

It is not his friendship with Gareth that is the issue, Dara.  It is how you reacted to a suitor’s attempt to court you.  It was devastating enough to see the man flee the country.  That will weigh highly in any man’s estimation about his chances with a maiden.  And Festaran excels at estimation, he reminded her.  He is treading very delicately around you because he fears your furious response should you reject him.

But . . . but I haven’t rejected him, Dara countered.  I’ve always danced with him, spoken with him pleasantly, even given him a kiss or two on the cheek.

Yet you have not invited his suit, Zagor replied.  Until you do, he will not commit himself, nor should he.  But in the meantime, he has a distraction at hand.  A lovely young distraction similar in status and background to his own.  A very comfortable distraction, he emphasized.  One who, it seems, has invited Festaran to pay her court.  I would not be surprised for him to make some announcement . . . soon after you make your own, should you choose the baron.

I . . . do I want to marry Festaran? Dara asked, desperately.  Do I even want to marry the baron?

Whether you do or not will not postpone the plans of the two gentlemen, Dara.  It will only change them.  And then what?  Do you wish to spend your life alone with your birds and your animals? he challenged.  Are they sufficient to fill your life?

It was a reasonable question, of course, and Dara knew it.  She also knew the answer.

I . . . no, of course not . . . well, they are part of my equation, but . . . maybe someday, perhaps, if I can find the time to consider the matter, and can think about the ramifications, and have a chance to make a choice based on reason and love and . . . I’m babbling, she realized.

You are, Zagor agreed, again without judgment.  Ordinarily in such tales, some mysterious goddess or a talking cat or a wayward Alka Alon princess would advise the heroine to examine her heart for the answer and all would be clear.  But a humble Hedgewizard like myself is not about to stoop to such foolishness.  Instead, I encourage you to consider your future and select which one is best for you.  Your heart will misguide you.  Your wisdom should prevail.  Marriage is too important a decision to be made on a whim of the heart.

That’s . . . that’s disappointing, Dara admitted.  But also reassuring.  My heart is . . . it isn’t particularly good at clarity.

Or you have not been willing to listen to it, countered the Hedgewizard.  Perhaps that is for the best, lest you deceive yourself and find yourself in a miserable marriage.  But that does not excuse you from the obligation of a decision.  Life is fleeting, Dara, the Hedgewizard emphasized.  Youth even more so.  Patience might be virtuous, but indecision is not.

But . . . but which one should I choose? she begged.

That is not for me to say.  Discuss the matter with your reason, your heart, and your feathered friends, and figure it out.  I will not advise you which suitor to pursue, but I will urge you to make a decision, for your own sake.  And I will make one observation, he announced.

What is that? she asked, curiously, as her heart pounded, and her mind swirled with confusion.

When you spoke of the battle with the wyverns, you spoke of rescuing Festaran, not the prince that everyone assumes was the impetus for your attack.  And when you mentioned a choice between the two suitors, you said Festaran’s name.  You called Arlastan by his title alone.  That might offer some insight into your cloudy heart, he pointed out.

Oh. Oh! Dara said, as she realized the subtle importance of the wizard’s remark.  You think my heart . . . you think I want Festaran? she asked, swallowing hard.  Her throat was suddenly dry.

I think you are confused and should probably go talk to the poor young man, advised Zagor.  Civilly, this time.  Whether you are interested or not, he deserves that much for his patience.  And perhaps it will help clarify what your heart thinks . . . and what your wisdom demands.

I . . . I don’t think . . . I mean, thank you, Zagor, she said, sincerely.  This has been helpful.  And painful, she admitted.  But mostly helpful.  I suppose I do need to go talk with Fes about this.  Maybe he is as confused as I am.

Maybe he’s just as much afraid of the conclusions you come to as you are, proposed Zagor.  Good luck, Dara.

Dara heaved a heavy sigh as she ended the contact.  The old man had been right, she knew.

She’d been using her profession as a means of escaping making any sort of decision at all about her life, and other people were being affected.  There was no denying the feelings Arlastan was inspiring in her.  But then there was no denying the esteem her heart had for Festaran, either.  And she suddenly, desperately, wanted to know more about this other girl . . .

When she glanced back up at the ridgeline, she could see the arcane sphere was gone, now.  Minalan must have finished his work, she concluded, and everyone inside Sevendor could leave again.  And she could return home.  Where she would have to talk to Festaran back at Sevendor Castle.  A very uncomfortable talk.

Suddenly, she was starting to regret that the impenetrable magic sphere was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Cat With A Fish

Banamor

“It looks like the town has fully recovered since the Magic Fair,” Minalan remarked as Banamor escorted him through the town’s market.

Banamor looked around at the stalls and kiosks that filled the market square, noting that each one was filled as the fresh harvest brought a wave of goods to market.  Market wardens guarded every entrance, each armed with a magical sentry rod that could be used to defend against attack – or apprehend shoplifters.  He took a deep breath.

“You would think that,” he said, shaking his head, “but people are still fearful.  Prices are good and supply is steady, but everyone is still nervous.  Even retrieving the prisoners doesn’t change that.”

“They overcame a dragon attack,” reasoned Minalan.  “They’ll forget about this by Yule,” he predicted.

“Mayhap,” shrugged Banamor.  “A lot can happen before the end of the year.  But business is good,” he conceded.  “Too good, in some ways.  The prices here are drawing more and more estates to sell here, instead of Sendaria or other towns.  And what they can pick up in return is superior.  Look at this,” he said, stopping at a booth selling cutlery – not swords and daggers, but useful implements every farmstead needed.  “Yltedene steel, direct from Vanador’s forges.  Sharp as a biting comment, strong as a rock,” he said, as he picked up a hatchet.  “Two years ago this would have cost five ounces of silver for mere iron and taken a smith a month to finish properly.  This one sells for three, and will last thrice as long as an iron axe.”  He put the tool back and flashed the vendor a quick smile.

“Isn’t that progress?” Minalan asked.

“It is . . . unless you’re a local smith who makes axes.  They’ll go the way of Sevendor’s chandlers and plowmen, before long, I imagine,” he speculated.  “That’s the market, though.   Always changing.”

“It’s about to change a lot more,” Minalan suggested.  “We’ll be establishing a permanent portal to Vanador, shortly.  You won’t even have to stick these things into a hoxter pocket anymore.  Just drive a cartload of them through the arch and be on your way.”

“And we’ll be able to sell vegetables and grain to Vanador – and whatever enchantments they’re not making for themselves,” he agreed.  “That’s going to throw both markets into a tizzy.”

“You’re worried?” Minalan asked, surprised.

“I’m investing,” Banamor said, shaking his head.  “A market in a tizzy is ripe for profit if a man is smart and can keep his head.  But the portals will undercut the profits from the Wizard’s Mercantile.  At least between Vanador and Sevendor.  You plan on putting more portals in elsewhere?”

“Falas, Vorone, Castabriel, Remeralon, Wenshar, probably even Wilderhall, eventually,” Minalan listed, as they continued walking.  “All directly connected to Sevendor.  We’ll be the hub of a mighty trading empire.”

“Of course,” Banamor agreed.  But he didn’t sound enthusiastic about it, even to himself.  “Have you informed His Majesty and the Royal Treasury about your plans?”

“The matter did not arise at the recent Curia,” admitted Minalan with a chuckle.  “Mere commerce isn’t nearly as important as funding the kingdom’s military power.  Besides, I like surprises . . . when they aren’t happening to me.”

Banamor did have to smile at that.  He liked Minalan, not merely because their association had made them both rich and given Banamor far more power and position than he’d ever dreamed of.  He liked Minalan because while he had the titles of nobility, he did not have the noble class’s typical disdain for mere commerce.

His common origin and long struggle had taught him the value of coin and the importance of wealth, and he wasn’t shy about pursuing it when his noble-minded friends weren’t paying close attention.  He paid close attention to the real signs of prosperity, too – not just the size of his personal treasury, but the standard of living the people he was responsible for enjoyed under his rule.

“Well, expect prices to fluctuate crazily, for a time,” Banamor reminded him.  “I’ve done what I can to mandate a few basic controls here, but there is only so much I can do as marketwarden.”

“You’re controlling prices?” Minalan asked in surprise.  “That doesn’t sound like your usual approach.”

“Only on a few essential items,” Banamor insisted.  “Believe me, it’s not something I do lightly.  But . . . take bread, for example,” he said, gesturing toward the large bakery right off the market square, the one owned by Minalan’s family.  “If I let the price of bread fluctuate wildly, then it either becomes too expensive for the poor to afford or so cheap that the bakers cannot make a profit.  So, I meet with the bakers and the grain merchants at the turning of the seasons and settle on the minimum and maximum price they can charge.  If they have trouble, then the town subsidizes the price to keep it low enough for people to afford.  If grain is too cheap, the town buys it up to stabilize prices.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Minalan said, doubtfully.

“So is cleaning up after a food riot,” Banamor pointed out.  “Believe me, it’s worth it.  Not that it’s going to make much difference, soon,” he added, a troubled note in his voice.  “That’s something Sevendor is running out of.  Poor people.”

That seemed to take the baron by surprise.  “We’re running out of poor people?” he asked, confused.

“Essentially,” Banamor sighed.  “Things are prosperous here, but that prosperity has led to higher wages, more employment for coin, and more demand for housing than we can supply.  Peasants over in Gurisham can build a hovel and rent it out for more than their own settled rents.  They’re proposing building more houses on that stretch along the road.  They’re willing to give up one of the better parcels of farmland in Sevendor because they know they can make more money as landlords than farmers.”

“And you’re going to approve that?” Minalan asked, skeptically.

“We’re discussing the matter.  But we need to do something.  As it is, if you can find a place to live in Sevendor for a decent price, you have to go all the way to Brestal Vale to find it.  I built a couple of cheap flats at the edge of town, but they filled up before they were completed.  I offered them at a low price.  My tenants turned around and re-rented them for higher, until I forbade it.

“But that’s the market.  Even then we still have problems.  With the bouleuterion and the manufactories and workshops we still have a labor shortage.  But it’s not the worse problem to have,” he conceded, as the exited the market by taking the High Street.

“No, it isn’t,” agreed Minalan.  “I’m working on it.  I’ve been thinking that with the portal we could build houses somewhere out in the countryside and people could come to labor in Sevendor magically.”

“That . . . that is an interesting idea,” Banamor agreed, after he paused to think about it.  “Wouldn’t it be expensive?”

“Once the archways are constructed, it’s a matter of a few hours of spellwork to attach them to the main arch.  After that a second year apprentice can operate it.  No additional costs.”

“Then it might work,” Banamor conceded.  “As it is, there are a few enterprising High Magi who have been taking clients through the Ways to Vanador or Vorone or even Falas for a fee.  I appreciate the enterprise, but it seems a waste of good magic, to me.”

“That depends entirely on how badly you need to get to Vanador.  That’s one of the problems the portal is meant to solve.”

Banamor knew Minalan was sincere about that – he enjoyed making a profit from his cleverness, but he also genuinely wanted to make people’s lives better.  That wasn’t always the smartest course of action, in his experience, but it was nice to have in a business partner.

“And that’s going to be the source of a whole new nest of problems,” Banamor pointed out wryly, as they finally came to his shop.  “Come on up,” he said, as he opened the door.  “I have something I want to show you.  A little project I was working on while you were in exile.”

That was something else Banamor valued in Minalan: the man’s curiosity.  He didn’t ask a single question as they climbed three flights of stairs to Banamor’s spacious office.  This was where he kept his finest merchandise, special materials that the enchanters of town paid a high price for.  Minalan was one of his best customers.

“Here,” Banamor said, finding the non-descript wooden box he’d tucked away where it wouldn’t be casually noticed.  “I’ve been harvesting these up and down the Ketta for the last several months.”

“The Ketta?” Minalan asked in surprise as he tilted open the lid of the box.  “What are they?”

“Seed pods from a rare kind of lily,” Banamor explained, as he took his usual seat.  The chair was lined with comfortable cushions, and his cat immediately leapt into his lap.  “Or at least it was rare.  Now it grows in pockets all along the Ketta for miles.  It has a fancy name in Old High Perwynese, but in the trade it is known as mindwort.”

“Mindwort!” Minalan said, his eyebrows raising.  “The drug?”

“Well, it’s more of a potion when you prepare it properly – and if you don’t you get incredibly ill.  But yes, it’s a kind of psychedelic.  A magical psychedelic.  And a powerful one.”

“What does it do?” Minalan asked, curiously, as he held up one of the long black pods to the magelight.

“It makes you hypersensitive to arcane energies,” Banamor said.  “But it’s . . . messy,” he said, as he petted his cat.  “It messes you up for a few days.  And some of the effects can . . . well, they can linger,” he said, a little self-consciously.

“I have some experience with that,” Minalan nodded as he replaced the seed in the box.  “What kind of effects?”

“Well, after the first time I took it, I developed a permanent mind-to-mind link with my cat, Muddy,” he said, as he scratched the pet under his chin.  “Not mere empathy.  I can hear what he’s saying in real words.”

“Really?  You can talk with your cat?” Minalan blinked.

“It’s actually not as useful as it sounds,” Banamor dismissed.  “And he’s a bit of an asshole.  But the point is that mindwort is not to be taken lightly,” he warned.  “I’ve only sold a few pods of it to enchanters and thaumaturges I feel I can trust.  And very discretely.  And for very high prices,” he added.  “Too much of this and there’s no telling what can happen.  My friends at the bouleuterion have had some amazing results.  But one of them is now incredibly and unnaturally fascinated by pigs.  Another one produces magelights at random when he has the hiccoughs.”

“That sounds . . . unpredictable,” Minalan said, skeptically.

“It is entirely unpredictable, which is why I’m doing my best to harvest and store these instead of selling them, even at the Magic Fair.  If they were freely available, then every second-year apprentice would be trying them and seeing just how much it would enhance their powers.  And that would lead to . . . well, a lot of trouble I certainly don’t need,” Banamor assured him.  “But I thought it was important to tell you about it, being the Spellmonger and all.”

“If you’re wondering if I’m willing to dance with madness on a whim, the answer is no,” Minalan said, shutting the box decisively.  “I have my own struggles.  The last thing I need is an excuse to do something stupid.  Everyone already thinks I’m mad, now.”

“Are you?” Banamor asked, seriously.

That was the entire point of his meeting, after all.  Banamor had heard the rumors of Min’s late-night experiments, his moodiness, and his unusual behaviors since he returned from exile.  He’d known the man for years.  As such, he’d been asked by many whether or not the Baron of Sevendor was, indeed, crazy.

Nor were the anxieties of his colleagues entirely unfounded.  Minalan had changed, he could tell, and not merely the gentle maturity that begins to bloom on a man as he arrives at middle age.  He’d been through seven kinds of hell, Banamor knew.  War.  A serious illness with his wife.  Political infighting.  A family.  A personal vendetta from evil dark lords.  That sort of thing had to weigh on a wizard.

But was he still hale enough to lead the magi?  Or was he inclined to lead them into ruin?  That was the pressing question to Banamor’s mind.  And it was one that Minalan paused for an uncomfortably long time before he answered.

“I might just be,” Minalan finally said in a whisper.

“Is that a problem for you?” Banamor asked with genuine concern.

“We shall see,” Minalan sighed.  “I paid a high price for wisdom and knowledge in Anghysbel, Banamor.  I don’t know if it was worth it.  But I’m trying to make it worthwhile, at least.”

“If you’re going to fail, fail in a spectacular manner,” Banamor offered with a shrug.

“I cannot afford to fail,” Minalan said, shaking his head.

“You cannot guarantee you can succeed, either, I expect.  That’s just how life works.  The important thing,” he said, as he shifted his cat on his lap and recrossed his legs, “is to give it a valiant try and then have a really good cup of wine afterward.  Pet your cat – or dog.  Have a delicious dinner.  And then try something else in the morning.”

“Your cat gave you that advice?” Minalan asked, amused.

“He’s not that wise.  Minalan, I don’t know what you endured in the north, and if you tried to explain it to me, I probably wouldn’t understand.  But you are under a lot of pressure.  And you keep adding more to your pile.  Kings, dukes, gods, Alka Alon – Ishi’s tits, you’ve taken on the world.  If you don’t relax about it, you really will go mad.  You should try fishing,” he suggested, gesturing over at the wall, where a collection of fishing poles was leaning.  “I used to do it because it was the only way I’d eat, sometimes.  Now I do it because I have a cat.  But I also find it relaxing.  It’s a good reason for thinking, standing in a stream and sending worms to their doom.”

“I haven’t fished since I was in Farise,” Minalan admitted.

“Did you enjoy it?” Banamor prompted.

“I . . . I did,” Minalan confessed.  “I actually met a girl that way, once.  Fishing from a dock.  But it was fun, since I wasn’t depending on it for dinner.”

“Exactly,” Banamor said, slapping his thigh.  “Fishing gives a man a chance to pause.  The fish don’t care about your status, your purse or your title.  And if you don’t catch any, well, you spent a good day wading in a stream thinking about life.  It helps keep things in perspective.  Now,” he said, as he unceremoniously pushed Muddy off his lap, “I know it’s early in the day, but I’d like you to try the new menu at the Alembic while I try to sweet-talk you into a few policy changes.  Sire Cei is entirely too officious when you aren’t around,” he complained.

After a productive dinner, Banamor bid Minalan farewell and helped his slightly inebriated friend into a coach.  It was time, he knew – when the man started babbling about the stars and unimaginably large clouds and the unappreciated importance of gravity in everyone’s daily life, it was time for the Spellmonger to go home.

Still, he had to count the day a success.  He had spent it trying to determine if Min was mad, and if so, how mad was he.  He had his answer, now.

Unfortunately, it was in the affirmative.

He hadn’t really gotten worried about the rumors until a few days ago, when an apparently impenetrable invisible barrier cut Sevendor off from the rest of the world for a few anxious hours.  At first he’d dismissed it as another of Min’s experiments, and he’d been correct, as far as it went.  But as the time dragged on Banamor had begun to consider what would happen if the thing had been permanent.  As it was the river had backed up, unable to penetrate the barrier.

Banamor was no fool.  He knew such a thing was possible, after seeing the underside of the arcane world.  He had not only come to appreciate how much he did not know but was starting to understand just how much he did not know he did not know.  Min could have locked up Sevendor like it was frozen in ice.  Banamor knew that the town could not survive long, locked away from the rest of the world.  He had started to get genuinely scared before the barrier finally fell and normalcy had been restored.  The next day everything had been back to normal.  Even Minalan had acted like it wasn’t a serious thing.

But Banamor knew otherwise.  The Minalan he knew wouldn’t have attempted something like that without consulting someone, and from what he could tell the Spellmonger hadn’t mentioned a word about what he was doing up in that magical mountain.  He hadn’t even apologized for the issue, after the fact, and that was unlike him.  It was as if he was preoccupied on a level that belied indulging in such petty matters.

That was concerning to the Lord Mayor of Sevendor.  The last two years of Minalan’s exile had pushed Banamor to take a greater role in making policy for the town, and while he did not mind increasing his power and authority, the experience had demonstrated the value of having a high-profile, occasionally flamboyant leader to hide behind.  Sire Cei was an adept administrator, but he was inherently conservative and law-abiding to an unseemly degree.  The castellan had done his best to keep Sevendor stable, and he’d succeeded.  But Banamor had enjoyed high hopes that Minalan’s return would usher in a new era of growth and expansion of the town and his many enterprises.

But if Minalan was preoccupied with “greater concerns,” just how could he do that?

Banamor wondered about that question as he mounted the stairs to his office to retire for the evening.  Minalan was back . . . but his mind was not.  He was barely focused on Sevendor.  What did it matter if he was acting erratically?  If he wasn’t engaged with the future of the town, what use was he?

Muddy jumped in his lap once again the moment he returned to his seat.  Banamor liked to take a few moments at the end of the day to marshal his thoughts before sleep.  The cat butted his head against Banamor’s hand, demanding to be petted.

You didn’t bring me anything from your dinner, the cat complained.  I can smell it all over you.  Chicken?  Goose?

“Duck, actually,” Banamor answered.  “In a delicate plum sauce with brandy.  You wouldn’t have liked the sauce,” he added.

It would have been nice to tell you that after tasting it.  Who was that man who visited with you today?  He smelled funny.

“He usually does,” Banamor admitted.  “He’s the lord of the land.  My boss.  He wanted to see what I’ve been up to since he was away.”

Was he satisfied? Muddy asked, resting his front paws on Banamor’s shoulder and stretching luxuriously.

“I think so,” Banamor decided.  “I haven’t messed anything up, and I managed to keep things going while he was gone.  He’s not upset with me at all.  Yes, I think he was satisfied.”

Then what are you worried about?  You seem worried, the cat suggested.

“I am worried,” Banamor sighed.  “Minalan is back, but he’s . . . not back.  He has all of these great ideas, but he’s distracted by all of this terribly important political and cosmic crap and not staying focused on business.  He’s been hiding up in his mountain, working on new weapons, I suppose, and dividing his time between here and Vanador.  It’s just frustrating.  We built something here,” he said, resolutely, “but you can’t plant a tree and not water it.  It takes time and attention.  He’s giving Sevendor short shrift on both.”

Perhaps he is just lazy, proposed the cat, who began grooming himself.  Banamor suspected that he flaunted his ability to lick his own ass on purpose.

“Minalan isn’t lazy,” he chuckled.  “Far from it.  But I miss the days when he was more concerned with building Sevendor than fighting battles in faraway lands and arguing with dukes and kings.  Those were good days.  Busy days,” he recalled.  “I suppose I’m just feeling nostalgic.”

If you’re proud of what you’ve built, then what is the problem? Muddy pressed.  Shouldn’t you enjoy your accomplishments?

“I do!” Banamor assured the cat.  “I love what I do.  Even the problems are interesting.  The people are frustrating, but the problems are interesting.  I just don’t want Minalan to become one of the problems.  He’s too interesting already.”  He considered.  “I suppose that’s what I’m worried about.  All of this talk about Min being mad is making me worry that he’s going to be more of a problem and less of a solution in the future.  And that makes me feel guilty because it sounds ungrateful.”

Ingratitude is something I can understand, Muddy conceded.  Indeed, I excel at it.

“You don’t say!” Banamor snorted.  “Minalan did a lot for me, and made me wealthy and powerful.  I owe him for that.  And he does still have some ambitious plans that could help Sevendor prosper.  This new portal he’s proposing would be an amazing development.  If I understand it properly, it would give Sevendor all the advantages of being a port city without the necessity of an ocean and ships.  Trade from all across the kingdom would come through here.  There are a lot of possibilities in that.  A lot of profit,” he said, imagining the opportunities that sort of thing could bring.

You can only eat one fish a day, Muddy reminded him.  More than that and they start to rot.  Speaking of which, you didn’t feed me before you left.  I had to kill a mouse.  The cat sounded offended at being forced to work for his food.

“You’re supposed to kill mice!” Banamor fumed.  “That’s your job!  Your one job!”

I hunt for sport, not for food, the cat defended.  That was the bargain we made when you brought me here.  Feed me and provide me females.  I purr, give you good advice, and hunt the occasional mouse.

“And I’ve kept up with my side of the bargain,” Banamor argued.  “Don’t complain about the one thing I ask you to do.  It sounds ungrateful,” he chided.

Which I excel at, Muddy reminded him.  Are you going to feed me?  Or are you going to sit there and mope because your friend is too busy to play with you?

Banamor groaned and pushed the cat off his lap.  He reached behind a pile of parchment on his desk and found the little brass bell he’d enchanted with a hoxter pocket.  Well, that he’d had enchanted – he wasn’t particularly good with the complicated spells, and he employed the best enchanters in the world.  He rang it and uttered the mnemonic.  Instantly, a fresh dead fish appeared in the cracked earthenware dish on the floor.

Muddy immediately attacked it as if he hadn’t eaten in days.  When it came to delicate table manners, the cat preferred to savagely gulp down his food after gnawing the head off and then eviscerating his daily fish as if it would somehow escape from him.  Banamor had complained about it repeatedly, to no avail.  The cat seemed unwilling to better himself.

“Better?  Good.  Where was I?  Ah!  The portals.  That could be good.  But some of the other things he’s dabbling with?  How are they going to be a benefit?”

Well, did you anticipate all of the other things he’s done would be a benefit? the cat challenged as he crunched the head of the fish in a particularly loud and uncomfortable way.

“No,” Banamor admitted as he poured himself a nightcap.  “I thought irionite would be the most potent thing he did, and then he made snowstone.  The Magic Fair was his idea, actually.  The Mirror Array was his idea,” Banamor recalled.  “He pushed the agricultural and crafting wands when they were developed when I didn’t think they would sell all that well.    Now they’re one of the biggest parts of our revenue.  I guess I don’t always see . . . his vision.”

Understanding our own limitations is the beginning of wisdom, the cat said, matter-of-factly.  Just because you don’t see where he’s going doesn’t mean that he doesn’t.  Sometimes you just have to trust in that.

“I . . . I suppose I do,” Banamor said as he sipped the sweet liquor.  “I always considered myself a bit of a visionary.  But Minalan does it better.  He’s rarely been wrong,” he admitted.  “He knows a lot more magic than I do.  And he has better connections.  Why, he’s the one who brought Planus into the Wizard’s Mercantile, and that opened up some huge opportunities.  Even trade from Farise.  And if we need something from the king, Minalan can usually arrange it.  That’s helpful.  Min sees things in a different way than I do, I suppose.  His head sits higher, he has greater vision,” he reasoned as he finished his drink.  “I suppose I do have to simply trust in that.”

I’m full, Muddy said with a fishy belch, suddenly sitting up.  He began washing his whiskers.  I’ll finish the rest in the morning.  That was a large fish.

“Realizing our own limitations is the beginning of wisdom,” Banamor chuckled.  “I should get to bed myself, now.  I have a busy day planned for tomorrow.”

You’ve always got a busy day tomorrow, complained the cat.  You aren’t nearly lazy enough.  When are we going fishing again?

Banamor smiled.  “You want to see her again?”

I want to take a crap in tall grass, not in a box of sand, Muddy countered.  I wouldn’t mind hunting a few butterflies.  And you’re a lot more pleasant when you’re fishing, he added.

“That’s because she usually shows up,” Banamor agreed, as he stripped off his clothes.  He kept his bed in his office, like some low-paid clerk, so that he could get straight to work in the morning.  He enjoyed sleeping in a reasonably comfortable bed, but if it was too inviting he would be tempted to sleep late.  “It’s been a few months.  I could be persuaded to – oh!  What in the three hells is this?” he demanded, as he spied something on his pillow.

I said I killed a mouse, Muddy reminded him.  I didn’t say I ate it.

“So you left it on my godsdamned pillow?” Banamor asked in disbelief.

I was sharing it with you.  It’s a gift out of my eternal gratitude, Muddy assured him.  I’m trying to better myself.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A Message To The Spellmonger

Nattia

Sky Captain Nattia banked her falcon over the prominent stone face of the Anvil, the slanted mountain that protected Vanador, and made a slow, lazy circle over the entire city before she started her descent.

The tawny fields of late wheat and barley that had carpeted the land in a patchwork just two weeks ago when she’d left the City of Wizards had been cut neatly to stubble, and the abundant herds of cows and sheep were enjoying the last of the summer’s grazing.  The forests and woods nearby had already started to turn from a rich green to a brilliant sea of red, orange and yellow as she soared over the outskirts of town in the morning sun.

She’d been in the air for hours, now, but felt compelled by both duty and her nature to scan the ground from the air before she landed.  You never knew what might have happened in the space of a fortnight in Vanador.  Thankfully, there was no sign of invasion or fighting below.  Indeed, the Anvil seemed entirely peaceful, even productive.  The long slope of the back of the great hill was starting to show signs of development, she noted, as a narrow new road wound its way up the center of the rise from the east.

That was fairly new, though the surveyors had begun the project before she’d left for Anghysbel.  A few modest huts had already sprung up at its terminus, near the top of the rock, as construction crews prepared the ground for the exposed portion of the city that was planned there.  Someday, Gareth had warned her, the entire crest would be built into a magnificent city.  Carmella had books full of plans of the buildings she was preparing to construct there, and now that the wars against the foes from the Penumbra were won, the master builder was wasting no time in launching the second stage of construction.

Nattia was constantly impressed at how quickly the magi moved when they had a purpose.  They could be as industrious as the Kasari, sometimes.  With magic and determination, they had carved an entire city out of the wilderness in just a few short years.  The lands around the Anvil had blossomed with smaller villages, estates and manors as workshops, foundries and smithies belched dark smoke out of the northern side of the slanted mountain.

Just for fun, she guided her bird, Friendly, under the Overhang and above the tiled rooftops of the town before she decided to land.  That was when she spotted it, there in the midst of the great circle in the center of the city: a massive new archway that had decidedly not been there before she left.

Nattia enjoyed her post and her command of the Vanador Mews.  Working for wizards certainly had its benefits.  Indeed, without magic she would be, at best, a journeyman falconer for some Wilderlord somewhere, she speculated.  The spells that had enlarged and improved the falcons she so loved had given her purpose, a duty, and an opportunity for service she never could have dreamed of.

Yet working for wizards had drawbacks, too . . . such as the sudden appearance of prominent monuments, seemingly overnight.  She regarded the new feature of Vanador’s skyline suspiciously as she wheeled Friendly back around.  It stretched across one end of the great cobbled circle that was Vanador’s largest market, where there hadn’t been as much as a scaffold there before.

Shaking her head with wonder and resignation she brought the giant bird down in an unoccupied edge of the same square – a term the local Vanadori persisted in using to describe the place despite the fact that it was round.  She hadn’t exactly planned on ending her journey like that, but that arch concerned her enough to investigate it before she completed her charge.

Securing the bird was easy; she put a blind on it that severely restricted its view, and fastened the rope-like jesses to a nearby hitching post meant for horses.  With a few encouraging words and a fist-sized treat from her pouch she left it there while she went to gawk at the new archway.  No one with any sense would bother a giant hawk, she reasoned, even in the middle of town.  It might have been named Friendly, but that didn’t describe its nature.

“Is it a memorial for the dead?” she asked a fellow Kasari who was also staring at the thing.  “Something to commemorate those we lost in the war?”

Her fellow seemed surprised.  “That?  Nay, Captain, it is a gateway, of sorts.  Those wizards put it up.  The Spellmonger enchanted it this morning,” he reported.

“A gateway?” she asked in surprised.  It did not seem to lead anywhere.  “And Count Minalan was here?  I thought he was in Sevendor for the season?” she asked, confused.  Minalan and Alya were in the process of moving their household back to the City of Magic for the season when she left.  For a brief moment, she felt a thrill of anxiety – what had Minalan done to get his exile rescinded so quickly?

“He came back this morning . . . through that,” the Kasari man said, shaking his head in wonder.  “Along with a great many Narasi.  Entire wains full of goods from his land, I saw.  Onoir escawtia!” he promised in the Kasari language.

“There’s a . . . a gate to Sevendor in Vanador now?” she asked, skeptically.  Then she spied someone who she knew would be able to give her the story, someone she hadn’t expected to see prowling the markets of Vanador: Lord Mayor Banamor of Sevendor, who was walking with his assistant whose name she could never remember.

“Banamor!” she called and waved, until she got his attention.

The former footwizard seemed pleased to see her, as he recognized who’d called his name.  He strolled over two where she was standing and followed her gaze to the arch.

“Did you just return, my lady?” he asked, politely.  “Minalan said you were off visiting Gareth.”

“I was, and now I’m back . . . only to see this for the first time!” she said, gesturing to the graceful but imposing arch.  “What in five hells is this?”

“Minalan’s latest attempt to avoid taxation and show off his enchanting abilities,” Banamor snorted.  “A ‘stable dimensionally congruent portal’, he calls it.  The Karshak built the arch, and then he enchanted it to match the one he has at Sevendor.  When its active, you can step through from one side to the other as easily as crossing a room.  Much less disconcerting than using the Alka Alon Ways.”

“That’s . . . that’s remarkable,” Nattia said, shaking her head.  “You just walk through?  Anyone can?  Or only magi?”

“Oh, it will be open to anyone,” assured the assistant.  “Thrice a day, actually, for an hour at a time.  And it really is remarkable,” the man said, with open admiration.  “We just came to Vanador . . . for luncheon,” he admitted.  “That’s all.  No important meetings, no trading, no better reason than Banamor fancies a Wilderlands ham for lunch.”

“They really do a good ham, here,” he agreed.  “I think it’s the wood you smoke it with.  In any case, we were already at the opening festivities for the arch and I figured we could make a day of it.  The portal will be open again at twilight, so we can do a little shopping and be in our own beds before nightfall.  So how is my boy Gareth making out, in the deep wilderness?  And without magic?” he prompted.  His assistant winced a little at the mention of his predecessor’s name, Nattia noted.

Gareth had been Banamor’s assistant for years, working for both the former footwizard and the Spellmonger as they’d developed Sevendor.  Gareth’s retreat from the town had wounded Banamor’s businesses, Nattia knew, as Gareth’s knack with organization and his insights into magic had made him an ideal assistant.  The man was still quite fond of her friend, she knew.  He never failed to speak of him with great affection.

“He is well,” she informed him with a smile.  “He labors on the preparations for evacuating the entire vale, and he’s learning much from the Cave of the Ancients there.”

“Did it take you long to get there?” the young man asked, curiously.  “I heard it was passing dangerous.”

“It is, but my hawk is known for her endurance and strength,” she said, proudly.  “It only takes me three days, if I stop for a proper rest.  We have to fly very high, though, to avoid the fumes from the wastes this time of year and we cannot stop on that leg of the journey.  It is very tiring.”

“Seems like a lot just to deliver the mail,” Banamor considered with a frown.

“It is an important duty,” she assured him.  “There must be a lot of coordination if we are to remove everyone in good order.  And Minalan wanted me to check to see if Fondaras the Wise arrived in good health, and he had some instruction for Gareth.  Gareth, likewise, needs to request specifics to help in his task.  Indeed, I bear a letter from him to Count Minalan, along with a few small gifts.  He sent for me at the Mewstower but didn’t mention where to meet him.  Is he still in Vanador?”

“You’re in luck,” the assistant said.  “He told us he wanted to pick up a few things from his house while he’s here.  I suspect he’s still there.  Then again, he is the Spellmonger.  He comes and goes with no warning.”

“Of that you are correct,” nodded Banamor with a sigh.  “Particularly these days.  Yes, Nattia, he’s probably still there.  That will save you a trip to Sevendor.”

She glanced up at the arch.  “That doesn’t seem as great of a chore as it was,” she pointed out.  “Thank you, gentlemen!”

Spellmonger’s Hall, Minalan’s residence in Vanador Town, was only a few blocks away from the center of town, and it didn’t take her long to walk there.  The stately hall was quiet, almost abandoned when she approached and banged on the door.  She was surprised to see Ruderal open it.

“Nattia!” the Spellmonger’s apprentice exclaimed, his eyes wide.  “You’re back!”

“I am, and so are you, it seems,” she pointed out.  Ruderal grinned.  She’d always had a good relationship with the lad, whom she found uncommonly trustworthy.  His great respect for her people did not hurt.  “What has happened while I’ve been gone?”

“Oh, Minalan drove the Merwyni away from Remere, put an impenetrable bubble around Sevendor, was challenged to conquer Farise by the king, and built an interdimensional portal between Sevendor and Vanador for public use,” he answered as he showed her in.  “It’s been a little boring, actually.”

“I saw the arch in town,” she agreed as he led her up the stairs.  “That’s pretty interesting.  I take it that it is hard to do?”

“I don’t know – it’s never been done before,” he shrugged.  “Even by the Alka Alon.  I checked.”

“So how is he . . . how is he faring?” she asked, quietly, as they mounted the stairs.

“Still half-crazed,” Ruderal sighed.  “Today is a good day.  The Poet is the one visiting.  It could be worse.  Except for the speeches – when he opened the portal this morning, he did it half in verse.  It was so boring!” he said, shaking his head sadly.  “Some of the other ones are just horrid.  But he’ll be glad to see you, I think.”

They found Minalan in a small chamber on the upper story where he was gathering parchments and books together from the long line of shelves that every wizard seemed to have in their quarters.  He was surprised to see her, but as Ruderal had predicted he seemed genuinely pleased.

“I have a report for you from Gareth, Excellency,” she said, after coming to attention and throwing him a salute.  She dug into her satchel and produced the three leaves of parchment, sealed with wax, that her friend had prepared.

“Is he well?” Minalan asked, eagerly.  “Did Fondaras make it through the wastes?”

“Yes, to both questions, my lord,” agreed Nattia.  “All seems well in Anghysbel.  I spent a week there with . . . with the evacuation effort before I returned,” she said, trying not to reveal what else she was doing there.  That was none of the Spellmonger’s business.  “My lord Gareth will explain in detail in his message, but I saw nothing that should be troubling to you.  All preparations seem to be proceeding admirably.”

“That’s encouraging to hear,” the wizard murmured as he broke the seal and sat down to read it.  Silently Nattia removed the small wooden box Gareth had given to her to pass along to Minalan with the message.  Then she stood quietly and attentively by while the man read.

Eventually he sighed, and pushed away the note with a smile.  “It seems you were correct: Gareth has everything in hand.  That’s good news.  Fondaras returned the dragon eggs to Avius, which is also a relief.  And the dwarves got the parts he requested for their contraptions from the foundry.  All good news, and a credit to Gareth’s ability to organize.  In truth, I could not spare the time to help if he didn’t.  There is much transpiring, at the moment.  Is this the gift he mentioned?”

“Oh, yes, and he was quite excited to send it to you,” she agreed as he opened the box.  The wizard stared at it for a few moments, the closed the box with a sigh.

“You know what it is?” he asked her.

“A Level Three Constructed Intelligence,” she recited, repeating the words in Old High Perwynese carefully.  “Like Forseti, only newly forged.  Programmed,” she amended.  “Gareth has one of his own, now.  He says it’s incredibly helpful to his work, like having an all-knowing servant he can ask just about anything.”

“They aren’t quite that powerful,” murmured Minalan, as he regarded the box.  “But close.  They can be incredibly insightful and are filled with ancient lore.  I’m impressed that Gareth managed to bring one to life.”

“Forseti has led him through the process so that he can do it nearly on his own, with the proper equipment,” she said, proudly.  “He is preparing one for Lilastien, as well.”

“She will be thrilled to hear that,” he agreed.

“Are you not going to . . . to use it?” she asked, as he pushed the box away.

“Not today,” Minalan revealed.  “As useful as it is, I am . . . unprepared to make use of it, just yet.  From what I recall the initialization process is rather involved.  I would prefer to wait until my memory can assist with that process before I start stumbling around, trying to make it work.”

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” she assured.  “I helped him do a few, and he explained much of the art to me.  You will be able to give it a name, a name that it will respond to,” she explained to him.  “After a few hours it will converse with you as if it was an old friend.”

“Don’t be tempted to mistake them as such,” Minalan warned.  “Once they ran the entire colony, when we first came here.  But their use is fraught with dangers, else our ancestors would not have abandoned them as they did.  Useful tools, but so is fire . . . until it burns down your house.”

“I trust the wisdom of the Spellmonger to use such a gift with caution,” she said, diplomatically.  That produced a snort from the wizard.

“You might be the only one, then.  The rumor is that I’m quite mad, now.  Quite well-founded, too.  Do you have time to wait for me to craft a reply to Gareth?  I know you’ve been in the air for a long time, but while this is still fresh in my mind . . . and I’m sane enough to respond . . .”

“I had but two other messages to deliver, from the Lord and Lady of Anferny, respectively.  I gave the lady’s letter to Tyndal at his keep on my way here.  He was quite pleased to hear from Lady Tandine.  I must discover where Lady Ithalia is lodging, however, before my charge is done.”

“You are in luck, then,” Minalan informed her.  “She has lately been in Henga, consulting with her grandmother.  Rudy and I are headed there shortly so that I can deliver a very large spider to her for study.  It’s dead,” he hurriedly explained, “but she needs to examine the specimen in order to discover its weaknesses.  It’s very few weaknesses.”

“Then I will trust you will deliver it, then,” she said, taking the final letter out of her pouch.  It was significantly thicker than the ones she’d borne for Minalan and Tyndal.  Lord Kanset had written page after page of verse to his lady love, she knew, as he’d insisted on reading a few poems to Nattia to ask for her judgement.  She did not know much of poetry, but if Lady Ithalia had any shred of heart of all in her breast Nattia was confident that it would be greatly moved by his sweet words.  “Do not read it, I beg of you, lest you embarrass the lady.  My lord Kanset is quite enamored of her . . . and his own verse.”

“Well, that’s a vice that more than one learned man suffers from, myself included!” Minalan admitted, sheepishly.  “But now I am curious as to the lad’s command of the language.  Still, it would be improper to read a private message just to sate my curiosity.  A pity,” he sighed, as he took the thick envelope.  “I will see it delivered to her hand, I promise.  That way you can return to your Mewstower and get a little sleep.  You don’t look like you’ve slept much, Nattia,” he said with concern as he suddenly studied her face.

“I . . . I have a few moments to wait for a reply, my lord,” she assured.  “I will be undertaking another trip to Anghysbel in a few weeks.”

Despite herself, she blushed.  Of course Minalan was speaking of the three-day journey by air required to get back and forth to the realm of the jevolar.  But she and Gareth had spent considerable time together during her brief stay.  Sometimes late into the night, watching the flickering screens in the Cave of the Ancients, exploring the ancient music and entertainments that Forseti could recall.  There had been kissing . . .

“Which reminds me,” Minalan snapped at once, as he took a blank sheet of parchment from his desk and picked up a pen.  “How are Gareth’s preparations for the Kasari marriage trials?”

Her blush turned into a full-fledged flush.  “He . . . he works diligently at it, my lord.  My brother has taken it upon himself to give him thorough instruction on the rites.  He wakes Gareth before dawn for calisthenics, and instructs him in a few of the challenges he will face every day.  He seems to prosper with the work, though he complains of it.  He was learning archery when I left,” she reported, recalling fondly the sight of the formerly scrawny mage taking aim at the butts with a bow.

In truth, her brother Travid was not terribly impressed with Gareth’s abilities, but he did grudgingly concede that the man was committed.  Without magic, Gareth would ordinarily be left without much advantage in life.  He was not overly tall, nor brawny, nor particularly strong; only his keen mind and impressive amount of rajira had managed to rescue him from a life of ignominy.

But a few months living without magic in the rough and tumble land of Anghysbel had transformed Gareth; she’d barely recognized him when she’d returned.  He’d put on several pounds, all of it muscle, and he carried himself a lot more confidently now.  With Travid’s criticisms in mind he had applied himself to learning the rituals and the challenges he would face in the rites, everything from starting a fire without a flint to weaving baskets to tanning leather.  The Kasari valued competence among all other qualities.  Their entire childhoods were built around the idea that the ideal Kasari man could thrive in any environment in any land.  Gareth had a lot of catching up to do.

Thankfully, Travid was starting to like Gareth, or at least tolerate the mage.  Her brother would be critical about any man she might fancy, she knew, but he was particularly suspicious of magi.  That was ironic, considering he had a healthy measure of rajira himself.  Gareth had promised to tutor him in the arcane arts, once they returned from the jevolar, in return for his help with the Kasari rites.  Without her around they were even developing a bit of a friendship, which she found odd but gratifying.

But he was still very suspicious, especially when Nattia and Gareth stayed up late into the night together.

She had not transgressed with the wizard, yet, at least not in ways that would draw disapproval from her people.  Yet she felt a very deep affection for the man, and had expressed that fondness as completely as she could have without violating her people’s rules on the matter.  Gareth was fun, she had found, a man of keen wit and deep feeling who seemed as enamored of her as she had become of him.

Still, it was embarrassing to even discuss the matter.  Her private life was private, yet so many people had expressed an interest in her plans as to make her uncomfortable.

“Good, good,” Minalan murmured, as he opened his inkwell.  “I wish him luck; if Pentandra could manage the rites, I have every confidence that he can.  Now, why don’t you go find Ruderal and have him prepare you some food from the kitchen.  It won’t take long for me to write this, but it should be long enough for you to have a bit of supper.  You look like you could eat,” he commented, before he turned his attention to his letter.

Nattia was glad to escape the room and the Spellmonger’s uncomfortable scrutiny, and she quickly found Ruderal lingering in the kitchen in the basement of the hall.  The apprentice wizard was practicing some kind of arcane spells, but he quickly put them away when she entered the well-appointed kitchen.

“Your master suggests that you can provide a meal, or at least a quick snack for me while I await his response to Gareth’s letter,” she announced, as the lad took to his feet.

“Of course,” Ruderal shrugged.  “They shut this place down pretty thoroughly, when Minalan moved back to Sevendor, but there are still a few stores available. And a good wizard always has a meal or two tucked away,” he confided, as he began to prepare some food.  “How was he, today?”

“He seemed fine,” Nattia stressed.  “Curious, but not mad.  Why?”

“He’s very unpredictable, these days,” Ruderal assured her as he quickly conjured a loaf of bread out of thin air.  The smell of baking quickly filled the spacious kitchen.  “You never know when he’s going to be complaining about the lack of juniper berry liqueur and when he’s going to shake you awake to tell you you’re going on some mad adventure.  It’s been very interesting, of late.”

“You don’t sound like you’re complaining,” she observed, taking a seat on a stool while the young wizard worked.

“Would it do me any good if I did?” Ruderal asked.  “Not really.  My job is to keep him from tumbling over into the abyss of madness.  Not to weep about how hard my lot in life is.  Really, it’s not a problem,” he assured, as he found a quarter wheel of cheese in the larder.  “Do you want ham?  There’s a freshly smoked ham in here.  It looks good,” he added.

“Certainly, whatever you suggest,” she agreed.  “I’m not picky.  So, he’s having difficulties?”

“He’s not, so much, but he’s inflicting plenty of them on everyone else,” Ruderal reported as he began unwrapping the linen coverings from the ham.  “All of Sevendor is on edge, these days.  His mates keep asking me to inform them when his mind goes completely into the chamber pot.  So that they can . . . contend with him before anyone gets hurt.  That puts me into a difficult position,” he said, gesturing with the kitchen knife.  “Really, I’d prefer to avoid the entire subject.  Just because I can see what a man feels about himself doesn’t make me an adept judge of character,” he warned as he sliced.

“You seem to be doing all right,” she observed.  “You look like you’ve grown three inches since the beginning of summer.”

“I don’t miss many meals, that is true,” Ruderal opined.  “And I’ve heard of worse masters.  But I do prefer a predictable life.  Excitement and adventure are all right in moderation, but every day?  It wears on a man,” he confided.  “Relish?” he asked, looking up as he passed her a slice of ham.

“Please,” she agreed.  “I heard you were at the battle of Darkfaller,” she added, giving the lad an opportunity to brag.  Her experience with Gareth had shown her the value of inviting a man to brag about his accomplishments.  They seemed to crave it.

“I barely fought,” he dismissed, which surprised Nattia.  “I’m not so great against spiders.  Still, that was an interesting day,” he conceded.  “We got the kidnapped magi out of the dungeons, that was the important part.  Another week and half of them would have been draugen.  I hate draugen,” he added.

“I don’t know anyone who likes them,” she agreed, as she began spooning the relish from the earthenware jar onto her ham and bread.  “But that was bravely done.  All the Sky Riders are talking about it, I hear.”

“It was a hot time,” he admitted.  “I’m no warmage, that’s for certain.  But everyone needed to pitch in, for that.  They took Olmeg – Olmeg!  Can you imagine?  Big, gentle Olmeg the Green, transformed into some undead horror.  Disgusting,” he pronounced, critically.  “I can’t wait until the last Nemovort is a horrid memory.  Korbal, most of all.”

“You really hate the undead, don’t you?” Nattia asked as Ruderal poured her a cup of ale.

“I really do,” Ruderal assured as he set the cup down on the table.  “They are an abomination against life.  They have no purpose but to kill and scheme.  The stupid ones are just awful, and the smart ones are horrific.  You know they drink blood now, the Nemovorti?  Human blood?”

“I’ve heard,” Nattia said, the idea affecting her a bit.  She wasn’t quite as hungry anymore.  She sipped the ale.

Ruderal paused, looked at her and grinned.  “Well, here’s something that you might not have heard: Azar proposed marriage in the middle of the Royal Court.  To Noutha,” he added.

That revelation took Nattia by such surprise that she nearly choked on her ale.  It took her a moment to marshal her resources.  “Really?  Noutha?  The warmage?”

“The very one,” Ruderal assured.  “I think everyone was surprised, especially Noutha.  I served under her during the raid,” he added proudly.  “She’s an excellent commander.  But apparently, he was so taken by her when we showed up and waded in against the giant spider that he felt compelled to make her his bride.  He’s smitten,” the apprentice reported with a grin.

“Ishi’s . . . he’s almost twice her age, I think!  How did she take it?” Nattia asked, cutting off the oath before she could complete it.  It wasn’t seemly for a Kasari to be so irreverent about a Narasi goddess.

“She accepted, which surprised everyone as much as Azar’s proposal,” Ruderal explained.  “Rondal asked me afterward if she was in earnest or just too embarrassed to say no.  Because of my Talent,” he reminded her, casually.  “I don’t usually like doing that sort of thing, but it’s not like I can help it.  She’s . . . cautiously optimistic.  And flattered.  She really does admire Azar as a warrior and a lord of men.  She’s not unattracted to him at all,” Ruderal added as if that might be unusual.

“You can tell when someone is . . . in love?” Nattia asked, surprised.  She had no idea that Ruderal’s unique powers extended in that direction.  It made her uncomfortable, for some reason.

“Oh, certainly, that’s pretty easy.  But it’s also a bit rare,” he admitted.  “True love, I mean, not mere infatuation or lust or flirtation.  Azar has infatuation, and a tinge of love developing.  Noutha is reluctant but Azar’s interest invited her own.  It could end up with love,” he conceded.  “Good marriages have been made on shakier foundations.”

“You seem to be an expert,” Nattia observed, as she continued eating.  “You can really tell that sort of thing?”

“When you see what people think about themselves all the time, you pick up on things like that.  You, for instance: you’ve got some love in you.  The real kind.  Here, think of Gareth . . .” he said, staring at her deliberately.  Nattia didn’t mean to but an image of Gareth sprang into mind at once at Ruderal’s mention of him.  “Hmm.  Yes, you’ve got a good strain of love in there.  A lot of admiration, affection, a bit of an infatuation, although it’s fading a bit.  Excitement,” he listed off, “Pride – you have pride by the buckets.  Loyalty, too.  Respect.  A growing amount of lust.  And a great deal of attraction, and not because Gareth spends a lot of time at the forge.  Yes, you love him,” he pronounced.

“And . . . can you tell if he feels the same about me?” she asked, unsure if she really wanted a truthful answer.

“Not when he’s not here, and not thinking about you.  I need to see his . .. well, it’s not his arcane shroud, exactly, but the enneagrams I see weave through it.  Anyway, when he has thought about you in the past he had a lot of loyalty, a lot of excitement, a lot of pride, and a lot of respect.  And some love,” Ruderal added quickly.  “Yes, the boy loves you, or did when I saw him last.  But he also lusts for you, craves your attention and affection, and is still infatuated with you.  I don’t think he’s really convinced himself that you like him, exactly, because he can’t figure out why you might.”

Nattia blinked and straightened her shoulders.  “Well, I shall endeavor to give him plenty of reasons.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Ruderal dismissed.  “You two are so loyal to each other and so respectful of each other that it would take quite a lot to distract either of you from each other.  I’d say your future marriage is safe.”

“That’s . . . incredibly useful to know,” Nattia sighed.  “I mean, I guessed most of those things, but . . .”

“People get fooled all the time, I know,” Ruderal assured her.  “Mostly by themselves.  But also by other people.  If you don’t have my powers, it can be difficult to tell, and even then you usually don’t want to think you’re being deceived.  And things do change, over time.  Especially when something like self-loathing begins to creep in, or guilt.  Shame is a tough one,” he said, rubbing his bare chin.  “Shame can make you do all sorts of destructive things.  Murder, even.”

“It must be hard to see all that about other people,” Nattia said, shaking her head.  She had new respect for Ruderal and his position.  Then she realized that he likely just saw her respect for him growing, and she didn’t know how to feel about that.

“You have to get used to it.  And you have to learn to keep your mouth shut, most of the time, and accept what people say and do, not what they think about themselves and others.  Even when you’re sorely tempted,” he sighed.

“So what does Minalan’s enneagram look like, these days?” she asked.  She almost regretted it.  A pained expression crossed Ruderal’s face.

“An overfull chamber pot,” he decided.  “And it’s only getting worse.  This is the portion of our conversation where I keep my mouth shut.  Believe me, if you all knew just how much danger we are all in now that he’s been . . . afflicted like this, you’d run to the nearest port city, hop on a ship, and sail as far away as possible.  More ham?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Dwarf In Clinic

Lilastien

“You wanted to see me, Lilastien?” the hesitant voice of Carmella asked from the door of her office. It was late, and most of the staff of Henga General Hospital was gone for the day already, but that was part of the reason that Lilastien had summoned the warmage at this hour.

“Yes, yes, Carmella, thank you for coming,” Lilastien said, rising from her seat.  “Have a seat.  I have a proposal for you.”

The woman was nervous, of course; considering why she was there Lilastien could appreciate that.  She waited until Carmella had settled into one of the two uncomfortable chairs in front of her desk before she sat back down.  “Wine?” she asked, conjuring a pitcher and two glasses from one of her hoxters.  It was built into a pin she wore on her white coat.  “You might need it,” she added, as she poured.

“So why did you . . . ?” Carmella asked, hesitantly, as Lilastien handed her a cup.

“It concerns your request,” Lilastien explained, as she sipped her own.  She had waited until the end of the day to drink the strong stuff, as per medical tradition, but after today she needed a drink.  Minalan inspired that in her, these days.  “I think I’ve made enough progress to make an attempt . . . thanks to Minalan,” she added.

“Minalan?  He’s here?” Carmella asked, startled.

“He left a few hours ago, but he did drop by today,” Lilastien explained.  “But he gave me this,” she said, hefting a beautiful gold pendant that hung on a gold chain around her neck.  “It’s a powerful enchantment known as the Acennan – an old Alka Alon word,” she added, amused at Minalan’s choice.  “A ‘life forge.’  Something that makes transgenic enchantment far easier.”

“Really?” Carmella asked with a grin.  “You said it would take months . . .”

“And now it doesn’t,” she shrugged.  “I’ve experimented with it for a few days.  I think I have the hang of it, now.  It really does improve matters, especially if I’m feeling particularly creative.  But it allows me unprecedented control over genetic expression, now, which is really amazing.  So . . . I wanted to try it on you,” she said, trying not to sound too eager.

“You want to try a powerful new enchantment – one Minalan created – on me?” Carmella asked skeptically.

“It’s safe,” Lilastien assured her.  “I said I’ve been experimenting.  Nothing has died yet,” she added, with a grin.  “I’ll remind you I’ve been doing this for five hundred years, now, the hard way.  I can reverse the process quite easily, with no detrimental effects.  The Acennan just makes things easier,” she promised.

Carmella finished her winecup in one long pull, then set the cup down resolutely.  “All right,” the wizard sighed.  “I’ll do it.  If you think it will work.”

“I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t,” Lilastien said as she stood to go close the door.  “Go ahead and take off your clothes.  It will be easier that way.”

When she returned to her desk Carmella was almost nude.  She was not particularly attractive to the human eye – her proportions were off, compared to the more comely of her species, and she was far from shapely.  But that could be remedied, Lilastien knew.  Indeed, that was why she was here.  When the wizard nodded that she was ready after she’d neatly folded her gown and her undergarments on the other chair, Lilastien picked up her precious new tool in the palm of her hand and began to work.

“This should only cause you a few moment’s disorientation, not true discomfort,” she advised as she prepared the spell.  “If you do feel any pain at all, notify me at once.  But this shouldn’t . . . be difficult . . . at all.”  Lilastien felt a bit of a thrill as the prepared sorceries in the necklace began to act on the woman.  She spoke the mnemonic under her breath and willed the action, and it took hold almost instantly.

In front of her eyes, Carmella was transformed.  She was still naked, and still female, but now she was in the body of a Malkas Alon.

Carmella’s suddenly larger eyes bulged, and they were several inches lower than they had been a moment ago.  Her hair had changed completely, and she quickly felt it.

“Did it . . . did it work?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Of course it worked,” clucked Lilastien.  “I know my business.  You are now biologically a Malkas Alon woman.  A fully functional Malkas Alon woman.  You retain the same memories, the same skills, the same knowledge, but your body is completely transformed, now.”

“I . . . I feel a lot different,” Carmella agreed, as she looked at her new hands.  “I had no idea . . . I can feel things still and see them, but they’re . . . different.”

“That’s how the Malkas Alon feel,” Lilastien nodded.  “You still have your rajira, too, which all Malkas Alon have, but you have it in far greater measure.  That’s part of your original genetic expression,” she explained.  “You should be able to do all of the spells as a Malkas as you could as a humani.  But it will still take a little getting used to.”

“I . . . oh, my, I think . . . I think I like this!” Carmella giggled, as she looked down at her new body.  “I feel strong!”

“I thought you might,” Lilastien smiled.  “And you are stronger, by more than half.  Your weight has almost doubled, but your bones are stronger, and your endurance is greatly increased.  You’ll have some sensitivity to light that is implicit to all the dwarvish clans, but the Malkas don’t suffer as much with that.  Your taste buds have changed – you’ll prefer entirely different flavors, now, particularly bitter and sour.  Your new center of gravity is going to be confusing for a while, too, so you might feel clumsy for a few weeks until you get used to it.  And your feet will feel much larger than they were for a while.”

“I can get used to it!” Carmella assured her.  “I have a beard!” she said, feeling her face.  The small fringe of downy hair that most Malkas maidens had was there in dainty abundance.  Some Malkas women elected to shave it, if it was patchy or otherwise unflattering, she knew, but many spent hours in front of a looking glass grooming the delicate fringe on their jawline.  Some even dyed or styled it, for special occasions.

“That’s part of the boon.  Now, let’s go for the bonus.  Transforming you into a Malkas was easy.  But I came up with a refinement to the spell, thanks to the Acennan.  Something that it would have taken me weeks or years to master.  Here . . .” she said, holding up her Acennan once again and casting a second spell.

Once again Carmella transformed.  It was far more subtle, this time, but minor elements of the wizard’s strange new body altered as the spell affected them.  The brown ringlets on her head became more luxurious and springy.  Her fringe became even more delicate.  Her nose broadened and changed, and her hands became slightly more slender.  Her overall frame shifted almost imperceptibly, too, but Lilastien could see the change at once.

“I . . . I don’t feel much different,” Carmella confessed, worriedly, when she finished.

“Don’t worry, you shouldn’t,” Lilastien said, pleased.  “Most of the changes were external.  I optimized the sexual preference characteristics of the spell.  That should maximize the sexual attraction characteristics of the presentation.”

“You . . . what?” Carmella asked, confused.  She was not an ignorant woman, for a humani – far from it.  But her specialty was warmagic and construction, not the more rarified elements of Imperial enchantment.

“I made you the prettiest Malkas Alon maiden I could,” Lilastien explained.  “You now appeal to the physically attractive elements of their aesthetic.  Oh, a humani eye probably wouldn’t notice the difference, just like a Karshak or a Malkas have a hard time judging female beauty in humans or Alka Alon.  We all look the same to them, usually.  But every species has an entire suite of secondary sexual characteristics that are useful in attracting a quality mate . . . as well as provide certain social benefits.”

“Why did you make me pretty?” Carmella asked, suspiciously.

“Why wouldn’t I?” countered Lilastien.  “When my people took these humani forms, we didn’t stick with a simple transfer; if you’re going to be mucking around with your physiology, why not make it superlative?  Hells, I had to tone mine down, after college,” she admitted, gesturing to the body she now wore.  “I was too distracting in the Tera Alon form in medical school.  I got bangs, too – I look horrible in bangs.

“But I also had to reduce the pheromonal output,” she continued.  “That was tricky.  The Valley People we based the original spell on have a far more powerful pheromonal range than normal humans.  It’s part of their mating cycle,” she explained.  “If we don’t reduce it, no one gets anything done but sex.  And that’s distracting.

“But there’s a reason my granddaughter is considered incredibly gorgeous to human males . . . and why I’m probably more attractive than I should be, at my age,” she conceded with a sigh.  “I did essentially the same for you.  If you’re going to all this trouble for him, then you might as well make it pay off as much as you can.”

“So you took a homely human and made me a beautiful Malkas,” Carmella nodded.

“I do good work,” agreed Lilastien.  “Just wait until you see what other plans I have. You can change back to human form at any time – I’ll teach you the mnemonic and the spell – but I wouldn’t recommend doing it too often.  It can put a strain on your system.”

“I suppose I’ll have to get new clothes, too,” Carmella reasoned.  “Those would fit me like a pavilion, now.”

“At the very least,” nodded the sorceress.  “But I think Rumel will be exceedingly pleased.  You should probably get acclimatized to your new form first, though.  If you spend a few days in the Malkas Quarter, getting used to your new body and develop your new Malkas mannerisms, you’ll probably feel more comfortable when you present yourself to him.  You’ve learned the language, I take it?”

“Dag-ka asu monrachara, akka demasu?” Carmella asked.

Lilastien was impressed.  None of the dwarvish languages were easy for an outsider to learn, but Carmella’s accent was dead on, from what she could tell.  And it sounded even more natural coming out of a Malkas throat.

“Very good.  Yes, he should be very impressed.  If you still want to go through with it,” she added, with a note of caution in her voice.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Carmella asked in confusion.  “We want to be together – well, we are together, but we want to be married, really married.  And have children.  Will I be able to have children?” she asked, intently.

“Yes, you’re fully functional, biologically speaking.  And you won’t hurt so much after coitus, now.  Some of the excitement might fade, but you’ll feel more natural, I would imagine.  But once you get pregnant, I would strongly caution against switching back to your human body.  I don’t exactly know what might happen, in that case, but I can’t imagine it would be a good thing – and I don’t want to experiment with that.  Far too great a risk of complications.  But if you maintain your form for term – a lovely twenty-four month gestation, just to warn you – then you will deliver a genetically-complete litter of Malkas children.  Probably superior stock, too,” she added.

“My babies will be healthy,” sighed Carmella with relief.

“As healthy as Lady Fallawen’s new twins – absolutely adorable, too!  But besides motherhood and matrimony, you are now prepared to be a queen of the dwarves,” Lilastien announced.

The idea seemed to startle Carmella.  “I never said I wanted to be queen of the dwarves!” she protested.  “Besides, Rumel isn’t any kind of king,” she dismissed.

“Only because the Malkas have never really been permitted to have a king,” Lilastien countered.  “Not one of their own clan.  They have always been considered too poor, too rude, and too rustic to have such pretentions to grandeur.

“But you changed that, Carmella,” Lilastien pointed out.  “You hired Rumel and his clan for that work in Vorone, and then in Vanador.  Hells, they’ve built half the city on their own, now.  They’ve made it their own, and that’s something else they’ve never been permitted.  They’re making better money working for you mortals than they ever did working for the Karshak.  They’ve been kept poor and ignorant for so long they couldn’t imagine what they could do if they were organized.  Really organized, with proper institutions, not just local clan chieftains.”

“They have been poorly treated,” acknowledge the wizard with a tilt of her head.  “Rumel says that half his kin are having more babies now because they can afford to.”

“And Rumel is high in the Malkas society, thanks to his works.  He’s rich, now, in their terms.  And he has the favor of the magi,” she pointed out, gesturing to Carmella.  “It wouldn’t take much convincing to make him a sort of king over them.  Indeed, it might be preferable, considering what is coming,” she said, her tone growing dark.

“What?  More war?  The Malkas are peaceful,” she objected.

“Oh, certainly more war, and the Malkas are peaceful but not defenseless,” Lilastien said, pouring a second glass of wine for both of them.  “At least not against outside threats.  But this time next year Vanador is going to be filled with golden-haired Kilnusk,” she reminded the wizard.  “Warrior-kings who like to throw their considerable weight around.  They are going to be a problem.”

“They start fights?” Carmella asked, quietly.  “I’ve heard of them.”

“They usually only fight with themselves, or against outside threats,” Lilastien agreed.  “But they use intimidation and bullying to dominate the other clans.  They can’t help it – it’s in their nature,” Lilastien reasoned.  “Only the Dradrien and the Karshak are arrogant enough to stand up to them.  The Malkas?  They’ll shrink away back into servitude, if they don’t have anything or anyone who will challenge the Kilnusk.  And the Karshak.”

“The Karshak already think we spoil the Malkas,” agreed Carmella with a sigh.  “Master Guri thinks I’m doing something immoral, the way I treat them.  And he’s scandalized by the relationship I have with Rumel,” she added, guiltily.

“The Karshak are prudes who are more eager to ply their chisels than their penises,” dismissed Lilastien.  “Ignore them.  Everyone else does.  The Malkas have a chance to really establish a civilization here in Vanador, not just a culture.  But only if they are well-led.  Rumel could do that.  Especially with you at his side.”

“I . . . well, we do intend to marry,” she said, reluctantly.  “But beyond that . . .”

“That’s an excellent place to start, actually,” Lilastien nodded as she sipped her wine.  “Look, you already have a sizable colony at your tower,” she pointed out.  “Vanador has thousands of Malkas.  And there are thousands more in the wood, in their hidden settlements.  Convince Minalan to grant you some territory and see if you can’t build something for them in it.  I hear you’re good at that sort of thing.”

“I suppose so, but why?” Carmella asked, still confused.

“Because the Malkas could benefit from a little cultural self-respect, some good institutions to keep their nascent civilization going, and a sense of place that they’ve never had.  When the wars between the Dradrien and the Karshak were raging, the other clans took to hiding in deep mountain fortresses.  The Malkas and the Izluk clans were left on the surface to fend for themselves.  That usually meant they had to move around a lot, like the Tal Alon, and never had a place of their own.  They deserve to have a place of their own.  You could help give it to them.”

“And make Rumel their king in the process,” Carmella reasoned.

“He wouldn’t have to be a king, exactly, but some sort of ceremonial leadership would help him protect the Malkas from the whims of the other clans.  Really, think about it, Carmella,” she urged.  “I think Minalan would be supportive.  He likes the Malkas.”

“He likes the Karshak and the Dradrien, too,” Carmella pointed out with a frown.

“So be the advocate of your new husband’s people, and give them a permanent home in Vanador,” persuaded Lilastien.  “Minalan isn’t the only wizard who can make such alliances.  But with his help, a little piece of forest that the Malkas could claim permanently would help them develop.  Especially with a good dose of humani influence.  Your people are terribly good about some things, and I think there are lessons you could gift the Malkas with.”

“I will consider it,” Carmella nodded, a faraway look in her eyes.  “I never wanted to be a queen.  Just a . . . a wife.  A mother.  With someone smart enough to understand me when I talk about building things.”

“Anyone who wants to be queen probably shouldn’t be queen,” reasoned Lilastien.  “That makes you well-suited to the task.   Oh, you shouldn’t have to push too hard – there’s already a lot of whispering about that sort of thing in Malkas circles, I’m told.  But if they knew they had support of a local noble, it might embolden them to act.  And I think we can convince Minalan to support it, too.”

Carmella frowned.  “How is Minalan, Lilastien?” she asked, concerned.  “I’ve barely laid eyes on him since he returned, and there are all those rumors . . .”

The sorceress sighed.  “The one question people never get tired of asking, it seems.  Well, I can’t tell you much about his medical conditions, due to constraints of privacy, save that he has indeed healed from his physical wounds incurred in Anghysbel,” she reported.  “Beyond that . . . well, he did create this magnificent tool for me,” she said, indicating the Acennan.  “And he’s made even better ones for himself.  But then he nearly destroyed Sevendor the other day.  So it’s a bit of a mixed bag, at the moment.”

“He almost . . . destroyed . . . Sevendor?” Carmella gasped.

“It was just another experiment that got out of hand,” Lilastien defended.  “We’ve all had those, haven’t we?  And I got to him in time.  A few days rest and he was back at it, fresh as a spring meadow.”

“So he’s not mad,” Carmella suggested.

“Oh, he’s quite mad, by any normal standard,” Lilastien assured.  “I would give you a long and detailed diagnosis, if I could.  But that doesn’t mean that he isn’t functional.  He’s doing what he needs to do.  And what he needs to do is inherently dangerous.  He may yet kill us all.  But that is the price you pay for greatness, sometimes,” Lilastien reasoned.

“I don’t find that very comforting,” Carmella pointed.

Lilastien chuckled.  “You don’t find that very comforting?  Get dressed,” she urged.  “I’ll show you what Minalan just dropped in my lap.”

A few moments later Lilastien led the wizard, still clad in her new form, down the corridor to the big chamber at the end.

She had intended the room to be a lecture auditorium for the medical school she was building, and had it built two stories high as a result.  But she was still at least a year away from beginning formal instruction.  When Minalan said he needed a large empty space, she’d volunteered the place.

Now she wished she hadn’t.  When she opened the grand-looking, Malkas-carved double wooden doors Carmella gave an involuntary shriek.

The corpse of the gigantic spider was curled up in the middle of the room, it’s unblinking, multifaceted eyes flickering darkness over the savage-looking jaws.  Lilastien cast a magelight to banish the darkness, hoping it would make the thing somehow less horrific.  It didn’t help as much as she thought.  Now she could see the bloated, furry abdomen, the chitinous thorax, the long legs . . .

“What in nine hells is that?” Carmella gasped.

“It’s dead, for one thing,” Lilastien hurried to say.  “Minalan popped it in a hoxter pocket on the battlefield.  It had no defense against that.  But this was one of the pair that he and the magi encountered in Darkfaller.  Mycin Amana brought it.”

“She made a giant spider?” Carmella asked, incredulously.

“No, actually, she grew these – or someone did,” Lilastien explained as she walked around the massive arachnid.  “The Enshadowed traded with some dark forces for the eggs, Minalan theorizes, and now they're growing a nest of them to fight us.”

“That thing is bloody huge!  We’re supposed to fight that?” Carmella asked in disbelief.

“You fight dragons,” Lilastien pointed out.

“That’s a godsdamned bug, Lilastien!  Dragons are easy, straightforward . . . and they aren’t a godsdamned bug!”

“It’s an incredibly deadly bug, too,” the sorceress agreed, studying the thing critically.  “Strong, fast, poisonous, cunning, and very, very lethal.  It killed dozens before Minalan defeated it.  The problem is that he thinks that there will be more.  Many more,” she emphasized.  “They breed rapidly, he says.  They’re incredibly tough.  They’re absolutely obedient to their masters.  They can spin webs and climb anything, according to Minalan.  Castle walls, field fortifications, they can go underground, over the water, and through some surprisingly small spaces.”

“That’s just awful!” Carmella complained.  “And the smell!” she said with disgust, wrinkling up her new nose.

“It hasn’t even started rotting yet, either,” agreed Lilastien.  “I put some preservation spells on it, but it’s just going to stink like that while we study it.  Minalan wants me to figure out what its weaknesses are.  He doesn’t think they know how to use magic, or if they will even develop rajira of some sort.  So that’s helpful.  But even so, that’s an awful lot of spider for one warmage to contend with.”

“It’s a big godsdamned bug!” Carmella repeated, shaking her head.  “Ishi’s tits, Min, why did you have to bring us a bug?”

“The question he wanted me to ask you is if you can come up with anything to kill one,” Lilastien asked, lightly.  “He said you had some sort of arcane construct that kind of looked like a spider.”

“I do,” Carmella admitted, biting her lip.  “I built it mostly for construction, but it works pretty well as a mount.  But something that could take on . . . this?” she asked, doubtfully.  “I don’t know.  This is huge.  It’s like an entire infantry company on eight legs!  What can go up against something like that?  Apart from a dragon?”

“Honestly, I’d have doubts about a dragon managing it, unless it torched one from a distance,” Lilastien proposed.  “Even though it’s smaller, I think the webs and the pheromones might be a problem.”

“Pheromones?” Carmella asked, curiously.

“Yes, Minalan says that they have a sophisticated pheromonal ability, tied to a gland in their abdomen.  It can excrete several different types of useful chemicals in battle.  Paralysis agents, chemicals to inspire terror—”

“It doesn’t bloody need to do that – that face is enough!” Carmella shuddered in disgust.

“That’s not the worst of it.  It has a tail like a scorpion,” Lilastien revealed.  “Poisoned, of course, though not nearly as long, proportionately speaking.  Usually, it stays wrapped up under the abdomen while it’s moving, from what Minalan tells me.”

“Oh, that’s just lovely!” Carmella said, darkly.  “What in five hells made the Enshadowed think this was a good idea?”

“Their size, their viciousness, and their loyalty,” explained the sorceress.  “They will fight to the death for their masters, unlike the gurvani.  They don’t really achieve independent thought until late in maturity.  It’s complicated, but we have to find a way to contend with them and quickly.  Minalan knew a lot about them thanks to his infirmity.  Things it might take us years to figure out on our own.”

Carmella studied the dead horror silently for several moments.  “We really will face more of these?” she finally asked.

“Possibly many more,” Lilastien nodded.  “They apparently have a fast maturity time.  Females reach this size within two years.  Males are about half this size, but reach it in just a year.  They hatch from egg sacks in litters of around fifty,” she added.

“Fifty?  There are fifty of these with each birth?” Carmella asked, her mouth agape.

“Two-thirds of them are the smaller males,” conceded Lilastien.  “But that still leaves quite a few of these lovely spinners to grow up and eat everything in sight every generation.  Carmella, this could swamp our defenses,” she said, her tone serious.  “Minalan presented a pretty grim picture, if they take hold here.  And it might get worse if they escape the command of the Enshadowed,” she warned.  “On their own, they are just as devious, but not nearly as restrained.”

“This is trouble,” Carmella nodded.  “A lot of trouble.”

“More than we need,” confirmed Lilastien, as she extinguished the magelight.  “Especially right now.  I don’t want to break confidences, but there is far, far more going on than Minalan has told you – and with good reasons,” she added.  “We discovered a lot of disturbing things up in Anghysbel.  And we plan on doing something about it.  This,” she said, waving at the inert monstrosity in the middle of her lecture hall, “is almost a distraction.  But a distraction that we need to deal with quickly.”

“I’ve wondered what exactly was going on,” Carmella admitted.  “Minalan has been a lot more secretive since the wars.  Since he got back from his expedition.  What is he hiding from us?”

“It’s more that he’s protecting you from,” Lilastien considered, as she shut the doors behind her and locked them with magic.  No need to terrify the cleaning staff.  “The truth is, most of the magi won’t be able to do much about it, unless Minalan can make some bold moves on behalf of humanity.  He’s revealed much, through the auspices of the Thaumaturgic Society.  But he can’t reveal all, yet, for very good reasons of security.  Trust me,” she emphasized.

“I . . . I do trust you, Lilastien,” sighed Carmella.  “You’ve given me . . . you’ve given me the one chance at happiness I never thought I would have.  And I do love Minalan, and what he’s done for our folk.  He’s stood up for the weak and powerless when no one else would.  He’s done amazing work, and often against the wishes of the dukes and king.  I don’t care if he’s mad.  I’ll support him until . . . until . . .”

“Until he gives you a reason not to,” finished Lilastien.  “My dear, that’s all we ask.  We’re going to need your help, with the spiders and the undead and . . . and much else that is now coming against us.  He has so few allies, compared to what he faces.  And even fewer friends.  Just keep supporting him, and I promise it will all make sense in time.”

“If you say so, Lilastien,” conceded Carmella with a nod.  “If you and the Spellmonger need me, I am entirely at your service.  Yours and your family’s.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

A Boy In A Ruin

Ruderal

“Wake up, Apprentice!” Minalan boomed in his ear before the sun had lightened the sky outside.  “We have work to do, today.  We’re going on an adventure!”

Ruderal moaned involuntarily as his master stood over his bleary-eyed form.  Ordinarily it was he who awakened Minalan in the morning, usually sometime after the sun had risen.  Only occasionally had his master come to his bed to rouse him.  And when he did it with such enthusiasm, using such vague promises of what the day would hold, experience told Ruderal that he was in for a full day.

“Adventure, Master?” he asked, sleepily, as he swung his legs over the side of his bed.  “Are you certain that’s wise?”

He wasn’t trying to shirk his duties, of course, but considering all the activity in the last few days – few weeks, he corrected himself – Ruderal was of the opinion that a day spent seeking adventure was just poor planning.  Adventure had a nasty habit of finding his master on its own – and Ruderal along with him.

“Wise?” Minalan asked, with a chuckle, “it’s absolutely essential.  Rouse yourself, and then meet me downstairs.”

“How should I dress, Master?  Full armor or a ball gown?” he asked, only mildly sarcastic.

“Traveling gear,” Minalan decided, from the door.  “Walking, not riding.  We shouldn’t be gone more than a day, if we’re lucky.  But bring a blade,” he added, after consideration.  Then he was gone.

Ruderal tried to shake himself awake as he used the chamber pot, splashed water on his face, pulled his clothes on, and struggled into his scarlet boots.  They were as good for walking as they were for riding, he figured, and he’d not had a chance to wear them much since the raid on Darkfaller.  They made him feel taller, though the heel wasn’t particularly high.  They were proof against water, which was good considering how much it had rained recently.  And they were comfortable, now that they were broken in.

He had acquired them in Gilmora last spring while he and Atopol were skulking around as spies and saboteurs against Count Anvaram.  He had been hesitant about getting such high-quality boots and had decided against spending money on them out of a sense of thrift, even after he’d tried them on.  But Atopol had convinced him by the expedient of stealing them and leaving money for them on his behalf.  He felt guilty about that.  But he enjoyed the fine pair of boots.  He’d never had anything of such high quality before.

He grabbed his sword before he left, something else he hadn’t used since Darkfaller.  The fact that Minalan had asked him to bring it did not bode well.

The Great Hall of Sevendor Castle was just coming to life, as the cooks and drudges began to prepare for breakfast.  Ruderal hoped that he’d be able to grab some before they went – he had plenty of rations in a hoxter pocket (Minalan insisted upon it) but he preferred a hot meal, freshly prepared, when he could get it.  And if he was going to be walking, he would need the energy.

Minalan kept him waiting, of course.  Ruderal spent quite a bit of time waiting for Minalan, so he was used to it.  Lately he’d been waiting outside of his Master’s workshops, as he had been fiendishly busy with all the enchantment projects he was working on – everything from the archway portals to making irionite to things Ruderal had not even a simple understanding of.

Those days were usually pretty easy.  He would fetch ingredients from storage or books from a library, run messages to various people or the Mirror Array, and bring food from the kitchens in the rare event his master requested it.  Otherwise, he read.  Magical texts, mostly, but he was developing an appetite for other works, when he could get away with reading them.  There wasn’t a lot of walking involved in tending to his master, then.

But being shaken awake before dawn with a promise of adventure – and walking – was not going to be easy, Ruderal anticipated.  And it could get considerably harder depending upon which of the ancient personalities was influencing the Spellmonger today.  The potential for exertion would be high.  He grabbed a couple of biscuits as soon as they came in from the kitchen.  He’d just finished the first when his master returned from his tower workshop.

Minalan was dressed for walking: high boots, and a simple tunic and breeches, a faded mantle, his old spellmonger’s conical cap, a leather satchel, and a rather plain-looking staff.  Indeed, apart from the Magolith hovering over his shoulder, he looked more like a footwizard or Hedgewizard than the most powerful mage in the world.

It was all a ruse, of course.  Ruderal knew well that the rings and pendants Minalan wore were filled with hoxters which were filled with enchantments, food, wine, gold and silver, gaming boards, weapons, thaumaturgical tools, ordinary manual tools, and the gods only knew what else.  Minalan delighted in producing the perfect thing out of thin air, when it was required.  Indeed, he almost gloated about it.

“Are you ready?” he asked, as Ruderal stood and nodded.  “Good.  One more stop at Spellmonger’s Hall and then we’ll be on our way.”

Ruderal nodded and took a moment to study his master’s enneagram.  Thankfully, the Monster was not in residence – it was the Karshak.  He relaxed a little in relief.  He liked the Karshak.  Perhaps today would not be the disastrous kind of adventure, he hoped.

“What do we need from Spellmonger’s Hall, Master?” he asked, curiously.

“Minalyan,” he answered with a grin.  “He’s been pestering me since I got back to take him on an adventure like I did his mother, and this will be his chance.”

“So it’s a . . . gentle adventure,” guessed Ruderal, feeling even more relieved.

“It should be,” Minalan agreed.  “More of a long walk, actually.”

“Then why do I need my sword?” the apprentice asked, confused.

“Well, it won’t seem like much of an adventure without a sword, will it?” Minalan asked.

Apparently the Spellmonger’s eldest child agreed.  The sandy-haired boy was tremendously excited by the news, and dressed himself in a frenzy while they waited.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Minalan?” Alya asked, anxiously, while her son prepared.

“It will be fine,” the Spellmonger promised.  “Besides, I’m bringing Rudy to look after him.  We’re just going out to just beyond the Westwood.  We’ll inspect the mountain they’ve timbered and then a bit further beyond it.  There’s something I want to investigate.”

Alya’s eyes flickered back and forth between her husband and his apprentice.  There was true reluctance in her enneagram, he could see.

“Just be certain to bring him back in one piece.  And call for help if you need it,”  she finally said with a resigned sigh.

Ruderal was sure that she was speaking more to him than to Minalan . . . and silently warning him to watch her husband, as well.  With the Karshak haunting him today, Ruderal didn’t worry too much that they’d have trouble with Minalan’s madness.  But those ghosts could change, sometimes.  He gave Alya an especially deliberate nod.

“I’m ready, Father!” Minalyan announced, as he reappeared in the doorway.  He had armed himself with a walking stick of his own, and wore a wooden sword boldly on his hip.  A crumpled blue apprentice’s cap, a single brimless cone of felted wool, was jammed onto his head.  He had a pack on his back that seemed to bulge with what were undoubtedly very important supplies.  “Are we going to the Wilderlands?  The Penumbra?  Olum Seheri?” he asked, and then looked around wide-eyed, as if he expected Korbal and Sheruel to be lurking nearby.

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” Minalan said, a serious note in his voice.  “Today we’re going to search for . . . well, I don’t want to tell you too much,” he decided.  “Just be prepared . . . for anything,” he said with especial gravity.  “We’ll be going to the new castle, first, and thence to the Westwood.  After that . . . we shall see.”

Minalyan swallowed hard and nodded, clearly recognizing the importance of the plan, even as Ruderal had to keep himself from giggling about the boy’s seriousness.

Minalyan was a reasonably well-behaved child, and Ruderal did not mind when he was given the task of watching over him.  He seemed to have far more enthusiasm than Ruderal recalled having at that age, and he was genuinely clever.  But he was developing some annoying habits, Ruderal had observed.  That could make the proposed outing either miserable or entertaining.

The early morning trip up the road and through the great gatehouse of the new castle was filled with the lad asking hundreds of questions about just about everything – where they were going, who or what they might meet – along with a long list of unlikely possibilities – and what sorts of monsters they might encounter.  Minalyan was utterly convinced that there would be monsters.  It was an adventure, after all.  There had to be monsters involved.

By the time they had mounted the many, many stairs to the chamber inside the mountain that led to the southern face, Minalyan had already worn down, Ruderal was glad to see.  His father kept pushing him forward, even when he was tired, no doubt in an effort to stem the flood of questions.

The view from the back of the mountain was well worth the climb, however.  The three of them looked out over the stunning vision of the Uwarris in fall, where every tree seemed awash in brightly colored leaves.  Not even the recent rains had managed to knock the majority of them to the forest floor, yet, and it was a stunning display that was spread out below.  Save for one obvious spot.

“That’s where we’re headed,” Minalan said, confidently, as he gestured toward the barren mountain with his staff.  “We need to inspect the progress of the forestry, there.  Soon that entire mountain will be gone,” he predicted, “and I didn’t want the trees to go with it.”

“Is that all?” complained Minalyan disapointedly, who was searching the horizons for dragons.  “A tree inspection?”

“No, no, but that needs to be done first,” his father insisted.  “A good magelord looks to the details himself.  Then we’ll venture into the unknown,” he said, giving his son a knowing look.  That seemed to mollify Minalyan, as they started down the path.  It only promised more walking to Ruderal.

It took all morning for them to traverse the winding path down the mountain, across the narrow, high vale at the bottom of the slope and then up to the distant slope, where the white rock was already beginning to show beneath the denuded mountain.  This was the limit of the snowstone vein in the Uwarris, and where Minalan and his father had agreed the next shipment to the Vundel would come from.

They arrived at the lumber camp the Westwoodmen had built there about noon, just as the men were taking a break from their labors for luncheon.  They were understandably surprised to see their baron, his son, and his apprentice appear unexpectedly, but the dozen men working to remove the last few trees were pleased.

Minalan made a great show of introducing Minalyan, and then proceeded to produce a picnic lunch from hoxter pockets that was far more extravagant than the peasants were used to.  A small keg of ale ensured that they would always fondly remember that glorious day, when the magelord came forth to thank them for their service and was happy to dine and drink with them.

“You should always thank the people doing the hard work, Minalyan,” the Spellmonger told his son as they resumed their journey after he banished the remains of the meal.  “That was one of the ways the Archmagi and the magelords of the Empire went wrong; they thought too highly of themselves and their spells, and too little of the common men that society needs to keep things working.  We forget that at our peril,” he warned.

“I’m always nice to the drudges and the Tal, Father,” Minalyan assured.  “Even the smelly ones.  And I never mention the smelly part because Mother says that is rude,” he said, with absolute assuredness.

The discussion was light and lively as they trod through the falling leaves that afternoon.  This was farther from the castle that Minalyan had ever been on foot, and Ruderal had never been this far south from Sevendor.  But walking was boring, regardless of the scenery, and the boy began engaging him in games as they went to pass the time.

“Just where are we going, Master?” Ruderal asked when they stopped to rest by a stream.

“Have you heard of the lost Karshak city of Askeorast?” he asked, as he took out his pipe and lit it.

“No, Master, I don’t believe I have,” Ruderal confessed.  He liked the Karshak but hadn’t been particularly close enough to them to hear their legends.

“It’s an ancient settlement that was turned into a kind of underground fortress a few centuries ago,” Minalan explained.  “They called it ‘the City of Fortune,’ and it became the seat of a powerful group of families in the clan.  It was built in these very mountains.  All care was taken to hide every entrance to it so that only those who had been there and knew the way could find it again.  It was during a particularly brutal period, when the Dradrien and the Karshak were fighting over dominance and control, and blood feuds between the clans were common.

“Then some betrayal caused a fight, there, and the Karshak evacuated their fortress and fled to the southern Kulines where they had kin in stronger positions.  Askeorast was abandoned.  All too soon all memory of how to return to it was lost – it was a particularly vicious war and a very well-hidden city.”

“So why is it suddenly important?” Ruderal prompted.

“It’s not,” admitted Minalan, as he puffed on his pipe.  “At least, not to anyone but the Karshak, who would dearly like to reclaim it.  They suffer, when they don’t work, and prosper when they do.  It was part of my agreement with Master Guri that I help him rediscover it as part of his fee for building my castle.  I intend to make good on that bargain, today.”

“You know where it is?” Ruderal asked, surprised.  “You found it?”

“No, but I do remember it,” he said, tapping the side of his forehead.  “One of my memories is tied to it.  I was born there, you might say.  Long before it was called Askeorast and expanded into its final form, but that is where the family of Umank dwelled for generations.  One of the entrances is fairly close to Sevendor.”

That explained a lot – Minalan’s sudden enthusiasm, the way his enneagram was churning with excitement, and even his inclusion of his son in the expedition.  He wanted to share an important part of his remembered history with his son, even if he hadn’t actually experienced it.

“Is it far?” Ruderal asked, hesitantly.  It was already midafternoon, and his feet were tired.

“Not far . . . if I recall correctly.  And if there haven’t been any significant changes.  Askeorast had almost a dozen secret entrances, and the northernmost terminates nearby.  It is very well hidden, but I will be able to recognize the landmarks that will direct us there.  Come along, now,” he announced a little more loudly to get Minalyan’s attention.  “We must press on; Ruderal is getting tired.”

Thankfully, Minalan was correct – within another hour they approached an unassuming outcropping of rock that made the wizard pause.  They were long past the limits of the snowstone spell, so the rock was the soft gray of most of the Uwarris, not the stark white he was used to seeing.

“It’s right around here,” Minalan muttered to himself, as he looked around at various landmarks.  Then he started purposefully striding toward an overhang that proved to conceal the entrance to a small cave, no larger than the interior of a carriage.

“Is there a monster?” Minalyan asked, suddenly drawing his wooden sword.

“It is a mere hole in the ground,” Minalan reported, as he squeezed his way past the entrance.  “No monster, probably.  Nothing more than a few old badger nests, I think.  But we’re here,” he announced a moment later.

“Here?” demanded Minalyan, disappointedly.  “We walked all that way to see a hole in the ground?  What kind of adventure is this?” he asked, disgusted.

“Just bide, little wizard,” Ruderal sighed.  “Sometimes patience is as important to a mage as wisdom.  And you shouldn’t draw conclusions until you have more information.”

“Indeed,” Minalan agreed, as his son followed him reluctantly inside.  “You never know when some plain old hole in the ground is actually something more.”  He studied the blank wall within the cave carefully, casting a magelight from the Magolith to illuminate the plain piece of stone.  He murmured to himself as he inspected the site.

“Here, I think . . .” he said, pressing on one unassuming portion of an unremarkable piece of rock.

Almost instantly, the back of the cave swung inward, revealing a deep and dark recess into the mountain.  A dry, dusty smell arose from the entrance.

Minalyan squealed at the revelation; despite having just walked entirely through a mountain to get there, the sight of the darkened tunnel thrilled him.  Ruderal had to put a restraining hand on his shoulder as the boy prepared to rush in.

“Minalyan, a good wizard never rushes into the unknown, if he can help it,” Minalan lectured.  “This place has been sealed for three hundred years.  There’s no telling what might be lurking in the darkness.”

That gave the boy pause, and suddenly the tunnel did not seem quite so attractive.  “Monsters, do you think?”

“That’s a possibility,” Ruderal affirmed, although he expected no more than spiders of the common variety.  “I don’t see any enneagrams lurking just inside, but that tunnel likely goes pretty deep.”

“It descends three hundred steps down to a reception chamber,” Minalan predicted.  “Thence two other tunnels take you to the outskirts of the city.  Or, at least, that is what I expect.  I don’t know what the later residents did to change the place.  But let’s at least give ourselves some light,” he said, and began casting a line of magelights into the tunnel.  There were cobwebs, but no greater obstacles in the way.

Once the way was illuminated, it became much less forbidding; it was just filled with stairs that seemed to go down forever.  They had a gentle rise, as they were built for the different statures and gaits of the Karshak, but they looked completely stable to Ruderal’s eye.

“I’ll go first,” Minalan volunteered, before his son could rush in.  He murmured a word and his staff disappeared, to be replaced by his baculus.  “Ruderal, take the rear.  Watch for . . . monsters,” he ordered, suppressing a chuckle.

Minalan kept casting additional magelights as he went, Minalyan marching bravely behind him.  The air was fresh enough, he decided, but it began to get a little damp after the first hundred steps, he realized.  Twice they halted because Minalan wanted to examine some feature that he regarded as novel.  One was an elaborate iron gate, left conveniently open, that was as impressively thick and sturdy as any Ruderal had ever seen.  The other was a small alcove just beyond it.

Master, what about . . . traps? Ruderal asked Minalan, mind-to-mind, as he suddenly realized the possibility.  He didn’t want to alarm Minalyan, but he was suddenly wary of all sorts of devices that might have been hidden to guard the legacy of the Karshak.  They were a deviously clever people at such crafts, he knew.

That was more of a Dradrien tactic to guard their lairs, his master revealed.  The Karshak favor barriers.  This is but an entryway, and easy to defend.  The more active measures will be deeper in the rock, closer to the city.  But it was wise of you to ask.  They may have altered their behaviors in a war with the Dradrien.

The stairs seemed to go on endlessly, each step taking them deeper into the earth.  But eventually, they came to a much wider chamber carved into the heart of the stone.  Minalan sent four magelights to the corners before he would permit anyone to enter.

It was two-thirds the size of Sevendor Castle’s Great Hall, and a thick layer of dust covered the floor.  A slab of stone on two sturdy lintels lay in its center, and there were ruins of wooden fixtures that had long rotted away.  There was crockery lined up along one wall, some of it broken, and what might have been baskets once heaped in a pile.  A doorway lay on the other side of the chamber, and a smaller one on the side.  Both were blocked with heavy portcullises.  A basin built of masonry jutted out on the other side of the chamber, a simple stone spout positioned in the wall to feed it from some ancient cistern.  Cobwebs festooned every corner and crevice, making Ruderal shudder involuntarily.  The memory of the giant spider in Sevendor still haunted his dreams.

“We’ve reached the lost city!” announced Minalyan, proudly, raising his wooden sword in triumphant salute once he entered.

“We’ve reached a guardroom, nothing more,” Ruderal corrected as he began looking around.  The bold geometric patterns the Karshak favored for decoration were cut deeply around the vault of the ceiling, he noted, though the paint that had once graced them was peeling and flaking.  “But it does seem rather ornate.”

“This was more a customs center than a guardroom,” Minalan explained, as he began poking through the ruins with the butt of his staff.  “This was one of the lesser-used entrances to Askeorast, where the Malkas woodsmen and the Izluk pack traders and the occasional Tal Alon gardener would come to deliver their wares.  Not much left of it, I’m afraid,” he said, frowning.  “But not as bad as I feared.  It appears it was an orderly evacuation.  Once it was very lively.  Perhaps it will be again, one day.”

“You’re really going to give this place to the Karshak?” Minalyan asked, disappointed.  “We just found it!”

“I found it for them,” Minalan corrected the boy.  “That was the bargain.  It just was much easier than I originally anticipated,” he said with a smile.  “It is their place, not ours.  But I’m certain they will let you visit, when they return, since you were one of the discoverers,” he consoled.

“Aren’t we going any farther?” Ruderal asked.

“Unless your stomach has quit speaking to you, we are perilously close to supper time,” Minalan said, as he used a spell to blow the dust from the stone table.  “And bedtime follows in close order.  I propose we have a meal to celebrate, and then go back to Sevendor.  We will let the Karshak explore further.”  He reached into his satchel and removed a small gem.  “I’ll set a Waystone here, to make it easy to return to, but this is as far as I want to go, for now.”  He gave Minalyan a meaningful glance.

“Of course, Master,” Ruderal agreed with a grin.  He felt a bit of relief; though they were only three hundred steps from the surface, he was already feeling a bit claustrophobic.  And his feet were starting to hurt.  “Shall I set the table?”

Before he could answer, Minalan spotted something on the table – a pile of small brass plates, each the size of his hand and exquisitely cut into a distinctive geometric pattern.

“Ah!  Just what I was looking for!” Minalan said, his eyes gleaming as he picked two of them up.  “These were passes given to visitors who were allowed to go deeper into the city,” he explained.  “Much like our toll tokens, I suppose you would say.  This symbol means ‘Askeorast’ to the Karshak; it will prove that I have discovered the place once again.”

“What do you plan on doing with them?” Ruderal asked, curiously.

“Present them to Master Guri, at an appropriate time,” he said, smugly.  “I think he’ll be quite pleased.  His people can return to their ancient mansions, now, once they clean it up a little.  And that will be a boon to Sevendor’s trade, in addition to the portal.  Hmm.  Perhaps I can persuade Guri to build a portal here,” he considered.  “That would make things all the easier.”

Ruderal used his picnic hoxter to assemble a quick supper for the three of them – thick mutton stew he’d taken from Sevendor’s kitchen a few weeks before, a pitcher of weak ale, a loaf of bread and a thick poppyseed cake from Minalan’s brother-in-law’s oven.  Bowls, spoons and cups came out of another hoxter.  He realized that he should pack a tablecloth in the future for occasions such as this – though the dust was gone, the tabletop was not even remotely clean.

“The first meal in Askeorast in three hundred years,” he announced, when he was done.  Minalyan and his father quit poking around in long-emptied jars and joined him at the table, still arguing about the distressing lack of monsters hiding in the chamber.

Ruderal appreciated the easy, playful conversation that father and son shared, and regretted he’d had no such fortune with his own father.  He had grown up thinking that his sire was a seamage, lost at sea before he was born, until he discovered him accidentally two years before when he came to see Minalan about purchasing snowstone on behalf of the Vundel.

Since then, their relationship had been strained, as they both got used to the unfamiliar role as father and son.  Ruderal treated his father, Moudrost, with great respect, but he had spent little time in his company.  For the seamage’s part, Ruderal imagined it was difficult to become accustomed to the idea that he had a son at all, after living so many years without knowing it.

It was rare for the Brethren to sire children at all, he knew.  They were not like other mariners who could be expected to make port at least occasionally.  Their vocation kept them away from shore for sometimes their entire two decade term of service to the Sea Folk.

Despite the estrangement, Ruderal was getting to know and like his father.  He was full of stories of other lands, the deep seas, and life amongst the Vundel.  It was a strange world filled with stranger names and relationships that he simply did not understand.  But it was fascinating, and each one seemed to give Ruderal a bit more insight into the man who’d sired him.

In return, he’d tried to tell as much about his own life as possible.  In truth, Moudrost was not entirely convinced that he was best served by being Minalan’s apprentice, considering the danger in which that put him, but the seamage also admitted he was unfamiliar with life in the Dry, and had approved of his service to Minalan after considering it.  He was proud of how well his boy had prospered in his absence, and it was clear that he still loved Ruderal’s mother dearly.  He could read that in the man’s enneagram easily enough.

But there was much else to read there, too: divided loyalties, for one.  Regret.  Apprehension.  Even dread.  There was a sense of fatalism that his father carried around with him constantly.  He did not know if it was a feature of his profession or an innate part of his character, but Moudrost had a highly developed belief in the role of fate, far more than Ruderal did.  It colored the seamage’s perceptions and influenced his decisions, he knew.  And it frequently made him gloomy.

Ruderal was determined to contest that fatalism; after all, Moudrost had conceived a son when he was not supposed to. A son who had developed a remarkable Talent, been threatened by the Brotherhood of the Rat, and used by the Enshadowed, and then become an apprentice to the most powerful and cunning wizard in the land.  If anyone should have recourse to fatalism, it was Ruderal.  Yet he celebrated his choices – and his freedom to make them.

But his relationship with the Vundel changed that, for his father, somehow.  When he spoke of his masters it was with great reverence, but also with sadness.  For reasons Ruderal did not entirely understand, Moudrost was not at ease with the Sea Folk.  Especially now that he had come to know Minalan.  Ruderal knew that his presence had very little to do with that, of course, but he also knew that he complicated Moudrost’s life.  He was fairly certain that the seamage had not revealed his existence to his superiors.

He would learn more soon enough.  Moudrost had promised to return before the end of the year to claim the second mountain of snowstone – the very one they had crossed today.  No doubt Ruderal would discover more from his enigmatic father.

But he dearly wished he could have known the man when he was a boy, not mostly grown.  He envied the easy, teasing way Minalan and Minaylan bantered across the table about the possibility of a huge number of vicious monsters that must certainly be lurking in the murky depths of lost Askeorast.  Ruderal kept silent, mostly, enjoying listening to the boy’s increasingly lurid description of the imagined beasts.

Just for a second, Ruderal noted, a flash of anguish came across his master’s expression, and his enneagram changed dramatically for a moment, before it returned to how it had been before.  That happened, occasionally, Ruderal knew.  It was usually a sign that one of the other of Minalan’s memories was battling to gain control of him.  Even more occasionally, he’d seen, they could be successful.

From the shift he saw reflected in his enneagram, Ruderal figured that it was the one he’d come to call the Scholar, the one soaked in cold intellectual vigor and abject grief.  But then it was gone, and the Karshak returned, he could see.  Not one of the others.  Not the Monster, thank the gods.  Ruderal knew better than anyone but Minalan what that ancient memory was capable of.  And how powerful it was.

Relief flooded Ruderal once again, to be followed by wariness.  He looked from father to son and sighed, as he ate his stew, realizing that for all of the boy’s lurid fantasies about what lurked behind the intriguing doorways, that he’d brought the most terrible monster of all with him already.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A Conspiracy Of Friends

Taren

Taren had always liked Megelin Castle, he reflected as he emerged from the Ways into the inner bailey.  The giant Wilderlord drum keep and surrounding square watchtowers gave the place a delightfully old-fashioned feel, compared to the more modern square keeps in fashion back in Castal and the elegant castles of Alshar.  While it had been expanded greatly in the past few years, the original keep squatted at the crest of the motte like a steadfast warning to the foes in the west.

His destination wasn’t the keep, however, it was the range of domestic halls that crowded around the base of it.  Those were largely new, as well, as Megelin had been transformed from a reasonably large baronial castle to the first outpost of the resistance against first Sheruel and then Korbal and their armies.  There were ten times more men-at-arms here now under Viscount Azar than there had been before the invasion, and those men needed housing – as well as a robust staff to cook, clean, build, and tend the warhorses in the greatly expanded stables.  But he had not been told which of the many new halls the event was being held in.

“Over here, Taren!” someone called, causing the warmage to whip around.  The beaming face of Bendonal the Outlaw appeared at the door of one of the many halls in the bailey.  Taren smiled back and began to walk in that direction, a stiff autumn breeze blowing his cloak as he crossed the bailey.  “We’re in here until he comes out.  He won’t expect us, that way,” he proposed.

“How many are here already?” Taren asked as he came into the warm, cozy main room of the hall.  “Am I late?”

“Not even close,” assured Bendonal.  “Terleman, Sandoval, Mavone, at least a dozen others.  Azar won’t be here until later, of course.  Terleman wanted to speak to everyone before the festivities begin and everyone is too drunk to be sensible.  Is . . . Minalan planning to attend?” Bendonal asked, hesitantly.

“He had to send his regrets,” Taren informed him as he took off his cloak.  “He had to meet with the Seamage.  Just as well,” Taren said with a sigh.

“So you know . . .?” Bendonal asked.

“Terleman and I discussed it before he called the meeting,” Taren agreed.  “He thought this would be the best opportunity to have a candid discussion about it without the Spellmonger around.”

“Well, Azar doesn’t get married every day,” Bendonal nodded.  “I never thought he’d wed at all.  And no one would expect anything of a proper send-off for him by his mates.”

“Exactly.  That’s why I suggested it,” he said, as the two walked through to the inner chamber, where a fire was already roaring on the hearth against the chill.

As promised, nearly a score of warmagi, mostly the gentlemen of Vanador and environs, were already sitting or standing around the fire, mugs and cups in hand.  There was a rousing cheer when he came in, and he spent a few moments greeting those he hadn’t seen in a while before Bendonal handed him a mug.  A few more old friends drifted in while he was catching up.

He pounded Curmor on the back – when was the last time he’d seen Curmor?  Even Reylan was there, late from Wenshar.  Wenek took up one entire corner and had a mug in one hand and a winecup in the other.  He’d known some of these men since Farise and hadn’t seen a few in years.

“Who else are we waiting on?” Terleman asked, quietly, during a break in the chatter.

“Astyral, for one,” Bendonal reported.  “Tyndal and Rondal said they would be here soon.  I want to make sure that they’re included.”

“What is all of this about?” asked Curmor, confused.  “I thought we were here to toast Azar’s wedding?”

“A happy pretext for an uncomfortable conversation,” Taren explained.  “We’ll delve into it when the others arrive.”

One by one, the other warmagi on the guest list appeared.  Within the hour the hall was full of Azar’s oldest friends.

And Minalan’s.

“My friends,” Taren began, when Astyral finally had a wine of an appropriate vintage for the occasion.  “I wanted to speak with you tonight, before we give our friend a warm launch into matrimony, for a more serious purpose.  It has come to the attention of many of you already that our friend, Count Minalan, has been acting . . . erratically,” he said, diplomatically.  “Indeed, some of us are quite worried about him.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Reylan asked, as he fingered his long mustache.  “He was wounded, yes?”

“He has healed from the physical wounds he endured in Anghysbel,” Taren affirmed.  “Lilastien herself has told me so.  But he has lasting effects from some of the other events there.”

“Some say he’s mad, now,” offered Bendonal.

“I’ll not hear anything against the Spellmonger!” Wenek declared, indignantly.

“Calm yourself, Wenek,” Terleman said, sharply.  “We discuss this matter because we are concerned for his health and safety.  And everyone else’s,” he added.

“I fought side by side with the man myself at Darkfaller,” argued Wenek.  “He was as bold and decisive as ever.  Madness?  Mad like a fox!”

“It is more subtle than that, my friend,” Taren persuaded.  “You saw him once, in battle, or in court, or at a feast.  I’ve spent days with him, now, working on the snowstone project.  We have good reasons to be concerned for his sanity,” he assured.  “We must be prepared to act; in case the worst happens.”

“I will hear no plots against Minalan!” Wenek insisted.

“We meet not to plot but to prepare,” Terleman stated, flatly.  “I love Minalan too – I’ve known him as long as anyone here,” he reminded them.  “Long before Boval Vale.  Back in Farise.  We were blooded together on the long march.  I would die for him.  But,” he continued, as he stood to address the room, “I will not stand idly by out of a sense of loyalty if the man goes mad and begins to slay us all.  This is not a plot,” he repeated, firmly.  “This is a precaution.”

“What makes you think he’s mad, then?” asked Rustallo, quietly.

“Taking a piss off the very top of Spellgarden while giggling hysterically?” offered Sandoval, anxiously.  “Brooding about things for days at a time?  Sudden outbursts of anger?  The man is replete with symptoms,” he said, sadly.

“Not so much that he can’t lead an army,” Mavone countered.  “He led us in Darkfaller like a champion.  And he handled the Merwyni like a master.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t mad,” Terleman said, shaking his head.  “Dangerously so, at times.”

“And he’s far more dangerous than he once was,” agreed Taren.  “He disappears for days at a time in his workshops and demands time in the bouleuterions at the slightest whim.  Not that I fault him for pointless labor – far from it.  Half of you have already traversed the portals between Vanador and Sevendor.  He’s working on enchantments I can’t even describe,” Taren promised, “much less explain.  Ishi’s tits, he’s making irionite now – pure irionite, in batches big enough to outfit every mage in the kingdom, before long.

“But he’s also sliding toward a dangerous fit, unless I miss my guess,” Taren continued, his voice heavy with foreboding.  “He’s becoming more erratic.  And more powerful.  But more dangerous.  What happens when his madness propels him toward disaster?” he challenged.  “Will we stand idly by while he slays dozens?  Hundreds?  Thousands?”

“Minalan would never do that!” assured Curmor.  Then he paused.  “Would he?”

“He certainly has the capacity,” Terleman agreed.  “Taren is quite correct.  He has crafted impossibly powerful enchantments.  Including weapons.  His battle staff is one of the most deadly magical weapons I’ve ever seen,” he reported.

“Blizzard?” Bendonal asked.  “It’s advanced, yes, but Warmaster is a more dangerous weapon, by the numbers.”

“The numbers have changed,” Taren replied.  “As has the name: he calls it Avalanche, now.  He recrafted it . . . with divine magic,” he announced, his face grim.  “He brags he can slay a dragon with it now, by himself.  I do not doubt him.”

“What happens if that kind of power is levied against the innocent?” proposed Terleman.  “Or one of us?”

There was silence for a moment, before Wenek stirred, still unwilling to accept the idea that the Spellmonger had gone mad.

“What say Tyndal and Rondal?  You fellows still look to your old master as strongly as any apprentice.  Is Min mad?”

The young magi looked at each other for a moment, and no doubt they spoke mind-to-mind, Taren guessed.  But they confirmed Taren’s assessment.

“Sadly, yes,” Tyndal said, speaking for both of them.  “It pains me greatly to admit it, but Minalan is plagued and afflicted at the moment.  Unfortunately, it’s also making him bloody brilliant when it comes to magic.  Taren is quite correct: he’s making things that have never been made before.  Even by the Alka Alon.  He’s making things that have never been imagined before,” he added.

“We’ve all seen the signs,” agreed Rondal.  “Many of us have experienced him . . . slipping.  The question is, is he slipping away?  Or will he get better?”

“Rolof said the worst of the effects passes in about a year and a half,” Taren agreed.  “Until then, he’s going to be unstable.”

“Rolof?” Curmor snorted.  “You’ve seen Rolof?  Where has he been all this time?” he demanded.

“Hiding in Anghysbel, in the realm of the jevolar,” Taren said.  “He’s mad, too.  But he gave us some understanding of what Minalan is experiencing.  I don’t want to go into too much detail, but it should be a temporary matter.  If you can call eighteen months temporary.  But until it wears off, Minalan is going to be insane, technically speaking.”

“If he’s making bloody irionite,” Reylan declared, “he can stay insane forever, for all I care!”

“You know not of what you speak,” Terleman said, quietly.  “Yes, he is producing wonders like a chicken lays eggs, a new one every day or so.  But at what price?  His mind?  His judgment?  I know he has had . . . episodes,” he pronounced.  “Times when he was insensible.  Reason means nothing to him, then.  Nor does an appeal to his humanity.”

“Not everything that afflicts him is strictly human,” Taren agreed, his throat dry.  “I’ve spoken to Lilastien at length about this.  The rite they undertook together has scrambled their minds and polluted their memories.  They know amazing things, now, things that could save our world and change our destiny.  But also things that could kill us all, if they take a mood.  But this is the price of greatness,” he sighed.  “We cannot have the one without enduring the other.  No matter the risk.”

“We are here to mitigate the risk,” Terleman agreed.  “The fact is, I have no quarrel with how Minalan has been leading us.  But I am not blind to the madness.  I’m watchful.  Apart from the Spellmonger, we are the most powerful warmagi in the kingdom.  Should things go ill with our friend, it is our duty, and ours alone, to contend with him.”

“Indeed, we may be the only ones who have a chance to,” Taren nodded, gravely.  “And only a chance.  Even if we took him by surprise, his powers are so extensive that the best of us could well fall against him.  It might take all of us to disable him.”

That pronouncement induced a long silence in the assembled warmagi as they considered the matter.  Then Rustallo looked around uncomfortably at the rest of them.

“Why is not Pentandra included in this discussion?” he asked.  “She is trusted by all of us and is high in the Spellmonger’s councils.  Should she not have an opinion on this matter?”

“Pentandra is aware of the danger,” Rondal spoke up.  “Perhaps more than any of us she worries about the possibilities of Minalan gone mad.  She has, herself, considered what could be done if the worst comes to pass.  She is supportive of this effort, even if she cannot be seen as involved with it, for political reasons.”

“The same can be said of Loiko Venaren,” Terleman agreed.  “As royal court wizard, he represents the interests of the Crown.  Putting him in a position that might force him to choose loyalties is unjust.  This is our matter to contend with, and ours alone.”

“Has anyone consulted Countess Alya about this?” Astyral asked, his face long with concern.  “Perhaps she has insights that we lack.”

“Alya came to me herself with similar concerns,” Terleman reported.  “Indeed, her fears were what convinced me that some contingency needed to be made against the possibility of Minalan losing control.  She sees him daily and has witnessed his decline.  She worries for the safety of her family.  And she understands that we are the only ones who might contend against him in an emergency.”

“So, which among us is willing to draw a blade on our leader?” Astyral asked, exhaling sharply.  “And how might we proceed?  I don’t want to act prematurely,” he warned, “but I do recognize the danger.  When he came to Remere, he was . . . well, he was different than the baker’s son I knew.  More refined.  More sophisticated.  It served him well, in that case, but it was decidedly out of character.  And the powers he displayed were . . . concerning.  Who is brave enough to face him, in madness?”

Taren looked around the room.  There were many fine warmagi there, the finest in the world.  But he knew his duty.  He looked at Terleman, who nodded.

“Terleman and I have decided we will be the first to challenge him, should there be need.  Should we fall, we propose Astyral, Wenek, and Mavone.  Tyndal and Rondal will follow.  After that . . . well, we expect each of you would take what action you see fit.”

“Could we not call on the Alka Alon?” Wenek asked, his tone somewhat desperate at the idea of attacking a leader he revered.  “I am no coward, but if Terleman and Taren fall in such a struggle, it is clear that the rest of us will be inadequate to the task.”

“Minalan’s abilities would challenge even the Tree Folk,” Terleman revealed.  “Indeed, he knows more Alka Alon sorcery now than most of their masters.  He’s making irionite, a rare art for even the best of the Alka Alon.”

“I’ve spoken – quietly! – to Lady Fallawen before her birthing,” agreed Taren.  “The opinion of the Emissaries is that their council is growing increasingly worried about Minalan’s powers.  And Lilastien.  Their alliance in their madness is of great concern, particularly considering some of the secrets they discovered in Anghysbel.”

Of course, he did not mention a similar conversation in a more intimate setting with Lady Varen.  He had become a regular guest at her abode in Lesgathael in the last few days as they discussed her plans for the snowstone spell . . . plans he was thoroughly involved with.

He did not understand what possessed the mysterious Tera Alon maiden to take an interest in him as her partner in the plan, but he could find no argument against it.  Lady Varen was enticingly beautiful, as pretty a maid as he’d ever seen.  Her keen intellect and quiet humor were equally attractive to the mage.  He had been startled by her unique proposition; her reasoning for selecting him was unusual, to his mind, and quite flattering.  He was a healthy, strong humani male with a large degree of rajira, as was necessary for the purposes of producing snowstone.

But as he had spent more time with her in their discussions Varen had revealed a more subtle femininity and a more personal presentation that had sparked a mutual affection.  She was intensely curious about humanity, which he could appreciate – he had a similar interest in the Alka Alon.  She found him far more intellectually inquisitive than most human males, and he could not argue that point.  Their few intimate pairings had been . . . consuming, Taren felt.  It was hard to maintain his objectivity in the face of such overwhelming emotion.

Varen was just as concerned as Fallawen, she’d confided in him, because she understood the nature of the forces he was meddling with better than her sister Emissaries.  She had been quietly observing Minalan’s actions on request of Lilastien and had become alarmed.

That had been one of his reasons for arranging this council in the first place.  He had been dabbling with divine magic, she’d discovered.  Among other esoteric energies.  He’d been using the Snowflake inside his mountain to bend dimensions, fiddling with powers the greatest Alka Alon sorcerers barely understood, and had even tinkered with time.  The great bubble Minalan had cast around Sevendor had made up her mind: the Spellmonger was dangerous.

That had placed Taren in a difficult position; he knew better than most just how much humanity needed Minalan to be dangerous.  The threat of Korbal and the Nemovorti alone were reason enough to promote his strength and cunning – and the other powers he might be forced to challenge required as powerful a wizard as could be produced.  Minalan was producing wonders on a daily basis.  Weapons, tools, advances in the arts of thaumaturgy and enchantment had emerged from his workshops.  Being able to manufacture irionite at will was incredible.  The portals, Avalanche, and the other marvels he was constructing were no less than revolutionary.

But his madness could not be ignored.  He would do the world no good if he destroyed the very things he wished to protect and preserve.  It was as much for the sake of his long friendship with Minalan and desire to protect what the Spellmonger held dear that he’d sought out Terleman and discussed the matter.  The Viscount of Spellgate had agreed that there was a concern. That had led to this meeting.

“I think it would be wisest to tailor our response to the nature of the situation,” Astyral proposed, diplomatically.  “There is madness and then there is madness.  I think we can all recognize when things have gone too far.  Nor do I think we can persuade him out of the course of action he’s chosen.  But let us consider the matter with the utmost care before we agree to act.  And let us not consider . . . killing him unless absolutely necessary,” he said, speaking plainly.

“Agreed!” Terleman assured everyone.  “Let us also agree to consult Lilastien on the matter, should we be able to.  She has unique insight into the matter, and is possessed of resources beyond mere warmagic.  Though she may be mad herself, her concern for Minalan is acute, and I have come to respect her counsels.”

“I, too, think the Sorceress needs to be included in this,” Taren agreed.  “I will consult with her about this and seek her advice on our behalf.  It would be tragic if Minalan was killed.  But if that is the only way to stop him, that is what must be done.”

“I mislike this discussion,” Wenek growled.

“The discussion is necessary, my friend,” Rustallo soothed.  “There is danger.  Danger only wizards can contend with.  It is our duty to wisdom to consider the matter, at least.  We would be remiss not to.”

“I see it as an extension of the oath he made us take,” Astyral argued.  “The irionite oath.  He asked us to help suppress any man who misused it, in return for bearing our shards.  He set the high standard for ethics amongst the High Magi.  With such ethical requirements established, this is but an expansion of the principles Minalan – quite wisely! – instituted himself.”

That seemed to convince the reluctant among the warmagi.  Each of them had been required to take a solemn oath when they accepted witchstones from Minalan.  He had made it quite clear that the only way he would permit the distribution of such power without the need for a body like the Censorate to regulate it was to ensure that the magi watched each other’s behavior.  It was a loose system, full of flaws, but it had worked, so far.

“So who decides when this step is taken?” asked Curmor, searching the faces of his comrades.  “What kind of quorum is needed to decide to challenge Minalan?”

“Three of us,” Terleman decided.  “Taren, Mavone and I will be the principals.  If you all agree you can trust us.  We will, of course, consult with as many of you as possible, but time may be of the essence.  If you object, please say so now,” he added, firmly.  “I do not wish to include anyone who thinks we are not a fair judge of the situation or objects to the premise. Under law, what we are doing is a conspiracy to murder our overlord.  That is treason of the highest order.  But I do not think that the law is what concerns us the most, considering what is at stake.  The three of us will make no decision unless it is clear that the situation has gone beyond our control.  We will monitor him closely,” he promised.

“His apprentice, Ruderal, is monitoring the situation,” agreed Taren.  “I’ve spoken with the lad, and he assures me he is watching his master very closely, and will alert me if he becomes dangerous.  He, of all people, is uniquely suited for this task.”

“Are not his loyalties suspect?” asked Astyral.  “That is his master, after all.”

“Rudy is a good lad,” Rondal insisted.  “He’s smart, and he has exquisite judgement, thanks to his Talent.  He is loyal to Minalan,” he stressed, “but he also understands his priorities.  We can trust him.”

“I agree,” Tyndal nodded.  “He’ll keep a close eye on Master Min.  And he’ll tell us if things go awry.  He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, and he knows just how much damage Minalan could do better than anyone.  He will keep watch.”

Taren took a deep breath.  “And we will bear the responsibility.  Then it is settled.  I need not remind you gentlemen not to discuss any of this, save at great need.  I will not swear you to an oath, but will depend on your good sense to keep this matter close.  That includes any discussion with various intelligence organizations,” he said, picking out Rondal’s eye specifically.  “This is a delicate enough matter without the crowns and coronets getting involved.  This is a matter for the magi.”

“Agreed,” Mavone nodded.  “This entire discussion would make our rulers shit their breeches.  And set us up for all sorts of charges that could be used against us.  Nor can we speak to the Alka Alon, beyond Lilastien and the Emissaries.  This is not a plot, after all,” he announced, “this is a gentleman’s agreement between colleagues and comrades to take care of an old friend.  Let us treat it as such and keep our discretion.”

There seemed to be general agreement to that, and Taren didn’t bother with a vote or further arguments.  Even Wenek had seemed to relent to the necessity of the matter, in the end, though if the big man was persuaded by argument or just agreeing with the consensus, it was too hard to say.  Taren didn’t care which, in truth.  He was just happy to keep the discussions informal.

In his experience a situation as potentially volatile as this was only complicated by such things.  He trusted the men in this room – those he knew closely – and they had all prospered under Minalan’s guidance and leadership.  And none of them (perhaps save Terleman, who was a bit of an egotist) thought themselves able to replace the Spellmonger in his role.  There was no ambition at play, here, he saw.  Only alarm and concern.

But did that excuse the plot?  The secrecy of their discussion disturbed him.  He was not like Mavone or Terleman in that; he disliked hiding things.  But he also knew that in a matter this grave, secrets were necessary.  If Minalan learned about the meeting in one of his more paranoid moments the consequences could be worse than if it had never taken place at all.  A normal man would see such a move as a threat.  Taren was counting on Minalan’s exceptional character to see it otherwise, should it be discovered.

“Very well, then,” Taren announced.  “We have an agreement.  Let us speak no further of it.”

“And just in time, too!” Bendonal the Outlaw said.  “Heeth the Butler just informed me mind-to-mind that Azar and Jannik the Rysh are headed down from the keep.  They should be here in mere moments.  Everyone charge your glass and prepare to render our fellow a pleasant surprise.  And do try to look merry, or at least not like you just planned an assassination,” he chided.  “I want nothing to spoil Azar’s last few nights as a bachelor!”

Taren smiled at that thought, as a ragged cheer went up from the crowd.  These were good men, he decided, stalwart comrades and worthy colleagues.  There were bright gems among them, but all had proven their sturdiness and steadfast loyalty to Minalan and the Magelaw.  Minalan had chosen his fellows and vassals well, Taren realized.  They had their flaws but they were good men, intelligent men who understood Minalan’s vision and saw the worthiness in it.  Some of them were no more than common warmagi made great by his patronage, but they repaid that in their loyalty to the man and his mission.  Minalan had chosen his friends because of their good character, and it was that character that demonstrated itself in their deliberation.

No one wanted to kill Minalan, because no one was stupid enough to think that they could replace him.  They wanted to protect what they had built together, not tear it down.  But the Mad Mage of Sevendor could not be ignored any longer, and they saw what they had to do as wizards.  It gave Taren a great solace in his own guilt to see that revealed tonight.  They had not acted with malice or political ambition, but because they had somewhat reluctantly chosen to face a problem, the Spellmonger could not face himself.

“All right, gentlemen, he’s almost here!” Bendonal said, excitedly, as the warmagi found places where they could all face the doorway of the hall.  The door cracked.  “Let’s cheer for the bridegroom!” he shouted, and all of Azar’s friends hailed him at once.

Everyone, a part of Taren’s mind pointed out, save the Spellmonger.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Consultation With A Goddess

Lilastien

The monkeys were busy today.  Lilastien could feel it.

She’d always adored monkeys since the humani had first freed them from their cryogenic chambers and released them into the newly terraformed island that was to become Unstara.  As a “native scientist” she’d been a guest of honor at the ceremonial opening of the Primate Center, back in the early days of the colony.  She’d stayed almost a month to witness the introduction of lemurs, monkeys, and apes into the freshly cultivated tropical countryside of the island, the nascent jungles just reaching early maturity.  She was fascinated by Terran primates and watched them for hours.  They gave her tremendous insight into the human condition.

Though the lineage betwixt humans and the other primates was tangled and controversial in the annals of the humani, there was no doubt that the species were related.  Primates had been the basis of much of the early exploration of humanity by its own scholars, and the similarities could not be dismissed.  She did not care about the politics of the subject – she just liked monkeys.  They seemed to epitomize things about their human cousins that the humani would just as rather remain hidden.

Her fascination with them and their antics had contributed to some first-year medical student giving her the “Jane Goodall” nickname, and she appreciated the humor – it was very monkey-like.  Like the ancient scientist, she had descended from her assumptions and her ignorance to live amongst those she studied, and she had enjoyed the experience in what would be an unseemly way, according to most Alka Alon society.  Most of her kin felt about her tenure on Perwyn the same way the humani had viewed a woman living in the squalor of a jungle, instead of a more sensible existence.

Yet she did not care; Alka Alon society had siltified, over the centuries, and wasn’t nearly as impressive as her people thought.  She had suspected that since her studies of the Vundel, in her youth.  The way the Sea Folk saw matters of culture and civilization were so radically different from the Alka Alon that it was breathtaking.  She became convinced of it when she’d gone to Perwyn, in her prime, to learn about the strange new race that had been granted a wasteland for their new home – and who had eagerly accepted it.  Monkeys from the sky, ready to fiddle with the ruins of her own culture and make something new.

Like monkeys, humanity had a keen desire to play around with their environment, each other, and the resources at their disposal.  Flinging feces was not out of the question.  And like monkeys, they were clever, as a rule.  Chaos often resulted when they were not well-regulated.  Put together and it was no wonder that the Alka Alon society, which prized stability and consensus, saw their primate neighbors as culturally mad.  Just as Lilastien had come to view her own people as culturally stagnant.  And then morally bankrupt.

But one of the things that her time among the primates had taught her was when to sense when the troop of baboons or gorillas or chimpanzees or macaques got busy with something.  It wasn’t like the entrainment that the Alon enjoyed, it was more personal and perhaps more subtle.  There was a sense of energy that possessed them that was social, not magical, in nature.  Indeed, they could sense social currents and subtleties that the Alka Alon would miss or dismiss out of hand, absent a true consensus.  It could be fear, festivity or fashion, but when enough of the buggers got busy with something, soon enough all of them were doing the same.

She’d spent enough time with them to get a feel for when that sort of thing was happening.  And it was happening right now, in great abundance.  Wearing her Tera Alon body helped her, she considered that as she sat in her office, indulging in a brandy in the middle of the night.  It seemed to pick up on subconscious social signals in a way that was unique to humanity.

It was as if Minalan’s return from his exhibition had triggered a bout of frenetic action amongst his fellows, and that in turn had set more ripples out into the human social pool.  Things were happening.  Vanador and Sevendor were hopping with energy.  The capitals of the Five Duchies were alive with it.  Even the rural folk she saw every day at Henga were affected.

There was no one cause, and no one effect, but there was energy flaring through the humani.  The monkeys were busy.  She could feel it.

So could her younger counterparts: her granddaughter and her two friends had become quickly entangled in the social energy of humanity, as they took a few decades to study the species the way she had, with full immersion into the culture.  While not precisely proteges, she was proud of the three girls’ willingness to explore the fascinating realm of human civilization and appreciate its stark and subtle differences with the Alon.  It would profit them, she reasoned, though they bore the scorn and derision of their Alka Alon peers for their indulgence.

Humanity was well worth the sacrifice.  They had prospered even as their great civilization had fallen and preserved the best parts of their culture into the intellectual darkness after the sinking of Perwyn and the exile of the New Horizon.  They were a resilient and clever people, for ephemerals, and they had much to teach.  She only hoped that the girls had the wit to learn before they returned to their people eventually.

But each of them was beginning to sense that “monkey energy” she’d learned about.  They were even being drawn into it, each in their way.  Lilastien couldn’t explain it, but she was starting to suspect that the gods might be playing a role.  A moment later she was certain of it.

“So what is my favorite gynecologist doing up so late at night?” a voice came from the recesses of her office, as a decidedly feminine form faded into existence.  The scent of fresh flowers filled the room.

“Ishi,” Lilastien acknowledged with a nod.  “I was just thinking about you.  In a way,” she conceded.  “And I’m up late because I’m avoiding sleep, these days.”

“Bad dreams?” the Goddess of Love and Beauty asked, as she shimmered across the floor, resplendent in an artfully revealing gown of pure white satin.  “That’s terrible!” she said, in mock sympathy.

“It comes with the dissociative personality disorder,” Lilastien shrugged.  “It’s harder to control what comes through when my conscious mind is turned off.  This way, I push myself to the limits until I reach them, then collapse for just as long as I need to be asleep before the terrors propel me back to the world.”

“It sounds as if you’re managing things better than Minalan,” Ishi said, as she sat in the chair opposite the desk.

“I have fewer voices to manage,” Lilastien revealed.  “And there are some resilience in Alkan consciousness that help.  If things get really bad, I can play some jazz to drown out the voices in my head.  It’s surprisingly helpful.

“But the bigger question is what a sex goddess needs from a gyno at this hour,” Lilastien continued, pouring a second brandy for her.  “And I remind you I was never board-certified.  But if you need me to take a look at anything . . .”

“Oh, it’s just as perfectly divine as always,” Ishi dismissed with a dainty wave of her hand.  “It wasn’t my crotch I wanted to speak to you about.  It was Carmella’s.”

“What about Carmella?” Lilastien challenged.

“You made her a Malkas Alon,” Ishi pouted.  “Now I can’t . . . oversee her when she’s like that.  You know I like to take an active hand in the more interesting couplings.  It was fascinating, when she and Rumel were different species.  But now she’s not even registering with me, and I’m frustrated!”

Lilastien chuckled, despite herself.  “You have one less human vagina to be responsible for, and you’re upset?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been taking a very active hand with the genetic future of the magi,” the pretty goddess lectured.  “I warned Minalan that would happen if I was made persistent.  I’ve lived up to my bargain.  Wizards are pairing off all over the place,” she bragged.  “Beyond the robust royal and ducal lines who are breeding, Sandoval, Astyral, Azar, Rondal, Tyndal – I even got Taren laid,” she said, a victorious twinkle in her eye.  “And Alya is pregnant.  I didn’t even see that one coming,” she added, “it must have happened in the jevolar.  If I keep it up, Sevendor and Vanador will be filled with squealing little wizards for generations.

“But it doesn’t help when you take one of my most-challenging cases out of play,” the goddess pouted.

“Challenging?” Lilastien snorted.  “Even educated fleas do it.  Carmella wanted it this way,” Lilastien reminded her.  There was no point in attempting to conceal a matter of medical ethics from the goddess, Lilastien knew – the medical oaths she’d taken did not extend to the divine, she’d noticed.  Ishi saw all acts of love and pleasure.  “She loves Rumel and wanted to bear his children.  His Malkas children,” she stressed.  “Why is that a problem?  You blessed Fallawen’s union with Sir Ryff easily enough.”

“Yes, but he’s a handsome one, if a bit dim, and Carmella is homely enough to be a real challenge,” Ishi countered.  “Besides, after Fallawen conceived, she was Trygg’s problem.  Carmella was a special project of mine – she’s remarkably dull and boring, from my perspective.  Not to mention distant, moody, and overly intellectual.  I had to go entirely out of her species to find her a man.  A Malkas,” she corrected.  “But a male one.  And then negotiate the relationship.  You provided the culmination to that, and just when it gets interesting Carmella is a Malkas and I see nothing!  I’m glad that she’s happy, but now I can’t influence her the way I was,” she complained.  “How am I going to get the credit for the pairing?”

“You really need another notch on your bedpost?” Lilastien asked, using an old humani expression.

“Consider it a matter of professional pride,” suggested the goddess, diplomatically.  “Can’t you persuade her to switch back?  Or at least convince her to mix it up and stay human a couple of times a month?  It keeps things interesting.”

“Let her get used to her new body on her own,” warned the sorceress.  “She deserves that bit of happiness.  She has a new toy.  Let her play with it.”

“But aren’t you the slightest bit curious?” prodded Ishi.  “Really, it’s a very rare thing!”

“You and I both know it’s not that rare,” countered Lilastien.  “From a biological perspective, it’s just two Malkas mating.  The details are unimportant.”

“Ah, but from an emotional perspective there is an entire host of fascinating feelings going on!” Ishi objected.  “Guilt, shame, lust, love – and it’s such a delightful romance!”

“Let Carmella have the children she wants,” Lilastien urged, irritated.  “It could be the foundation of something important for the Malkas.”

“Well . . . how about a compromise?” proposed Ishi with a tilt of her head.  “Let her bear her litter with Rumel without interference . . . but persuade the dwarf to transform into a human for a second child.  That way I at least get a kiss and a cuddle after the main event.  Is that within your capabilities, Sorceress?”

“You know, I generally have a rule against making bargains with the gods,” Lilastien pointed out.  “Legend and myth suggest it rarely ends well.  So, I won’t promise . . . but I can propose and persuade,” she decided.

“Anything you can do to help would be appreciated,” the goddess said, beaming a smile Lilastien was certain was augmented with divine magic – no human smiled that perfectly.  Her eyes lit on something, then, and she cocked her head quizzically.

“Is that a new necklace?” the goddess asked, her perfect eyebrows raised with interest.  Lilastien looked down at the golden Acennan laying on her chest.

“Yes, a gift from Minalan,” she admitted, as she picked it up in her palm.  “Magical talisman, you could say.  Well, more of an active enchantment, really.  It helps me with my transgenetic enchantments,” she explained.  “It’s what I used to make Carmella the most beautiful Malkas Alon maiden I could.”

“You did what?” shrieked Ishi, her exquisite lips locked in an expression of surprise.  “You made her beautiful?  As a Malkas?”

“Since I was screwing around with the spell anyway . . .” Lilastien said with a sigh and a wave of her hand.  “Yes, I made her attractive.  Insanely attractive . . . as a Malkas.  She’ll still be plain old Carmella when she’s human, though.”

“That is absolutely delicious!” Ishi squealed.  “Do you realize what a wonderful romance this could be?  Even if it turns tragic, there are the elements of a great one, here.  I thought I was doing great things with Taren and Azar and Gareth, but this?  That was brilliant, Lilastien!  Now she simply must transform her Malkas into a man and try it that way, too!  The possibilities are endless!”

“Are they really just here for your amusement?” Lilastien asked, a skeptical expression on her lips.

“It’s a mutual sort of thing,” Ishi assured.  “But it’s not just amusement.  Those sorts of stories are divinely inspiring.  Each of us gods has something that really gets us . . . interested.  Go ask Briga about the really big fires she’s been a part of,” challenged the goddess.  “We all have our kinks and proclivities.  Mine just involve actual kinks and proclivities,” she pointed out.

“Well, I’m glad for you that business is good,” Lilastien nodded.  “Just appreciate what everyone else is going through right now while you’re playing with people’s emotions.  Minalan is mad.  I’m mad.  The Alka Alon council is mad.  There is civil war.  There are undead.  There are giant spiders.    The Vundel are . . . let’s just say that they are about to get involved with us again,” she predicted.  “Try not to break too many hearts in the middle of all that.  It might get messy.”

“That’s part of the business,” shrugged Ishi, expressively.  “Love just works that way, sometimes.  Sure, everyone loves a happy ending, but when love overcomes all obstacles, and changes the course—”

“Spare me the rationalization, goddess,” Lilastien said, holding up her hand.  “We have enough tragedy dogging our heels to entertain a bad love story.  Just . . . be gentle,” she encouraged.  “Yes, you’re building a dynasty, but you’re also manipulating people’s hearts.”

“I do not manipulate!” Ishi insisted.  “I persuade and encourage and occasionally arrange for a chance meeting or a lonesome glance across a darkened room, but I have to rely on crappy old human nature most of the time.  Desire lies in everyone’s hearts.  I just give it a little push in the right direction.”

“And occasionally over a cliff,” Lilastien observed, dryly.  “Tread carefully, is all I ask.  Yes, Minalan wants more babies, both for snowstone and the traditional reasons.  He has high hopes for the Magelaw.  But until he gets his head right, be very careful about fulfilling his desires for anything.  They might get very complicated,” she predicted.

Ishi pursed her lips thoughtfully.  “Just what happened up there, Lilastien?  We couldn’t see a thing.  It was frustrating.  Only Briga got a glimpse, and I hear that could have gone better.”

“We learned things, we saw things, things that changed the course of our fate,” Lilastien said, after a moment’s thought.  “We came back with forbidden knowledge and bear the scars we took achieving it.  Now Minalan and I are stirring things up, and it isn’t going to be pretty.  If we’re lucky, and very, very smart, things might work out for us.  If we’re not . . . well, keep them screwing, I guess, and hope the next generation can do better.  If there are any survivors.”

Ishi closed her eyes for a long moment.  “I don’t like how you said that, Sorceress.  “What are you plotting?”

“Rebellion,” Lilastien pronounced.  “Rebellion and revenge.  With Minalan’s gift, I can right some wrongs my people wrought.  With what Minalan’s planning, we might save the world.  But it’s far from guaranteed.  And the last thing we need is a bunch of interfering gods getting in the way while we work,” she warned.

“But I’m never in the way!” protested the goddess.  “I’m always just lurking in the background.  You probably should let the gods know what you are planning, though.  We’ll probably end up finding out anyway.  We should be involved, if the fate of humanity is on the line,” she reminded Lilastien.

“Like you were at Perwyn?” Lilastien shot back.  “And afterwards?”

“Well, we did help protect you from the full wrath of the council, if you recall,” Ishi pointed out.  “And we did get the population moved to the mainland.  Mostly,” she conceded.  “We’ve been helpful.”

“And you’ve been unhelpful, too,” Lilastien said, sternly.  “You’re unorganized, inefficient, and notoriously single-minded.  It’s hard to rely on that for anything serious.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ishi asked, one eyebrow shooting up.  “Humanity.  That’s how they dreamed of us.  We just do what they demand.  I can’t help being this beautiful, for instance,” she said, gesturing to her face.  “But that’s what they wanted.  You can’t change human nature, and that’s what birthed us.”

“But you could get your divine act together and be more productive – in general,” Lilastien corrected.  “You are being plenty productive at the moment.  But beyond Briga and Herus, there’s not a lot your pantheon is doing to help.”

“Then find us some gods who specialize that sort of thing and make them persistent,” suggested Ishi.  “Believe me, the crowd we have is interesting, in their way, but they aren’t particularly useful.  See who else you can get them to manifest,” she proposed.  “And if they’re tall and handsome, so much the better,” she added.

“We’re working on it,” Lilastien agreed.  “But it’s a low priority at the moment.  That sort of thing takes time.  Minalan is experimenting with divine magic enough these days that he might figure out some way to manifest your colleagues more predictably, but until he does, just try to be unobtrusive,” she advised.  “Things will work out in the end.”

“As you wish,” Ishi sighed.  “There’s still a bit of trouble I can stir up without making too much of a mess.  Just . . . keep me informed on Carmella, while she’s going through the fulfillment of her dream,” she said, wistfully.  “I won’t interfere, but I want to hear all the juicy details!”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” demanded Lilastien.  “Light a candle at your temple?”

Ishi considered and then leaned forward, putting her dainty hand around Lilastien’s new necklace.  “I’m a goddess of jewelry, too,” she reminded the sorceress.  “Hold this up to the light and say . . .” she said, trailing off in thought.

“How about, “We’ll always have Paris, Kid?’” suggested Lilastien with a wicked grin.

“As you wish,” the goddess shrugged and let go of the necklace.  Lilastien didn’t know if she understood the reference or not – Ishi hadn’t manifested until long after most of the human cultural heritage was at the bottom of the sea.  The goddess stood, and regarded Lilastien carefully.

“Just give it your intention and say the words.  I’ll hear.  Since you haven’t exactly been enjoying an active love life, it’s the only way to ensure I can hear you.”

“I’ve been busy,” grumbled Lilastien.  “The last thing I need is a romantic entanglement.”

“Is it?” Ishi asked, sharply, shooting the sorceress a smirk before she faded away to nothingness.

“Bloody right it is!” she called after her.

After the goddess had departed, she poured herself one more drink, promising herself it was her last one of the day.  The divine visitation had given her a lot to think about.

For one thing, she thought it was clever for Minalan to enlist Ishi in driving up the birth rate.  He needed more births for snowstone, if he ever managed to figure that out, and he ruled a vast and largely empty province.  Invoking the aid of a sex goddess did two things at once.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t wary of the bargain.  She’d seen for herself how single-minded the human gods could be, and how frequently that led to disaster as well as salvation.  Sometimes she thought that they should perhaps have taken their chances with the dangers of radical monotheism.

But the conversation with Ishi had encouraged her in other ways.  She was still toying with her idea to start messing around with the other Alon in subtle ways . . . and some extreme ways.  In the Acennan Minalan had given her a tool that she could use to re-form entire species with magic.  And to a very artful degree.  If Ishi could populate the world with strong magi, then she could certainly begin working on her greater designs.

Lilastien had big plans – plans that would irritate a lot of Alka Alon, and for that she was eager.  The memories that Szal the Yith had cursed her with had revealed the horrifying extant of the Alkan manipulation of the other Alon in ways she had never imagined.  They had acted slowly, over centuries – over millennia! – but the trajectory of their abuse was clear to her now.  Her people had carefully pared and sculpted the other races as if they were a garden planted for Alkan benefit, with virtually no consideration of the wants and desires and aspirations of the subspecies themselves.

And they had done it all under the auspices of benevolent wisdom.  That’s what galled her the most: the Alka Alon had assumed that their great longevity and greater perspective automatically conferred a moral and intellectual superiority on them that allowed them to interfere with the culture and the very genome of their client species.

The Alon had always been an interdependent species, Lilastien knew.  On Alonaral that had extended to scores of subspecies and their variants.  But the Alka Alon had been far more restrained and mindful, back them.  Once they had come to Callidore, her people had abandoned all moral restraint and began to tailor their fellows with snobbish impunity.

She would change that.  Using the Acennan, she could now fix the limitations the Alka Alon had imposed on the others to impose their vision of a just and well-ordered world.  They had devolved them into mere vassal species, those that they hadn’t culled entirely.

The Tal Alon’s rare expression of rajira, for instance, had been retarded into near nonexistence, the Hulka Alon had been bred into grotesque parodies of their original form and relegated to such a marginal and violent position that they were on the way toward eventual extinction, the dwarvish clans had been stratified into castes that were perpetually at each other’s throats . . . and what they had allowed to happen to the gurvani was just obscene.

Once the nocturnal Nara Alon had been peaceful and cultured.  They had lived comparably longer lives with near-universal access to rajira.  Now the ability to do magic was scattered throughout their genome comparable to that of the humans, while their lifespan diminished below the newcomers.  The effort to control the other races had taken thousands of years to manifest, but it was still ongoing.

Humanity had been the tricky part.  When the humani had landed their ships and been given the wastelands for their own, the Alka Alon had almost immediately tried to bend them to their will and include them in their plan to eventually dominate the world’s peoples.

It had been subtle, at first, with almost a century of “good behavior” to understand the new species.  Lilastien still felt ashamed about her own role in that effort.  She had allowed her intellectual curiosity about the fascinating new race to propel her, without realizing that she was feeding vital information to Alkans that did not have humanity’s success and best interests in mind.

The most obvious intervention had been with the Newman Institute and its radical approach to human genetics.  That effort had blown up in the Alka Alon’s collective face, and forced the internal exile of those poor subjects to a remote valley in the Kulines where they would not infect the rest of humanity with their extreme ways and unique biology.

But after helping to create the Valley People, the Alka Alon had realized that the weakness of humanity lay in their technology, not their genome.  Once the early gods began to appear, they had abandoned all attempts at subtlety and gone right for humanity’s throat.  She had witnessed that, personally, and had suffered three centuries of imprisonment as a result.

But humanity had given her a gift: the flying monkeys had a distinct sense of individualism that belied the Alon’s striving for consensus.  Human individuality had been confusing to the Alka Alon in its pervasiveness in the culture.  Though they appreciated the glorious cultural imagination that resulted, they also found it appallingly chaotic.  The human willingness to allow dissent to the consensus was perverse, to Alka Alon sensibilities.  It was a bad example, they had maintained, for the other Alon.  Something had to be done.  Sinking Perwyn and exiling the New Horizon was their answer.

They would regret that, Lilastien had vowed, and she wasn’t about to ask their permission for what she was going to do.  She would begin with the gurvani.  She had already begun planning the first improvements before Minalan’s gift; now she could greatly accelerate the project.

She was going to make them larger, stronger, smarter, longer-lived, and in full possession of their legacy of rajira.  She would elevate them in stature to the levels of the other Alon, and gift them with advantages that would make up in part for the horrible moral crime that had been perpetrated on them.

Such an effort would require a good deal of study and a significant measure of inspiration, she knew.  Not to mention consultation with the species in question – a privilege the Alka Alon never extended to the other Alon.  With the Acennan she was no longer limited to gurvani genes alone.  It opened possibilities that transgenic enchantment had never had before and she intended on exploring them.  She would build a better goblin, as the humans might say, and in doing so give the gurvani a chance to reach their full potential.  For their own sakes, not for the benefit of the Alka Alon.

She would have to move carefully and quietly, of course – otherwise she would have to contend with the Council’s wrath before she could accomplish what she envisioned.  Thankfully, they were distracted with Minalan’s revelations and what the unstable wizard might do with his new knowledge and would not be paying much attention to one old rebel helping him with support.  Nor would they suspect that a single individual Alkan would have the temerity to take such a step without trying to gather consensus for the idea for a few centuries before proceeding.

The monkeys had taught her well, Lilastien reflected.  It only took one misbehaving to cause chaos in the rest of the troop.  The Alka Alon Council did not recognize that.  They did not see what one determined individual could do against their vaunted consensus, and that would be their weakness.  She would proceed boldly with her plan, she decided.  It was time to expedite her work.  Minalan had given her the key.  She would unlock the door, no matter the consequences.

While they were paying attention to Minalan’s antics, she would be flinging poop at them from the shadows – and they wouldn’t realize it until it was too late.

That called for another drink.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A Seamage Ashore

Moudrost

“There it is,” Minalan told him, as the wizard gestured at the naked mountain in front of them.  “All prepared for harvesting – or mining, or whatever you want to call it,” he continued.  “I took the liberty of removing the timber, of course – no need to send a bunch of useful trees to people who don’t appreciate them.  But I would like a little consideration in just how you remove the mountain, this time.”

“What do you mean?” Moudrost asked, confused.  He was unused to the peculiarities of the folk of the Dry, after more than a decade in service to the Vundel.  When he was forced to deal with them, sometimes it was difficult to understand what they meant.  Especially wizards, he’d noted.  And particularly this wizard.

“Well, the last time you surprised me with just how quickly and efficiently you took a mountain, so we were unprepared.  And while that turned out fine, in the end, I’d like to have some say in just how you remove this one, so that the result is more useful to us.”

“In what way?” Moudrost challenged.  “No people were harmed last time.  I did nothing to make the surroundings unstable,” he pointed out.

“Yes, that’s true, and I’m appreciative,” Minalan sighed.  “But if I could get you to shape the harvest a bit and leave a somewhat shallow portion on this side of the eventual hole, then we’ll have better access to the eventual lake that will form here,” he proposed.  “Say two hundred feet or so, with a gradually sloping bottom no more than twenty feet deep before it reaches the deep areas.  It will be helpful to get boats in and out of the lake.  I’m sure you can understand the usefulness of that.”

Indeed, Moudrost could, and he suddenly appreciated Minalan’s foresight.  He had not been thinking about it from the landsman’s perspective.  But he did understand boats.  He had been using them since he was a child in Enultramar, and he appreciated the idea of a good landing to get them into and out of the water.  He surveyed the area with a fresh eye, determining just how he could tailor his working to provide the best advantage for the resulting cavity to be used for fishing someday in the future.

It was relatively easy to blend the cut he was to make with the existing geography.  Indeed, the ephemeral creeks that lapped at the edges of the mountain could be encouraged to fill the space more quickly if he selected properly.

“I can do that,” he affirmed, as he dug out the tool he needed from his bag.  “It will add several hundred tons more snowstone to the order,” he warned.

“That’s fine, I don’t mind,” Minalan assured.  “How deep do you plan on going?”

“Almost half a mile down,” Moudrost informed him.  “I will remove all the snowstone on this side of the effect.  An additional sliver will not make much difference to the spell.  Or your payment,” he added.

“Remember, I get to keep all the crystals inside,” the wizard prompted as Moudrost began measuring the space with the orb of coral he was using.

A Dryland wizard would call it an enchantment, a magical device specializing in one particular use.  The Vundel saw it from a different perspective.  It was the natural proclivity of this type of coral to be used in this matter.  The Vundel did not create “enchantments”, they harvested them from the bottom of the sea.  He could use it to exclude all material that was not the pure snowstone, and direct those materials into the shallow portion.  That included the crystals that the wizard coveted.

“I did not forget,” he assured, laconically, as he began to set the working into place.

“Do you mind if I observe?” Minalan asked, casually.  “Purely out of professional curiosity.  I missed your earlier spell, and I would dearly love to see how the Vundel accomplish such things.”

“Do what you wish, but do not interfere,” warned Moudrost.  “The results of that could be catastrophic.”

“Of course,” nodded the wizard politely, as he manifested two staves from his interdimensional space.  “Proceed at your leisure,” he said, as he set the butt of each staff on the ground.  Moudrost checked that he was not using any active spells that could molest his working.  Once satisfied, he began the final stage of the spell.

It did not take long.  He was not using his own power, but that borrowed from the pod.  He was merely a channel for the energy, and as it built up within the coral he was the one directing the lines of force and demarcation that would accomplish the task.  It was a heady feeling, wielding that much power, but he had managed far greater forces in his career.  This was a relatively simple exercise.  It was just great in magnitude.

And then it was done.  The mountain was gone, transported to his pod out in the Shattered Sea, where it would be ground to powder by the servants of the Vundel and then distributed across the dying portions of the Golden Reef.

It was difficult to communicate to mere landsmen the importance of the snowstone for the Vundel.  They did not understand the complex and sophisticated life cycle of the leviathans and how dependent they were on the harvests from the reefs.  They did not appreciate the long, steady decline the great stretches of coral had suffered, nor how intrinsic they were to the survival of his masters.  And they did not appreciate what a marvel the discovery of snowstone was for them.

The Golden Reef had not grown for thousands and thousands of years.  Indeed, it had been degrading long before the Alon came to Callidore, he knew.  Extreme measures were used to preserve it under the Vundel’s watchful eyes, but the harvests grew smaller and smaller every century.  Every year another small portion of the reef died out entirely, causing a frenzy of territorial competition between the leviathans and their pods.

Until now.  The snowstone had reversed that course when nothing else had.

For the first time in tens of thousands of years, the magical coral beds had expanded, not contracted, when the finely-ground snowstone dust had been added to their composition.  The harvests had increased unexpectedly, too, while the nymphs exulted in the renewed vitality the reefs were displaying.  His pod had grown unexpectedly stronger over the last few years.  The promise of even greater expansion of their undersea fields was enticing.  Indeed, they had been willing to pay any price the Dry demanded of it to secure more.

But they were more than willing to take it without recompense if they needed to.  It was that fundamental to their survival.

At the same time he removed the mountain, he brought the great stack of metals and corals the Vundel had agreed to in exchange to the newly-exposed shallow floor of the gaping cavity.

It was an unimaginable fortune, to the Dryland wizards.  But Moudrost knew that his masters would be happy to pay tenfold more for this vital resource.  They did not use metals, as such, and saw them as a mere byproduct of processing their undersea harvests.  If Minalan wanted the waste of the Vundel in exchange for this unique mineral, he was welcome to them.  Likewise, the corals he requested were inconsequential.  Only the Golden Coral was precious to the Vundel.  All else was mildly interesting but unimportant, like pretty weeds growing in a landsman’s garden.

“There!” Minalan exclaimed, happily, as the pyramids of gold and silver and rarer metals appeared.  “I do appreciate that, Moudrost.  As a mariner, I’m certain you can appreciate the security that comes from not launching your boat in a half-mile deep lake.”

“I know little of lakes,” Moudrost shrugged.  “They are mockeries of the sea.  But I am gratified you are satisfied with the bargain,” he offered.  “This exchange will enrich my pod significantly.”

“Well, we’re on the cusp of making more,” Minalan promised, as he waved his servants forward into the shallow portion of the cavity to retrieve his riches.  “My experiments are producing promising results.  By this time next year, we should – should! – have worked out the process.”

“I care not how you manage to do so, simply produce more,” Moudrost quietly demanded.  “That is the command my masters send to you.”

“I am being as responsive as I can,” argued Minalan.  “It’s not easy, you know.  I’ve invested as much time and research into the matter as possible.  It was fascinating to watch your work, though.  Was that a second-degree dimensional instability you used to separate the mountain from the bedrock?  And then a congruent spatial exchange you used for the transfer?  That’s similar to the approach I use for the portals, only it’s sustained, not a single event.”

“I know not the words you are speaking,” grunted Moudrost.  “I do what I have been bidden.  I need not understand it in order to make use of it.”

“Of course,” Minalan sighed, clearly disappointed in his lack of understanding.

The Drylands magi tried to codify and classify everything when it came to their art.  For Moudrost and his fellow Seamagi, it was a different approach entirely.  During their two-year initiation, they were exposed to the minds of the laq’avathen tutors who implanted the capacities for such workings directly.  There were no words for such things.  There was no sense of thaumaturgy.  There were just spells that worked, and they were taught them.  Trying to explain the intricacies of the process to landsmen was pointless.

“So what manner of corals did you bring to me?” he asked, eagerly.

“The yellow knot, the blue coil, the ruddy lattice coral . . . around a hundred varieties that you might find useful,” Moudrost revealed.  “I am willing to extend my time in the Dry for a few days to instruct you better on their properties, if you wish.”

“That would be delightful,” Minalan agreed, as he suddenly looked up.  Three birds appeared in the sky overhead.  It took the seamage a moment to realize that they were extraordinarily large, and being ridden as mounts.  “Well, I see Dara has been informed of the exchange.  Bide, a moment, if you will.  I need to soothe her feelings.  She’s the noble in charge of this territory, and she was not entirely happy about giving up a mountain on her estate.”

Moudrost snorted to himself.  The landsmen were always quarreling about who owned a particular piece of property, which was as foolish as laying claim to one wave but not another.  The land was ephemeral.  The seas were eternal.  That was something he understood at his core.

He watched with interest as the three giant birds descended on the newly exposed bedrock and felt a moment of fear when it appeared that they would careen directly into their position.  But the great wings unfolded and caught the air, halting their descent until their great talons touched down.

“So it is done,” the female who dismounted first said when she approached Minalan.

“It is done,” agreed the wizard with a sigh.  From what his son had told him, this girl had also been one of the wizard’s pupils too, in her youth.  But she was still his subordinate in the contrived hierarchy the landsmen used.  “Your portion of the payment will be forthcoming,” he pledged, as he directed two Karshak porters to present their burdens to her for inspection.  Gold and silver, he noted, the monetary metals.  And only a small portion of what the wizard had secured in exchange for the mountain.

“I’m still unhappy about this,” the girl said, frowning.

“But you’ll have a pretty lake to fish in, in a few years,” the wizard promised.  “It will look magnificent from the Mewstower, and your people will have an enduring source of protein.”

“That doesn’t make me happy about it,” Dara repeated, grudgingly.  “You just sold a sizeable piece of the Westwood,” she accused.

“One that wasn’t being terribly useful,” Minalan argued.  “Nor did I have a choice.  In my place, what would you have done?  Moudrost, would your masters have accepted a refusal?”

“No, they would have bid me to seize the snowstone.  They care naught for the concerns of the Dry.  Nor could you have stopped me,” he added.

“Fine!” the girl scowled.  “Have the gold and silver sent to Westwood Hall.  I shall place it in front of the Flame for approval.  Perhaps I shall purchase a barony with it,” she threatened, as she remounted her bird.

“She doesn’t need gold to gain a barony,” Minalan confided, as the giant hawks launched themselves into the air and out over the gaping chasm that now lay at the limits of Minalan’s realm.  “But that went better than I expected.  Now, let’s go back to the mountain,” he proposed.  “Now that our business is concluded, there are . . . things I want to show you,” he said, thoughtfully.  “That is, if I can invoke your trust,” he added.

“Why do you require my trust?” Moudrost asked, curiously.  He was skeptical that there was anything the wizard possessed that was of interest to his masters.  It had taken the power of snowstone to even lure him out of the sea.

“Because it is a delicate matter, it concerns the Vundel, and I’m hoping to get your insight on the subject before you go back to sea,” Minalan answered, as he banished his staves and began leading Moudrost back up the mountain path.  “There’s something in my mountain I want to show you – a project I started a few years ago.  Now that the exchange is concluded, I’d like to get your perspective on it.  Indeed, I think you will be quite interested in what I have to say about what I’m about to show you,” he added, mysteriously.

Moudrost grunted and followed the wizard obediently.  But he doubted whatever trinket he had to show him would matter.

He had never been more mistaken in his life.

***

The temerity.  The utter temerity of these landsmen.  Moudrost’s soul screamed silently as he regarded the artifact the wizard claimed he’d created.

It was fascinating, from a purely intellectual and magical perspective.  Somehow Minalan had combined the crystal remnants of the snowstone spell into a stable, self-regulating magical pattern which constantly changed in form and size.  Moudrost had never seen or even heard of its like in all of his years of travel.  And while that was truly interesting to him, the fool had not been content with constructing such a unique anomaly.  He had perverted the sacred memory of his masters by installing the shade of one of the long-dead Celestial Mothers within.

It was a travesty; he knew in his bones.  It was akin to blasphemy, like watching a child play with the skeletal remains of his grandfather.  Worse, Moudrost decided, as the wizard was using the powerful remnant of a vastly superior intelligence like a lackey, bending its powers to his anemic will.

“What . . . have . . . you . . . done?” demanded the seamage, as he stared at the snowflake – that was the irreverent name Minalan had given it – and appreciated the horror of the situation.

“That’s a complicated matter,” conceded the wizard.  “It involves human gods and a severe concussion, and I’m still trying to work out the details.  But it provided an ideal matrix to install the enneagram we found in the Grain of Pors into something a little more robust than a simple crystal.  That process, at least, I have a little more understanding of.”

“You should not have dared such a thing!” Moudrost assured him, aghast at the thought.  “Have you no respect?  Are you mad?”

“Maybe a little,” shrugged Minalan.  “But this happened long before that.  I understand you are upset.  Indeed, I anticipated it.”

“Upset?  I should lay waste to this entire land to punish you for your temerity!” Moudrost said, his entire body shaking.  “I should summon the leviathans to rebuke your entire country for this!”

“So, you can understand why I was reluctant to show you,” Minalan continued, calmly.  “Ruderal suggested you and your masters might be upset by it.”

“It is an abomination!” Moudrost insisted, angrily.  “It should not be!”

“But it is,” Minalan countered.  “I did it.  I take responsibility for it.  And I do not regret it,” he said, as he took a seat in the chamber and gestured for Moudrost to take the other.  “It’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?  Sometimes I sit here for hours and just watch it change.  It’s mesmerizing.  Now that I’ve installed the Celestial Mother in it, of course it has become even more interesting.  There’s a kind of consciousness asleep in there,” he pointed out.  “I’m curious how that will develop.”

“Your curiosity may have doomed our entire race, Wizard!” Moudrost said, beside himself with anger and despair.  “Such things are not your toys.  What you have done is sacrilege,” he assured him, his fists clenched in rage.  “You have perverted the sacred memory of the Celestial Mothers!”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort, from my perspective,” reasoned Minalan, as he set a black object on the little table between the chairs.  “And if you can calm yourself enough for a reasonable discussion, I’m hoping that I can convince you of that.  Indeed, I have a proposal for you and the Vundel.  You won’t hear it if you lay waste to anything.”

“There is nothing you can say to make up for what you have done here!” Moudrost insisted angrily, gesturing to the Snowflake.

“I wouldn’t be that hasty, if I were you,” Minalan countered.  “And I will be happy to explain everything to you, if I’m allowed.  But first I need some clarification on a few points, concerning the Vundel.  If you don’t mind, I’m going to have my . . . well, my assistant, Ariel, listen in.  I need to know about the original agreement with the Vundel concerning humanity’s settlement here, and the rules that apply.  I don’t want to proceed until I understand the fundamentals thoroughly.”

“What could you possibly have to say that would keep me from sending this entire mountain and all who live around it directly to the sea?” the seamage threatened, angrily.

“Well, since that includes your son, I would think you might be hesitant to proceed in such a bloody fashion,” considered the wizard.  “Then again, it is hard to determine just where your true loyalty lies: with your fishy masters?  Or with your fellow humans?  You see that question could determine the fate of our entire world,” Minalan proposed.  “If you just wildly react and seek to punish me for my temerity, you lose the opportunity to hear about something a good deal more important to your masters than mere snowstone.  So please do sit down and be reasonable,” the wizard persuaded.

“It will do you no good,” Moudrost said, shaking his head.  “What you have done is unforgivable.  Even if I was loyal to you, I could not stop the retribution that will come for this.”

“Well, let us put that theory to a trial,” Minalan suggested.  “You have the knowledge and perspective that I need.  But I can at least tell you enough to stay your hand for a moment while we speak if you give me the chance.  Tell me, what do the Vundel want more badly than snowstone?”

The question confused Moudrost.  There was nothing they wanted more than the unique mineral.  “You have nothing that they desire, beyond the snowstone,” he answered.

“I beg to differ.  Have you ever heard of the Lost Egg?” he asked, unexpectedly.  “The Alka Alon call it the Stolen Queen, but they got the story second-hand through the Met Sakinsa, so it might be subject to misunderstanding through mistranslation.  But the last egg of the last Celestial Mother—”

“Of course, I know of it,” Moudrost said, warily.  “It was the final tragedy that befell the Vundel.  It was a matter of great shame and disgrace.”

“Well, I happen to have found it,” Minalan pronounced.  “Now sit down and tell me what I need to know, and I’ll reveal some of what I know to you.”

“Impossible!” whispered the seamage.  He was stunned.  It had to be a lie, an act of desperation the wizard was invoking to escape retribution for his crimes.  To suggest that he had found what the entire world had been scoured for was ludicrous.  “They searched for thousands of years . . .”

“And I stumbled upon it by accident, in a way,” Minalan agreed.  “It’s quite intact.  The Alka Alon assure me that it is still preserved, encysted against danger, and is likely quite viable.  Think of it: the Vundel could revive the ancient powers that once guided and controlled every fish in the sea.  The central axis of their entire civilization.  But only if you sit your arse in this chair and have a calm, reasonable discussion on the matter.”

“You cannot be telling the truth,” Moudrost said, darkly.

“Have I ever lied to you?” Minalan countered.  “Obscured and hidden some information from you, perhaps, but I would not lie about a matter this grave.  I have found the egg.  I intend to return it to the Vundel.  Not in exchange for gold or coral, but because that is what is right to do.  Search your conscience and interrogate your intuition,” Minalan proposed.  “Do I act as if I’m lying?”

“Then you are mistaken!” Moudrost insisted.

“I would not gamble humanity’s future with such a claim if I thought I could be mistaken,” Minalan disagreed, firmly.  “I have recovered the egg.  It is in a safe place.  And you will not find it without my willing assistance – of that, I have made certain.  You can threaten me, but in doing so you threaten the future of the egg.  I have enough knowledge to understand how critical it would be for your masters.  I have taken steps to ensure that it remains out of their knowledge if I am killed.

“So, sit down and have a reasonable discussion about it, before you let yourself do something you and your masters will regret.  Indeed, that’s why I need to know about the original agreement between humanity and the Vundel so that I can return it properly.  But I want you to understand that is my intention – not to use it to extort concessions, but to return it to them as a gift.  A token of our appreciation for their hospitality, so to speak. Now . . . sit down,” Minalan commanded.

His head whirling, Moudrost found himself doing as instructed.  He regarded the wizard in a new light – not as a mere magelord selling his wares, but as someone who understood at least a bit of the way the world worked.  No, Minalan was not lying, his intuition told him.  He was as trustworthy as any man.  But there was no way he could be relating a truth.

The egg had been lost so long ago that it had become a legend to his masters.  It was the final victory of the Formless and their vassals over the Celestial Mothers who had defeated them.  It had been given up as lost for tens of thousands of years, with no hope that it would ever be recovered.  Indeed, the Vundel understood it to have been consumed and destroyed.

But what if the wizard was correct?  What if he had somehow stumbled across the egg?  That would change everything, he knew.  Restoring that remarkable intelligence would be a fate-altering event for his masters.  It would give them hope in their time of despair.  For the Great Mothers and their successors had not merely been the leaders of the oceans, commanding millions of subordinates to do their bidding in a well-ordered manner, they had literally birthed the species that kept that order in line.

The species of the Dry did not truly understand the Vundel, he knew.  They did not appreciate the vast network of subordinate species the Vundel commanded to keep their life cycle intact and working.  Nor did they understand just how devolved that intricate, impossibly complex network was from the height of the Celestial Mothers.

The Vundel’s society was merely a shadow of that once-great web of life and thought and magic.  They were but the last remnants that were able to survive on their own without the Mothers, thanks to the nature of their original purpose.  The Vundel had grown to be self-sustaining, but they were once just a part of a vastly more complex system that the Great Mothers had ruled over for hundreds of thousands of years.

They lived now as an intact fragment of a far greater whole.  Their entire long lives were a mournful tribute to the memory of the extinct Celestial Mothers and their vast numbers of children.  They were the caretakers of Callidore.  They were not her true masters.

“What do you want to know?” Moudrost asked, his mind whirling in confusion and anger and anticipation.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Minalan assured.  “Ariel, record mode, please?”

“Of course, Administrator,” the little black object said in Narasi.

“Good.  I may not remember this all later, and I may need to.  Now, I have copies of the human-made texts of the original settlement agreement, according to the colonial authorities.  But I need to know more – specifically, how the Vundel view certain aspects of it.  As the Alka Alon were our intercessors in that negotiation, I am a little suspect of how they rendered it for us.  But if I am to return this egg, I need to know the best way to do it under that agreement.  I want to avoid any misunderstandings that might lead to unfortunate consequences – like humanity’s extinction.  And to do that I need to know what the Vundel’s perspective was on it, and how it may have changed over the centuries.”

“That is . . . a lot,” Moudrost sighed.  “They barely acknowledge our existence.  To them, they just finished such negotiations.  You truly have the egg?” Moudrost asked, softly, almost pleadingly, as he studied the wizard’s face.

“I truly do, you have my word.  I’ll swear any oath you like.  But it has been confirmed as thoroughly as I was able without actually involving the Vundel.  It is intact, it is viable, and it is thoroughly hidden.  And I want nothing more urgently than to return it to its rightful owners.  Surely you can appreciate that.  And hopefully you can convince your masters of that.”

“I cannot guarantee how they will respond over this,” Moudrost said, warningly.  “This is unprecedented.  I cannot even predict how they will react,” he confessed.

“They should keep in mind that I did not steal it, I merely found it,” reasoned Minalan.  “And having found it, I want to return it without recriminations.  I act entirely in good faith,” he pledged.

Moudrost heaved a great sigh.  The wizard did not understand how the Vundel thought about such things.  He did not realize how dangerous this revelation was, to himself or humanity.  His masters lived long lives of despair and longing for their Celestial Mothers.  They would not react with gratitude in being teased with the possibility of the return of the egg.  Indeed, he could not fathom just how they might react.  But he suspected the worst.

All he could do was cooperate with the portion of the problem fate had laid at his feet.  The wizard was mad, it was clear, but he could negotiate with a madman before feeling compelled to slay him.  Nor could he keep this a secret.  As soon as he returned to the pod and was interrogated about his journey, his understanding of the matter would be revealed to them in full.  The Vundel did not merely ask questions.  They possessed his mind to learn of what he had seen.

“I will tell you what I know, Minalan.  But I fear the worst will come from this.  Our people may not survive.  We are in unknown waters,” he pronounced.  That produced an unexpected chuckle in the wizard.

“One of the benefits of madness is that the unknown is no more worrisome than the known,” Minalan informed him.  “Humanity is already doomed, one way or another, if nothing is done to stop what is coming.  It is my hope that this can be a step toward resolving the problems that face both of our races on Callidore.  We have nothing really to lose by discussing them.  It is merely a matter of timing, I suppose.  But I have to try.

“Now,” the wizard said, straightening, “Regarding that settlement agreement, would you say that the Vundel were more interested in establishing dominion over the Dry Lands or merely desired a competent tenant for an unused bit of property . . .?” the wizard began.  “A lot of what comes from this will be dependent on that sort of thing, I think . . .”

Chapter Thirty

A Wizard Gone Mad

Alya

“He’s been in there for two days, now,” Alya explained to Lilastien worriedly as they both stared at the new castle from the bailey of the old.  “I thought things were going well, lately,” she confessed, “especially after Moudrost appeared and the Sea Folk got their mountain of snowstone.  He seemed fine.  Then yesterday,” she sighed, “he woke up and things were . . . different.”

“Different, how?” Lilastien asked.

Alya had called for the sorceress the previous evening, once odd things began happening.  If anyone could figure out what was going on with her husband, his doctor might be able to give her advice.  She had been able to contend with his madness the last time things got out of control; she devoutly hoped she could figure out what to do with this episode.

“Did he display any extreme emotions?  Unusual personal behavior?  Violent outbursts?” Lilastien asked, searchingly.

“No,” Alya admitted, “but when he woke up it wasn’t one of the . . . nice ones who was with him.  Ruderal says that it was the one he calls the Monster.”

“Ah,” Lilastien nodded.  “That one.  Magically brilliant but pathologically paranoid.  He often has a hard time with that one.  Last time I had to intervene it was because of the . . . the Monster.”

“This time he’s locked himself in his workshops,” Alya said, turning away from the mountain for a moment.  “That’s not unusual, of course.  When he’s working hard on a project, he doesn’t like to get distracted.  Everyone tries to respect that.  But this time . . .”

“Why was this time different?” Lilastien asked.

“For one thing, he sent for Banamor,” Alya offered.  “For another, he sent Ruderal away yesterday afternoon.  Even if he is working on something hard, he usually keeps Rudy around to fetch for him or send messages.”

“And Banamor?” Lilastien asked, curiously.  “Minalan doesn’t consult with him very often?”

“Not on enchantment and thaumaturgy unless it’s a business matter.  He’d use Taren or Master Ulin for that.  And I’m pretty certain he’s working on an enchantment.  He said as much before he went into the mountain.  I’ve sent for him – for Banamor – to come and explain what happened.  But since yesterday afternoon no one has been in or out of his workshops.  He has some sort of magical barriers in place.  And he won’t respond to mind-to-mind contact,” Alya added.  “Not even Ruderal.  Not even Pentandra.”

Lilastien considered.  “Pentandra knows about this?”

“I let her know I was worried,” Alya admitted, her eyes downcast.  “I don’t want to sound like an anxious wife, but if anyone would know what Minalan is doing, she would.  And she doesn’t.  Now she’s worried, too.”

Lilastien took a deep breath.  “The truth of the matter is that he’s probably working on something far beyond her scope of knowledge,” she proposed.  “Pentandra is a brilliant mage, don’t mistake me, but Minalan has been working with powers and forces that are beyond what the Alka Alon understand.  That . . . monster in his head knows more about magic than just about anyone if what he’s said is true.  Minalan is learning amazing things from those memories, but the price is high.”

Alya nodded.  That much she understood.

She had watched Minalan carefully since their return from Anghysbel.  After being so close to losing him to his wounds she had been vigilant about his welfare.  Alya knew better than anyone but perhaps Lilastien how Minalan was suffering.  The chorus of memories he endured changed daily, and each one was a fresh hell for him to wade through to gain the hidden treasures they contained.

He’d told her as much himself in long, sometimes fearful confessions in their bedchamber, late at night.  He’d related memories of the long-dead ghosts that had been in turn terrifying, despairing, and horrific.  He had to endure each one just as if he had lived through it himself.  It had made him miserable.

But he had also championed the ordeal.  Minalan spoke glowingly of the amazing insights he gleaned from even the worst of his memories, knowledge that just could not be achieved in any other way.  Ancient secrets from distant worlds had informed his plans.  He’d proven it over and over again, she’d seen.  While she was no mage, she had lived around her husband and his colleagues long enough to understand just how marvelous the achievements he had made in a few short weeks actually were.  The wizards of Sevendor were astonished at the new archway as an unprecedented advance in enchantment that they had no hope of understanding.  Only Minalan knew how to do that, and they were suitably impressed.

The balance between her husband’s madness and his incredible achievements had kept her watchful, but hopeful.  Some days he seemed warm, affectionate, and loving.  Those were good days, usually, but there was always a disturbing feeling in Alya’s heart that the love and affection Minalan displayed for her and the children were inspired by the personality of some long-dead ghost.  On other days Minalan was petty, distant, or outright hateful.  Often, he had recognized his behavior and voluntarily retreated to the seclusion of his workshops.  Sometimes Alya had to prompt him to leave, his behavior toward her and the children was so poor.

And then there were those days when The Monster, as Ruderal called it, was dominant in Minalan’s memory.  Those were by far the worst.

Minalan was dramatically affected by the creature he called Aza'methet.  He had only described the being vaguely, as he did not like speaking of it.  It was, he had related, so entirely alien to human sensibilities that there were just no words adequate to describe it.

She had witnessed her strong, capable husband curled up like a baby at the foot of their bed, whimpering in abject terror at the very sight of her.  She had seen him storm around their bedchamber like a caged animal, hurling things around the room with magic or shouting angrily in some harsh language she’d never heard before.  He had never struck her, by Trygg’s grace, but the alien look in his eye when he suffered such bouts was unnerving.  She knew how easily he could destroy her with magic.  Or with his bare hands.  It was a testament to Minalan’s enormous control that he had managed to endure this torture for so long without succumbing to violence.

Alya had to convince herself to enjoy the good days and protect herself and the children during the bad days.  That was her first priority.  She understood why he had undertaken the interlude with Szal the Yith and was willing to pay this price, but it was steep.  She would not voluntarily place their children in harm’s way if she could help it.  Minalan had made that choice, not the children.  She had considered sending them back to Spellgarden while her husband thrashed through his madness, but she was reluctant to deprive them of their father during his more benign periods.

But today was not one of those.

“Do you have any idea what he’s working on?” Lilastien asked, drawing her out of her deep thoughts.

“I . . . no, I really don’t,” she admitted.  “Moudrost the Seamage came to Sevendor a few days ago to buy that little mountain at back of the new castle.  From what Dara and Ruderal told me, everything went well.  We had dinner with them that night, after the exchange.  Ruderal even brought his mother to Sevendor for a few days.  It all seemed fine.

“But then yesterday morning the Monster woke up, and he stomped off to the mountain.  Since then . . . it’s been like this,” she said, gesturing up toward the new castle.  There was a hazy shimmer that hung in the air around the peak of Rundeval, like heat escaping a hot rock on a summer’s day.  And there was an uneasiness that permeated everything, a palpable sensation that anyone with even a hint of rajira could feel in their bones.

Lilastien folded her arms and began to pace a little.  “All right, this sounds a little like the last few times,” she sighed, shaking her head.  “There’s probably nothing to worry about if we can get to him and calm him down a bit.  Two days straight is a bit much, but the last time I spoke to him he told me that sometimes his visitations linger for longer than a day.  Of course, then he might have gone from his monster into a fugue state,” she frowned.  “He’s done that at least once, and I had to calm him down with a sedative.  But I think you’re right,” she said, glancing back at the mountain.  “This time feels different, somehow.”

“What can you do to help?” Alya asked.

“Nothing, if he’s blocked the Ways into the mountain and put up defenses around his workshop,” the sorceress admitted.  “If he’s isolating himself like that, it’s going to be very difficult to reach him.  We may just have to wait it out and hope for the best.”

“I mislike that plan,” Alya frowned.

“I do, too,” Lilastien nodded.  “It’s a unique feeling of helplessness when you know someone is suffering and you can’t do anything about it.  You were by his bedside in the hospital when he came back, you understand that.  It’s an order of magnitude worse when you think you can do something about it but are stopped by circumstance.”

Alya regarded the Alkan physician for a moment and found herself sympathetic.  “How do you contend with those . . . those memories in your head?  Why do you seem to deal with it better than Minalan?”

Lilastien uttered a sarcastic chuckle.  “Do I?  I don’t know.  I suppose I’ve had a thousand years of living with unpleasant memories.  Minalan has only had about thirty.  Perhaps I’m just better at it.  Or perhaps there’s something in my Alka Alon psychology that protects me better.  I’ve thought about it a lot, but I truly don’t know.”  She looked up at the overcast sky.  “Let’s go back to the hall.  I think Banamor has arrived, and it’s starting to rain.”

***

Spellmonger’s Hall was usually a merry place, where Minalan’s children, servants and retainers spent their domestic life in the midst of the bustle of Sevendor Castle.

It was a grand hall, for its size, homey enough to please Alya’s rustic sensibilities yet improved enough by enchantment to make it a suitable residence for the most powerful wizard in the world.  The frequent guests and visitors conspired to keep the place lively, and the children’s daily games and lessons provided a lighthearted background for more serious affairs.  But it was as homey as the Baroness of Sevendor could make it.  Alya had done her best to make each of their homes as comfortable as possible, but Spellmonger’s Hall remained one of her favorites.

But today the usual laughter and merriment was banished by anxiety.  Everyone could feel that something was not quite right, even the children – especially the children.  Minalan had gone into the mountain and then sent everyone away.  The vibration that seemed to emanate from the great castle pervaded everything, everyone, and every mood.  A sense of foreboding and fear settled over the place, now.

The nurses were doing their best to distract the children with games and lessons, but they were pensive and jumpy without understanding why.  There were visitors she had summoned, along with Lilastien, who were lingering around the great hall while she conferred with the sorceress.  None of them were relaxed, especially Ruderal and his father.  Alya knew everyone was thinking back a few weeks to the day when Minalan had put a barrier around the entire domain that belied any attempt, physical or magical, to penetrate.  That had been alarming and disconcerting to everyone.

Banamor entered the hall just after Alya and Lilastien returned, and the Lord Mayor of Sevendor had never looked more agitated.  Alya spent a few moments shooing all the extraneous people who had gathered so that she could address those she hoped would be able to help.  This situation was emerging into crisis, she knew.  She needed the wisest and most adept people she knew to help her navigate it.

When the children had been sent to the nursery, and suitable refreshments had been provided by servants who then retreated, Alya took a deep breath and addressed those she had gathered in her need.  Apart from Ruderal, Banamor and Lilastien, Dara, Tyndal, Rondal, Taren, Master Ulin, Moudrost the Seamage, Sire Cei, Sir Festaran, Lady Varen, and other magi had gathered at her request.

“Since yesterday morning, Minalan has secured himself inside his workshops in the new castle and sealed all entrances,” she announced.  “As I’m certain you can tell yourselves, he is doing . . . something in there.  I know not what, or to what purpose, but I feel we need to figure it out before something . . . untoward happens.

“Each of you has had some experience with my husband of late that has no doubt shaken your confidence in him as a leader, or even as a sane man.  Some of you know the affliction he suffers and what toll that takes on him.  You have also witnessed the wonders he has been forging.  They call him the Mad Mage of Sevendor, in some places, and I cannot argue against the distasteful nickname.  But there has oft been true method to his apparent madness, even if we did not understand it at first.  I need to figure out whether he is in pursuit of another such wonder, or if he has succumbed to his madness and taken a dangerous turn.”

Sire Cei looked around at the others uneasily.  The Castellan of Sevendor had been faithfully administering the day-to-day business of the barony even after the Spellmonger had returned from exile.

“I fear the worst, Baroness,” he admitted, his great shoulders slumped.  “I saw him briefly as he passed the gatehouse yesterday.  His visage was filled with wrath or fear or some other troubling matter.  I suspected that his discussions with the Seamage had not gone well, and he was going to examine his payment for the trade.”

“Nay, he had naught to complain of, my lord,” Moudrost the Seamage insisted.  “Indeed, he was quite satisfied with the bargain, or so he said when I inquired.  We did have discussion on . . . other matters,” the mariner admitted, as he looked away uncomfortably.  “Matters of great import, but nothing that should have inspired an extreme reaction.  Indeed, if either of us was upset at the result, it was I.”

“What other matters?” Rondal asked, curiously.  “Something that might have inspired this?”

“It is not to be discussed,” Moudrost said, flatly.  There was little in his tone that encouraged further review.  Ruderal’s laconic sire was not the sort of man who was easily dissuaded, Alya had noted.  He seemed uneasy in his surroundings and at odds with everyone else in the room.

Thankfully, his son was more forthcoming.

“I escorted Master Minalan to his workshop and waited on him for several hours, before and after Banamor came,” the apprentice reported.  “At first he seemed only interested in the new corals, crystals and metals he received after the mountain was removed by the Sea Folk.

“But after Mayor Banamor left, he became increasingly disturbed.  As if he was frustrated, somehow.  Then he sent me away and bid that he not be disturbed for any reason.  I tried to return later, last night, to bring him to bed, but there was a barrier in place that kept me from passing.  Nor could I go through the Ways,” he admitted.  “I know not how, but he blocked that means of transport.”  The lad sounded apologetic and defensive, as if he had done something wrong by leaving his master.

“You said that one of his less favorable memories had possession of him?” Alya prompted.

Ruderal looked even more troubled.  “Yes, the Monster is in full control,” he said, hoarsely.

“Banamor,” Lilastien said, suddenly.  “Apart from Ruderal you were the last one to see Minalan.  What did you discuss?”

The portly former footwizard stood unsteadily and looked around the room as if he was unwilling to speak in front of everyone.  But he sighed and gave his report.

“A few days ago, perhaps a week or more, I revealed to Minalan that I have been harvesting and collecting a rare, arcanely sensitive herb from the streambed of the Ketta,” he revealed, quietly.  “That is, it is usually rare.  But I theorize that the snowstone particles which flow from our domain have polluted the regions downriver and are thus responsible for its growth.”

“Wait, what herb?” demanded Lilastien.

“The lily known as . . . mindwort,” Banamor confessed.

Alya watched as Lilastien’s eyes opened wide and her jaw fell.  “Mindwort?  You’ve found mindwort?”

“I have more than sixty seed pods in my stores, now,” Banamor agreed, guiltily.

“Do you have any idea what that will do to a mage?” the sorceress demanded.

“Intimately,” admitted Banamor.  “I’ve experimented with it, a few times.  It is quite potent.”

“What does this herb do?” Alya asked, sharply.

“It dramatically expands a mage’s sensitivity to all arcane forces,” Lilastien supplied.  “It is a powerful psychedelic when properly prepared.  And it can have highly detrimental effects if the preparation is off, or it is used unwisely.  It’s worse than the draughts of kirsieth that some of your colleagues use to try to increase their powers.”

“The difference is that mindwort actually works,” defended Banamor.  “Once when I used it – properly, mind! – I kind of . . . accidentally . . . birthed a goddess.”

“You birthed a goddess?” Lilastien asked, even more surprised.

“Just a little one,” Banamor demurred.  “It’s a long story.  And it had lingering effects when it came to my cat, but I don’t want to discuss that, either.”

“So you gave Minalan this mindwort?” Alya asked, sternly.

“My lady, he insisted – and how could I refuse?” the merchant asked, miserably.  “I cautioned him against its use.  Indeed, when I first brought it to his attention he rejected it, feeling that it would lead to a poor effect if he took it in his condition.  Until yesterday,” he added.  “Then he summoned me mind-to-mind and insisted I provide him some.”

“Some?” Lilastien asked, sharply.  “How much?”

“Three . . . three seed pods,” Banamor answered, reluctantly.  “I warned him once again, but there was no diminishing his desire.  He had me prepare it for him and drank the potion immediately.  Then he dismissed me.  I went home and prepared for the worst,” he revealed, guiltily.

“Three?  You gave him three of them?” Lilastien reacted, angrily.  “Were you trying to drive him mad?”

“I . . . we will deal with this later, if there is a later, Banamor,” Alya said, sternly.  She understood the man’s loyalty and the difficult position she imagined her husband had placed him in.  That did not make her less angry with him.

Just then, the magelights that lit the room all faded to nearly nothing, mere pale globes that barely illuminated the space below.  Everyone looked up at them worriedly.

“That isn’t supposed to happen,” Rondal said, softly.

“Minalan must be using the Snowflake,” offered Taren, as he glanced at Lady Varen.  “It influences the local Magosphere.  But if he’s drawing that much power from the surrounding area . . .”

“He must be doing a very great working,” finished Lady Varen.  The Emissary did not look upset, but she did seem concerned.  “I can only think of a few spells that would require that kind of energy.  Not even his portals needed that much.”

“Could perhaps the gods be of use?” Master Ulin asked, suddenly.  “It is known that Minalan has conversations with them, from time to time.  I was skeptical until I actually met one.  But could not they intervene?”

“Do you know how to whistle them up, Master Ulin?” asked Dara, wryly.  “They don’t seem to appear very often to those who invoke them.”

Lilastien squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.  “Actually, I might have a way,” she admitted, taking her golden pendant in hand.  “Don’t ask me to explain.  I would have to violate a confidence and a few oaths to do so.  But I think I can summon . . . Ishi,” she said, staring at the necklace in her palm.  “I didn’t think I would have to do it this soon, but if you’re worried . . .”

Alya glanced up at the fading magelights before staring at the sorceress.  “Yes, I am officially worried,” she said, flatly.  “I don’t need to tell you of all people why.  If you can summon divine help, please be about it.”

“As you wish, Baroness,” Lilastien nodded, then mumbled a phrase in Old High Perwynese.  “It should only take a moment . . .”

Indeed, in just a few minutes there was a shimmering in the air of the hall and a scent of flowers filled the room, almost overpowering the stench of fear and anxiety that broke out.  A moment after that the curvy figure of the goddess of love manifested in the middle of the hall.

“Why is everyone staring at me?” Ishi asked, self-consciously.  “Is there something in my teeth?  My hair?” she asked, her hands moving to check both.

“Relax, Goddess,” Lilastien suggested.  “We need your help.”

“No doubt, but I didn’t expect you to use that measure to summon me like this, in front of all these people,” she told the sorceress, her voice irritated.  “I would have changed,” she said, smoothing out her pristine gown.

“It’s an emergency,” Lilastien said, flatly.  “Minalan is having an episode.  He’s locked himself in with the Snowflake and is doing gods know what.”

“I certainly don’t know!” the goddess said, defensively.  “I was overseeing . . . well, that’s private,” she dismissed.  “I’ve barely been paying attention to him.”

“Well, you need to now,” Lilastien insisted.  “You and whomever else from the pantheon you can scare up.  We can’t get in there.  He’s blocked the Ways and blocked the entrances.  We don’t know what he’s doing.  We just fear the worst and decided it was time for divine intervention.”

“Of course you did,” the goddess hissed, her eyes narrowing.  “Very well.  I can probably get Trygg and Briga, actually.  If we can’t reach him . . .”

As if to emphasize the urgency of the moment, the magelights began getting brighter . . . and brighter.  In a moment they were blinding, filling the room with white light that made everyone but the goddess shield their eyes.

“All right, then, it’s like that!” Ishi said softly to herself.  “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.  When men get involved in a project not even a flash of boob can distract them sometimes.  The idiots!” she said, shaking her head as she faded away.

The magelights died down somewhat but were still far brighter than normal after she left.

“Alya, Minalan mentioned he was keeping a journal,” Lilastien said, suddenly, snapping her fingers.  “Where is it?  Here?  Or in his workshop?”

“It’s here,” Alya admitted.  “He keeps it in his bedchamber to write in at the end of the night.  Why?”

“Because I want to read it and invade his privacy and figure out what’s going on, what triggered this episode,” Lilastien informed her, rising.  “Perhaps I can get some insight on what sent him over the edge of madness.  If it is madness.  Upstairs?”

“Second chamber on the right,” Alya agreed, as she slumped back in her chair.  “Although if the goddess can’t manage to get inside, I don’t know what good reading his diary will do.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lilastien said as she mounted the staircase.  “Even madmen can keep good records.”

“Dunselen certainly did,” agreed Taren in a murmur.  “Who knows, maybe she can find something.”

“If we could just get in there, I know I could reason with him,” Alya complained.  “Or at least distract him enough to . . . to . . .”

“Well, if Ishi’s actual tits aren’t enough to do that, what makes you think you could, my lady?” Tyndal asked, his head cocked.

“I’m not just a woman, I’m his wife,” assured Alya.  “He’ll listen to me.  He always has.  Mostly,” she conceded.

“The portal!” Ruderal said, suddenly.  “I forgot: he may have blocked the Ways and the doorways, but he has a small arch in the chamber of the Snowflake, now!”

Taren stirred again.  “That might work,” he conceded.  “If he didn’t deactivate it.  If he’s used it with the main Sevendor portal even once, I might be able to establish a connection.  I don’t understand the magical formulas he uses, but I know how to use them.”

“And then what?” asked Banamor.  “Just try to be very persuasive to a magical madman under the influence of a strong narcotic?”

Tyndal looked at Taren.  “I believe there are . . . contingencies in place.”

“You think it is time?” the thaumaturge asked, hesitantly.

“That entire bloody mountain is glowing,” Rondal agreed.  “It’s making rainbow patterns out of the falling rain.  How long before he does something he can’t undo?  I think it’s time,” he agreed, gravely.

Taren sighed and nodded.  “I’ll inform Terleman and Mavone.  If the goddess can’t make him stop . . . well, we should give it a go.”

“You mean . . . you’ve considered . . .” Alya asked, her mouth agape as she realized the implications of the conversation.

“We had to, my lady,” Tyndal assured her.  “It was only prudent.  It is not out of malice or ambition.  Only safety.  As you suggested,” he added.

Alya started to speak, and then stopped.  “You’re right,” she sighed.  “I’m sorry I doubted you.  Yes, summon our friends,” she decided.  “Who was chosen to face him?”

“I and Terleman, as well as Mavone,” Taren answered, his voice heavy.  “Then Tyndal, Rondal and Wenek.  After that . . . well, anyone who felt they had a chance.”

“Do it,” Alya ordered, as lightning flashed outside.  “Now.  If the goddesses fail, it may well be our last hope, if you can take us through the portal.”

“Us?” Taren asked, surprised.

“I will be accompanying you,” Alya revealed.  “Mavone can stay behind and coordinate if we fail, but I shall go confront my husband.  And gods willing, I will convince him to stay his hand before he slays us all and destroys all of Sevendor.”

“You, my lady?” objected Sire Cei.  “You have no powers against the Spellmonger, forgive me for pointing out.”

“The hell I don’t!” Alya said, her nostrils flaring.  “I married him.  And rescuing him from his own mistakes is my duty.  It’s what wives do,” she said, with an air of finality in her voice.

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-One

A Hell Of A Hangover

After an interminable time asleep, I awoke to the sight of the Magolith floating over my face.

I watched the emerald-green sphere, its protective metal harness clasped tightly around its perimeter, as it slowly bobbed above me, the arcane light from within throbbing as the center point of the Snowflake inside the sphere pulsated in time with its crystalline host.  I could sense the presence of the Handmaiden, much stronger than usual, hovering like an attentive nurse or a concerned mother over a sick child.  The remnants of the distinctive feeling I got when the powerful paraclete was exercising its function were receding.  I remembered my name.  I remembered my life.  And there were -- thankfully – no other voices in my head nor visions from a past I had not lived plaguing my mind.

But I did feel like I had a hell of a hangover.

“Good, you’re awake,” Lilastien’s voice called softly from my bedside.  Startled, I glanced in her direction.  She was seated on a stool clad in her white coat, her medical data pad in her lap.   She was fingering her pendant absently – the Acennan.  I remembered making it.  I recalled what it could do.  “How do you feel?” she asked, calmly.

“I feel . . . tired,” I decided.  My voice croaked from a dry throat.  It was uncomfortable but not unbearable.  “And sore.  And nauseated, but hungry, too.  And . . . what happened?”

“You’ve been in a magically induced coma for the last three days,” she informed me with a sigh.  “You collapsed after . . . well, tell me: what do you remember?”  There was a note of genuine curiosity in her voice, but I could tell there was also a hint of concern.  I searched my memory.  The last thing I remembered was . . . what?

“I . . . I recall the dinner after I traded the mountain to Moudrost,” I decided.  “After that . . . well, it’s hazy.  I just get flashes.  What happened?” I repeated.

“The mountain was removed five days ago,” she informed me, straightening.  “The day after that apparently Aza’methet possessed you and convinced you to take a triple dose of a powerful, incredibly dangerous magical hallucinogen.  To what end, I have no idea,” she admitted.  “You locked yourself inside the chamber of the Snowflake and . . . well, things got hairy, after that.”

“Did I . . . did I kill anyone?” I asked, my soul shrinking inside me as I feared the answer.

“Thankfully, no – this time,” she emphasized, as he looked at me critically.  “You were enthralled for two days.  I don’t know what exactly you were doing, but it must have been important.  You sealed off your workshops to everyone.  Even the gods,” she said, her voice grave.

“The gods?  They got involved?” I asked with a wince.

“Briga, Trygg, and Ishi,” she confirmed with a nod.  “They managed to break through your defenses.  They were unable to convince you to stop whatever it was that you were doing.  And you were doing quite a bit.  You were channeling an unfathomable amount of energy through the Snowflake.  But you sent them away like a trio of beggars,” she informed me.

“Oh.  Sorry,” I said.  I had no memory of it.  “Were they . . . angry?”

“They aren’t particularly happy, but they understand that you weren’t in your right mind.  Indeed, you were quite mad.  The worst I’ve ever seen you,” she admitted, shaking her head.  “Once the drug took hold, all reason left you.  You were committed – no, you were obsessed – with completing your . . . whatever it was you were making.”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” I said, with absolute sincerity.  “I honestly don’t remember a bit of it.  Not really.  Just the occasional flash.  I . . . I wasn’t myself,” I confessed.

“Clearly,” she agreed.  “If it’s any consolation, you completed what you were working on.  By the time we were able to get you out of there, you weren’t resisting anymore.  You were done with . . . it.”

“Any idea what it was?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” she said, evenly.  “But you thought it was important enough to risk destroying Sevendor.  And you called Ishi a bitch, which she takes exception to, no surprise.  You said it was the most important, most vital piece of enchantment you could accomplish.  And no one has any idea what it does or what it is for.”

I thought about that.  I knew she wasn’t exaggerating.

From the few flashes I recalled, there was no doubt that I had been obsessed with creating . . . whatever it was.  I wracked my memory, trying to glean any hint of what was so important that its creation had consumed me so absolutely.  All I knew was that it was, indeed, vitally important.  Essential.  If I wanted to actually save Callidore from its doom, this – whatever it was – was vital.  And no one but me could build it – not the Alka Alon, not the Met Sakinsa, not the Vundel.  Only me, a poor, dumb, pathetically short-lived human wizard had the imagination and the vision to create it.

And I didn’t have the slightest idea of what it did.  Or how to use it.

“I’m . . . perplexed,” I admitted, guiltily, as I lapsed into using the old High Perwynese word.  “I honestly don’t know.  But I do know that it’s important,” I insisted.

“Well, I hope so, because you nearly killed everyone in Sevendor over it,” she lectured.  “I’m not exaggerating.  The powers you were throwing around in that mountain were more than sufficient to devastate everything around you for miles,” she emphasized.  “You could have made tens of thousands suffer unimaginably before they died.”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Of course, you’re sorry,” she said, her voice low and judgmental.  “Any sane man would be, after an episode like that.  That doesn’t excuse your behavior.  Even if the Monster was controlling you.”

That was frustrating to hear.  “I had no control over it,” I pleaded.  “It was dominating me.  It is paranoid, egotistical and entirely unwilling to consider anyone else in its calculations.  But it’s . . . brilliant,” I said, in despair.  “It knows more magic than anyone.  The very underpinnings of the universe.  If Callidore is to be spared, then . . .”

“I know,” Lilastien said, sharply.  “I read your journals.  You insisted that you be allowed to write one last entry before I put you under and let the Handmaiden have her way with you.”

“You read my journal?” I asked, surprised and for some reason hurt.  As if my privacy was a consideration, after what she said I had done.

“That’s why you wrote them,” she pointed out.  “It said so, right at the beginning.  In case you lost your mind or could not understand your own reasoning.  They were . . . informative.  I understand much about your actions in the last several weeks now.  I don’t necessarily approve, mind you, but I understand.  Your last entry was particularly useful.”

“I don’t even remember writing that,” I protested.  “I don’t remember that at all.  What was my reasoning?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

“Reason might be a strong word, in this case,” she said, diplomatically.  “Nor did you spell it out, as much as relate what you went through.   You insisted on writing it before you would even attempt to sleep or take a treatment.   If it is to be believed, you made the Formless shriek in their prisons.  You attracted the attention of the Vundel and the Met Sakinsa.  The Alka Alon are no doubt reeling.  You made anyone with rajira twitch.”

“Well,” I admitted, “I do like to make a statement.”

“You made one: ‘The Spellmonger is screwing with the nature of the universe,’” she pointed out.  “The question now is how they all might respond.  If you were trying to keep a low profile, I think you failed.”

“To be honest, the time for a low profile has passed,” I sighed.  “I don’t remember much about what I did.  But I do know that I will need the assistance of each of them.  Perhaps I meant to get their attention,” I considered, laying back and regarding the Magolith.  “Has this thing been treating me long?”

“For three straight days, day and night,” she agreed.  “It was the only thing I could think of, after we got you out of there.  And it seems somehow more responsive than it used to.  Like it is developing some sort of self-awareness.  From what Ruderal can tell, it has been trying to repair the damage these visitations are doing to you.  I don’t know how successful it’s been, but I figured it was worth a try.”

“Well, I do feel better . . . and none of them are here, today, which is nice,” I agreed.  “How soon can I get up?”

“Not until this evening,” she informed me.  “You were dehydrated.  Your cortisol levels were atrocious.  I’ve had you on broth for the last few days, but until I see you eat solid food and have a bowel movement, you’re to stay in bed.”

“That does not sound unreasonable,” I sighed.  In truth, I was exhausted.  The very idea of getting out of bed seemed poor.  My mind was clear, but my body felt like it had been abused, the way it does when I spend far too much time channeling too much arcane power.  And I had more questions.  “How did they eventually get me to stop?” I asked.

“Alya convinced you, although by the time Taren figured out how to get through the portal you said you were done.”  She paused, thoughtfully, before she continued.  “You know, they were prepared to kill you, if necessary.”  It was a profound statement, delivered with appropriate gravity.  It took me aback.  It made me think.

“Good,” I answered, exhaling.  “I’m glad someone was willing to do that.  It sounds as if it might have been necessary, if I’d gotten out of control.”

“You think you were in control?” she asked, skeptically amused.  “With a triple dose of mindwort in your system?  And an ancient magical monster influencing you?”

“Oh, yes, the mindwort.  How did you – oh.  Banamor,” I realized.

“Yes, the Lord Mayor of Sevendor was forthcoming about the drugs he gave you.  You do realize how incredibly stupid that was?  How dangerous that herb is?”

“Well, I do now,” I conceded, staring at the Magolith.  “But it was necessary for what I was doing.  Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.  I don’t even know what it was that I felt I needed to do, but it was essential.  I knew that I couldn’t get the degree of fine perception I required without something like that.  Oh, I used other tools, too, but for some reason I felt I needed the mindwort.  Apparently, it worked.”

“It worked on your liver, too,” she said, tapping her screen.  “That stuff is toxic.  I wouldn’t recommend doing it again any time soon – or ever, if you want my honest opinion.  I don’t know what was so godsdamn important, either, Min, but you nearly killed yourself with that.  I hope that it was worth it,” she said, doubtfully.

“I do, too,” I agreed.  “But part of me thinks it was, and that I was successful, so there’s that.  I don’t even rightly know what convinced me to do it when I did it, but that was important somehow too.  I can’t wait to see it,” I offered.  “I still won’t know what it does, I’m guessing, but I know it was pretty.  I was fairly proud of that.”

“Do you have any idea what it was?” she prompted.  “A weapon against the Formless?  A means of retrieving the Forsaken?”

“It could be either, both, and neither,” I sighed.  “I just know that it is important, and at the proper time, it will be essential.  And that it was damn hard to make.  There’s dimensional magic tied up in it.  Divine magic, a bit.  Some vivant and necromantic magic, too.  I knew that my opportunity for successfully creating it was ending when these memories inevitably start to fade.  I know it’s one of the most potent enchantments built on Caliddore since the Celestial Mothers ruled this world.  But beyond that . . . it’s pretty,” I offered, apologetically.

Lilastien sighed heavily.  “You worry me, boy,” she said, shaking her head.  “Believe me, I understand the kinds of compulsions that can arise with these ancient memories.  I’ve struggled with them myself.  But to let one take control of you that completely . . . that’s insane.”

I considered, still staring at the deep green glow from the Magolith.  “The funny thing is, in the end, it wasn’t the Monster who was in control.  It was me.  Simple, mortal, egotistical me.  Aza’methet informed my creation of the enchantment, but there was a point where it wanted to do one thing and I told it to take a pilgrimage to nine hells and leave me alone.  That much I remember.  The Monster isn’t used to being rebuked like that.  It was . . . interesting.”

“If you want the truth, it sounds absolutely horrendous, from start to finish, and you’re an idiot to risk your life and the safety of everyone around you to do . . . whatever it was you did,” she chided.  “But then I can’t really judge you on that, I know.  Sometimes we take those sorts of risks to accomplish the things we do.”

“And sometimes we fail utterly and completely,” I agreed.  “But thank you for coming to get me from that.  It was horrendous.  But it needed to be done.  I think,” I added.

“Are you planning any more outrageous arcane experiments like that?” she asked, searchingly.  “Just so I can be prepared.”

“Not to my knowledge, but I really don’t know.  I have the feeling that that was the big one, the one essential that I could not proceed without creating.  Everything else I’m working on is straightforward, compared to that.  Even the portal magic.”

“Tell you what,” she said, as she leaned closer to me, “how about you give me a shout next time you’re feeling . . . creative.  Just so I can be on hand with good advice, common sense, and a powerful sedative.  You had everyone you know and love terrified over this.  I’d like to avoid that in the future.”

“As would I,” I agreed.  I genuinely felt bad about what I’d put everyone through.  But I also felt a strange sense of accomplishment for what I had done.  Whatever it was.  “Thank you, Lilastien.  I couldn’t do this without you.”

“And I couldn’t do my work without this,” she said, lifting the Acennan in her palm.  “I’ve started testing it.  It works beautifully.  I think the only reason I didn’t smother you with a pillow in your sleep over this is because you keep crapping out wonders.  Taren says you’ve advanced the art of thaumaturgy by a century in the last few months.  All by yourself.”

“It’s the only way I can save the world,” I admitted.  “But the worst of my creative urges is past, I think.  For now.”

“Good,” she pronounced.  “Because next time, I might just use that pillow.”

***

I spent the rest of the day in bed until I proved to Lilastien that I could eat and poop without assistance and walked with her around the inner bailey to show that I could.  By the time we made a single circuit around the old castle, I was shaking and felt as weak as an old man.  Lilastien had to help me back into bed.  She forbade any visitors save Alya that night, and she insisted that the Handmaiden continued its treatment.

I didn’t argue.  I felt physically drained.  Lilastien forbade me from doing any serious magic, but she didn’t need to – I didn’t feel capable of casting a squib cantrip, much less anything as complex as a magelight.

Alya slept with me that night, just holding me, and refusing to discuss the ordeal until I felt better.  That was fine by me.  I fell asleep in her arms, weeping without shame.  I knew what I had done was dangerous.  I also knew that it had been necessary, as necessary as going to the Yith in the first place.  That didn’t make me feel much better about what I did or how stupid it was on its face, but I knew it wasn’t a mistake.  Just stupid and dangerous.

The next day was a little better.  I got visits from the children, one by one, and then my apprentice.  Ruderal didn’t seem very happy with the situation.  I thanked him for his assistance anyway.

“My father says that whatever it was you did in the mountain disturbed his pod,” he informed me when he came by.  “They were upset by it.  He explained it as a consequence of you trying to make snowstone.  They let him stay a little longer to ensure that you were making progress.”

“I’m hopeful,” I agreed.  “And I appreciate him keeping our discussions discreet.  Especially about . . .”

“The egg, I know,” my apprentice said with a deep sigh.  “That took him by surprise.  Well, it shocked him to his core, actually,” he admitted.  “He says that it’s nearly impossible for you to have found it, but he believes you.  He’s just worried about what will happen when the Vundel find out.”

“I’m worried, too,” I agreed, “but we will just have to contend with that when it happens.  I want to give it back to them.  Without preconditions,” I added.

“That’s probably the only thing keeping him from returning and telling the whole story,” Ruderal said.  “The problem is, if you present it to one pod, then they’ll try to use it to dominate the others.  It’s their nature.  You need to give it to all of them, or it could get very ugly, out in the ocean.  And that’s going to be problematic,” he predicted.

“I knew it would be after I talked with your father.  But it must be done.  No matter the consequences.  How is he enjoying his stay in Sevendor?” I asked.

Ruderal made a face.  “You mean, apart from learning life-altering secrets and suffering a magical event unprecedented in his experience?  It’s been lovely,” he assured.  “We went to the market and had pastries with my mother, yesterday.  They’re . . . they’re getting along,” he admitted, a hopeful expression on his face.

“He still loves her, I think,” I suggested.

“He does,” he agreed.  “And she loves him, or at least the memory she had of him before I was born.  She’s open to loving him again, but . . . well, things are complicated.  He still has five more years to fulfill his term of service with the Brethren.  After that . . . well, he’s open, too.  Which is strange, for me.  Just having a father is strange for me.  Having two parents?  Who love each other?  And haven’t seen each other in fifteen years?  It’s an odd sort of family,” he admitted.

The next visitor Lilastien allowed was Pentandra, who had been anxiously awaiting word about my health after I came out of the coma.  She wasted no time in coming to Sevendor the moment she was permitted to see me; her duties be damned.  I explained as much as I could about the episode, and what it had accomplished (that is, I admitted I didn’t know what it was I accomplished save that it was Very Important) and she seemed surprisingly convinced.  I had expected her to object, for some reason.

“If you felt compelled to do it, it must be important,” she rationalized, as we strolled through the castle garden.  Most of the plants were in the process of losing their foliage to the season, but that meant that there weren’t many others lingering around there, either.  “That doesn’t mean I approve, mind you,” she added, giving me a sharp look.  “Lilastien says you were foolish.  That you took a terrible risk.  But I figure that you’ve already died once.  How bad could it be?”

“It was pretty bad,” I informed her.

“I bloody well know it was pretty bad,” she said, her mood changing dramatically.  “Every High Mage in the kingdom felt it.  And the gods – Trygg is upset.  Ishi is upset.  I haven’t heard from Briga, yet, but . . .”

“Oh, she’s plenty pissed off, I imagine,” I agreed.  “Apparently whatever I did made the Everfire nearly go out.  Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it,” I assured her.  “I’ve been pissing women off since I was a child.”

“You just can’t do this sort of thing anymore, Minalan,” she said, shaking her head.  “It was bad enough when you were just mad.  Being mad and nearly destroying . . . well, everything, that isn’t something that I can contend with.  Things are very delicate in the kingdom right now.  We need your stabilizing influence.  And yes, I’m aware of the irony of considering you a stabilizing influence, but that’s how bad things are now.  For one thing, we need to deal with Darkfaller permanently,” she pointed out.  “Mycin Amana is refortifying the castle, reinforcing it, and improving its magical defenses.  And whatever you did to the central keep while you were there has had a permanent effect on the place.  But we think she’s going to strike at Castabriel, soon.  At least, that’s what it looks like, and Tavard is preparing for that now.  He’s only adding to his army.”

“Good, he’ll need it,” I agreed.  “We’re still months away from being able to assault the place, though.  I need to rest up, we need to marshal our resources, and we need a more comprehensive plan if we’re going to actually drive her away.  Tavard needs to defend Castabriel well enough to keep her from taking it before we’re ready to strike.”

“He is,” she agreed.  “Indeed, he’s been so busy he hasn’t noticed the magical portal you installed at the Arcane Orders.  That doesn’t mean he won’t, eventually,” she warned.  “We’re quietly pushing tons of Alshari wares through it every night, but so far no one is asking questions about how all the fresh citrus and fine wines are getting to market in the capital.  But Tavard is also using Darkfaller as an excuse to gather his forces.  I think he’s planning to strike against Terleman the moment that Darkfaller is liberated.”

I chuckled mirthlessly.  “Then he’s going to get smacked around again.  He should have learned by now.  And doesn’t King Rard have something to say about that?  He declared a truce, remember?”

“Of course.  But Tavard still feels stung by your success in attacking Darkfaller and your reluctance at taking it for him.  He’s bragging to his vassals how the vaunted Spellmonger could not drive the evil out of Darkfaller but tells them he can.”

“Tavard is an idiot,” I suggested.

“We all know Tavard is an idiot,” she agreed, patiently, “but the problem is that you are starting to present as an idiot, too, Min.  Perhaps not to the mundane world, but to your peers and colleagues, it appears as if you are recklessly conducting a bunch of wild and dangerous experiments. That makes people nervous and shakes their confidence in you.  If there is any way you could play along and act like a sane human being for a few weeks, well, that might soothe things a bit.”

“I’ll try,” I promised, “but there’s a lot going on.  There’s still a lot I need to do.  Here’s what I can tell you: I’m not anticipating doing anything overtly insane for at least a few weeks.  I’ll meet with as many of our fellows as I can and try to calm them down.  Now that this episode is out of the way, I think I can relax and focus on the other important things, like the war and conquering Farise and defeating Korbal, once and for all.  Any news about the civil war in Merwyn?” I asked in a blatant attempt to change the subject.  Besides, I was curious about that.  And I knew Pentandra would have the latest updates.

She sighed.  “Count Andrevar and the Cormeeran counts are holding forth in the south and west, while Duke Andrastal holds most of the eastern Great Valley cities and the north.  And Vore, of course.  But you managed to spark an open war, so I suppose congratulations are in order,” she said, sarcastically.

“It should keep the Merwyni from troubling our frontiers any time soon,” I pointed out.

“It does,” she agreed.  “In fact, it opens a lot of opportunities.  Anguin wants to strike a trade deal with Count Andrevar, if he can ever get his ships beyond Farise.  Strategically, it was a brilliant move.  One that I’m almost forced to credit to one of your . . . visitors,” she said, with a nod.

“It was a collective effort, but you’re right,” I admitted.  “The idea didn’t entirely originate with me.  But if it’s working, and Duke Cloafin is happy, then I really don’t care who gets the credit.”

“He is, so that’s another crisis averted.  Now,” she said, patting my hand, “if there’s any way you can just stay quiet and peaceful and not cause me grief until springtime, I might just be able to hold on to my own sanity enough to see us through.”

“It’s almost winter,” I observed, as a fresh chill breeze swept over us.  “I still have a lot of planning and preparing to do before next spring’s attack.  I can work on that,” I proposed.  “I’m still the kingdom’s Marshal Arcane.  If I can keep the voices at bay, then I can concentrate on getting our forces ready for that.  Will that help?”

“Yes, focus on the war – not saving the world – for a while,” she encouraged.  “Get better.  Get those memories under control, if you can.  Stop being the Mad Mage of Sevendor.  Start being the Marshal Arcane.  I worry about you, Minalan,” she said, her voice filled with concern.  “We all do, but I worry most of all.  More than Alya.  More than Lilastien.  So grant me the greatest of boons and stop trying to accidentally destroy Sevendor.  It’s distracting.”

Pentandra was serious, of course, but I could detect a great amount of both affection and frustration in her demeanor.  Relief, but also apprehension.  In truth I didn’t want to worry her any more than my wife or my colleagues, but then I didn’t have as much say in the matter as any of them might think.

But I was sincere in my assurances.  Over the course of the next several days I grew stronger as I recovered.  My ability to do magic without it hurting came back until I was more or less where I was supposed to be.  I took it easy for the rest of the week anyway, just to give myself as much time to heal as possible.  And I avoided even visiting the workshops and the chamber of the Snowflake.

The thing I’d nearly sacrificed my domain and the lives of tens of thousands for was still there – the Allyfan Alimpin, I had called it apparently.  In truth, I did not want to see it, study it, try to figure out what it did.  Just the thought of it gave me a twinge of foreboding and regret.  If constructing it was worth all of that risk, to myself and everyone else, then what result would its eventual use have?

I had all sorts of disturbing ideas about that.  And none of them were good.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ariel

Under Lilastien’s direction, I was still taking things easy a week after I awoke from my coma.  I mostly haunted the old castle and Spellmonger’s Hall, making only occasional trips into town or to the new castle.  I hadn’t ventured out to Vanador or any of the other places I could reach with the portal, but then I hadn’t had a need to.  Things were quiet, now that the harvest was finally in, and people could relax for a few weeks before winter began in earnest.

Of course, there was plenty of business I had to tend to; I met with Banamor and Sire Cei regularly as we planned the upcoming Yule Court, for example.  It was important to me to re-establish the ceremonial traditions I’d begun in Sevendor, and the Yule Court was an important element of that.  I wanted to remind people that the Baron of Sevendor was back from exile, and hand out some well-deserved rewards to those who had served Sevendor so well in my absence.  That sort of thing.

Most of the time I stayed in my old tower workshop and kept up my journal, or read, or sketched out ideas for new enchantments or other improvements I wanted to do.  I even spent some time with Ruderal working on his magical skills the way a good master should after his sire returned to the sea and his mother to her home in Alshar.  The lad was doing spectacularly well, considering his other duties, and he was more than willing to show off to me what he had learned.  That was gratifying.  His education had been unusual, so far, and I felt guilty about that.  But compared to his predecessors’ time in my care, he’d had an almost normal course of instruction.

When I wasn’t busy with other matters, I often went up to the rooftop where I could see both the new castle and the town below, and just smoked my pipe and thought about things.  The continuous treatment from the Handmaiden had managed to keep the voices in my head muted and their influence relatively low, and that day Andrews the Explorer’s memories were the most prominent, so it seemed natural to pull out the little black box I wore on my belt and have a discussion.

I had named the CI3 Ariel, after a character in a play that – surprisingly – both Andrews and Palgrave were familiar with: William Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

It was a play about a half-mad wizard on an island with his daughter bent on revenge for being usurped as a magelord back on the mainland.  He had the opportunity to get vengeance on his usurper, and hilarity ensued.  But he had a servant named Ariel whom he had impressed into his service after rescuing him from oblivion.  At the end of the play, Ariel ends up waking up a ship full of magically sleeping crew.

The parallels between the play and what I was trying to accomplish in rescuing the Forsaken weren’t ideal, but there was enough of a similarity to justify the name, to my mind.  That was one of my goals, after all – not revenge, but rescue.  And it wasn’t one I was going to be able to accomplish by magic, I knew.  I would need the help of the intelligent tekka that Gareth had so kindly sent to me.

Thankfully, Ariel was just as helpful as Forseti had been, and was in better condition, especially when it could link itself with other tekka devices I’d purchased.  That day I was content just to stare at the trees in the distance and talk to it conversationally.  I had questions, after all, and sometimes it’s just nice to ruminate with a constructed intelligence who pretty much has to sit there and listen to your crap.

“I have now successfully connected Sevendor to Vanador, Vorone, Falas, Castabriel, Remeralon, and Wilderhall,” I reported, although it had known about some of these already.  “We have instantaneous transport between all these cities, now.  As soon as we finish with the archway in Wenshar, all the great capitals of the kingdom will be connected.  How do you expect that will affect the political cohesion of the kingdom?” I asked, phrasing the question the way Andrews’ memory directed.

“It is highly likely to lead to a near-term economic improvement, followed by a longer-term decline in some commodities and goods in each economic region,” Ariel informed me.  “Luxury items will, of course, come down significantly in price while less expensive commodities will eventually find a market equilibrium and stabilize.  Assuming demand remains constant, which is unlikely,” Ariel added.

“So is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked the machine.  “In terms of long-term economic development, I mean.  I understand there will be some who will lose profits, short-term, but is this really good for the kingdom?”

“My projections indicate that yes, this will increase the overall quality of life and food security for each region affected by this development,” Ariel assured me.  “Feudal economies are historically poor mechanisms for increasing standards of living for the poorest quintile, depending on the level of regulation and the ability to easily transport high-demand goods to market.  Under the proposed model, the possibility of a substantial risk of famine reduces by a significant percentage, in a range of thirty to forty percent, for the urban areas affected.  It does little to affect such standards beyond a fifty-mile radius of each station, however.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to understand what the CI was telling me.  Even with Andrews’ memories fresh in my mind it was difficult to comprehend the details.  Andrews was not an economist, after all, though he understood basic market theory and monetary policy.  “Why a fifty-mile radius?” I asked, curious.

“Assuming the means of distribution outside of the urban area is limited to the speed and carrying capacity of draft animals, that is the extent to which an improvement in the central market prices of an individual metropolitan area is able to penetrate effectively into the rural regions.  Where the central market also has access to a navigable waterway, that range extends an addition twenty-five to thirty miles.”

Ariel was, of course, speaking in fluent Narasi, but the problem was that Narasi lacked many words it needed to convey the information accurately.  That meant that the discussion was studded with Old High Perwynese loan-words.  That made things just a little more confusing.

“What about military preparedness?” I inquired as I slowly drew on my pipe.  “We seemed to improve our response to the Merwyni incursion with the portals.  And they were instrumental in the Darkfaller raid.”

“Certainly, the ability to move large numbers of military troops through these portal devices will dramatically improve the state’s ability to mount a credible defense at border regions, during civil unrest, or against internal threats to the stability of the nation,” Ariel agreed.  “This suggests a concentration and centralization of political power will be forthcoming once the inherent advantages of this system are understood.  At that point, the control of the portals will dictate which political entity will end up with political dominance.”

“That’s more or less what I suspected,” I agreed, pleased that the computer agreed with me.  “And if the magi control the portals, we’ll be the dominant political force in the kingdom.”

“Agreed,” Ariel said, without emotion.  “However, this also suggests a wide-ranging response from the current holders of political power.  This leads to a high probability of continued political and civil strife.”

I smiled.  “Yes, we’re already getting a bit of that.  The old warrior caste is quite jealous of the traditional prerogatives they’ve enjoyed in the last three centuries.  And there is already significant cultural resistance to re-establishing the magi in positions of power and authority.  But they will get used to it, in time, I think.”  I considered a few more moments while I stared at my new castle.  “Ariel,” I finally asked, “on a different subject, according to your existing colonial records where is the most likely location of discovering an intact military installation from the colonial period?”

“I am afraid I cannot answer that question, Minalan,” the computer told me almost at once.  “Security matters of that level are restricted to a higher degree of administration than you currently have.”

“What?” I asked, surprised.  “I’m a sovereign count!  A ‘colonial administrator,’ you and Forseti have told me, under the rules of the colony.  Why can’t you tell me?”

“Colonial doctrine upon which my programming is based recognized the possibility of competing sovereignties using colonial defense installations against each other in regional conflicts,” it answered.  “Therefore, detailed information regarding more than basic locations of Colonial Defense Force bases and outposts is restricted.”

“Well, why would they do something like that?” I asked, annoyed at my ancestors.

“The doctrine exists to reduce the possibility of inter-departmental and regional strife,” Ariel answered.  “It was a security precaution.  If you should, for example, discover a cache of advanced weaponry, you might use it against competing power blocs within this sovereignty,” it suggested.  “That would undermine the long-term stability of the colony.  Such matters were therefore restricted to administrators who enjoyed authority over more than simple regional units.”

“But I am Count of the Magelaw and the Baron of Sevendor,” I argued, intrigued at the logic of the policy.  “Doesn’t that give me the status I need for access?”

“Both regional administrative districts exist within the same sovereign authority,” Ariel countered.  “Brother Bryte was quite clear about that in our discussion of the competing and complementary nature of sovereignty in this political region,” it explained.  “If you were an administrator of regions outside of this sovereignty, then I would be able to recognize you as a multi-region administrator, which would allow me to unlock some of the restricted information, under the colonial doctrine.  It is assumed that only high-level administrators would have some level of authority over regions in different sovereignties.

“Of course, that doctrine was created with relatively peaceful relations between colonial administrative districts in mind,” it pointed out.  “It was assumed that individual regional administrators would advocate and govern according to the needs and interests of their civil authority over a region, on behalf of that region’s citizens.  A trans-regional director or administrator was assumed, under the protocol, of having a more enlightened and wide-ranging area of interest.  Therefore, it was considered essential for even basic access to colony-wide defense information.”

“So . . . you can’t tell me anything about the Colonial Defense Force and its hidden bases because I’m merely a sovereign count in Castalshar,” I proposed.

“That is essentially correct,” the machine agreed.  “Further, restricted and classified information about orbital and lunar defenses is restricted to colonial-level administration, unless specific United Nations Colonial Authority authorization is granted – a very rare situation, under original colonial doctrine.”

“Well, that’s going to put a damper on my efforts to discover where the New Horizon was sent,” I grumbled.

I knew from Andrews’ memories that the United Nations Colonial Authority was the institution under which the entire colony operated; while it only was designed to have actual sovereignty over the organization’s headquarters, and surrounding areas, in theory its rulings could keep one region from dominating another economically or militarily.  It was also responsible for overseeing the colonial justice system to ensure that none of our ancestors’ ideals about the impartiality of the legal system was ensured.  But I was far more interested in the military portion of its control.

“It does, indeed, make revealing sensitive security information to you problematic,” Ariel admitted.  “But the doctrine was established to protect the entire colony from domination by any one regional administrator.  As it was, there was significant attempts to subvert the command of the Colonial Defense Force by the fourth decade of the colony.  That would suggest that these regulations have a practical purpose.”

“Sure, for a political situation that hasn’t been in force for almost seven hundred years,” I argued, discouraged.  “But now?  We have a highly decentralized controlling authority,” I pointed out.  “Trying to apply the rules of the original colony to the kingdom seems . . . misguided,” I suggested.

“Unfortunately, there are very narrow circumstances in which I could consider overriding those constraints,” Ariel answered.  “An imminent existential threat to the entire colony, for instance, or reduction or elimination of all competing colonial sovereignties might allow me to reveal that information.  As there is no imminent threat apparent, and there are obviously multiple competing colonial sovereignties, I am forced to adhere to the original doctrine.”

“That’s just lovely,” I snorted sarcastically.  “So how could I get you to change your mind?”

“The easiest way would be for the United Nations Colonial Authority to designate you a senior colonial administrator and issue you the appropriate codes,” Ariel informed me.  “Otherwise, becoming an administrator of a region outside of your current sovereign territory would suggest that you de facto possess a senior colonial position by nature of your dual administration.  In that case, I would be forced to make a judgment, in the absence of consultation with a superior civil Constructed Intelligence authorized to direct me.  I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You mean, even with the situation as dire as it is presented, it’s not bad enough to give me what I need to defeat the threats to the colony?”

“Particular attention should be given to the terms ‘imminent’ and ‘existential’,” Ariel clarified.  “Though I concur that the colony is in existential danger, that danger is not immediately forthcoming, it is a long-term problem.  Nor does the current imminent danger to your region from native uprisings have an impact outside of your designated sovereignty. It could even be argued that it is not existential in nature.”

‘Native uprising’ was the quaint term that Ariel used in reference to Korbal, Sheruel, and the Enshadowed’s long war against humanity.  From the machine’s perspective it didn’t matter if thousands of gurvani wanted to slaughter every human on Callidore, or the Nemovorti wanted to enslave or control the Five Duchies.  That was a local or regional security issue that colonial doctrine had decided was a matter for a local or regional response.  Even if the incredibly powerful weapons the Colonial Defense Force had possessed were not approved for such a conflict, no matter how bloody.  Until Korbal’s legions spilled over into Merwyn or Vore, this was a “regional matter”.

I found that inherently frustrating.

Oh, I appreciated the elegance of the policy; thanks to Andrews I knew what kind of weapons were possibly available at an old CDF base and I wouldn’t trust any of the feudal overlords in the Five Duchies with access and control over them.  Duke Andrestal was ambitious enough to use any means to dominate the western duchies, for instance.  I didn’t even trust Rard with such power.

I wasn’t certain I could trust myself.  I wasn’t ambitious, beyond securing the Magelaw and Sevendor, but the temptation of using powerful weapons on your political opponents would be great.  So I could understand the doctrine’s purpose.

The problem was that it wasn’t really the weaponry I coveted from our ancestors, it was the information that the Colonial Defense Force installations might contain about where the New Horizon was sent.  From what I understood from my conversations with Forseti and Ariel, it could technically be parked anywhere in the solar system from Caluna to the Oort Cloud.  That was a tremendous amount of volume to be searched, considering I had no reliable means to do so or means to go get it even once it was located.  I was working under the assumption that the CDF’s resources had some record of that, somewhere.  Both CIs had suggested that might be the case.

But perhaps there were other ways to locate the Forsaken.  I pressed on.

“So without a hint from the CDF,” I proposed, “what would be the best means to discover where the New Horizon was sent?”  That was a different question, of course, and one that there should be no ancient colonial doctrine to prohibit Ariel from revealing it.

“Re-establishment of the civil Calsat network would be the most promising avenue,” Ariel informed me without hesitation.  “Each of the ECHO stations and many of the smaller satellite stations had extensive sensor arrays that would allow a comprehensive search of the solar system for traces of the ship.  Likewise, the Lunar Operations Command station would be perfectly positioned and equipped for such a search, if it survived intact.  Unfortunately, less than nine percent of the Calsat network remains functional, according to CI Forseti’s determination.  Though it is encouraged that additional resources can be brought online with sufficient diagnostics and repair, without a means to directly affect the physical plant of each satellite we are forced to operate such means remotely.  That reduces the likelihood of a positive outcome.”

“Of course it does,” I said with a heavy sigh.  Then something occurred to me.  “All right, Ariel.  If you cannot give me access to the military files, what about the civilian installations?  There must be more places like the Cave of Ancients that could survive.  Level Four and above installations, for instance,” I suggested.

“You do bring up an interesting point,” the machine conceded.  “The Colonial Authority had authorized the construction of several scientific and research installations from the earliest days of the colony.  In addition to the Gulik Institute for Geophysical Studies, there was the Cousteau Institute for Xenooceanic Studies’ underwater facility in the Shallow Sea, the Sagan Institute for Astronomy and Astrophysics’ observatory in the southwest, the Fuller Institute for Engineering’s complex on the southern peninsula, the Newman Institute for Genetic Research’s facility on Perwyn, the Ortega Institute for Xenobiologic Studies in present-day Cormeer, the Planck Institute for Chemical Engineering in present-day Merwyn, the Goodall Institute for Primate Studies on the United Nations Sovereign Territorial Reserve island, the Byrd Institute for Polar Studies installations within the Arctic and Antarctic circles, the Rishi Institute for Equatorial Studies installation in what is now known as the Shattered Isles, the Musk Institute for Terraformation Studies and Engineering, also in the Shattered Isles, and seventeen other scientific endeavors scattered around the main colony.  Some of these facilities may well have escaped destruction after the destruction of Perwyn and may, indeed, contain more complete records of the early colony that I have access to.”

It was a litany of names familiar to Andrews’ memory, I recognized.  Most had been scientific pioneers on our original homeworld whose names had come to symbolize or represent the intense and highly technical disciplines they had founded or developed.  Andrews knew just how it was necessary for the colony to study the science of their new world as the terraformation and colonization of the planet proceeded.

“Some of those might actually be reachable,” I agreed, encouraged.  “Not the ones on Perwyn, of course, but perhaps some of the others.  Interesting . . .”

“It is also possible that there were installations founded and developed after the existing colonial record stops,” Ariel observed.  “Even the survival of a deactivated Constructed Intelligence from that time period would be informative.”

“So it would,” I agreed.  “Perhaps we can patch together some sort of plan based on exploration of those other facilities.  It must be more helpful than sifting through the rotting parchments of the Order of the Secret Tower,” I mused, mostly to myself.

`The records of that ancient order had been meticulously preserved in secret, during the reign of the Censorate, but they were often obscure and couched in vague language or even code to protect the information from discovery by the checkered cloaks.  In the process, unfortunately, almost all meaningful information had been lost.

“I think you may overlooking another possible avenue that could reveal some of the information you seek, Minalan,” Ariel suggested.  “That is the commercial entities that were contracted by the original colonial authority for some vital services.  Those comprised more than seventy percent of all early colonial developments.  In some cases, they were better funded and more extensive than the officially chartered governmental institutions and could well have survived the colony’s collapse.”

I winced.  “We don’t consider it a ‘collapse’,” I pointed out.  “A tragedy, when Perwyn sank, certainly.  But most of the institutions from the island successfully relocated to the mainland during that period.  Things didn’t really start to fall apart until a generation or two later.  In fact, by colonial standards, the Later Magocracy managed to preserve the bulk of human civilization intact for another two centuries, almost.”

“But not after the barbarian invasion from the north,” Ariel reminded me.  The machine had been informed about the bulk of the history of the Five Duchies and the Later Magocracy by Brother Bryte and others and had gotten a significant amount of information already from Forseti.  “The Narasi Conquest marks the distinctive collapse of the main human colony.”

“Fine, then!” I snorted.  “We collapsed.  We collapsed like a drunk at a festival,” I sighed, Andrews’ memories of Callidore at its height filling my memory.  Visions of aircraft, spacecraft, huge elaborate cities, and impressive feats of engineering floated in my mind.  “We collapsed into illiteracy, ignorance, and superstition, granted.  But we’re finally fighting our way out of that,” I promised.

“You are at least taking a few remedial steps,” acknowledged the machine, without judgment.  “While I do not yet have comprehensive data on the current human population and its condition, the data I have access to suggests that it will take more than three generations to bring the mainland colony back to a reasonable standard of living and human civilization.  Your population is woefully undereducated, lacking in health care and food security, and suffers political and military insecurity on a grand scale.  Your justice system is complex and regionally adequate but fails to encompass the basic human rights and traditional prerogatives of the colonial ideal.  There are suggestions that serfdom and outright slavery are still practiced, both considered abhorrent customs by your ancestors.  And the life expectancy of this generation of humans is abysmal, by colonial standards.”

“We also lack adequate dental care,” I said, sarcastically.  No one likes being told their precious civilization is crap.  “Don’t forget that.  My point, Ariel, is that while I acknowledge that we’re just now crawling out of the hole the Narasi hordes dug for us, I don’t believe that hole was as deep as you imagine.  The magi managed to keep things running for centuries after Perwyn sank.  We substituted magic for technology once the latter was denied to us.  That helped preserve things,” I said, defensively.

“Even during that period there was a steady and noticeable decline in the standard of living and security architecture of the colony,” argued the machine.  “The quantum field effects that you so colorfully call ‘magic’ did not measurably improve crop yields, for instance, because according to your historical records there was a regression going from industrialized to pre-industrialized agriculture.  Likewise, infant mortality rates skyrocketed after the failure of the main colony on Perwyn.  Literacy rates fell by more than fifty percent in two generations.  By the time the Narasi invaded, the Later Magocracy was already in an inevitable decline.”

“Well, you can blame the Alka Alon for a lot of that,” I said, irritated, as I tapped out the ashes of my pipe on the top of the crenel in front of me.  “They got us to the mainland, gave us some half-hearted guidance about surviving there, and actively discouraged advanced formal education in favor of practical survival skills.  Then they stole our remaining CIs and buggered off to their treehouses and stately spires,” I said, my voice tinged with bitterness.  “All we had to go on after that was magic and the gods, and neither was particularly reliable, if history is to be believed.”

“The interference of the native civilizations was certainly a factor, from what I can tell,” agreed Ariel.  “But they did, technically, live up to their responsibilities under the charter.  Their obligation was to render essential technical assistance to the colony as a whole, not ensure the survival of human civilization.  It is clear, however, that their actions during that period may have actively contributed to the decline.  Subsequent disengagement was likewise a critical factor in the relative success of the colony.  It is quite remarkable that the colony did not end up under direct native hegemony.”

“Is it?” I asked, sharply.  “The Alka Alon don’t seem to be terribly interested in our success or failure, outside of a few individual allies,” I countered, bitterly.  “Indeed, they seem more eager to leave us alone to rot than to see us thrive.  They actively interfered with us maintaining our advanced technologies in favor of our emerging magical abilities.  They didn’t want to rule us, save for a few Enshadowed, I suppose, they wanted us to go away.”

“That seems historically accurate, according to my information,” Ariel conceded.

I considered packing my pipe again, but it was getting late in the afternoon and I knew the call for supper would be soon.  “So, Ariel, what would you advise me – as a regional colonial administrator – to successfully pursue the information necessary to retrieve the New Horizon?” I challenged.  After all, I reasoned, the entire point of these Constructed Intelligences was to benefit the governments of the colony.  The least it could do to help would be to do some of my heavy thinking for me.

“Continue with your political and economic consolidation, firstly,” the computer instructed.  “I estimate that a critical mass of political power is likely if you continue with the current course of action.  Once that is achieved, you will have the control necessary to investigate the colonial remnants without undue political influence from your adversaries.”

“I’m already a baron, a count palatine, and the royal marshal arcane,” I pointed out.  “The only ranks above me are duke and the king, himself.”

“You are thinking only in terms of official power,” Ariel pointed out.  “History suggests that unofficial power is actually preferable in a situation like this.  It allows you to operate without binding responsibility and gives you a more direct means of projecting political power without overtly challenging the established political order.  In pre-revolutionary France, for instance, certain non-noble officials enjoyed significantly more actual power than the ruling monarchy.  Cardinal Richelieu is an example of this,” it offered.  “Are you familiar with the historical figure?”

“Somewhat,” I conceded.  The name and the history of the man was known to both Andrews and Palgrave, but they had differing perspectives and detail of knowledge.  “Some sort of high priest who became a potent minister of a kingdom, correct?”

“Essentially,” Ariel agreed.  “The gathering and consolidation of actual political power routinely trump officialdom in terms of effective policy and planning measures.  It is unfortunate that the so-called Later Imperial Magocracy fell with the Narasi Conquest.  As an empire, the Magocracy established control over multiple regions under a central authority but was considered under the technical law a confederation of regional sovereignties.  That is clearly established in the laws of the period.”  Ariel had gotten a full dose of modern law, thanks to several days of discussion with Brother Bryte, everything from the original colonial charter to the jurisprudence of the Magocracy to the new body of law the monk had created for the Magelaw and Wilderlaw.

But the admission took me by surprise.

“Wait, you’re telling me you could have revealed military secrets to the godsdamn Imperial Archmage?” I demanded, sitting up straight.

“Under the laws of the Lesser Magocracy, the Archmage position was a supposedly ceremonial office that assumed the previous duties of the Colonial President,” Ariel informed me.  “The conquest of the region of Cormeer ended with a treaty that acknowledged that fact; in theory, local Cormeeran officials agreed to arbitration under the auspices of the so-called Archmage as a separate but superior sovereign authority but retained the ability to manage local affairs under their own officials when they did not conflict with that authority.  Hence the imperial nature of the Magocracies.  Even though the office later effectively consolidated actual power, the framework under which it was established considered it a multivalent sovereign authority or confederation.  Likely that was to continue the access and assistance provided by the remaining few high-level Constructed Intelligences that were a legacy to the colony.”

“So,” I said, slowly, as the implications of Ariel’s subtle direction occurred to me, “if I actually establish myself as the Archmage . . . you can tell me where the military bases are and grant me permissions and access to those remaining resources?” I asked, hopefully.

“Exactly so,” Ariel confirmed.  “If you desire to find the New Horizon and rescue the remaining cryogenically frozen colonists, the single simplest way to do so is to assume the position of Archmage in the tradition of the Early and Later Magocracies, according to my information.  Another CI of higher level might disagree, but that is what I have been able to establish.”

“Damn,” I said, heaving a great sigh.  “I just . . . I mean . . .well, damn.”  I shook my head as I imagined the implications.  “How hard can it be to do that?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Chat With A Nemovort

After a gorgeous early autumn wherein every leaf in Sevendor had seemed determined to outshine its fellows in terms of pure brightness and color, the weather changed from bright and blustery to cool, wet and rainy.  I was surprised by how much I had apparently missed this time of year – after the harvest, the fields left in barren stubble, and a seemingly unending series of rain showers that pelted the colorful leaves from their perches and left only bare branches and evergreens in their wake.

The smell, I noticed, was what enchanted me; there is nothing like the smell of fallen wet leaves in the Bontal Vales.  I had missed it unknowingly in my two years’ exile to the Wilderlands, and once the subtle scent reached my nose, I could not get enough of it.

If the season brought me nostalgia for my early days in Sevendor, it also brought some concerns as well as some unexpected visitors.  The great portals that now linked the kingdom together not only saw great wains of trade goods rumble through every day on their way to market, it also brought a variety of visitors to the City of Magic.  Some of these were expected, and some of these were decidedly a surprise.

In the former category was my former apprentice Rondal, who now worked for Pentandra as a deputy Court Wizard to the Alshari court, and who could now step outside his offices and walk to Sevendor Castle through the portal easier than he could the ducal palace.  In the latter category was a man I hadn’t seen in a year, a chandler with a Westlandsman accent and a fondness for bitter hops in his beer: Pionin.

The last time I’d seen the man was in Vanador, when he’d borne a secret message from the Nemovort Karakush the Sorcerer.  At the time it had provided excellent intelligence on my enemy and his rival within Korbal’s court that I had acted upon decisively.  I don’t often like to consort with my enemies, but if the gods steer me an advantage I could use in a desperate struggle, I was not going to turn away from it.

Karakush was not a normal Nemovort; that is, he was just as undead and just as fanatical, but he was not nearly as committed to Korbal’s greatness as he was his own ambitions.  Karakush was quite willing to offer his enemies – us – information that could damage his rivals within Korbal’s court.  He had spoken to Rondal as he fled the compounds in the Westlands from which Mycin Amana had launched her conquest of Darkfaller.  Rondal had related how the Nemovort had indicated that he might be willing to betray certain members of the court of Olum Seheri to gain Korbal’s favor, while the Necromancer lay in torpor, and perhaps even his master himself.  Loyalty is a precious commodity in Olum Seheri, I’d learned.

So, when Rondal appeared at Sevendor Castle (the old one, not the new one) with the portly chandler in tow, I knew he could only be an emissary from Karakush.

“He arrived at the Tower Arcane yesterday,” Rondal explained as we gathered around the fireplace, crackling against the cold wind and rain outside.  Certainly, the house’s heatstone was keeping most of the chill at bay, but there is nothing like the radiant heat of an open fire to beat back the cold and damp.  “He was delivered through the Ways up-country, and came thence to Falas by barge.  He says he bears an important message for you.”

“I was originally headed to Vanador,” Pionin agreed as he brushed raindrops from his mustache.  “But I got word that you weren’t there anymore.  I had to search to find out where you might be.  My master suggested Sir Rondal would be best able to locate you in a hurry.  Turns out he was right.”

“I’ve been quite busy, of late, on errands from one end of the kingdom to the other,” I explained.  “It does hearten me that the Nemovorti have a difficult time discovering my exact location.”

“That’s wise, it is,” the Westlandsman agreed.  “From what Karakush says, most of them would give their left eye to slay you and take yonder bauble,” he said, nodding toward the Magolith over my shoulder.  “Korbal would give them a great reward for such a service.”

“One tried, in Darkfaller a few weeks ago,” I chuckled.  “The Magolith blew him across the room and nearly through a castle wall.  I am not unprotected.”

“Then I shall not attempt to curry favor with my master by attempting such foolishness,” the chandler said, his eyes wide.  “I am a messenger, not a thief.”

“And what message to you bear?” I asked, reasonably enough.

“Lord Karakush has been keeping close to Olum Seheri, monitoring the court there from his hidden fortress,” Pionin explained.  “He says that the alliances between his peers came and went in predictable fashion after Mycin Amana took Darkfaller with her allies.  Some Korbal considered close were opposed to the move as too bold and risky, but her success at taking the place and then defending it seemed to prove her foresight.  It is clear that it has been a bloody thorn in the foot of the kingdom.”

“Actually, what she did forestalled a rather bloody civil war that would have seen our forces weakened tremendously,” I pointed out.  “If she conspires to strike against us, she should have waited until it was well underway, not just beginning.”

“Karakush made a similar observation,” the chandler agreed.  “He gives the lady full marks for boldness but sees her strategy as a desperate and foolish conceit designed to win favor with Korbal, from whom she is estranged.

“Yet Karakush thought you might be interested in a report from your enemy’s closest counsels,” he continued, pulling a pouch out of his belt.  “He sees his own opponents gaining strength since the conquest of Darkfaller and it displeases him.  So, he sent me with this token,” he said, opening the pouch.  “He hopes to persuade you to open direct conversation with him through this means,” he said, holding up a rough sliver of mineral.  Rondal and I recognized it at once.

“A magical Mirror!” my former apprentice named it.  “A sympathy stone!”

“Yes, it appears to be properly enchanted similar to how we style our own,” I agreed.  “It is a less intrusive method of communication than mind-to-mind – which I would reject from any Nemovort,” I added, warningly.  “But no spell can be cast through a sympathy stone.  Merely words and pictures.  Ruderal!  Rudy!  Fetch us a bowl of clear water,” I ordered.

Ruderal, of course, was always lingering nearby in case I had need of something.  He quickly went to the springhouse with a deep and wide black earthenware bowl and filled it halfway with water before returning it in front of the fire.  I nodded to the chandler, who dropped the Mirror stone into it.  We waited a few moments for the enchantment to take hold.

“I do not feel I am spoiling the message by telling you that things have changed since Korbal woke from torpor,” the man said in a low voice while the surface of the water in the bowl began to cloud with arcane energy.  “Even as a servant I overhear things.  Korbal was apparently displeased by much that had happened during his slumber.  He had anticipated that Vanador would be occupied, by now, and that his armies would be firmly encamped in the foothills of the Kulines to face the Alka Alon.  Not mired in the mud of central Castal, threatening a king he owes no real enmity to.”

“Mycin Amana is singularly driven by her plan,” I assured him.  “She is also possessed of a host body that is most unusual, compared to the others.  Whether it is a boon for her efforts or a bane, she’s determined to make herself Queen of Castabriel.”

“Bide, my lord!  Karakush appears!” the messenger said, nodding toward the bowl.

Indeed, the magically clouded surface of the water began to glow, and soon the drawn, bony face of a Nemovort peered out of the bowl at me, his yellow eyes piercing the gloom.

“Karakush, I presume,” I said, bowing my head respectfully.  Sure, he was an undead fiend that I would just as soon remove from Callidore’s soil, but he had treated me respectfully.  As Prince Maralathus was the memory haunting my mind at the moment, I decided on a diplomatic approach.

“Count Minalan the Spellmonger,” the Nemovort recognized in a harsh but well-mannered tone. His Narasi was passable. “It is a pleasure to finally speak with you face to face.”

“Indeed,” I agreed.  “My man Rondal spoke of his interview with you in the Westlands.  He indicated that you were a Nemovort of reason and discernment, compared to your fellows.  He also suggested you were more reasonable than your . . . colleagues,” I said, failing to keep the disgust from my voice.

“He is a stalwart ally of yours,” Karakush conceded.  “He showed no desire to betray you or subvert your ideals.  Quite commendable in a retainer.  One can tell much about a man by the quality of servant he retains,” he said, approvingly.

“So what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this communication?” I asked, wanting to get to the point.  Even with Maralathus steadying my voice, the thing was powerfully creepy.  It is disconcerting to see a human face and know that there was an inhuman intelligence behind those glowing yellow eyes.

“I thought it prudent to share some news with you that is of mutual interest,” the undead Alka Alon said, pleasantly.  “No doubt you’ve heard by now that Lord Korbal has risen from his torpor.  It took a significant amount of sorcerous help for him to do so.  Each exertion he places on his present, decrepit form makes it progressively more difficult for him to recover.  His borrowed flesh is rotting from his bones, kept intact only by the powerful spells required to do so,” the Nemovort reported, matter-of-factly.

“What a delightful vision you draw,” I said, dryly.  “You will excuse me if I do not extend my sympathies.  And perhaps skip supper this evening.”

“Of course,” Karakush said, tilting his head in the image on the water.  “But once recovered, my master was briefed as to the progress of the war.  He finds himself dissatisfied with how he has been served by his lieutenants.  The various factions have all failed to accomplish his aims.  He finds himself particularly vexed by Mycin Amana’s ambitions,” he added.

“I thought she acted in Korbal’s name,” I said.

“In his name, but not with his sanction,” Karakush revealed.  “He sees her conquest as an attempt to contrive an alternative to his rule . . . and thereby undermining his assertions to kingship.  Castabriel might be a shadow of the once-great city, but it represents a claim to power and authority that Korbal reserves for himself alone.  Worse, to his mind, she has looted his armories and depleted his armies while he slept, taking far more of his resources than he feels she was entitled to.  Korbal is unhappy.”

“Interesting,” I conceded, “but not terribly useful information.  Has Mycin Amana repudiated Korbal’s rule?”

“She has not,” Karakush confirmed.  “She has insisted that her ambitions are purely to glorify him and his righteous goals.  She pointed out that her faction attempted to capture that sphere of irionite you carry, while Gaja Katar and Shakathet merely diminished his armies against you.”

“Yes, well, that did not work out very well for them,” I smiled.

“It was foolish,” he agreed.  “To think that the Spellmonger would allow such a potent possession to lay unguarded!  But she did try when no one else has been making the attempt.  Whatever spell you placed upon him, Korbal’s consciousness cannot be transferred from this body.  It belies any remedy that we have found.”  He sounded insulted, somehow, by the idea that a human mage could somehow subvert the finest Alka Alon magic.

“Nor will it, until I release the spell,” I agreed, letting a bit of arrogance creep into my voice.  “If I have to outlive Korbal to defeat him, I am content with that.”

“But what shall arise in his place?” Karakush asked.  “I do not want my master to die.  Not because I bear him any great love, but because I understand how he has managed to keep our . . . association intact and organized toward goals we all share.  His vision gives us purpose.  Without it . . . well, many of my fellows are powerful in their own right.  Absent his leadership they would pursue their individual goals, some of which depart from the consensus rather dramatically.”

“I have no difficulty justifying a challenge to each of them,” I suggested.  “Indeed, it may make my own goals come to pass more quickly that way.  And with less loss of life.”

“I assure you, left to their own devices my fellow Nemovorti would be a far worse plague on the humani than what you currently face,” Karakush assured.  “And the Enshadowed likewise have factions that would delight in seeing the last human slain.  But that is a debate for another time,” he said, dismissively.  “My point in bringing this news to you is to inform you that Korbal himself plans an eventual inspection of Mycin Amana’s conquest and her preparations for war.  He will come to Darkfaller and listen to her reasoning and judge her strategy no later than spring.  She has until then to improve her position and then convince him that her approach to the war is worthwhile.”

“That seems rather generous, under the circumstances,” I pointed out.  “If he is that livid with her, then why extend her this courtesy?”

“I entirely agree,” Karakush nodded.  “But she has the credit for a successful campaign when Gaja Katar and Shakathet failed so miserably.  Her faction is sizable and contains many powerful sorcerers.  She has taken some of my master’s most secret weapons and used them to great effect.  It is difficult to punish a successful subordinate without undermining your own leadership,” he suggested.

I reflected on my own relationship with Terleman and had some sympathy.  Had I been in the Magelaw, I never would have authorized his lightning-quick summer war of conquest.  It was strategically foolish and had altered the balance of power in the kingdom dramatically.  It put me in a very difficult position, politically speaking, and had consumed significant resources for territory I did not covet.

But it had also been bold, ambitious, and supported by many of my own subordinates who saw the ascendancy of the magi and the twilight of the chivalry to be at hand.  Punishing Terleman for his success would have challenged the loyalty of my men, and I could not afford that.

“I can see his point,” I conceded.  “What do you think will arise from this inspection?” I asked, casually.

There was method to my reasoning: it was clear that Karakush liked to talk.  I had found out several key pieces of information from his report that he likely did not think he communicated.  His goal was to use my forces against his internal enemies to the detriment of us both, of course.  That was a clever strategy, both ambitious and subtle.  It also suggested that his highest goal was his own survival.  That gave me a lot of insight on his motivations.  Asking the opinions of a man who likes to talk is almost always going to get a response from which you will glean far more than he intends to tell you.

“Should he find favor in her efforts, he may well change his course and reinforce her further,” Karakush considered.  “He does so at the risk of raising a rival.  Should he disfavor her preparations, then he will rebuke her, cut her support, and possibly even seek her withdrawal from your lands.  But in doing so he risks undermining his own claims on your territory.  He has stated that he wants to rule Castabriel, as ruined as it is by humanity.  To have a lieutenant come so close to its conquest and then undercut her success would weaken his claim.”

“A claim that humanity does not recognize,” I reminded him.

“He cares not for what the humani think,” Karakush insisted.

“Nor do we care what he thinks,” I countered.  “Or any of you.  He and Mycin Amana will not find the city unprepared or undefended.  They attack it at their peril.  If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a powerful enough mage to do something about it.”

“Your success was . . . unpredicted,” Karakush conceded.  “Indeed, your brazen attack on Mycin Amana surprised her.  The theft of her carefully selected hosts unnerved her.  And from what I hear your appearance somehow alarmed her.  But the raid itself did little harm to her holding, nor to her defenses.  She is stronger now at Darkfaller than before your raid.  And that is something you should consider.  For a third course of action might arise, after Korbal’s inspection: he may find favor with her efforts and appreciate the position she is in . . . and then remove her from command of the fortress and place someone more loyal in her place as his vassal.”

It was clear from the way he said it that Karakush had designs on that position himself.  Which suggested another line of questioning to me.

“If your master is so irritated with his staff, then how do you fare in his eyes, I wonder?” I asked Karakush.  I was answered with a ghoulish smirk.

“While Korbal takes me to task for failing to kill the Spellmonger and capture his sphere, I have failed with far less penalty to his troops and treasure,” Karakush pointed out.  “I remain a loyal servant in his eyes, no more or no less significant than any of my fellows.”

“Ah,” I nodded.  “You take refuge in your mediocrity.  Interesting tactic.”

“My perceived mediocrity,” Karakush corrected.  “While my fellows’ mistakes are attracting his ire, I build my own strength in my way.  At the appropriate time . . .”

I smiled.  Then I did something that startled Karakush, for which I am gratified.  With Prince Maralathus’ memories firmly in hand, I quoted him a verse from an epic.  In Alka Alon.

There are only thirty or so Alka Alon epics that have been translated to any great degree into Narasi or even Old High Perwynese.  Part of the reason is that the Alka Alon don’t use writing, as such, and thus a recitation of each epic is required before it can be translated and set into writing.  During the early days of the colony, when interest in our race was still fresh for the Alka Alon, they gave us just enough of their highest culture to introduce us to their race and its peculiarities.

But there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of other Alka Alon epics and lays that had not been transcribed and translated.  Many of them were considered just too obscure for the effort.  Some portrayed the very worst of the Alka Alon’s civilization and it struggles since it came to Callidore.  And many just required too much subtle understanding of Alka Alon idiom, imagery, and culture to be worthwhile for the primitive humani sages to comprehend . . . so they didn’t bother giving them to us.

Among that vast store of oral literature was an episodic cycle of poetry and song revolving around the early days of the Alon on Callidore, in the brief period between the rule of the Draolani and the rise of the High Kings.  That was a tumultuous time, of course, and many houses of all of the kindreds jockeyed for power and control.  This series of humorous poems, known as the Jarnethel Cycle, revolved around a treacherous midlevel servant to an ambitious noble house – Jarnethel --  who was in contention for kingship.

There’s plenty of pointless posturing and bickering that provides context for the poems, and Jarnethel, who thinks himself far too clever, does his best to sow discord and confusion to quietly undermine his own ambitious master through rumor, misinformation, and manipulation of the other noble houses.  Jarnethel comes across as a devious but foolish character whose proclaimed loyalties to his master always sound hollow compared to the actions he takes to foil his ambitions.

He betrays his lord several times (although always comes back into his graces when those schemes backfire) and seems to seek his master’s downfall and his own rise in fortunes.  The poems usually involve a sort of soliloquy from Jarnethel about how he only has his foolish master’s best interests at heart when his plots are revealed that reveal a nugget of wisdom, sometimes highly ironic in the context of the story.

He is a comic figure, almost farcical in nature.  Not the sort of thing you want the humani to read or even hear.  They do not portray the workings of Alka Alon society in a particularly flattering light.  The idiom is difficult for a non-Alka Alon to understand.

But I did not hesitate to give him the full quote of Jarenthel’s most famous monologue about his betrayals in flawless Alka Alon:

“What value to a noble lord is a servant without ambition, however humble? Better to go to war with a stiffened bow, to a magical duel with a hoarse voice, or to fight for honor with a dull spear!  And when the mighty fall at twilight, what better reward for his loyalty than for a servant to bear the crown of stars in his master’s revered memory?”

I admit, much is lost in translation.  Each of his points refers to another episode with its own moral implications and subtleties, something that can only be understood if one is familiar with all the great epics as well as Jarnethel’s own cycle of poetry.  Had I tried to deliver the line in Narasi it would have fallen flat.  But in his native language, it struck Karakush sharply.  At first, he stared out of the water surprised, and then he rewarded me with an appreciative smirk.

“Well done, Spellmonger!” he chuckled.  “Clearly you are better educated than even I was aware.  Perhaps I do resemble the fool, but I will accept the mantle of ambition proudly.  Whether Korbal persists in his rule or Mycin Amana ascends on his corpse, I endeavor to survive the drama.  And should both of them perish . . .” he shrugged.

“And meanwhile you conspire with your foes to maneuver them into instruments of your ambition,” I nodded.  “That is guile I can appreciate.  But surely idle gossip alone did not compel you to contact me, however rewarding it might be.”

“Of course,” he agreed.  “From my perspective, our true fight is with the Alka Alon council, not the humani.  I find your people a distraction to greater challenges.  You have proven yourself unexpectedly worthy in your defense, but we have wasted valuable resources and precious time fighting you and not contending with the Council outright.  While my colleagues scramble to defeat you in battle or by subversion, I choose a less bloody course: what are your terms to end the war?” he asked, boldly.  “What would you require to accept a binding truce?”

That took me by surprise.  But his reasoning was sound.  We had successfully defended ourselves from most of the Nemovorti’s incursions and significantly sapped strength from their forces that it had taken a century to build.  Continuing to blunt the edge of their spear on us was getting them nowhere.  I considered for a moment.

“That is an interesting question.  Removal of all your forces from the kingdom.  A sworn oath not to take up arms against humanity again.  Release any human slaves your folk still bear in bondage.  Acknowledge King Rard’s right to rule the kingdom.”  I thought for a few more moments and realized that Karakush had given me an opportunity I had not anticipated having.  “And deliver Sheruel the Dead God to us for judgment for his crimes,” I added.

“I . . . see,” Karakush nodded, his yellow eyes slitted as he considered the offer.  “Could you persuade your king to agree to those terms, if offered?”

“I have recently been made the Marshal Arcane for the kingdom,” I explained.  “All magical threats to the realm are within my portfolio.  I can convince him to consider such an offer if made in earnest and in good faith.”

“Well,” he admitted, “in truth I cannot predict whether Korbal would, indeed, consider such a proposal, but I wished to know your thoughts on the matter should he seek alternatives to war.  It is foolish to go to war and not understand the conditions of victory . . . or the consequences of defeat.”

“Agreed.  I doubt your colleagues would seriously regard such a course as in their interests,” I admitted, “but perhaps if your master finds himself in an unfavorable position he might look to a truce as a means of survival, himself.  Especially if it was brought to him by such a loyal, faithful servant who has the wisdom to seek out such a solution while all others waste his strength.”

“Just so,” he said, giving me a grin that made my spine shrink.  “It is said you have made peace with the rebel Ashakarl and his tribal bumpkins.  You have kept your side of the agreement faithfully, thus far, and you have far more cause to hate the gurvani than you do the Nemovorti,” he reasoned.  “It is possible that, at the right time, I could present such a plan to Korbal to good effect.  I appreciate your candor,” he said, giving me a slight bow.

“And I appreciate your initiative,” I replied, returning the bow.  “Perhaps your diplomacy shall bear fruit.  Shall I keep this Mirror stone against future such conversations?” I proposed.

“Of course, of course,” he nodded.  “The days ahead are filled with uncertainty.  Having an obscure means to communicate without recourse to messengers could prove quite the advantage to both of us.  Thank you for agreeing to treat with me.”

“And thank you for your foresight,” I said, pleasantly, as I moved to cut the spell.  “Farewell, Karakush!”

When I fished the stone out of the bowl, I handed it to Rondal and sat back in my chair and sighed.  Then I looked up at the chandler.  I motioned for Ruderal, who had been attending us from a discrete distance, and my apprentice came over to the fireplace.

“Take this man to the Great Hall and see him well fed,” I ordered him.   “And try to find him some hopped beer, not just ale.  He deserves that much for his trouble,” I said, graciously, as the man thanked me for my kindness.  “Then Rondal can return with him to Falas.”

After the two had left, Rondal and I sat by the fire and discussed the interesting conversation.

“It sounds as if Karakush is planning to betray both his master and his master’s estranged consort,” Rondal offered as I packed my pipe.  “And then he can finish us off as an afterthought.”

“He’s more subtle than that, I think,” I suggested.  “Nor do I think it likely that he would abandon a useful tool amid his schemes – in this case, humanity.  You did say he had an uncommon fascination with us.”

“He does,” admitted Rondal.  “And he does appreciate our culture and our capabilities more than his fellows, of that, I am sure.  But I wouldn’t mistake that for any kind of loyalty.  He would be just as happy to rule us as see us free and uncontrolled.  We are useful tools to him, tools that his associates have largely failed to recognize as such.”

“He’s still creepy as five hells,” I pointed out as I lit my pipe.

“He smells worse,” Rondal agreed.  “I wouldn’t trust him on that basis alone.  But it seems as if he’s willing to betray his master if it became advantageous, and that is good to know.”

“Oh, he told me volumes about what is going on in Korbal’s court,” I assured him.  “Far more than he realized.  And he gave me good, actionable intelligence.  Something I can really use.”

“What?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “That our foes are in disarray?”

“Oh, I knew that already,” I dismissed.  “You can’t gather a gang of narcissistic psychopaths together and hope that they will all get along.  It isn’t in their nature.”

“Then what?” Rondal prompted.

“He told me that Korbal and Sheruel will be coming right to Darkfaller in the spring,” I pointed out.  “They will be far beyond the strong sorcerous protections they enjoy at Olum Seheri or in the Dark Vale.  They will be exposed and vulnerable,” I said as I puffed the sweet smoke.  “And when they are . . . we will be there to strike at them.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Plots And Strategies

After the message from Karakush, I was filled with a renewed sense of purpose.  After all, as Marshal Arcane, it was my job to respond to threats such as Korbal and Mycin Amana.  Having them both in the same place at the same time gave us a unique opportunity to strike and potentially remove the leadership from our adversary.  If I could capture Sheruel in the bargain, so much the better.

As it stood that autumn there were more than ten thousand Vanadori who could be mobilized in the spring, with three thousand of them already armed and living in camps on the plateau.  While Sevendor didn’t have as many troops prepared, it would not be difficult to call up those nearby for duty assaulting Darkfaller given how much time we had to get them ready.

But this battle would not be won by troops alone, no matter how well-trained or determined.  This was Korbal we would be facing, after all, not to mention his undead minions, Enshadowed sorcerers, draugen and diverse units of gurvani, hobgoblins, maragorku, great goblins, and various human renegades.  I could foresee a few more giant spiders added to the roster as well.

In response, we were preparing the largest number of warmagi possible for the assault.  The original raid had used about a hundred and fifty of our best, many of them High Magi, and they had fought with cunning and great effect.  This time I aimed to double that number – and arm them all with witchstones.

My manufacture of irionite had been a constant for weeks, save for the break in production that occurred after my break with reality.  When I was finally able to return to my workshops and the chamber of the Snowflake, I managed to restart the process.  By late autumn I was churning out about two dozen fair-sized stones a week: perfect spheres of shimmering green amber twice the size of the original shards we’d once seen as all-powerful.

Such an effort would not be possible without the localized temporal field in my workshop that sped up the process by decades, a magical development that was not available to the Alka Alon, but that had allowed me to accumulate an impressive stockpile of the stones.  At this rate, I could safely count on doubling the number of High Magi in Castalshar by the end of the year.

As impressive as that force was on parchment, however, I was not satisfied.  We had purposefully hidden our true strength in the earlier raid.  I had contrived to allow Mycin Amana and her generals to think that my arcane commandos and Tavard’s cavalry and one full tower of Sky Riders was the best we could accomplish.  For the second attack I wanted to bring our full force to bear to crush every trace of the Nemovorti out of Castal forever.

Some measures I took were relatively quiet: detailing a squadron of Tera Alon and adept Sky Riders to Vanador for some specialized training, for one; arranging to double the production of magically potent constructs from the bouleuterions for another.  That period between my breakdown and Yule was filled with discussions about how to improve the process and expand the resulting output that filled our arcane armories.

But there was another element that I needed if I wanted to ensure that Korbal and Mycin Amana were completely overwhelmed.  I wanted the Alka Alon to deploy their warriors in a meaningful way.

Thus far in the war their participation had been scattered and marginal, with only a few hundred or a thousand of them taking up arms before the Tera Alon had established themselves after the fall of Anthatiel.  It was true that they had been effective, but they had not been truly decisive forces in our struggles.  This time I wanted their full participation, and I gave them plenty of notice when Pentandra, Terleman and I visited Carneduin that autumn for a conference with Master Heruthel and Lord Letharan of Anas Yartharel.

Of the remaining Alka Alon strongholds in our lands, these two were the only ones with a population significant enough to raise the numbers of warriors I wanted to be involved in the battle.  We had already secured about three thousand Tera Alon warriors, under the titular leadership of Lady Fallawen, but I wanted more.  Korbal needed to see the Alka Alon and the humani kingdom united in our consensus against him and his followers.  This was the perfect opportunity for that.

Unfortunately, the Alka Alon did not quite see it that way.

“You wish us to commit our forces to drive Korbal from human lands?” Lord Letharan asked, amused, at our quiet little meeting.  “It seems you have things well enough in hand with your preparations for war.  You struck them a powerful blow in your raid.  Why do you need us?”

“To ensure that we are victorious, for one,” I pointed out.  “If I spend my strength on this attack only to have it fail, then you will have to contend with the results without that strength added to yours.”

We were sitting in a small antechamber of one of the grand, majestic halls of Carneduin.  This was a meeting, after all, and not a great council.  We had dispensed with the usual Alka Alon sense of ceremony quickly, as we attempted to coordinate our strategies.  But it was clear from the beginning that they were extremely reluctant to participate in base warfare on any meaningful scale.  I found that disappointing, but not unexpected.

“But Count Minalan,” Master Heruthel protested, “you have gathered a great force to bear on this matter.  You have clearly prepared diligently for this battle.  I would say that the addition of the Alka Alon would be . . . redundant,” he said, apologetically.

“Perhaps, my lord,” Pentandra said, coolly.  “We suffer no illusions about the difficulty of the task ahead.  Mycin Amana is entrenched in Darkfaller, and her forces grow daily.  When the day comes to strike, we need to ensure we are successful, and that means overwhelming our foe.  We are pledging more than twenty thousand lives to the task.  The Nemovorti are a threat to both of us.  It seems unfair that our allies are unwilling to commit assistance to us on the eve of such a battle, when you may suffer the consequences of our failure as much as we will.”

“But you are asking us to risk what little armed might we have in this,” Lord Letharan said, slowly.  “What defense will the world have if you fail?  Keeping our warriors in reserve makes strategic sense.”

“Only if you are a coward,” sneered Terleman, whom Pentandra had convinced to dress up a little for the meeting.  He was wearing a severe black robe in a martial cut that made his shoulders look broader.  “Your reserves will mean little if they are inadequate to the task.  One must think that they are not as effective as their reputation says.  Have you lost the ability to fight, my lord?  Or was Anthatiel the only Alka Alon city where that art was preserved?”

“My folk are adept at war!” Letharan said in a high-pitched snarl.  “We fought a thousand years before your people dropped out of the sky!”

“Then you are afraid,” Pentandra nodded.  “You fear facing the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti because you may lose.”

“Nothing of the sort,” snorted Letharan.  “We simply wish to conserve our strength for struggles that truly matter.  The taking of one little humani fortress is of little consequence, in the context of this war.  Committing our troops to seeing it liberated makes little sense.  Why risk the lives of thousands of Alka Alon to preserve the ephemeral lives of mortals?”

“We all enjoy only one life in this world,” I said, my voice near to a growl.  “Whether we live two thousand years or a mere sixty, each life is precious to those who own it.”

“Yet your troops will be replenished in a few short years, Count Minalan, whereas it takes centuries for the Alka Alon to breed enough warriors to replace those lost in battle.  Can you not see the unequal risk to our people for such a reckless attack?”

“What is so reckless about it, my lord?” Terleman prompted.  “A moment ago, you said that we were adequate enough to drive them out of Darkfaller.  If you are so certain of our triumph, then it should matter little how many Alka Alon are nearby to witness it.”

“There is always the possibility of unforeseen circumstances,” Master Heruthel proposed.  “Like those giant spiders you encountered.  Lilastien insists that they are adept warriors, and quite ferocious in their makeup.  To expose our people to such terrors seems short-sighted.”

“Yet you have no difficulty seeing us take those risks,” I said, shaking my head.  “Do you treat our people as disposable, as you do the gurvani?  That bodes ill for our alliance.”

“We have given you irionite, weaponry, and support,” protested Heruthel.  “Weapons that have made a significant difference in the conflict.  We are impressed with how you have employed them.  Indeed, you have stood against the foe far longer than we anticipated.”

“Well, that hardly inspires confidence in our alliance,” Pentandra said, sitting back and crossing her arms.  “We have struggled for ten years, now, facing this foe on your behalf.  If you did not think that we would prevail, then why give us aid at all?”

“Oh, I know why,” I asserted.  “What was the company that was charged with reaching out to the humani back then?  The one responsible for sending the Emissaries?  The Ferrangallan Council?  Your lack of faith in our success was demonstrated in the very name.  You saw to use us as a distraction against our mutual foes,” I accused.  “You gave us a few cast-off weapons from your museums, some irionite and an encouraging pep-talk.  Of course, that was before you apparently saw what the enemy was truly capable of,” I added.

“We knew precisely the dangers we faced,” Heruthel said, arrogantly.

“Then why did you not predict the fall of Anthatiel?” challenged Terleman.  “Why did you not reinforce that city when it was under siege?  Why was it left to us humans to rescue the remnants of those people?”

“That was . . . an unfortunate miscalculation,” Lord Letharan admitted, guiltily.  “We had no idea that the enemy would stoop to such measures and bring such power to bear on a citadel that was considered well defended.”

“Was the dragon attack on Anas Yartharel likewise a ‘miscalculation’?” I prompted.  “Face it, my friends, you have badly managed this war from the beginning in the name of cautious wisdom.  While our people die on the field yours continue to frolic in the woodlands, taking only occasional strikes for your trouble.  You sought to distract Sheruel and Korbal with the threat of humanity while you made other plans.”

“It is wisdom for those best suited to face danger to do it first, while wiser heads prepare for the worst,” Lord Letharan said.  It sounded like mature wisdom, but thanks to Prince Maralathus I was aware that he was plagiarizing a line from The Hollow Log, an ancient epic regarding the treacheries of the Alka Alon during the Warring States Period.  Upon reflection, the Alka Alon lords seemed to frequently fall back on these pronouncements as their own wisdom, pretending it was not borrowed from the great store of literature that humanity was not privy to.

But I knew the counterargument, also from The Hollow Log.

“It is valor that propels the untested into the fray while the sage cowers within a hollow log,” I said, in Narasi.  That startled both Alka Alon lords.  In truth, I did not want to favor them by quoting it in their own language.  I was too angry at their stubborn but polite reluctance, and I needed them to understand that I wasn’t the average uneducated humani warrior-prince anymore.  “Either you are allies, or you are exploiting us.  We need Alka Alon assistance!” I insisted.  “If you cannot bring yourselves to provide it, we may have to seek elsewhere,” I pronounced.

“Just where might you find allies as thoughtful as we are?” challenged Lord Letharan.  “Face it, Wizard, you are stuck with us in this fight.  We will assist you as we see fit, and you will take what we offer.  Because you have no alternative,” he said, arrogantly.

“Well, as we need the assistance of the Alka Alon and the council is unwilling to provide it, I suppose all we can do is either accept that . . . or appeal to the High Kings for assistance directly,” I said, matter-of-factly.  “If the local council is inadequate to the task of defense and governance, I understand,” I soothed.  “But there are those in the world who might be more willing to lend a hand against their ancient enemies when there is so much at stake.”

That made both Alkans look fearful and startled – and you don’t often see that in such ancient, wise sages.  This was the first time I had ever invoked the High Kings in our discussions, and my recourse to that possibility was a surprise to them.  Indeed, they looked to each other searchingly before Heruthel looked back at the three of us.

“There is no need for such measures,” he sighed.  “Bothering such great and important leaders with this minor incursion would be ill-advised.  I think we can manage to provide at least some warriors for this campaign,” he admitted.  “I know not how many, yet, but I will investigate the possibilities.”

“That would be very much appreciated, my lord,” Pentandra agreed with a bow.  “We will return to our hovels and continue sharpening sticks while you deliberate.”

It was not the most productive meeting we had with the Alka Alon.

“What made you suggest these High Kings?” Terleman asked, as we walked back through the valley toward the Waypoint.

“Because the council fears them,” I answered.  “The last time they got involved with this region the council saw their king removed – and his kingship.  It was not a just judgment, in my estimation, but it left a lasting impression on our hosts.  The very last thing that they want is the interference of the High Kings in local affairs. Traditionally that never ends well.”

“But what of these High Kings?” Pentandra asked.  “I’ve barely heard of them.”

“They were the three families chosen to rule Callidore – at least the Drylands of Callidore – a few centuries after the Alon came here,” I explained.  “They overthrew the Draolani council that originally ruled and established themselves as sovereign.  Each is responsible for a vast region, though they do little to order the folk within.  But in emergencies, they are vested with great powers, and their ruling is law.  Not the sort of authority that you want to appeal to lightly,” I suggested.

“Apparently not,” Pentandra nodded, impressed.  “What might happen if we did appeal to them?”

“We could only do so, legally, if the local council somehow failed in their stewardship.  But even an allegation of such would reflect poorly on the council.  Considering the precarious position the Alon as a whole enjoy in regards to the Vundel, you can understand how reluctant they would be to invite such scrutiny.”

“Would you really do that?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Only as a last resort,” I admitted.  “Such an appeal would be a grave matter.  Of course,” I added, “Heruthel and Letharan don’t know that.  Despite their arrogant attitudes, they are genuinely growing scared of us.  They didn’t even mention the arcane storm I caused in Sevendor a few weeks ago, which they surely felt.  An appeal to the High Kings across the seas would hold them to account for their decisions, and they dearly want to avoid that.   Merely the threat of such an appeal moved them, as you saw.”

“You are quite a devious wizard, Minalan!” Terleman praised with a grin.

I shrugged.  “They have counted too heavily on our ignorance of their ways and customs,” I pointed out.  “When they are truly held to account by their own standards they balk, just as any bureaucrat does.  Our cultures are not that dissimilar, despite their pretensions to superiority.”

“No one likes to get hauled before their superior to answer for their actions,” Terleman agreed.

“Exactly,” I nodded.  “And this time merely the threat of such action was sufficient to get me what I wanted.  We will have the Alka Alon with us, now.  There will be no denying the truth of the alliance to Korbal.  That is what I needed from them.  They had to risk their own lives to demonstrate to our foe how important the matter is.  Otherwise, we were merely minor pieces on this gameboard.  And I have struggled too long and too hard to be dismissed as a pawn.”

***

“This is going to be a problem,” Mavone told me, as we discussed the return to Darkfaller a few days after our meeting with the Alka Alon.  He and his men had been discretely surveying Mycin Amana’s activities in the captured keep since the raid, using the hawks of the Castali Mewstower extensively.  There is no one better at battlefield intelligence than Mavone, in my experience; he has a way of ferreting out the enemy’s secrets and exposing their weaknesses in a manner that matched Terleman’s tactical sense.  But when he came to me with his latest assessment, it gave me pause.  I dearly didn’t want to believe him, and I knew I should.

“Whatever Mycin Amana did during the raid – or what you did, for that matter – caused what seems to be a permanent shift in the proximity of the central keep of Darkfaller,” he continued.  “That is, the Magosphere in that region has suffered a phase shift that makes it not quite here and not quite gone . . . no, that’s not the way to say it,” he sighed.  “It appears that the castle is both here and somewhere else.  The Otherworld, most likely.  There’s a residue of necromantic magic that persists when it should have dissipated, according to the understanding of the rules of magic we have.”

“There was a substantial thaumaturgic array set up in her chamber,” I recalled.  “It was responsible for the original necromantic shield.  When Wenek destroyed it, I figured the field would collapse without the apparatus.  It didn’t?”

“Not . . . exactly,” Mavone agreed, frowning.   “That is, the active portions of the enchantment collapsed fairly quickly, but the underlying thaumaturgic structure remained.  It is as if there are cracks in reality that allow portions of the Otherworld to persist in our world, and vice versa.  That is what is sustaining the effect, I think.  You’re welcome to have Taren look over my observations, of course, or even take a look yourself, but I’m certain it’s something like that.”

I considered the matter, remembering that busy day as carefully as I could.  What Mavone was reporting was disturbing, but it seemed consistent with what I had witnessed in Mycin Amana’s chamber: an elaborate matrix of irionite, snowstone and bluestone, like Isily of Greenflower’s but more complex with the addition of Alka Alon sorcery.

“So what might this mean for our attack?” I asked.

“Well, the disruption seems to preserve and empower the undead in the affected area, from what we can tell,” he informed me, cautiously, “so that is the bad news.  Even the normal undead seem to prefer to be nearby, and the place is crawling with draugen – and I mean that literally.  They scale the sides of the tower like insects on a honeycomb.  The Nemovorti would likely be far more powerful and agile inside,” he predicted, “and their spells are probably going to be correspondingly more potent.

“But the good news is that the living servants of our foe shun the place as much as the undead are attracted to it.  None of the gurvani and most of the Enshadowed seem to avoid going there unless business demands it.  They are sticking to the outer keeps in the complex.  That puts a lot more goblins on the walls but makes a rally in defense of the central keep improbable.”

I nodded thoughtfully.  “Any more sign of giant spiders?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“No overt signs . . . on the surface,” Mavone conceded.  “That is, the few reports we’ve managed to get from inside the castle suggest that if there is any more activity, it is below ground in the catacombs of the place.  From what you’ve told us about the species, that suggests the presence of some males or immature females, but nothing like we faced in the bailey that day.”

While that was good news, it also meant that there was the possibility of more arachnoid-sponsored unpleasantness.  I still could not banish that smell from my memory.  While I had certainly planned a variety of possible counters to the leggy menace, based on our dissection of the corpse in Henga, I really did not want to test them, if I could help it.

“And the number of gurvani and Enshadowed in the garrison?” I asked, trying to dismiss the idea of spiders as quickly as possible.

“At least five hundred Enshadowed, now,” Mavone said, confidently.  “From what I’ve gleaned from our Alka Alon sources, that could be as much as a quarter of their number.  The gurvani stand at three or four thousand, split between hobgoblins, great goblins, and plain old black furry goblins, but they aren’t thrilled with the duty,” he revealed.  “Apparently the Nemovorti are stingy with rations and poorly disposed toward the gurvani in general.  Many of them blame the gurvani for their failures in the Wilderlands, while the gurvani are getting fed up with the lordly attitudes their superiors are displaying.”

“Any chance we could spark a rebellion?” I asked, thoughtfully.

“Not this far into human territory, I’m afraid,” Mavone said, shaking his head.  “It’s one thing to try something like that in the Wilderlands, because they could desert and head for Ashakarl’s realm and relative safety.  But that avenue isn’t available in central Castal.  And the maragorku aren’t inclined to revolt in any case.  They see their service as a token of their innate superiority over the tribals and the hobs, and they quickly stomp on any discussion of that sort in the ranks.”

“That’s a pity,” a sighed.

“If it’s any consolation, from the troops that have been sent by the molopor in the last few weeks I would venture that they are having a harder and harder time filling their ranks,” Mavone suggested.  “One would think that they would stuff the place with gurvani, after their success in the original invasion.  But it’s only been a trickle.  From the heraldry we’ve seen they’ve been recruiting from the settlements within the Umbra, proper, and not further afield in the Penumbra.  That suggests that support for the war effort is flagging the farther you go from the Dark Vale.  That’s good news,” he said, hopefully.

“It is,” I agreed.  “In retrospect, it might be that our support and tacit alliance with King Ashakarl has borne fruit.  Without Sheruel to keep the shamans in charge and the legions in line, he’s the only independent gurvani power that they can flee to.”

“Have you considered requesting his assistance in this attack?” Mavone proposed.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” I decided.  “Ashakarl does us a service by just keeping a lot of tribal gurvani off the battlefield.  I would rather see him gather strength and be in a position to resist the Enshadowed should they try to reincorporate his people into their dark little empire.  Lilastien said she’d speak to our ambassador about that,” I explained.

“Good ol’ Gurkarl!” Mavone smiled.  “I do like that fellow, now that I’ve gotten to know him.  We are occasionally at odds, but he has delivered some excellent intelligence over the years.  But I still wonder if we can really trust him.”

“You may trust that he will act in the best interests of the gurvani,” I countered.  “That may not always coincide with our best interests.  But he is honest about it, and apparently incorruptible.  Not once has he betrayed his word over the years, and I can think of a few humans who I can’t say that about.”

“Speaking of which,” Mavone said, pulling out another parchment from his folio, “my reports from Tavard’s camp are disturbing.  While he’s allowing a winter furlough for many of the senior knights in his army, he is keeping the bulk of his mercenary infantry, his peasant conscripts, and his mounted sergeants encamped through the winter.  He’s ordered a lot of supplies from his personal domains to be shipped to his encampment, now that he’s picked the local area clean.”

“You don’t sound particularly pleased about that,” I noted.

“Well, it is the type of supplies he’s ordering,” Mavone said, referring to his sheet.  “Ordinarily I would expect things like boots and blankets and heavy cloaks to be of primary concern for a winter cantonment; but from what I’ve been able to tell he’s purchasing hardtack, biscuit, dried beef, salt pork, beans, cheese, sausage, and other rations, not live fowl, pigs, sheep, goats, and cattle, as you would expect.  He’s paying for prepared rations, not just flour and oats.  And he’s ordered a lot more oats than hay for the winter.  That’s the sort of commissary you use in an active campaign, not a long winter garrison.”

I frowned again.  That was concerning.  Most commanders wouldn’t bother to investigate an adversary’s purchase of supplies in that kind of detail, but that’s why Mavone is so good at what he does.  He examines every detail of an enemy and considers the matter from their perspective, appreciating subtleties that might ordinarily be overlooked.  It had served us very well, thus far.

“So you think he might take advantage of the attack?” I asked, confused.  “Perhaps try to re-take the Gilmoran lands from Terleman while we’re occupied with Darkfaller?”

“That’s one possibility,” he admitted.  “I noticed that none of the furloughed officers were from farther away than fifty miles.  That’s still plenty of men, but any of his vassals from beyond those limits were ordered to stay in camp.  The rest are only allowed short liberties in Castabriel before they must return to camp.  That suggests he’s planning something that would require a quick redeployment – say, a surprise attack.  But there’s more,” he said, drawing out a second leaf of parchment.  “He’s ordered a lot of lumber be rerouted from his shipwrights to his encampment.  Enough to build an entire ship if my figures are correct.  And I can’t see him building a warship in the middle of Castal’s fertile fields.”

“But maybe field fortifications,” I pointed out.

“Or siege engines,” Mavone agreed.  “What’s tragic about it all is that he really thinks he’s being sneaky about it.  But my men were able to get this information for less than sixty ounces of silver and a case of wine.  If I’m able to do that, what do you think Mycin Amana knows about his plans?  He still has no functional Magical Corps to run defense on his camp.  His counterintelligence is very poor.”

“Well, I suppose that makes it easier on you, then,” I pointed out.  “I’m trying not to depend too much on Tavard’s role in the assault.  From what we saw last time, it isn’t going to be either reliable or effective, especially if he continues to keep out competent warmagi.  We’ll just have to watch him.  And then include any boneheaded moves he makes into our overall strategy.  Once we take Darkfaller we can turn to deal with his ambitions.”

“I could try to get a man close to him to overhear his plans,” Mavone suggested.  “I was planning on doing something like that anyway.  Bribing his subordinates for intelligence has been rewarding, but not particularly trustworthy.  A dedicated, loyal agent might be a better solution.”

“Do it,” I ordered.  “The last thing I need is to be in the middle of a battle with Mycin Amana and have Tavard challenge me to a duel or some other dramatic idiocy.  I’d like to know what he’s planning.”

“Some might consider that treason,” he pointed out, as he pulled his parchments into a pile.  “Or at least demonstrating a lack of trust.”

“I consider it a legitimate exercise of my office as Marshal Arcane,” I countered.  “Dear gods, if I can spy on my enemies to determine their disposition, I should also at least be informed of what my so-called allies are considering.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

A Bit Of Necromancy

While I was busy preparing for next spring’s offensive, something was in the back of my mind, irritating my conscience.  There was something I knew I needed to do and I really, really didn’t want to do it.

In general, preparations were underway amongst my infantry, my cavalry and my magical corps in satisfactory ways.  My objective was clearly defined, and I had made contingency plans for a variety of possibilities.  The Castali Mewstower was strongly staffed, now, Mavone’s spies were haunting the vicinity of Darkfaller, and the arcane commandos I planned to deploy were busy training and arming themselves with fresh munitions from the bouleuterion.   With the portal available to us to insert our troops despite Mycin Amana’s defenses, I should have been relaxed and confident about our chances.

But there was something nagging me, a burr under the saddle of my soul.  Any time my subconscious tried to bring it to my attention I did my best to distract myself from it and concentrate on the very practical matters of the assault.

Eventually, however, it became too loud to ignore.  I had managed every other element of the assault as best I could, from transportation to supply to the nature and number of the troops involved.  Each of my stolen memories had contributed what they could to the effort, to various degrees of effectiveness, and I was as confident as I could be about the campaign.  With one glaring exception.

When I could no longer rationalize why I was avoiding it, I cleared a day of business and made some arrangements.  By midmorning all was in readiness.  I took only Ruderal along with me and brought both of us through the Ways to the environs of Castle Salaisus in the barony of Greenflower.

The weather was not kind; visiting the haunted castle during any time of year was depressing but coming on the cusp of winter seemed almost masochistic.  The castle itself looked nearly deserted in the distance.  The cold rain dripped relentlessly from the overcast skies as the very trees around the place seemed to groan under the oppressive weather.  I had been advised that we would arrive outside of the castle, proper, as the bluestone of the place could cause problems with the Alka Alon Ways.

“Welcome, Count Minalan,” Kedaran the Black announced, as Ruderal and I stepped through the Ways to his Waystone.  “What an unexpected pleasure!”

“Long overdue,” I agreed, reluctantly, as Ruderal shivered in the cold and damp.  “I have only recently returned from an eventful exile, and have been consumed with greater matters, unfortunately.”

“Ah, the raid on Darkfaller Castle,” Kedaran nodded, his bald pate peering out beneath the sable hood of his mantle.  “I heard of that.  Most impressive.”

“It is Darkfaller that compels me to visit you, actually,” I admitted, as we began to walk toward the castle’s entrance.  “I am preparing a second assault, in earnest, this time, and I need a rather special kind of intelligence before I do.  This was the easiest place for me to find it.”

“Then you seek to converse with the dead,” Kedaran supplied.  “Very wise of you.  They oft have answers to questions the living do not.”

“That is my hope,” I agreed.

Kedaran the Black is a strange sort.  He was trained as a warmage and was certified under the old rules as a matter of course.  But he had always had an interest in the Otherworld and necromantic magic that made other magi avoid him.  His fascination with the dead was well-known, and it seemed to encompass much about him.  That was why I had chosen him to replace Taren a few years ago when he begged me to relieve him from his post.

He was well suited to the task.  He even looked the part of a necromancer: his head was shaven, as well as his cheeks, leaving just a mustache, bushy eyebrows, and a sharply trimmed Imperial beard on his chin.  He wore black robes almost exclusively, and the rings on his fingers were fashioned to look like bones, eyeballs, moaning spirits, and the like.  Most people would have shied away from being identified with such a problematic realm of study as Necromancy; Kedaran seemed to embrace it.  I suppose he just didn’t like visitors much.

But he was congenial enough and quite intelligent.  His moral compass apparently wasn’t squeamish enough to keep him from taking the difficult office I had given him.  Indeed, he seemed more comfortable among the dead than he was the living.  His few years here at Salaisus had kept the place secure against outside interference – though few bandits and squatters were willing to brave the misty environment that regularly saw the ghosts of the dead appear.  The castle seemed intact, if deserted.  It also seemed, like its master, creepy as nine hells.

“Did you happen to hear who our foe was at Darkfaller?” I inquired, as we walked over the drawbridge and into the gatehouse.

“Just a Nemovort,” he shrugged, as he opened the inner door to the place.  My memory – my true memory – flashed back uncomfortably to the Greenflower Magewar.  This had been one of our staging areas.  “Anyone special?”

“Mycin Amana,” I supplied.  “Korbal’s consort.  That is problematic enough, of course, for she is a powerful sorceress and has attracted many followers amongst her fellow Nemovorti.  But that isn’t the most daunting part of the raid.  She currently wears the body . . . of Isily of Greenflower.”

The revelation made Kedaran stop in his tracks before he turned and looked at me sympathetically.  He was intimately familiar with how the brief Magewar had played out.  What it had done to Alya, and what it had done to Isily.

“I’m so very sorry, Minalan,” he said, sincerely.

“Thank you,” I answered.  “Isily and I had a long history even before the Magewar.  It was quite a shock to see her body and face being animated by someone who truly hates me.”

“That would be disturbing,” agreed the most-disturbing mage I knew.

“Indeed.  I purposefully sought her out during the battle, however, and we had a chance for a brief conversation.  It was revealing.  She had constructed an arcane matrix the way that Isily had done here,” I reported, “only it was more developed and included some choice piece of bluestone.”

“I have done my best to keep the place from being pilfered,” he said, apologetically, “but it is difficult, sometimes.”

“Oh, I don’t fault you or your service,” I assured him as we took the steps up to the great hall.  “Believe me, we see snowstone stolen from Sevendor all the time, despite our efforts.  Her matrix was the heart of a strong necromantic field, however, likely because of the bluestone.  While it was destroyed, there remains a persistent rupture between the Otherworld and our world on the site, similar to this place.”

“Ah, I see,” Kedaran nodded as he flipped his hood back.  “So you wish to investigate the nature of the rupture.  Good thinking.”

“It seemed prudent,” I agreed.  “I thought perhaps some perceptions from the other side of the veil would be useful. Do you have someplace where I could cast a few spells in private?”

“I have just the place,” he agreed with a thin-lipped smile.  “Follow me.”

He led us up the stairs of the largest tower, causing another stream of unfortunate memories of the Magewar, and into a small chamber off the main floor on the third floor.  There was no sign of servants or anyone else around, I noted.

The chamber was clearly a workshop, but one designed for necromantic research.  The walls and the vaulted ceiling were encrusted with some of the more pure examples of snowstone he had gathered from around the castle and fastened to the stone.  I could feel an immediate difference in the ambiance of the place the moment I entered.  There were small tables where a variety of thaumaturgic equipment was neatly laid out, and a large disk of milky glass with a faint bluish tint stood on a heavy wooden stand to one side.  There was a single chair in the room.

“This should work,” I agreed, despite my misgivings.  “What is that?” I asked, pointing to the glass.

“An invention of my own devising,” he said, proudly, as he removed a black cloth from his robe and dusted the face of the glass.  “High-quality thaumaturgical glass melted with crystalized bluestone.  There are other agents acting on it, of course, but it makes it easier to converse with some of the dead who have difficulty manifesting more completely here.”

“What causes the difference, I wonder?” Ruderal asked.  “One would think that one dead person would be just as dead as another.”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he admitted.  “I will continue my studies and make a report at the Magic Fair when I do.”

“It seems an excellent place for what I have to do,” I assured him, as I manifested Tanno Amberil and then set it against the back of the chair before I also drew forth another baculus from a hoxter pocket: Threshold.

Threshold had been built by Taren during his tenure at Castle Salaisus.  He had used his talent for thaumaturgy to design the thing to be useful in matters regarding necromancy, and I had borrowed it for the occasion.  Kedaran was very intrigued in the thing and eagerly requested the opportunity to inspect it.

“Very good work,” he declared, after peering at it and taking its measure.  “Indeed, I’ve never seen better.  Perhaps I should construct something like this myself,” he said as he handed it back to me.  In truth, I had no idea why he hadn’t already.

“If you and Ruderal will excuse me for a while, I’m going to try a few experiments,” I suggested.

“Of course.  You are familiar with the protocol for summoning the dead?”

“Taren went through it with me in Sevendor,” I affirmed.  “It doesn’t seem complicated.  Especially here.”

“It is easy to summon the dead,” Kedaran agreed.  “It is not always easy to be selective about who shows up.  Again, a matter for study that I am looking into.  But if you are persistent, and have a firm enough will, then you should find who you are looking for . . . eventually.”

Ruderal did not look elated at having to spend time with Kedaran while I worked, which I understood.  But I wanted privacy for this conversation.  Thankfully, Mel Thenreyal, the sorceress of Alonaral, was the ancient memory foremost in my mind at the moment.  Her iron discipline and cool demeanor helped me overcome my own petty concerns and innate fear of the place.  Of all of my ancient ghosts, she was the most soothing.

I settled myself in the chair in front of the glass and used Tanno Amberil to take stock of the thaumaturgical energy that inhabited the room.  It was a complicated tangle of forces, both necromantic and purely arcane, and I immediately saw some elements that were ripe for improvement.  I did not hesitate to do so.  I had been conducting so much advanced enchantment of late that I knew I would be very annoyed at the inefficiencies and lackluster design of the spells Kedaran had been employing.

The glass disc was, however, an excellent improvement on the methods that Taren had developed.  It concentrated a variety of power streams and augmented or retarded them to suit the purpose of the device.  After a few moments of fine-tuning the apparatus and I felt the surge of energy from the Otherworld.

There is a difference between when a mage sends his mind into the Otherworld and when it is exposed in our world by such a force as bluestone.  The ritual and preparation we do for a simple visit is more like looking through a window into a darkened room.  In Castle Salaisus it was more like throwing yourself through that window.  The forces involved were sharper, deeper, and more complex than the traditional access the magi had used for centuries, implying a far more complex and arcanely complicated medium than we presupposed when we made our forays.

Using Threshold, I was able to place my own consciousness into the Otherworld deeply enough to assert my desires as “bait.”  Indeed, the entire affair is somewhat like fishing, wherein you provide a thaumaturgically intriguing lure and see which spirits, if any, are interested in visiting you.  Taren had cautioned me to be cautious in this phase of the spell – the Otherworld is replete with malicious spirits who out of boredom or pure mischievousness will try to convince you that they are the ones you seek.

I wasn’t too concerned about that.  I was the Spellmonger, after all.  Rebuking such a nuisance would be no trouble for me.

As I settled into a trance and cast forth my desire through the milky glass lens, I was gratified to encounter a spirit of my acquaintance almost immediately.  Much to my surprise a translucent face formed in the glass, one that I recognized.

“Delman!” I said, nearly startled at the apparition.

“Minalan,” it replied, the dark eyes seeming to peer through the arcane mist that formed around the disc.  “It has been a while since we chatted.”

“I have been quite busy,” I assured him.  Delman was a warmage, of course, one of the ones who had first accompanied Pentandra to Boval Vale a decade ago.  But that had been forced upon him by circumstances, much like my own career.  His original interest was in Green Magic, the study of the magical properties of plants and trees.  He was never terribly happy at being a warmage, as he was a gentle soul, but he had an angry streak that he would unleash in battle that made him effective.  Otherwise, he kept to himself, most times.  “How do you fare?” I asked.

“I am well,” he asserted.  “Still dead, but apart from that . . .”

I smiled despite myself.  “I understand,” I nodded.  “Is there anything I can do for you, from this side of the veil?”

“There is not much I desire, believe it or not.  Except not being dead.  That is unlikely to change,” he informed me, glumly.  “But thank you for asking.  How fare things in the world of the living?”

“The war against the darkness continues,” I told him. “The magi are becoming more powerful both politically and arcanely.  I learned to make irionite,” I said, which seemed to surprise and please him.  “We have managed to keep our original company together in an alliance against the resentments of the chivalry.  I founded a magocratic state in the eastern Wilderlands, over which I am now a count palatine.  I accidentally created a unique magical mineral that reduces the etheric density in its proximity.  Oh, and there have been significant advancements made with Green Magic, thanks to the efforts of a number of your fellows since you, ah, since you—”

“Since I was painfully slaughtered in battle,” he finished, dryly.

“Yes, that,” I said, swallowing hard.  “Well, would it be helpful if I paid for a temple service in your memory?  Burned some candles or something?” I asked.

“That’s a lovely thought, but that sort of thing doesn’t really affect us on this side as much as you might think,” he said.  “After all, what’s left of us in the Otherworld is not our complete soul, just the remnants of our memories energized by the Magosphere into a kind of consciousness.  It’s a depressing existence.  But it is preferable, I think, to no existence at all.”

“That’s a pity,” I agreed.  “What do you do to pass the time?”

“Time is a very slippery concept, here,” he said, shaking his head sadly.  “Occasionally I’ll pop into the dreams of one of my living family, but in truth they have lost most of their memories of me already.  This place is nice, though,” he assured me.  “Thanks to the rifts in the dimensions here I can take the occasional stroll around the grounds.  It is nice to see plants again, even if I cannot touch them or taste them.”

“Interesting,” I murmured.  “And that is sufficient to occupy your intellect?”

“Minalan, when you are dead there isn’t much intellect left,” he insisted.  “Not true intellect.  It’s memory and character, not true life.  Oh, there are a few who can manage to bear a grudge into the afterlife, I suppose, but even that is just a remnant of their living selves.  And vengeful spirits are incredibly boring.”

“As are vengeful people,” I agreed.  “Can you tell me anything about the other rift that was recently raised – the one at Darkfaller Castle?”

“Another rift?” he asked, surprised.  “No, I had no idea.  I’ve been haunting this place, mostly.  But that’s good news, I suppose.  A new place with different flora to explore.  Darkfaller . . . that’s the big one over on the frontier of Castal and Gilmora, correct?”

“Yes, and it’s been conquered by our foes,” I explained.  “A group of undead Alka Alon who seek to overthrow both the human society that inhabits their old land and the Alka Alon Council whom they see as having wronged them.  They’re using . . .well, a number of foul servants, actually, but plenty of common undead, gurvani, and most recently giant spiders and giant wyverns.”

“It all sounds terribly interesting,” he said, unconvincingly.  “I will investigate, however.  There’s not much novelty on this side.”

“I am curious if there is anyone who might be able to tell me something about the place, however,” I said.  I didn’t want to be rude to a deceased colleague, but exchanging news with a bitter Green Mage was not why I made the journey to Castle Salaisus.  “We are planning a full-scale assault, and I wanted to see if there was any arcane intelligence I could gather.”

“Always about the work,” he nodded.  “I remember that about you.  I’ll leave you to it, then.  It was nice speaking to you, though,” he offered.  “It would be lovely if you could manage a visit more often.”

“Perhaps when this war is finally finished,” I proposed.  “Until then I will continue to be busy.  I’ve been named the kingdom’s Marshal Arcane, now.  That post comes with fresh responsibilities.”

“Of course.  Well, farewell, then.”  And then he was gone as abruptly as he arrived.

I took a deep breath and steadied my nerves before I returned my “bait” to the lens.  It took a little longer, but soon another familiar presence manifested in the glass . . . and then took shape in front of it.

It was not a full image, but it was distinctive – and it was certainly not Isily.  The form that appeared had incredibly broad and decidedly masculine shoulders and hovered quite high in the air.  Though the image faded to nothingness below the waist, the translucent form was clearly of great stature.  As the face solidified into something recognizable, I realized who had come to call on me.

“Horka,” I said, hoarsely.

“The same,” the apparition agreed with a great tilt of his massive head.

Horka had also been amongst the original warmagi at Boval Vale, but he had fallen early in the war at Timberwatch . . . after he had single-handedly driven off a dragon.  He and Azar had been close friends, I knew, and had worked several contract jobs together.  He had been equally deadly on the field or at spellcasting, I recalled.  Indeed, he was the largest, most-muscular warmage I’d ever known.

“What brings you forth this rainy and depressing night, my friend?” I asked, trying to steel myself for more depressing banter.  Horka surprised me, though.

“A warning,” he said, laconically.  “The rift created in Darkfaller is dangerous.  If left untended it could spread.  The consequences of that will be terrible in a few centuries.”

“Interesting,” I nodded.  “You have details?”

“It is something that is known,” he dismissed.  “When a rupture between realities is created, the natural sheer due to the imbalance of arcane forces at different octaves creates a thaumaturgical instability that can feed on itself over time.  If left untended, it will envelop a large area before it reaches equilibrium.  It could eventually encompass miles of territory and allow the escape of certain . . . things from the Otherworld.  Minalan,” he said, with the utmost gravity, “you do not want those things loose in the world of the living.”

“I understand,” I agreed.  “I’ve got quite enough to contend with as it is.”

Many mistook Horka as a simpleton due to his size and strength, but in the short time I knew him I’d learned that he was actually quite a deep thinker, highly educated in the arcane arts and very intuitive when it came to matters of projecting thaumaturgic power of many octaves.  He used that knowledge to make himself a far more effective warmage, much like Taren had, but his focus seemed to have been on pure destructive power, not Taren’s more sophisticated approach to magical warfare.

“I appreciate the warning, my friend.  You will be gratified to know that we began an entire order of noble warmagi in your name.”

“So I have been told,” he intoned, without much interest.  “It is an honor to be revered in the memory of my comrades.”

“You fought valiantly at Timberwatch and Boval Castle,” I assured him.  “Hestia, too, was honored with an order – defensive warmagic,” I clarified.  “And you are missed.  I think we would have made more progress in this war if you had been with us after that battle.”

“I fell in combat.  That was my desire,” he assured.

“Well, you might be interested to know that your friend Azar is to be married soon,” I informed him.  “A lovely girl, a warmage.  Ferocious as a cornered badger, as brave as a lioness.  He’s quite enchanted with her.”

“That is . . . interesting,” he said, sounding pleased.  “Azar found a woman?  That was unexpected.”

“We were as surprised as anyone.  There is one thing,” I said, suddenly.  “Everyone has been curious about what spell you used to wound that dragon at Timberwatch.  It’s been a matter of much debate since your passing.  Can you give us some explanation?  We might find it useful.”

“It was a spell of desperation,” he revealed.  “Something I learned in Farise.  A multivalent extrusion of arcane forces across several octaves, changing phase at random.  Pure chaos,” he said, simplifying the explanation.  “And not without its repercussions.  That spell weakened me to the point where my defenses fell at an inopportune time.  I would not recommend such a thing to anyone, unless the circumstance is dire.”

“I happen to encounter dire circumstances with appalling frequency,” I pointed out.  “But your warning is well-taken.  Farise, you say?”

“Farise holds many secrets,” he said, enigmatically.  “If you wish to accomplish your goals, you will need to return to there eventually.”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” I muttered.  “In any case, I appreciate you being forthcoming with that.  I’ll have to look into it.  We’re fighting a lot more than mere gurvani, now.  Indeed, it seems a new threat appears to vex us every year.”

“That is the blessing of life,” he assured me.  “Battle should always challenge the warrior.  It is what keeps us sharp and fit.  Farewell, Minalan.  Good luck.”

And then he was gone.

Horka had always been a man of few words, I recalled.  He did not have Azar’s talent for self-aggrandizement or promotion.  He didn’t need it.  His physical presence and natural menace had made him a popular warmagi.  It had also ensured that he was always properly paid for his time and effort.  Horka didn’t have any problem turning on an employer who was reluctant to fulfill his obligations if the stories I’d heard were accurate.

But this was making me irritated.  I’d spent most of an hour at this and still was no closer to the answers I sought.  I marshaled my resources and took a deep breath before extending myself a third time through the lens.

This time I was gratified.

I could tell in an instant that the apparition that approached was the one I was reluctantly seeking.  A female spirit, and one familiar with this place.  Faster than the other two ghosts, Isily of Greenflower manifested beyond the lens with comparative ease.  Nor was she half-formed; her shade formed fully, from her feet up to her pretty face – her original face, not the grotesque appearance she now suffered under Mycin Amana’s rule over her body.

I stifled a gasp.  Her appearance inspired a number of strong emotions in me, from base attraction to abject loathing.  She had been my lover.  The mother of my children.  My betrayer.  My rapist.

“Isily,” I named her, as her form took a more solid appearance.  She had not bothered to manifest any clothing.  The remnant of her naked body brought back even more memories.

“Minalan,” she whispered softly, her ghostly eyes upon me.  “I was wondering when you would look me up.”

“It was not my preference to do so,” I said, hoarsely.  “I have been forced into it by circumstance.”

“Darkfaller,” she nodded, sadly.  “I did what I could to warn you.”

“Mycin Amana stole your body from where I had hidden it,” I informed her.  “After the unpleasantness here, I could not bear to see you dispatched out of hand.  I had you placed in an abbey, cared for by nuns of Trygg.  I thought you were safe, there.  I was mistaken.”

“It was a noble effort,” she assured me.  “Far more than I deserved, under the circumstances.  How are our children?” she asked, eagerly, causing me to wince.

“Istmin is a lively lad, strong in his boyhood,” I told her, reluctantly.  “He is healthy and brave.  I have ensured that he shall inherit Greenflower someday.”

“And Ismina?” she asked, enthusiastically.

“She is just as well as her brother,” I assured her.  “She has her mother’s intellect and sense of drama.  I have no doubt she will become a powerful mage when she is older.”

“But are they happy, Minalan?” she probed.

“I am raising them with my legitimate children.  They are receiving all the benefits of noble life and privileged childhood.  They seem happy.  I will do right by them.  And my wife, she treats them almost as if they were her own.”  I left out the part about Alya being nearly numb to the entire concept of motherhood for several years, due to the injuries she sustained fighting Isily.  I didn’t think that sort of detail was terribly important, now.  And I was truthful: she had treated the Greenflower children with just as much distance as her own.

“Then they should be happy,” she said with a ghostly sigh.  “Thank you, Minalan.  You did not have to do that.”

“They are not responsible for the crimes of their mother,” I pointed out.  “They are innocent.  But they are not why I summoned you,” I said, uncomfortably.  “I felt your presence at Darkfaller,” I reminded her.

“Yes, I tried to warn you,” she agreed.  “Mycin Amana must be stopped.”

“Agreed.  And your warning did distract everyone – including me – at an opportune time.  But I am curious as to just why you wanted me to stop her.  Revenge for taking your body and slaying you in the process?”

“That is a pleasant thought, but not the purpose of my warning,” she assured me.  “When that bitch constructed her array, she stole the idea from my memory.  And she warped it into a . . . well, an abomination.  She was purposefully trying to tear a rent in the fabric of reality to fuel her ambitions.  If left to itself, it will—”

“Yes, Horka told me,” I nodded.  “It will be disastrous.  Well, as soon as I see her destroyed, I shall do what I can to remedy that.  I am significantly more powerful now than when we last met,” I boasted.  Everyone wants to impress their ex, after all.

“Oh, I am quite aware,” she agreed, her ghostly face smiling in a way that made my spine shudder.  “I am proud of what you have done, or at least of what I have seen.  You have maintained your integrity in ways I could not, when challenged with power.  That is commendable.  What of my old mistress, Rardine?  Have you news?  Has she slain her mother yet?”

“You haven’t heard?  Rardine married her cousin Anguin.  She is Duchess of Alshar now, a rival to the queen, herself.  And she is pregnant,” I announced.  “And happier than I ever expected her to be.”

“Her cousin Anguin?  That was allowed?” she asked, confused.

“Well, apparently Grendine’s sire was not the actual Duke of Alshar, as it turns out, so there was no issue of consanguinity.  A special dispensation was made by the temples, using that knowledge as leverage.  A closely held state secret, now.”

“That makes a lot of sense, from what I remember,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “Rardine was a difficult taskmistress, but Grendine was merely cruel.  I despised her even as I served her.  I took no pleasure in slaying her brother the way I did.  I do hope that will not cause Rardine any difficulties in the future.”

“I . . . I think it is all in the past,” I agreed.  “But I came here to ask you about Mycin Amana, for I am preparing a full assault on Darkfaller this spring.  I’m wondering if you can provide me with some intelligence on the matter.  One might say you owe me,” I added, dryly.

That seemed to affect the ghost of my rapist.  But not in the way I anticipated.

“I can do more than provide you with intelligence, my dear, dear Minalan,” she sighed.  “You see because my body was caught up in the bluestone effect, it is ridiculously easy for me to haunt my own undead bones.  That elven witch might feel right at home in my flesh and use its powers with abandon . . . but she doesn’t understand what a weakness it is.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sharply.

“I mean that I am constantly lingering just outside of her perceptions, waiting for my moment,” she explained.  “When it comes, I plan to take possession of what is mine and what was taken unjustly from me.  When the opportunity arises, I shall contest her rule over that frail body.  And mark my words as an oath, my lover,” she said, with a decidedly sinister tone in her sepulchral voice, “when I prevail, she will lament the hour she ever took possession of it!”

Chapter Thirty-Six

A Wedding In Autumn

I was thoughtful and somber, after my return from Greenflower.  My visitations with the dead had been revealing and informative, as well as deeply disturbing.  I re-examined each encounter over and over in my head as I came back to my family.  If I hugged Istman and Ismina a little more tenderly than usual, I don’t think they realized it.

Alya, of course, saw at once that I was disturbed, and after a little good-natured probing I confessed the entire episode to her.  She was concerned, of course, but she said she understood my reasoning for the trip . . . while expressing deep misgivings about its effects on my mental state.

“What you most want to find is often where you least want to look,” I explained to her with a gloomy sigh.  “Believe me, it wasn’t my preference.  But it needed to be done.  Isily, believe it or not, wants to be our ally in this fight.”

“I do find that hard to believe, considering all she has done to you.  To us,” she corrected, as she rubbed my shoulders.  “Her behavior while she lived was hardly beneficial.”

“She had her own agenda,” I agreed.  “And there is no doubt she was obsessed with me – why, I cannot say.”

“You cannot?  I understand it implicitly,” my wife assured me.  “You are a magnificent man, Minalan.  Brave, strong, smart, noble, handsome of face, stalwart of character—”

“Not to mention successful, rich, and powerful,” I added, wryly.

“That is a consequence of your character,” she reminded me.  “You didn’t inherit your power, you built it yourself.  You did not steal your fortune, you earned it.  And you are successful because you possess a strong character, not because you stooped to immoral means to gain your success.  Any woman of worth recognizes those qualities in a man,” she assured me.  “They are to be admired and occasionally coveted.  Big muscles don’t hurt,” she teased me, squeezing my bicep.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my wife and you’re obligated to,” I complained, although the attention felt good.

“I’m obligated to say it, perhaps,” she considered.  “I am not obligated to mean it.  Trust me, I don’t fault Isily for her obsession.  I became a bit obsessed myself, if I recall, early on in our marriage.  I got quite jealous of the attention the village girls in Sevendor paid to you.  You may not know it,” she revealed, “but once I overheard a trio of pretty peasant girls fawning over you at court.  I nearly had them thrashed or otherwise punished for their temerity.  I didn’t, of course; but it was tempting.  But it helped me realize just what a champion I’d managed to wed.  I haven’t regretted it since,” she assured me.

“Even with what you learned about me and Isily?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Even then.  No, I was not happy to hear about your dalliance in Timberwatch.  I was livid.  But when I heard what that woman did to you later, I wanted to kill her.  I’m a little upset that I didn’t, at Greenflower.”

She delivered the line casually – far more casually than I expected, and it surprised me.  Alya is not typically violent in her approach to such things.  Even after her recovery – well, her partial recovery – from her injuries she remained pretty level-headed about such things.  But I didn’t take her statement as hyperbole.  I had every reason to believe she would have stabbed Isily viciously, had her blade not been destroyed.  And I have no doubt she would have enjoyed it and not regretted it one bit.  This just confirmed it.

“So, you don’t think she’s being disingenuous about her willingness to help us?” I asked.

“No, not at all.  She might have been a conniving, deceitful bitch, but she was human.  She understood what you were fighting against.  Now she has a personal stake in the war,” she reasoned.  “And she is still clearly obsessed with you from beyond the grave.  Or . . . well, beyond death.  She hasn’t found the comfort of a grave yet,” she said in a manner that made me shudder involuntarily.  “If she thinks she can gain your favor by haunting her former body and tormenting its present occupant, she won’t hesitate.  Never underestimate the determination of a woman obsessed with a man.”

I wasn’t certain how I felt about that, except that it made me afraid.  I wasn’t certain exactly what I was afraid of, but I was sure it was feminine.

I had to admit, despite my deep misgivings on the matter, Isily’s ghost had appeared completely sincere in her desire for an alliance.  She hated the woman who had stolen her body, and Isily has a penchant for revenge.  It wasn’t as if she had anything to gain – position, power, title, or treasure were beyond her now.  But she did have an interest in ensuring that her children – our children – were safe, well cared for, and had the possibility of a prosperous future.  On that basis alone she had a motive for an alliance.

It was all terribly sordid, and I’m glad that I didn’t speak of my conversations with Isily to anyone but Ruderal and Alya, at the time, because the entire episode smacked somehow of capitulation to one foe to strike at another.  How can one trust the word of a ghost?  Or truly know their motivations?  Perhaps she was just trying to seek a restful afterlife and considered this one last bit of unfinished business.

Quietly reflecting on all of this was interesting in the context of the season: the day of the wedding of Azar and Noutha Venaran was approaching.

Azar had elected to hold the ceremony a few weeks before Yule at Megelin Castle in the Magelaw, and the guest list was replete with magi from Vanador, Sevendor and beyond.  It was a three-day affair, with tournaments and receptions and parties and hunts planned throughout.  The discussion of dowry between Azar and Noutha’s father was pro forma, with Loiko Veneran pledging a token amount toward his daughter’s marriage, enough for her social status but nothing extravagant.  Noutha had her own money, after all.  Thanks to her work with Rondal and her participation in the raid on Darkfaller, she had accumulated quite a bit of pay at the kingdom and the Spellmonger’s expense.  Azar wasn’t marrying her to extend his fortune; it was one of the oddest incidents of true love I think I’ve ever seen.

When Alya and I arrived at the start of the ceremonies, the party had already started, as the Megelini Knights had been feasting and drinking for days as they prepared the great keep for the event.  A steady trickle of attendees had been filling the castle for days, already, with delegations of Wilderlords and Magelords arriving from all throughout the Wilderlands.

Azar had invested in new clothes and new armor for the occasion, and I had to admit he looked every bit the professional warlord as he greeted his guests.  In truth, I suspect he had consulted Astyral in matters of style, for his surcoats and doublets appeared to be constructed by some of Barrowbell’s finer tailors.

The castle itself had been scrubbed to the stones and then freshly whitewashed, despite the intermittent rain, and Azar’s banners hung from every post and wall.  A great store of provision had been laid in as well, and delicacies from both local estates and exotic shores had begun emerging from the kitchens even before we arrived.  All told there were thousands who had been invited and thousands more who just showed up for the festivities.

I spent most of the first day greeting old friends and vassals in an attempt to contradict the popular assumption that the Spellmonger had gone mad.  I was as gracious and charming as my ancient memories allowed me to be, and to ensure that I did not plunge into some dark episode I had spent a great deal of time under the Handmaiden’s care in the days before.  I was mostly successful – Palgrave tried to sabotage my presence the second day for a while, but I kept the depressing bastard at bay with strong drink and a determination to listen more than speak.

The guest list was impressive; indeed, Azar’s wedding was really the foundation of Vanadori ideas of high society.  Not only did his fellow Magelaw Viscounts attend with their retinues but Count Marcadine arrived at the head of a hundred of his highest vassals to represent the Wilderlords.

Warmagi from throughout the kingdom arrived either on horse or by the Alkan Ways.  Many were old friends or comrades of Azar, like Terleman and I.  Rondal led a contingent of magi from southern Alshar, as Pentandra was in attendance as the Baroness of Vanador, not her ducal role as Court Wizard.  That might seem like an unimportant distinction, but in a feudal society, that sort of thing is noted by those who study politics.

Finally, on the day of the wedding, Duke Anguin and a very pregnant Duchess Rardine attended to bear witness to the ceremony.  And of course, Loiko Veneran and a number of magi from the Royal Court came.  Indeed, by my estimation, it was the largest gathering of powerful wizards in the world outside of the Sevendor Magic Fair or a Convocation of the Arcane Orders.

I had an interesting conversation with the bride amid all of the festivities.  Adopting an old Wenshari custom, Noutha had erected her campaign canopy in the inner courtyard of the castle on the second day and spent the entire time receiving a steady stream of well-wishers bearing gifts before the wedding.  There would be more gifts after the wedding, of course – weddings are all about the gifts.  But for a few moments, Alya and I had the bride alone.

After we had presented her with a hamper of fine meads and told the story of our own honeymoon, Alya asked her about her decision to wed.

“I mean no disrespect, Noutha,” Alya began, “but while I understand Azar’s desire to wed, I am curious about why you agreed to the proposal.  You barely know the man,” she pointed out, “and while he is a stalwart warrior, he has never struck me as someone who might settle into domestic life.”

Noutha smiled faintly as if the question amused her.  She looked quite striking, thanks to ten pounds of Unstaran silk in her gown – in black, of course, to honor her groom – as well as cosmetics and perhaps a few glamour charms.  She would never be a beautiful woman but there was no doubt of her femininity in that outfit.

“You are only voicing concerns many have, but chose to conceal because of propriety,” she said.  “I appreciate plain-speaking, after a few years in the Royal Court.  Why would the wild warmage, daughter of Loiko Venaran, consider wedding a battered old warrior like Azar?” she asked herself.  “Let me tell you why.

“I have known of Azar for years,” she confessed, “and even skirmished with his forces as Lady Mask, early in the war.  His reputation has been steady since then, and he has never faltered in his loyalty to his cause, which I admire.  Nor is he unhandsome,” she admitted, “although his youth is well behind him.  His holdings are not rich, but they are well-tended and well-defended in a dangerous and unstable region.  And he has both title and position: Viscount of the Magelaw, and Ducal Executioner of Alshar.  Perhaps not the most charming of offices,” she conceded, “but a necessary one.  But little of that factored in my decision,” she revealed.

“When I came through the portal with the reserves at Darkfaller, at the rear of that fearsome spider, Azar was valiantly defending the prisoners with his men.  Though he was doing a credible job, it was clear that his strength was waning, and the morale of his men was flagging.  He was downed by the beast,” she related, a gleam in her eye, “wounded and exhausted by the unusual and unexpected battle.  He saw my arrival as the answer to his prayers, though don’t ask me to which divinity they were directed.  I was, of course, happy to relieve him and put my fresh strength against the foe so that he could escape with the prisoners.

“Yet when it was clear that we had momentum in the battle, instead of retreating with the vulnerable, he picked up his sword and drew another wand and joined me, side by side, eager to re-enter the fray.  His courage that day was commendable.  He cared nothing for his own wounds.  He did not concern himself with his own safety.  The only thought in his mind was conquering that beast and anything else that stood between him and victory.  He fought just as savagely at the end of the battle as when it was joined.  And he did not falter, even once, in the face of the struggle.”

“So, you agreed because he fought well?” I asked, surprised.  Certainly, Azar is a superlative warmage, but there were many such in my association.

“I agreed because he is valiant, and committed, and has no fear,” she corrected.  “I have seen courtiers and knights and great lords who protest their weariness after mere tilting or a few rounds with practice swords.  I have witnessed great acts of cowardice in battle when commanders laid down arms for reasons of politics or corruption or pure cowardice.  I see none of that in my lord Azar.  He has no use for titles, though he has many.  He cares not for treasure for the sake of wealth.  He seeks only the sublime excellence of battle,” she said, proudly, “and that is a pure desire in his heart.  If he attends to his wife with half such devotion, I shall be well served in my marriage,” she assured us.

We had no reason to doubt her, of course.  Noutha was always a problematic warmage but she had never stooped to deceit or betrayal once she had given an oath.  In truth, her marital prospects were dim: few female warmagi wed, and fewer still bear children.  It is not a profession normally conducive to raising a family.  Having the Royal Court Wizard as her sire did her love life no favors, either, nor was her personality inviting of courtship.  And having served the enemy directly for a few years was more than enough to convince some that she was tainted.

“Do you think she loves him?” I asked Alya once we’d toasted the bride adequately and continued to the next party.

“I think she bears him some affection,” Alya conceded, “and certainly respects him professionally.  And I think she is receptive to the possibility of love growing from that.  She seems like a very lonely person,” she observed.  “She always has.  Perhaps this is her way of banishing that loneliness.  Azar would not be my choice, of course—”

“That is very gratifying to know,” I nodded, mocking her with my seriousness.

“Yes, a man with that many muscles is perhaps too much,” she said, teasing me back.  “But he has always struck me as lonely, too.  All his bluster of Death being both his mother and his mistress tells me he has likely hidden his melancholy behind a mask of bravado.”

“As she hid hers behind a literal mask,” I pointed out.  “Her feud with her father may have propelled her into being a renegade, but that estrangement saw her blossom as a woman and a warmage.  Still, to choose Azar, of all men . . . I still have a hard time seeing his appeal.”

Alya looked at me as if I was an idiot.  “Minalan, no woman wants to end up with a husband who is weaker than she is.  That presents a challenge to a woman as strong as Noutha: whom could she attract that was strong enough to lead her in her married life?  Some fop from the royal court?  Some dashing dandy who seeks only position and status through a union with her?  A woman such as she would be satisfied only with the kind of man whom she admires as stronger than she is, and Azar seems to measure to that standard.  And for his part, he would likely honor no ordinary woman with his affections unless she could demonstrate a strength that few possess. Certainly, he bears loneliness on his shoulders like a cloak.  It is quite possible the only way he can think to remove it is in the arms of Lady Mask, herself.  Perhaps, together, they can soothe each other’s insecurities and find some comfort in their marriage.  Stranger things have happened,” she pointed out.  “Especially in the Magelaw.”

I had no argument for that.  Vanador was producing strange unions with frightening abundance, I realized when Carmella arrived with Rumel as her escort.  She was followed by Taren and Varen, who seemed inseparable.  Fallawen and Ryff came with a mix of human and Tera Alon retainers.  I was half-expecting a wizard to arrive with a harem of Tal Alon maidens.  But they were not the most unusual guests to the wedding.

That prize went to Gurkarl, who rode into Megelin Castle the morning of the wedding leading six hobgoblins on horseback.  Each bore the yellow sash of truce that I had instituted to keep gurvani ambassadors and emissaries from being summarily slain.

The throngs that had gathered for the wedding procession were in shock when the seven goblins rode through the gate.  I think only the presence of so many warmagi kept there from being a general brawl over their attendance.  Indeed, as soon as I saw them, I hurried to greet Gurkarl personally, to ensure that no nervous man-at-arms took a shot at them.

“We represent King Ashakarl,” he explained, “and bear gifts for the couple on the occasion of their wedding.  He sees it as good relations to remind the humani lords that there is peace between his kingdom and the Magelaw.”

“That seems extremely considerate of Ashakarl,” I agreed.  “Azar’s lands are perhaps closer to his than any other Magelord’s.  But I didn’t think he would be paying attention to a mere wedding ceremony compared to, say, military positions.”

“In truth, it was a convenient excuse to make an overture to the Magelaw,” Gurkarl admitted, as I helped him off of his small horse.  “Ashakarl has managed to render a bit of stability to the gurvani kingdom, much to the surprise of nearly everyone, I expect.  He believes he owes this in part to the treaty you both signed and which, surprisingly, both parties have failed to break.  He is too strong for the Nemovorti to attack him lightly, but too weak to withstand their assault should they come at him in earnest.”

“Honestly, I think that the Nemovorti are largely discouraged with the gurvani, now,” I informed him.  “With a few exceptions.  They have used your people and now they have little more use for them.  I think as long as Ashakarl remains but a nuisance to their aims he will escape their direct attention.  If he doesn’t attack their lands in the Penumbra and keep to their own territory, I believe they will be left alone.”

“Not . . . entirely,” Gurkarl revealed.  “You see, Ashakarl’s realm has become a haven for deserters from the Dark Vale and the garrisons in the Umbra.  As long as he provides a sanctuary from the abuse of the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed, he undermines their ability to dominate my folk.  I’ve ensured that plenty of tales of Ashakarl’s noble wisdom and adherence to gurvani tradition have spread in the Penumbra.  Thousands have made their way north in the last half-year.  Only the maragorku resist the allure of freedom in the flinty hills of the north – nor are they welcome there,” he added, with a sniff of disdain.  “They see the tribes as weak, ignorant, and inferior in their brutal philosophy.  The tribes see them as abominations, rejecting their heritage and culture in favor of status as slaves to the Enshadowed.  Soon they might be the only gurvani left in their employ,” he predicted.

“I would count that as a victory,” I agreed.  I nodded to the six hulking hobgoblins unloading their packs and looking around at the crowds of humanity nervously.  “What of these fellows?  Your retainers?”

Gurkarl snorted.  “I need no servants, Spellmonger.  No, these six were all officers of Lady Noutha when she was Lady Mask,” he explained.  “Despite the difference in race, they hold her in high esteem, for she treated them as warriors, not slaves, when they were under her command.  There are not many of them left after all the warfare of the last several years, but they have enough of an affection for their former commander that they were willing to brave the ire of the humani to pay their respects.”

“I wonder how Lady Noutha will react to that,” I chuckled.

Surprisingly, she immediately recognized the six when she saw them and embraced them fondly, much to the shock of the crowd.  Of course, her past was well-known to them – her parole and redemption was a frequent topic of gossip – but to actually see her treat hobgoblins as valued friends was disconcerting to many.  No one, of course, was willing to challenge Noutha over her affinity for her former troops, of course – any maiden who can wear a ball gown and a mageblade at the same time is not to be trifled with, especially on her wedding day.  But there were plenty of murmurs in the crowd and speculation at the reception later that evening over the unusual nature of her guests.

I didn’t fault Noutha one bit for her friendship.  Anyone who has served in combat with you has a bond that is not easily broken.  And she had but her father to represent her family among the guests.  When the gurvani were given every accommodation that other nobles were, there might have been some grumbles but there was never any doubt where the hobs stood in her esteem.  Even Azar was willing to meet them, hear the tales of his bride when she was but a maiden from them, and enjoy a toast with his former foes in good cheer.  Indeed, he declared them all to be as welcome at Castle Megelin as any knights in the Wilderlands – properly designated by that protective sash, of course.

The unexpected visit had another interesting development, as this was Duke Anguin and Duchess Rardine’s first meeting with a gurvani ambassador.   After all, Anguin had relied on me and my faith in Gurkarl to negotiate the treaty with Ashakarl.  He had not taken an active hand in it at all.  Indeed, he’d rarely met a goblin.

But the feast that night saw both Duke and Duchess of Alshar invite Gurkarl to the high table for a brief discussion of affairs between Alshar and the renegade goblin kingdom.

I have to commend Gurkarl on the excellent way he handled Anguin’s inquiries with diplomacy and tact few human emissaries could have managed; subjects such as eating human flesh, genocide, and territorial gains were eschewed in favor of a discussion of trade and mutual cooperation, which surprised the hell out of many of Anguin’s vassals.  But the Orphan Duke understood better than most how the gurvani had been misled and misused by the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti, and he was open-minded in seeing a successful gurvani statelet on the periphery of his realm.

The wedding ceremony itself was brief and spectacular, with the High Priestess of Trygg co-officiating with the Warfather of Duin’s temple in Vanador.  It was, perhaps, the most violent-sounding litany of any wedding ceremony I’d ever attended.  Talk of the blessings of children and sanctity of a peaceful family life intermingled with poems exhorting a vicious assault on the ramparts of life in ways that made the poor priestess of the All-Mother’s temple grow pale, when the supposedly symbolic descriptions of matrimony were celebrated through the War God’s perspective.

Both bride and groom wore black, of course.  It was a kind of theme for the wedding.

Afterward, the celebration at the reception was filled with remarkable gifts and expressions of good wishes by the couple’s friends and allies.  Alya and I gifted them with matching mageblades and battle harnesses embossed with their arms.  In addition, I affirmed Noutha as a Viscountess of the Magelaw and gave a rather moving speech about how their union boded well for a strong and militant county.

But the rich gifts and honors did not stop there.  The duke and duchess granted them a small but lovely estate outside of Falas to be designated ever after the residence of the Ducal Executioner, when he was in town and a place in the warmth that they could escape to for their honeymoon.  Tyndal gifted them a matching pair of sable warhorses, a mare and a stallion, which he personally selected from his high-quality herds.  Pentandra and Arborn gave them a pair of giant dogs for their kennels, the kind that the Kasari were now breeding from the stock I’d enchanted for the advance up the frozen Poros.  Rondal and Gatina presented them with a beautiful jeweled necklace and diadem whose origins I did not question due to the look in Gatina’s eye.  Indeed, so many magi had given them powerful weapons or enchantments for their nuptials that Megelin was, for a while, one of the most impressive armories in the kingdom.

The toasts to the bride and groom were surprisingly heartfelt.  A number of Azar’s comrades from over the years came forward with their public best wishes at the feast.  One by one they pledged their service to the pair in support of the union.  Duke Anguin made an especial effort to thank Azar for his service and welcome Noutha to the ducal court.  And Noutha’s father, Loiko Venaran, gave a deeply moving tribute to his daughter that any father would envy.

In all it was a delightful, if strange, occasion.  It also became the bedrock for the future social events in the Magelaw, where the magical and the mundane were developing in uneven harmony.  Seeing my old friend truly happy when he regarded his bride at their first dance was gratifying.  Seeing my old foe rising to maturity in the arms of her new husband was satisfying in ways I had not anticipated.  “Every pot has its lid” is a common saying in every part of the kingdom, and nowhere was it more applicable than in Azar and Noutha’s marriage.

For my part, I was even more pleased to see one of my vassals add to the strength of my realm and invest in its future by taking such a bellicose bride.  I had no fear that the lands around Megelin would ever go undefended, nor that great castle would be defeated in conquest.  I foresaw a mighty line of champions arising from their union.  Though Noutha isn’t particularly maternal in her bearing when Taren and Varen presented them both with a beautifully carved rocking cradle the bride burst into happy tears.  Azar seemed thoughtful and grateful.  Yes, Megelin would be a strong fief in the Magelaw for generations.

Of course, weddings have a peculiar effect on the attendees.  They seem to breed more weddings.  Rondal and Gatina had finally chosen a day for their own at the next midsummer, Astyral and his bride had freshly returned from their Remeran honeymoon, and a number of unwed couples no doubt gave deep and meaningful consideration to formalizing their own unions.  Indeed, the way Carmella was looking at Rumel after the ceremony was striking.  And for those already wed, from Sandoval and his wife to Alya and myself all the way to Duke Anguin and Duchess Rardine there is a renewed sense of commitment and affection that gets reflected from the ceremony.

If nothing else, there was plenty of spontaneous shagging going on around the castle that evening, I noted.  Ishi, wherever she was, was doing her best to undermine the sanctity of Trygg’s holy rites with a number of gratuitous pairings in the shadows and storerooms of the castle.  Weddings just affect some people that way.

Alya and I retreated back to Sevendor long after midnight, exhausted in the happy way you get when you’ve invested in someone else’s bliss.  I was slightly drunk and feeling incredibly affectionate.  My voices were quiet, for once, perhaps in response to three days of stimulation and ahead of the ceremony.  As we undressed for bed there was a certain gleam in my wife’s eye that I felt compelled to respond to.  Weddings just affect some people that way, including my wife.

Alas, before I could dim the magelights and celebrate our own love in the privacy of our chamber, we had a visitor bearing a message.  Sir Festaran had come from the Mirror array with a message from the royal palace.

It seems that while all of the powerful warmagi in the kingdom had gathered to celebrate Azar’s wedding, Prince Tavard had taken advantage of our absence to demonstrate his genius for strategy.  His army had moved from its cantonments to re-take the undefended village of Darkfaller once again.  He had decided, against all reason, to lay siege to his former castle, and this time he had committed himself to not quit the field until he was once again its master.

The war was suddenly on again.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Siege of Darkfaller

The stupid son-of-a-bitch should have known better.

In point of fact, he did; I had made myself quite clear at the Curia what my plans were for Darkfaller, based on our raid, and what timetable would be required for a successful effort to re-take the castle.  But Prince Tavard had taken exception to my plans and decided, quite on his own, that the honor of the Castali chivalry and the duke of the realm demanded that he ignore my well-reasoned and meticulously planned operation in favor of a bold wintertime siege.

I started to get the details the morning after Azar’s wedding through a variety of means.  I leaned on Rardine’s Garden Society for information as well as Mavone’s network of informants.  And then I did something I really didn’t want to do and returned to the chamber of the Snowflake for the first time since my bad episode with the Monster and looked into the matter myself with magic.

Between the various sources of information, a clearer picture began to arise by that evening.

It seems that Tavard had, indeed, seen Azar’s wedding as an opportune time to strike when all of the kingdom’s top warmagi were off in the Wilderlands.  He had quietly called up reinforcements from his southern fiefs and force-marched them across Castal to join his army, and then aggressively advanced on the abandoned village of Darkfaller more or less the same way he had with the earlier raid.

By the time I was able to scry the village he already had seven thousand men in place there, digging trenches in the half-frozen ground and building siege engines and military camps like a good feudal general.  More troops were coming, I could see, as the idiot hadn’t managed to put into place even elementary measures against scrying.  Apparently, he didn’t trust any magical corps.

By any traditional standards, he was undertaking what would be considered a bold strike against the foe at an unexpected time.  The autumnal rains had kept the fields and roads of the region awash in thick mud for weeks.  It was only after the first frosts had descended on the land that his horses and wagons had sturdy enough ground to cross without getting bogged down.

He had finally learned enough about battlefield provisioning to ensure that he had a goodly enough supply of food and fodder to provide his troops sufficient sustenance during the siege, I noted in my scrying.  Great stores of oats and hay, hardtack, beans, and salt pork had been laboriously carted in over the freshly frozen roads and stockpiled in the village, while an impressive number of tents and canopies had been erected on the eastern side of the village to house his poor men.  Shovels and picks had also been provided to begin the construction of a network of trenches protecting the western side of the village.  Crews of engineers were hastily assembling catapults and trebuchets that would, theoretically, be large enough to strike the outer walls of the castle or pulled into range by teams of oxen to hammer at the towers.

Rardine’s spies were able to fill in some other details, I found out later.  Rondal reported to me that the Garden Society had learned that at a banquet with some of his vassals in Castal the prince had overheard a few petty lords grumbling about the loss of the castle and making fun of Tavard for having to rely on the magi to rescue it.  I’m sure they were drunk and just letting off steam, but the report indicated that the prince was so livid that he had decided to launch a surprise attack and besiege the castle by mid-winter.  I have no doubt that the offending petty lords were now commanding their peasant conscripts as they scraped through the cold mud around Darkfaller Village.  Tavard’s a vengeful dick that way.

Mavone’s men provided a more complete picture of the encampment the next day, as he had a few agents within the prince’s army who were willing to whisper secrets in exchange for silver.  His plan was simple: establish a headquarters, garrison, and storage depot for a siege and continue to expand it with the lavish use of his vassals until he could pelt the place with impunity all winter long.  By midwinter, he had calculated, Mycin Amana would see her crumbling walls and the determined might of his army and ask for terms before he would even have to lead a charge against the gates.  His best military advisors assured him it was inevitable.

Mavone had also learned that he had secured a loan – at very high interest – from the Temple of Orvatas, using six of his richest holdings in southern Castal as collateral to fund the endeavor.  How he planned to repay the debt was unknown.  But the timber he had reallocated from his ship-building efforts at the coast would put that plan behind schedule for months, and cost him significantly, it was reported.  All the while he was visiting his mid-level vassals to lean on them for loans, men, and “gifts” of provisions to sustain the war effort.

Viewed objectively it was an ambitious and, yes, bold attempt to rescue his wounded pride and damaged reputation.  It was also clearly doomed to failure.

What Tavard did not understand was he was not facing a normal foe, here; Mycin Amana did not care about taking lands and estates, levying taxes and tributes to enrich herself or improve her military position.  She had no concern for the number of lucrative peasant villages she controlled or what towns she could extort funds from.  She was not a feudal warlord.  She did not care about turning his vassals against him or gathering support through throwing lavish parties and elegant tournaments.  She was an Alka Alon renegade who saw humanity as a pestilence to be eliminated, not a resource to be exploited.

And she used magic, something that Prince Tavard eschewed at every turn.

I’m certain she was surprised, the more I thought about it.  Only an idiot would use a conventional feudal army to engage against a force powered by necromancy, transgenic enchantment, and hateful spite reaching back thousands of years.  But it was clear enough after a few days that Prince Tavard was, indeed, that kind of noble idiot.

For two days I swore and cursed as dispatches arrived at Sevendor through various means.  By that time Tavard’s force in Darkfaller Village had grown to ten thousand men, with plenty more on the way.  The weather held clear but cold, and his trenchworks continued to expand due simply to the vast number of peasant conscripts he had laboring at the thankless task.  Mycin Amana was clearly amused by his efforts.  She did not send forth one sally to engage his patrols, nor even send her wyverns to challenge his men.  I’m certain that was out of a desire to see his foolishness manifest completely, not out of any fear for his success.  I confess I had a morbid curiosity about just how badly he had managed to screw things up myself.  I was vindicated on the third day when word reached me that he had pushed so many men into the village and the surrounding encampments that he had run short of firewood.

By that time, I was fuming.  But I had a far greater understanding of his purpose than before, and that had value to me.  Prince Tavard wanted to take back his largest castle, but he did not want to do it with the help of the magi and feel beholden to us in any way.  This was a challenge to the established chivalric order, in his mind, and achieving victory with our help was simply unacceptable, an affront to his knightly ideals.

What was worse, I learned through his sister’s spies, was that he had finally learned that his lady wife was pregnant again.  Tavard is an idiot, but he can count.  He knew as well as I did that Princess Armandra was bearing a child that could not possibly be his.  I had no certain knowledge that her pregnancy was a factor in his decision to make war, but I would not mind wagering a considerable sum on the matter.  No man wants to face dishonor at home while he faces ignoble defeat in the field.  The two were estranged, Rardine reported to me, with the princess returning to Wilderhall while her husband made war in the south.

It may have been understandable, but it was still monumentally stupid of him.

On the third day, I wrote a tightly worded three-page letter to King Rard expressing my objections to Tavard’s foolish siege.  I did my best to be diplomatic, but it was hard keeping my feelings from flowing out onto the parchment.  Tyndal did me the service of delivering it to the palace at Kaunis and waited for a reply.  The next day he returned it.

My dearest Marshal Arcane, it began.

I understand your feelings in regard to the Duke of Castal’s impetuous advance against Darkfaller and appreciate your concerns for the ultimate success of his endeavor.  Please know that His Grace undertook this effort without my knowledge, consent, or support, and is relying entirely on the resources of his fief to prosecute this war.  In counsel he assures me that he has made every provision for a speedy and decisive conclusion to this conflict.  He is confident that his efforts will result in a quick resolution by Yule, and fully intends on holding his ducal court within the castle as a token of his victory.  With the artillery he has built and the forces he has deployed to the siege he feels his assault cannot be withstood by the enemy in any meaningful way.  He contends that he has cut off the castle from supply and will easily starve them out.  He envisions a complete encirclement of Darkfaller from river to river and has called up reserves from Castabriel itself to prosecute the war with a grand army dedicated to the task.

While I did my best to dissuade him from this act, he maintains that this is a local matter and need not involve the forces of the kingdom to see it successfully concluded.  He invoked certain clauses of the Treaty of Union in that regard, maintaining that his assault was both legal and just and requires no additional assistance.  He boasts that he will present Mycin Amana to me in chains after her capture or surrender, pledging his honor on that oath.  Further, he insists that the forces he is bringing to bear will be undefeatable, once they are properly emplaced around the castle.

I understand your consternation in this regard, considering our previous conversations.  Yet I am bound by the Treaty of Union in this matter, I am informed, and must relent to his willingness to face the foe boldly on the field.  He has launched a most ambitious plan of attack and insists on seeing to through to its victorious conclusion.  In matters of Family, as I am certain you know, it is important to extend every consideration to the motivations of one’s children in order to allow them to fulfill their potential.  The Duke of Castal has made this a local affair and claimed sole responsibility for its success or failure.  I cannot, in good conscience, persuade him to forestall his efforts due to the considerations of you and the magi.  Indeed, he insists.

I trust that you will understand my reasoning in this and will allow his attempt at reclaiming his castle and his honor without interference.

There was more, but by the time I reached that point in the letter I was sick to my stomach.  Somehow Tavard had applied some pressure on Rard to not intervene in his gloriously stupid assault.  The reference to “family” indicated in code that Grendine was involved.  I didn’t know how or why, but somehow the idiot prince had convinced his mother to back his play.  Rard felt powerless to stop it, despite wearing the crown.

It was a doomed effort, of course.  If I could scry out the tiniest detail of Tavard’s forces, so could Mycin Amana.  If I could see his men shiver in the cold because they were issued only a single faggot of firewood a day, so could she.  If I could determine that his vaunted artillery was entirely inadequate to the task, then there was no way that the Witch Queen of Darkfaller could fail to see it as well.

As angry as I was with Tavard, my sympathies lay with his poor men.  I had suffered through one punishing detail of being in a winter garrison in northern Castal, back in my days as a mercenary, and it is miserable work.  I had been housed in a relatively snug billet in a castle, at the time, with plenty of firewood and adequate rations and it was still a miserable existence.  I could not imagine being consigned to a canvas tent with little between me and the elements than a woolen blanket or quilt.  It was not even truly cold, yet, and still I saw his men shivering as they huddled as a mass around the tiniest fires.

But I could not do anything about it, after receiving Rard’s letter.  Tavard had made this fight personal.  No matter the consequence, he wanted the sole credit for his imagined victory.

For her part Mycin Amana allowed the fool to prosecute his war for a full week before she offered any response.  No wyverns came forth to harass the army, no undead legions charged the frozen trenches, no sallies of Enshadowed warriors leading gurvani patrols assailed his pickets.  She left him alone, unmolested, while he built his grand war machine.  A week after he took the village the first of his anemic trebuchets launched a ranging attack on the outer wall.  It was underpowered and did no damage, but Tavard counted the impact of a single stone against his former castle as a sign of victories to come.  The stupid bastard even hosted the artillery team at a banquet in the village that night.

I don’t fault Mycin Amana in her response, either.  If I was in her position, I would have done much the same as she: allow Tavard to continue to pour forces into Darkfaller village and strengthen his hold on the place.  Every man he deployed to that frozen hell was one more eventual victim, and every new vassal who arrived at the head of a company of peasant infantry was merely more fodder for the methods of warfare that the Nemovorti had become familiar with.  I’m sure she was amused watching the humani warrior prince gather his forces against her.  As appalled by his stupidity as I was, I could appreciate her strategic position.  The more warriors Tavard gathered there, the more victims she would eventually count in her response.

It was insanely frustrating, and despite Rard’s caution to me, I could not just sit there in Sevendor and watch the future of the kingdom be gambled away on the whims of the prince’s stupid quest for honor.  He was destined to fail at his attack.  He was fated to lose the poor men he had ordered to take to the trenches.  There was no possibility of victory in his actions, despite how brave his men might be or how many of them he had managed to compel to fight.  He was fighting the wrong kind of war against an opponent who was not constrained by chivalric codes or human virtue.  Mycin Amana was driven to prove herself to her consort, and Tavard was doing no less than providing a big, juicy target for her forces.

A day after the first artillery assault on the walls, a squadron of giant wyverns descended on the outer defenses of the village.  Hundreds of men were slain as the flying reptiles pillaged their trenches and forward positions.  The largest of Tavard’s trebuchets was ruined by their attack.  Still, he persisted.  More siege engines were being built, even as the first snow fell on the land.  A few days after the wyverns, undead began to assail the cavalry patrols that ranged too close to the castle.  The knights valiantly defended the lines but left plenty of their fellows dead in the snow.  The next day those corpses rose and renewed their assault.

She was toying with him, I realized.  Mycin Amana had plenty of forces she could have used to damage Tavard’s defenses if she chose, but for some reason, she was letting him get entrenched in the village.  She wasn’t even bothering his artillery too much.  It was clear to me she did not feel threatened, and that there was some reason she was allowing Tavard’s folly to persist.

“I don’t like the way this is playing out, Minalan,” Mavone told me, as we watched the scrying glass as it focused on the increasingly elaborate trenches.  I had convened a small war council in the chamber of the Snowflake to discuss the ongoing siege and its implications.

I had refined the spell by using a two-foot-wide disc of thaumaturgical glass.  With the power of the Snowflake brought to bear, it provided an exquisite view of the activity happening around Darkfaller.  We had a hard time scrying the castle, itself, due to her magical defenses, but Tavard’s troops and their positions were on full display.

“It’s as if she’s letting him get embedded here,” Mavone continued.  “Like she’s goading him by attacking just enough to encourage him to reinforce his positions more.”

“Perhaps she just wants a larger target,” Terleman proposed.  “The more men he pushes into there, the more she can capture, kill, and raise as undead.”

“That’s a morbid thought,” agreed Sandoval, shaking his head.  “He’s got nearly ten thousand men crammed into that village and more on the way.  His artillery has barely scratched the outer walls,” he pointed out in the scrying glass, “and his patrols to the north and the east are moving around unopposed.  He thinks he’s doing well,” he said, scornfully.  “Instead, he’s just making himself vulnerable to a surprise assault.”

“Where do you think that will come from?” I asked, curious as to what my commanders thought of the siege.

“From the north,” Terleman said, almost at once.  “She can send a legion of gurvani through the northern village to hit his trenches in the flanks.  See how he’s disposed his troops?  He’s barely guarded that road, and that’s going to hurt him.”

“And from the air,” agreed Mavone, thoughtfully.  “If she distracts them with a ground attack then the wyverns can return in force and shred those artillery positions.  And there is no telling how many undead she’s willing to throw at them.  You know, they last longer in cold temperatures,” he reminded me.

That was true.  In general, the dead flesh of the common undead was left to rot, absent preservation spells, and in warmer weather that happened much faster.  Cold could extend their usability for days or weeks longer just by keeping decomposition at bay.

“It just doesn’t look very good for Tavard,” Sandoval said, frowning.  “Even with all of the reinforcements he’s drafting from Castabriel and his southern fiefs, he’s just giving her a bigger target.  The moment he tries to advance on the castle he’s going to get hit, hard, just like last time.  Did he learn nothing from that?” he demanded.  “He doesn’t even have the Sky Riders to give him some protection.”

“When the wyverns attacked the other day, his archers gave them a few volleys,” I pointed out.  “They still managed to do some damage, but I think he felt that the arrows drove them off.  So, he feels protected.  And the castle hasn’t responded to his artillery with any of their own, the way a human lord would.”

“She’s giving him a false sense of confidence,” Terleman agreed.

“Oh, he brought that with him on his own,” Mavone assured.  “Really, Min, you have to do something about this.  Without magical support, he’s going to get a whole lot of good men killed.”

That was essentially what I told King Rard the next day when I visited him at the palace at Kaunis.

I had put off making a personal visit about the siege in the hopes that my letter would somehow dissuade the king from supporting his stupid son’s foolish plan.  But there was no sign that it was stopping.  Every day more men arrived and took their places in camp or in the trenches.  Even as the snow fell, more wagons made the journey to supply the growing encampment.  And every day my sense of foreboding grew.

So, I went to see the king, in person.

Kaunis looked splendid under a fresh snowfall, I noted as I came through the archway to the palace.  The ornate buildings and temple spires that had arisen so quickly were delicately encrusted with the stuff, and it served to give a patina of purity to the place.  But as I looked around at the pretty buildings and stately halls, I could glance to the west and recognize the fact that Mycin Amana’s troops were just a few dozen miles away.  All of this could get wiped out in an instant if she chose.

The king was in one of his smaller halls that morning, taking mulled wine and dicing with some of the gentlemen of his court.  He looked tired and disheartened, I saw as I was let in and announced by the palace guard.  His bearded face showed a mixture of pleasure and anxiety at my presence, but he did not send me away.  Indeed, he led me back to a small chamber where we could talk in private.

“Just what does Tavard think he is doing?” I demanded when we were finally alone.

“He’s trying to take the bloody castle back again,” he said with a deep sigh.  “He has devoted a significant amount of his resources to do it, too.”

“He’s going to fail, and fail spectacularly, if he persists,” I insisted.  “You know as well as I do that without a magical corps, he and his men are just fodder for Mycin Amana’s troops.”

“The Duke of Castal has not been willing to heed the advice of his king,” Rard reported, unhappily.  “I tried, Minalan, I really did.  I told him to wait for spring when we could do a better-prepared and more-coordinated attack.  But his head is filled with thoughts of glory and his heart is awash in shame from his retreat this autumn.  He feels he can redeem himself if he conquers the castle on his own, without help from the magi.”

“He’s wrong,” I said, flatly, as I took a seat opposite the king.  “What is his strategic reasoning?”

“His wise and noble counselors have convinced him that a sufficiently large army can overwhelm the enemy’s positions if they attack suddenly and ferociously,” he said, unenthusiastically.  “They tell him that a force of thirty thousand will be enough.  I tried to tell him not to,” he declared, looking away from me.  “To me it smacks of another debacle like Maidenpool.”

“No, this will make Maidenpool look like a loss at a squire’s tournament,” I pointed out.  “Where is he getting his men?”

“Mercenaries, vassals, and he’s ordering three companies of the City Watch from Castabriel to join the siege,” Rard said, uncomfortably.  “He feels they can defend the city best by being in the field, a bulwark against her advance.”

“Does he not realize that she’s a sorceress?” I pointed out, my heart sinking.  “She doesn’t need to move troops overland if she doesn’t want to.  The Enshadowed can assault the place through the Ways.  She can send in entire legions of gurvani by using the molopor.  Meanwhile, he’s paying thrice the regular cost to move men, supplies, and weapons across the country in wintertime.  I just fought a war in the winter last year,” I reminded him.  “I was in a good defensive position.  My opponent lost largely because he couldn’t maintain good supply lines over that kind of distance.”

“Tavard is insistent,” Rard said, shaking his head sadly.  “It is like he is possessed.  He’s gotten some resistance from his larger vassals, so he’s bribed them heavily to supply troops and send him food and fodder.  He’s elevated some of his lesser vassals to encourage them to send men.  He’s paying them premium wages, too,” he grumbled.  “He feels that if he takes Darkfaller on his own then he can resist what he sees as the magi’s encroachment on his rule.”

“He will fail,” I assured him.  “My king, it gives me no pleasure to say it, nor do I wish any harm on your son.  But he is playing a deadly game with borrowed money and the lives of tens of thousands of good Castali.  He faces a foe with capacities he cannot even imagine.  This is not a simple feud between Riverlords,” I said, doing my best to keep the condemnation from my voice.  “He faces a powerful magical foe.  The kind you raised me to Marshal Arcane to face.”

“Yes, well, he’s quite resentful of that position, as well,” Rard admitted.  “He thinks it undermines the entire feudal order to allow the magi to overrule the chivalry in war.  And he seeks to establish the superiority of knighthood over warmagi in defense of his realm.”

“And you can do nothing to stop him?” I challenged.

“The queen supports him . . . albeit reluctantly,” he admitted.  “She says he deserves a chance at regaining his castle on his own, without interference, like a good feudal lord should.  She seems blind to the realities of the situation.  Grendine desires nothing but to see Tavard succeed, and that is allowing her to make some very poor choices.”

“She gambles with the fate of the kingdom, then,” I pronounced.  “Forgive me for speaking plainly, my liege, but if he persists in this there will be no conclusion to the siege but disaster,” I predicted.  “I know far, far more about Mycin Amana’s capabilities and her motivations than he suspects, and I am not yet ready to challenge her.  Not until I am certain of my success.”

Rard looked at me searchingly, his expression troubled and concerned.  “You think he has no chance, then?”

“None to speak of, with such a conventional approach to the assault,” I agreed, apologetically.  “Would that he could just lob a few missiles at the walls, organize a storming party, and take the place like it was held by a rebellious vassal.  That is not what he faces.”

“He plans to undermine the outer walls,” Rard said, with a disgusted sigh.  “He has hired three companies of mercenary sappers from Remere to do so.  They’ve already begun the tunneling.  He feels if he can reach the catacombs under Darkfaller, he can send in additional forces from underneath the castle and overwhelm the foe more quickly.  Failing that, he plans to starve them out.”

“He will likely encounter an army of undead lying in wait for him, instead,” I pointed out.  “They do not need provision.  And the gurvani can dine on human flesh, which Tavard has provided them in fresh abundance,” I reminded him.  “There is no starving out the defenders in this siege.  He has brought their provisions for them.”

Rard shuddered at the thought of such a ghastly idea.  I felt sorry for the king – he seemed much older than the last time I saw him, older and more worn.  Not yet an old man, but far from a young one.  A man who had been vexed and betrayed by his arrogant son’s ambitions.  A king who had built a realm out of blood and toil and was helplessly watching it be undermined.

“Is there anything the magi can do?” he asked, hopefully.

“Many things,” I acknowledged.  “Indeed, we have contrived some elaborate plans for dealing with Mycin Amana.  But they are being dashed by Tavard’s premature attack.  Did you know that Korbal is awake, once again?  He watches this contest from Olum Seheri with great interest.  Though the attack on Castal is Mycin Amana’s idea, if he can gain an advantage through it then he will press it.  And if he gets involved personally, well, it is likely that all the plans we have laid will be useless.”

“Tavard just wants his castle back.  And his honor,” the king said, sadly.

“He may not want it back,” I pointed out.  “Not only will his assault likely ruin it as a defensive fortification – if he is lucky enough to make it that far – but Mycin Amana has permanently scarred the place, we believe.  There is a reason she employs so many undead there.  She has more control over them in Darkfaller than any Enshadowed sorcerer or Nemovort has ever enjoyed.  Even if he should prevail, gods willing, he will find what is left a haunted ruin that will do nothing to elevate his prestige or add to his power.”

Rard took note of everything I said, of course; he was adept at listening carefully to his councilors.  But he insisted he was powerless in this; despite the crown he wore.  We continued discussing the possibility of disaster for another hour before I took my leave.  I’d never seen him so despondent, not even after the attack on his palace.  I suppose it is hard for a father to face the disappointments his son could bring . . . and the disaster an ambitious and rebellious vassal could visit on his realm.

It made me quite glad that I was not the king.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Trial

As we all looked on Prince Tavard’s folly from afar with great trepidation, life continued in Sevendor and the Magelaw without much disturbance from Darkfaller, and for that I was grateful.  Yule was only a week away, after all, and I had planned the first opulent Yule Court in the new castle’s enormous central chamber to celebrate.  There were thousands of details to look after, guests to invite, gifts to procure or fashion, clothes to be completed, lists of honors to be compiled, the veritable mountain of food and ocean of strong drink to be procured, and all the other minutia that fit together to create the type of once-in-a-lifetime ceremonial occasion I wished to throw to celebrate our return from exile.

Thankfully I had a vast staff of dedicated retainers to conduct much of the work.  Sire Cei, Banamor and Alya were doing much of the planning, along with the castle staff, and they had recruited a small army from our vassals to assist.

My contribution usually revolved around making grand policy decisions or approving specific details that quite honestly, I did not care all that much about.  But I made them anyway, as if I did, as decisively as I could, because that’s what people expected from the Spellmonger.  I didn’t really care if the table settings included more holly or more spruce, I just wanted greenery.  But I sagely selected the display from the variety I was presented with all the solemnity of choosing a bride.

Mostly, I tried to stay out of everyone’s way and look regal.  That gave me time to continuously check Tavard’s progress in his doomed siege, but eventually, even that got boring.  Mycin Amana did not seem bothered by the growing army on her doorstep, and Tavard wasn’t doing anything blatantly stupid in his preparations, and after a while, you get tired of counting tents and estimating the number of arrows the prince had stockpiled.  It was a bit maddening to choose between doing that and settling arguments over table assignments, but no one got upset if I undercounted archers.  The same could not be said for messing up the delicate balance the heralds had struck between vassals.

Baron Astyral, of all people, came to my rescue, in a way.  He and his new bride had returned to his barony of Losara and taken residence at his splendidly refurbished castle at Daronel for the holidays.  Like me, he had planned a grand celebration of the season and his wedding and had invited vassals and overlords to attend, as well as distant friends and professional colleagues.  But he had also scheduled a special court – the legal kind, not the ceremonial – to settle an important dispute between one of his vassals and a rival claimant to an inheritance.

Ordinarily, such a dispute would grind its way slowly through the established courts, sometimes for years, before any resolution could be had.  But there were some problems with that, this time.  For one thing, the problem had resulted in part due to the barony being overwhelmed by the gurvani invasion a few years back, killing the sitting baron and most of his armed vassals and their families in the process.  While the barony had been recovered after our victories in Gilmora, the position of baron had been vacant and the barony had been administered by the crown for awhile . . . until it was awarded to Duke Anguin as part of his reward for rescuing Princess Rardine, his cousin and future wife.

Then Anguin assigned the barony to Astyral in part because of his adept management of Tudry as military governor and in part because he was raised a nobleman from Gilmora, as well as a favor to his old friend Minalan the Spellmonger.  That established Astyral as the seated baron, and while Anguin technically owned the fief, Astyral had to swear his fealty at the time to Duke Tavard of Castal because feudalism is just bloody complicated like that.

So Baron Astyral had been, just before his marriage, engaged in dutifully slogging his way through the long backlog of baronial business that had accumulated because of the number of lands and estates that had been left vacant because of the war.  In some cases, he assumed administration at the baronial level because there was just no one left to claim them.  But in other cases, a claimant would turn up from exile and petition their claim to be recognized.

Astyral wasn’t stupid – he plopped pretty much whomever said they owned a manor into its administration as long as they had at least some documentation backing up their claim.  Losara had been hit particularly hard in the invasion, and the majority of its lands were depopulated.  Hells, there were still isolated pockets of gurvani hiding in the woods and wastelands, unwilling to return to the Wilderlands.  Not to mention a small army of bandits and returning refugees and all manner of vagabonds who wanted to pick the bones of the once-prosperous fief.  Astyral had been handed a deserted wasteland that had once been highly prosperous.  He had his work cut out for him.

Not everyone was happy with his rule, of course; the few Cottonlords who had somehow survived the invasion and retaken their lands were largely reluctant to submit to a magelord’s authority.  A few even rebelled.  But Astyral had put down rebellions, punished his detractors or bribed them into submission, and wisely managed to install lords over empty lands fast enough to keep things from descending back into chaos.

He hadn’t stopped there; he had made an effort to recruit peasants and artisans to rebuild the barony’s shattered economy, and after a few years of chaos and devastation most of the old lords were willing to shut up and contend with the fact that the new magelord was, actually, restoring much of the architecture of a functioning barony.  If that meant dealing with more wizards in his administration than usual, well, most of them were willing to endure that indignity despite tradition.  Losara had produced a few meager crops of cotton for export, far less than it had in the past, but it was better than the years of the invasion.

One of the lords he had restored to their lands was one Lady Arsella, a Cottonlord heir who had managed to survive the invasion and had steadfastly inhabited her manor of Maramor in northwestern Losara even after it had been raided for slaves by the gurvani and abandoned by the survivors because who wants to stay at a place with ugly new neighbors?

Lady Arsella had tried her best to occupy her once-grand manor all by herself for most of a year until it was selected more or less at random by Terleman as a good forward operating base from which to drive the remaining goblins back into the Wilderlands to the north.  He sent a company of mercenaries to do so, led by a couple of newly ennobled High Magi who could provide some arcane support and leadership during the effort.

Their names were Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal.  My apprentices, at the time.

They made the acquaintance of Lady Arsella, secured her cooperation and her permission to use Maramor Manor as a forward base, and ended up freeing a bunch of poor bastards whom the goblins had captured and intended to send north with the hundreds of thousands of other Gilmorans to endure slavery, torture, sacrifice and death at the hands of their dark priesthood.  Lady Arsella was compensated by the crown for the use of her manor and used the funds to travel to the south of Gilmora to the safety of distant relatives while Losara and her precious Maramor Manor were purged of the gurvani.  Two years later she married a young Gilmoran knight.  A year after that she returned to claim her patrimony from the new Baron Astyral, her young husband and their baby in tow.

Astyral wasn’t stupid; there was an empty manor (two of them, actually) and a young, vibrant couple of Gilmoran Cottonlords with a legitimate claim.  He renewed their lordship over the manor and even gave them a generous stipend to attract new peasants and retainers to start agricultural production once again.  And then he moved on.

Everything seemed pretty normal after that, and Lady Arsella and her husband managed to resurrect the basic manorial functions of the place sufficiently enough to get in a small crop of cotton when, quite unexpectedly, a woman appeared at Astyral’s castle at Daronel and claimed that she was Lady Arsella of Maramor, and she wanted her hereditary fief back, thank you very much.

After more than three years suffering as a slave in the Wilderlands under the goblin’s lash, the new Lady Arsella of Maramor had been freed from her bondage by the Great Emancipation raid, made her way to nascent Vanador, and managed to convince an itinerant lawbrother of the validity of her claim.  Then she made her way back to Losara and hilarity ensued.  There were two Lady Arsellas who had competing claims to the same estates. Because feudalism is bloody complicated like that.

Astyral was not amused by the drama – he was trying his best to restore a ruined barony to some type of production, and these complicated matters of inheritance were interfering with his efforts.  But he acknowledged the legitimacy of the claim and added it to his overfull docket.

In due time the first Lady Arsella and the second Lady Arsella both appeared before his court with their documents and their lawbrothers and made their cases.  The second accused the first of being a mere servant who had taken her identity in the fog of war.  The first accused the second of the same thing, as well as using her oaths to be a pretender to the inheritance.  Since pretty much everyone the girls had known was dead in the invasion, neither claim had decisive merit.

So Astyral – quite wisely – had recourse to magic, something few baronial courts in Gilmora had ever resorted to.  He put them both under truthtell spells and questioned them rigorously to get to the bottom of the matter.  As it turned out, the first Lady Arsella was shown to be lying, so he made a summary judgment for the second and ordered the first to vacate the now-restored Maramor Manor.

That should have been the end of the matter, but it wasn’t because feudalism is bloody complicated.

The pretender – the first Lady Arsella – convinced her husband and his family that Baron Astyral was, for some reason, lying about the truthtell she had taken.  He was a despicable magelord, after all, a scandalously new class that had upended four hundred years of Narasi tradition.

She didn’t have a motive for Astyral’s apparent treachery, but her husband’s family didn’t really search for one – the alternative was that they had married off their handsome young son to a liar and a pretender, not a noblewoman from a good Gilmoran family.  They had already birthed one child – getting an annulment from the temples would be both costly and difficult and require the consent of the sitting baron (the aforementioned evil magelord, Baron Astyral), because feudalism is bloody complicated like that.

A much simpler and nobler remedy to the knight’s family was to retreat from Losara to some relatives they had in nearby Dendra Barony, where sentiment against Astyral was already high, and stir up a brief little war against Astyral to get him to reverse his ruling.

Astyral wasn’t having any of it; instead, he defended his barony valiantly, with plenty of money and plenty of magic, and the beginnings of the civil war were kindled instead . . . because feudalism is bloody complicated like that.

A lot had happened since then: Terleman had conquered a large portion of eastern Gilmora quite suddenly, and he and Astyral were friends, so when he proclaimed the conquests to now be part of the Magelaw – and the duchy of Alshar – Astyral quite wisely and ambitiously withdrew his fealty from Duke Tavard and made it to Duke Anguin instead.  The threat of an overwhelming army of Alshari magelords and warmagi devastating Dendra Barony was too much to bear, considering how quickly Terleman went through their neighbors, so the Baron of Dendra sued for a truce from Astyral and got it.

Things were at peace, for now.  Dendra had withdrawn its forces (which were getting hammered by Astyral’s anyway) and kept the peace.  Astyral had refrained from any retribution in return, as it would re-ignite the larger battle.  But the first Lady Arsella of Maramor was still not happy.  She continued to press her suit with Astyral after the war, insisting she was the legitimate heir to Maramor.  This time she dropped Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal’s names as witnesses to her good character, and that caught Astyral’s notice.  He had postponed the hearing of a renewed suit – this time under the freshly minted laws of the Magelaw – until his Yule Court.  Which was now.

So, he invited me to come to observe partially because my former apprentices and current vassal was involved, and partially because he hoped that the presence of Count Minalan the Spellmonger would have enough gravity to keep the two parties from starting a second civil war over a poorly worded decision.  Which was a distinct possibility.

Because feudalism is bloody complicated like that.

***

“This should be interesting,” Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser muttered as we entered the great hall at Daronel Castle where Astyral had decided to hear the case again.

I think he invited me just as much to show off his newly refurbished residence as gain my advice and gravitas.  It was, technically, just the central chamber of the castle, but what Astyral had done to it made Sevendor Castle’s great hall look quaint and rural in comparison.

Magelights provided excellent lighting in the once-dark space, for one, and there was no haze of soot and smoke from torches or tapers in the air.  Despite the season the great hall was pleasantly warm – I noticed heatstones set discreetly throughout the room and incorporated with the stonework.  New tapestries were hung on the wall between the great arches depicting important historical events in Gilmoran history that I didn’t know anything about.  Elegant statues and impressive-looking paintings were scattered artfully around the chamber, and while most of the floor was durable gray slate, a significant area around the massive brick fireplace had been replaced with a colorful stone mosaic featuring Astyral on horseback in his full warmage armor charging heroically into battle.  My friend has an ego.  Thankfully he also has good taste, so the portrayal came across as elegant, not gaudy.  Indeed, it was a pleasure to walk across his face.

“Have you not heard a case tried under your laws yet?” I asked in surprise.

“What?  Oh, of course,” the lawbrother assured me.  “But mostly criminal cases and contractual disputes back in Vanador.  You must see your system in action in order to tell how crappy your legal thinking was when you wrote the laws.  This will be the first inheritance case I’ve heard.  And the first outside of the original jurisdiction.  I’m curious how the procedure will stand up,” he admitted.

“Well, it’s not just an inheritance case,” I reminded him as we were ushered to a special gallery that had been set aside for important people who weren’t directly involved in the case to get a good view. “One of them is being accused of misrepresenting herself, too.  She’s claiming that the truthtell he used was illegitimate.  It will be interesting to see how Astyral handles that.”

“Oh, I know,” he chuckled.  “That just makes it more interesting.  She might have had a case under Gilmoran common law, but that’s not going to hold water in the Magelaw.  Unless she can prove Astyral was lying, which would be hard.”

“I’ve never known him to lie,” I offered.

“Don’t say that too loud, or some lawbrother will call you to testify,” he warned with a chuckle.  “But Astyral’s approach to this should be interesting.

“He can designate an officer of the court to administer the spell, now,” Bryte explained.  “Or he can fall back on his authority as a representative of the duke – sorry, the king, now,” he corrected, “but essentially his sovereign authority to censure her.  Since one side essentially started a war over it, he can claim that it is a matter of security to reassess the case from the beginning and make a summary judgment.  Or he can just dismiss her case if he has grounds.  Or,” he added with a smirk, “he can appeal the entire case to you for summary judgment.  Since you’re already here, that might be his most expedient course.”

I’m sure I looked appalled.  I know I felt appalled.

“You mean, he invited me here in case it gets too complex for him, and he can pawn the decision off on me?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Bryte agreed.  “Since this case resulted in bloodshed and essentially resulted in Astyral changing his fealty from Castal to Alshar, you have an interest in this.  He can throw up his hands and toss it to you for judgment.  That way everyone will blame you, not him, for the result.”

“That bastard!” I snarled.  I felt a little nauseated.  I’ve heard plenty of cases, over the years, but none of them had led to actual armed conflict.

“Or you – or your designated chancellor -- could unilaterally intervene and impose a summary judgment, since the security of your realm is at stake.  No one could question your ruling since you are the embodiment of sovereignty for this jurisdiction – unless one of them was foolish enough to appeal to the Crown Court, which would draw this thing out for years.  I tried to think of every contingency for this sort of thing, but the law can surprise you.”

He actually seemed eager about the matter, the way a knowledgeable peasant does about jousting on his way to a tournament.  I’d only had some experience with the Luinite order, but one commonality was how delighted most of them seemed in watching the convoluted arguments that their peers made in court.  It seemed a bit perverse, but then religion expresses itself in all sorts of strange ways. “

There were already a lot of people in the room, as both parties had gained support from various Losaran families since this matter began.  Some had already lost kin in the fighting, so there was a lot of interest in the outcome.  Astyral’s staff did an excellent job of keeping order, but emotions were high on both sides of the room.  Indeed, there were more than two hundred onlookers present, not to mention the lawbrothers, clerks, and other functionaries of the court.  I also noticed that Astyral had posted a dozen guards around the room with sentry staves in case emotions boiled over.

I spotted both Tyndal and Rondal, dressed dashingly in winter finery, sitting in the pool of witnesses off to the side.  They appeared relaxed about the proceeding, but there was a tinge of anxiety to their expressions for some reason that intrigued me.

The proceeding began as soon as Astyral entered the room – with great ceremony, of course, because my friend has a sense of drama to match his ego – wearing an impressive ermine cloak and an elegant baronial circlet on his brow.  With all due seriousness, he took his seat at the bench, nearly a throne, and regarded the crowd as his bailiff called for order.  He graced me with a glance and a nod of thanks before he turned his attention to the case.

Once his stately old lawbrother gave the opening benediction and pleading for Luin’s Justice, the monk read out the complaints, counter-complaints, and charges against the girl who had perjured herself, as well as her ensuing objection to the truthtell, and the ensuing conflict that she had begun as a result.  Once the case was read, Astyral invited the advocates of both sides to approach him for a few tense moments of whispered conversation.

“What do you know about the lawbrothers in the case?” I asked him, out of boredom more than interest.

“Brother Landour is from the Nion Temple and has a reputation for thoroughness.  Brother Marpol studied at Arionagh Temple and spent about two years as a circuit magistrate in Borfeyd.  He’s known for his quick-witted reasoning and his impressive closing statements.  Both are well-respected jurists.  If I had to favor one in open debate, it would probably be Marpol, but that doesn’t mean I would favor him to win.  It depends on the facts of the case.  There are new witnesses, remember,” he reminded me, nodding toward Tyndal and Rondal.  “And neither of them are well-versed in the laws of the Magelaw because they’re so new that they’re steaming like a freshly laid turd.”

Astyral began the hearing with an address to the crowd.

“My good gentles and honored guests,” he began, his voice amplified by magic, “I understand the anxiety this seemingly simple case has inspired in you, and I am sympathetic.  It brought the barony to war, and that is no small matter.  But I will try to lay that fact aside and consider the case on its merits, as a good baron should.  As both parties have introduced new evidence, and this is now a new jurisdiction, it is only right, fit and just that we shall hear this case in a new light . . . and see justice concluded.

“Nor will I tolerate any interruption or disturbance; indeed, I want to resolve this matter as quickly as possible and lay to rest any perceived grievance either party has for the sake of peace and the pursuit of truth.  Now, let us hear from Lady Arsella– that is, the former Lady Arsella’s advocate on the new testimony he has persuaded the court to subpoena from witnesses that have bearing in this case.”

Brother Landour, it turned out, was representing the older of the two women, the one who had apparently lied under the truthtell.  He began by reminding the court about the terrible circumstances that had disrupted Gilmora during the invasion and recounted the narrow escape that his client had managed when the gurvani were slaying or carrying off every human they could find.  He spoke of his client’s struggles to survive alone after all of her kin were gone, the weeks of deprivation and danger she endured from roving bands of goblins and desperate fellow humans in the ruins of her beloved Maramor.

Then he told the story of the king’s soldiers re-occupying the lands, driving out the gurvani, and restoring some order to Losara.  He spoke of his client’s willing cooperation with them, offering the garrison her home as their headquarters as they pushed back into the region, and how she had selflessly served as a guide and support to that effort.

I watched his client carefully as he spoke.  She was a pleasant-looking young woman in a simple but well-tailored cotton surcoat in a dark red with tasteful embroidery at the sleeves, collar, and hem.  She looked very anxious, under her wimple.  Her husband sat beside her, a handsome but not terribly bright-looking young knight who looked highly agitated about the proceeding.

“Note how he never called her Lady Arsella,” Brother Bryte whispered to me.  “Nor did he explicitly state that she was the daughter of the late lord.  Just that the place was her home and that she was an heir to the line.”

“Is that important?” I asked, surprised.  I hadn’t really noticed those details while I was listening.

“It demonstrates his strategy toward the upcoming testimony,” he pointed out.  “He’s claiming she had the right to inherit the property by virtue of her possession and the lack of a living legitimate heir without coming right out and saying it.  He’s not actually disputing the finding of the court: that she was lying about her identity.  He’s just saying that she has a demonstrated right to the property.”

The second Lady Arsella’s advocate stood for the rebuttal.  Brother Marpol was a younger lawbrother, but then his client was clearly a few years younger than her opponent.  Indeed, the noblewoman was young and very pretty, sitting alone in a dark green dress trimmed with elaborate black crewling with a matching hat.  There was a certain predatory look in her eye as her lawyer began reciting her lineage and acceding to some of the same points of fact as Brother Landour had.

But when he spoke of Lady Arsella’s ordeal, it began with a certain servant girl who on the day of the attack betrayed her mistress and hid away in safety while she was dragged off.  Then he related in impressive detail her tale of being marched hundreds of miles to the north as part of a long coffle of slaves destined for the fields, workshops, and possible soup-pots of the cruel gurvani armies.

He told of how her companions from Maramor fell by the roadside, exhausted, only to be beaten until they continued on.  How if they fainted from thirst or hunger they risked being served to their captors at the morning meal.  How she toiled for more than two years in the hardscrabble fields of the Wilderlands, growing food for her masters and doing her best to keep up the spirits of her fellows from Maramor until she was shipped off to another outpost like a sheep being sold at auction.

It was a truly stirring narrative, I noted as I watched the audience.  The lawbrother had a flair for a good story, and Lady Arsella’s was filled with horror and pity.  According to her advocate the brave noblewoman endured constant hardship and the unforgiving winters of the Wilderlands, but held out hope that she could someday escape and make her way back to her beloved Maramor Manor.

When that day arrived during the Great Emancipation raids, she had run to safety with hundreds of thousands of her fellow Gilmorans and taken respite in generous Vanador’s lands before she finally was able to return to her lands in Losara . . . only to find them stolen and occupied by the girl who betrayed her in the first place: Maid Belsi, she named her, an ungrateful servant who was living in her home under her name.

“He’s really quite good,” Bryte whispered to me.  “He almost entirely counters any sympathy the court might have had for the usurper and her struggles during the invasion.  And the fact that she was caught lying about who she was certainly supports Arsella’s case.  What is interesting is, if he’s correct and the baron rules in his favor, Maid Belsi’s noble husband, over there, has a good claim to get his marriage to her annulled.  She’d have to return or repay his family’s dowry.  She’d be penniless.  Of course, that would delegitimize the son they have together –“

“They have a son?” I asked with interest.

“Yes, I saw him being carried away before the hearing began.  About two years old, if my judgment in such things is accurate.  If the marriage is annulled, he would be disinherited from his father’s line entirely.  He’d legally be a bastard, unable to inherit from anyone but his lying mother who married his father under false pretenses.  This is getting delightfully sordid!” he said with a thin smile.

That was an understatement.  I realized what this girl’s alleged lie could cost, if she was proven wrong.  Not only had it started a war, it had altered the frontiers between the duchies.  It had also inadvertently added a couple of rich baronies to my lands, technically.  Yet it would be her infant son who would bear the deepest burden for her duplicity.  While his mother could, in her shame, seek obscurity by taking holy orders in some dingy little abbey, her poor son would be doomed to a common existence and likely poverty through no fault of his own.  Meanwhile, I would be taking a healthy cut of the tribute from the lands he once would have inherited.

Sometimes justice is a bitch.

“I believe the defendant wishes to call their first witness,” Astyral said, when the advocate for Lady Arsella sat down.  “That would be the military commander who first returned to Maramor Manor during the invasion: Sir Rondal of Sevendor.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

An Unjust Judgment

Rondal did not look enthusiastic as he took the witness chair, he looked resigned as the bailiff had him swear to be truthful on Luin’s Staff, or rather the ornate representation of justice that every court uses for the purpose.  But before he could be asked the first question, Astyral addressed the room again.

“While I hesitate to doubt the honor of any man who so swears his oath to Luin,” he said, a smug little smirk on his face, “in light of the new body of laws in which we now operate, I have taken the liberty of innovation.  My veracity, and therefore my honor, was called into question by one of the parties in this case,” he reminded everyone.  “That was insulting and assumed my bias in the case, which I resent.  In essence, I was accused of lying about the results of the truthtell by the defendant.

“So I contrived a means to remove that issue from the court.  In the interests of justice every witness will be henceforth placed under a court-mandated truthtell,” he revealed, causing a gasp from the crowd.  “Further, thanks to the skills of the enchanters of the Vanadori bouleuterion, I have commissioned a particular enchantment for the occasion,” he said, as one of his men brought him an elegant box of well-polished wood.  He opened it and withdrew a large silver amulet in the shape of a stylized sun, with the staff-and-scroll sigil of the Luinite Order graven on its face.

“This is an arcane device which not only can detect when a statement is truthful, according to the knowledge of the witness but which when activated will also display the results of the spell to the entire court, without bias,” he said, placing the heavy silver chain of the amulet around his own neck.  He muttered a mnemonic, and a dim white magelight about a foot wide formed above and slightly behind his head.

“When a statement I know to be truthful is made, the enchantment will detect that and the magelight above me will turn blue,” he said, as the globe of arcane power obligingly changed to a shade of blue.  “When I knowingly lie, it turns crimson.  I weigh over five hundred pounds and ate a siege beast to break my fast this morning,” he said.  The magelight instantly shifted to a bright red.

“While this enchantment has been thoroughly tested and verified by my chancellor, Lawbrother Otimar, I welcome the advocates of either side to test it by placing it around their own necks and allowing opposing counsel to ask them questions.  Of course, the entire court will see the result,” he added, his smirk growing.

“Or you can accept my judgment that this is a fair and impartial spell to determine the truth.  Remember, this enchantment does not discriminate between fact and opinion,” he cautioned, and demonstrated the fact.  “I am by far the most charming baron in the Magelaw,” he said, and looked up.  The sphere was once again blue.  “But it will indicate a lie, that is a statement which the witness knows to be true.  Does either party wish to test this?” he challenged.

“No, Excellency!” Brother Landour said, loudly.  There was, perhaps, a shrill note in his voice.

“Of course not, Excellency!” Brother Marpol assured, his face ashen.  Both monks looked startled at the development, which I assumed meant that they were surprised by it.  And neither looked particularly comfortable with the prospect of offering themselves as test subjects for the enchantment.  Indeed, there wasn’t a lawbrother in the room who didn’t look uncomfortable.  That included Lawbrother Bryte, who had buried his face in his palms.

“Luin’s veiny shaft!” he moaned, horrified.  “What has he done?”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, confused.

“He’s just made it near impossible to lie in court!” he said, looking up at Astyral with deeply disturbed eyes.  “He just kicked my entire profession squarely in the scrolls!”

“I thought you wanted people to tell the truth in court,” I proposed, still confused.

“We want people to swear to tell the truth in court,” he corrected.  “Half of our bloody job is trying to do that.  The other half is to get our clients to lie creatively in court.  Dear gods, what has he done?” he bemoaned in a harsh whisper.

Rondal seemed a little nervous as the bailiff placed the amulet over his neck, while Astyral’s official wizard spoke the mnemonic.  The white magelight appeared above his head while the defendant’s advocate began to question him.

“Please state your name and titles to the court,” the lawbrother asked.

“Sir Rondal of Alshar, at the moment.  Knight of Alshar, Deputy Court Wizard of Alshar, founder of the Estasi Order of Arcane Knights . . . I’m sure I’ve picked up a couple of others, but those are the pertinent titles.”  The globe above him turned a deep blue.

“Were you in fact involved in the goblin invasion of Gilmora?” asked the lawbrother, patiently.

“I was.  In several capacities.  For the purposes of this hearing, I was detailed by Marshal Brendal, under Commander Terleman, to reconnoiter and explore the northeast region of Losara in preparation for the establishment of an advanced base from which to push the enemy back to the frontier.  I selected Maramor Manor at the time as the most strategic and defensible base of operations available.”

“And that is where you met the defendant?” Brother Landour asked.

“It was,” agreed Rondal.  “She introduced herself as Lady Arsella of Maramor.  She was the only resident of the manor at that time.  She seemed intimately familiar with the premises and the local area.  She was quite helpful,” he added, glancing at the woman, who seemed incredibly anxious.  The magelight continued to glow blue.

“In what ways was she helpful?” inquired the monk.

“She provided some support for me and my men,” Rondal reported, dutifully.  “She acted as a guide to the local villages and manors, with which she proved familiar.  She had armed herself with a crossbow and was willing to fight when necessary in our defense.”

“She told you her story of survival during the invasion?”

“She did,” Rondal affirmed.  “She hid in a safe spot where she was undetected by the raiders.  After that she continued to hide in the deserted hall for weeks until we arrived.”

“And she maintained throughout the entire time that she was the rightful heir to Maramor Manor?” the monk asked.

“Yes, and the rest of the estates of her patrimony,” Rondal nodded.

“Thank you,” the monk said, nodding to his counterpart to begin his own questions.  Brother Marpol stood and cleared his throat harshly before proceeding.

“Did you at the time, Sir Rondal, have any reason to doubt this woman’s claims?” he asked, pointedly.

Rondal paused and took a breath before he answered.  “There were some elements of her story that were difficult to understand,” he conceded.  “But at the time I considered the trauma of the invasion and her survival afterward may have colored her tale.  She was as desperate as all of the other survivors we encountered.  I might not have been the best judge of character at the time, as it was the first time I had been put in command of troops in combat.  But I had no solid proof she was anyone but whom she claimed to be,” he said, firmly.  The magelight flickered a bit but remained blue.

The lawbrother looked disappointed but merely sighed.  “No further questions, Excellency,” he said, and took a seat.

“Amateur!” snorted Brother Bryte.  “There was plenty of room for more questions.  ‘No proof’ she was anyone else . . . but what about his suspicions?” he asked me.  I nodded and looked at the woman who claimed to be Lady Arsella.  She looked quite relieved . . . until Sir Tyndal was called to the stand.

Tyndal seemed almost eager to testify, and even grinned as the amulet was placed around his neck.  Brother Landour waited until the magelight formed above him before he began.

“Please state your name and titles, my lord,” he asked.

“Sir Tyndal of Callierd, Viscount of Callierd, Knight of Alshar and Castal, founder of the Estasi Order of Arcane Knights, Slayer of Dragons, Bravest Knight in the Wilderlands, Champion of Pretty Maidens In Dire Situations, Beloved of All Who Come To Know Him—”  The magelight had gone from dark blue to bright red when the lawbrother loudly cleared his throat.

“I do remind the court that this truthful enchantment does not recognize opinion,” the lawbrother said, dryly.  The crowd giggled.  Tyndal merely grinned more broadly.  “And what was your position during the time in question, Viscount?” he continued.

“I was second-in-command of the advance party, leading the small cavalry and infantry force of the Third Royal Commando from the southern regions to the front,” he answered.  “That is when I became familiar with . . . the defendant,” he said, looking pointedly at the pretender.  She did not seem at all comforted by Tyndal’s testimony.

“And how did she present herself to you, at that time?” the lawbrother prompted.

“She claimed to be Lady Arsella,” he said, skeptically.  “She had certainly convinced my fellow Rondal of that, when I arrived.  Of course, once I showed up she began paying me a lot more attention than he, for some reason.  That is until I revealed to her that Rondal was still in command.”

“You suspect her of currying favor with him?” Brother Landour asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I’m certain of it,” Tyndal agreed.  “I’ve had enough petty noblewomen flip their skirts at me because of my position to recognize that sort of thing.  Happens all the time,” he assured, though the magelight flickered red.  That inspired another giggle in the crowd.

“Are you certain it wasn’t just your own sense of . . . aggrandizement that convinced you of that?” Landour probed.

“Look,” Tyndal sighed, “I don’t blame her.  Not much.  It was a war zone,” he emphasized.  “Just about everyone she ever knew was killed or enslaved.  She was desperate, and I don’t blame anyone in a desperate situation for doing what they have to do to survive.  She could have claimed to be the Duchess of Castal’s pastry cook, and I would have forgiven it under the circumstances.”

“Yet she seemed entirely familiar with the estate at Maramor, did she not?” the monk asked.

“Well, yes, but then servants are often more familiar with their estates than their lords,” Tyndal pointed out.  “What was interesting was she wasn’t very familiar with the other place . . . Ketral Manor, it was called,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Usually a noblewoman from a small house is very familiar with every square inch her family owns.  This ‘Lady Arsella’ barely knew the place.”

The lawbrother frowned.  Clearly this wasn’t going the way he had planned.  “And what makes you an authority on such matters, my lord?”

Tyndal shrugged.  “Well, I’ve had the acquaintance of many young noblewomen – many,” he emphasized to the crowd, and then looked up at the blue magelight overhead.  “I grew up a commoner and became a viscount because of my sterling merits, so I have an outsider’s appreciation for young noblewomen and their habits.  Almost all of them have a very intimate knowledge of every copper and cottage their family owns.  It’s . . . unnerving, if you ask me,” he assured.

“Well.  No further questions,” Brother Landour said.  I could appreciate the man’s predicament; Tyndal was not helping his client’s case in the slightest.  Brother Marpol was quick to capitalize on the witness on behalf of the true Lady Arsella, however.

“Viscount Tyndal,” he began, respectfully.  “What makes you think that the pretender, Maid Belsi, was attempting to deceive you and your comrade?” he asked, intently.  It was the sort of open-ended question that could lead anywhere.  Where it led was fairly devastating to the case.

“Well,” Tyndal began, “perhaps it was the way she offered herself to me in order to keep me from asking too many questions,” he said, inspiring gasps from the crowd and a shocked expression on Belsi’s face.  Arsella, on the other hand, looked victorious.

“She . . . offered herself to you?” Brother Marpol asked as he glanced at the bright blue magelight over his witness.

“Yes,” he stated, calmly.  “I refused, of course.  I wouldn’t do that with a girl that my friend Rondal was interested in first.”  The magelight flickered briefly to red.  “Of course, once she understood that and offered herself to him, I didn’t mind.”

“She . . . lay with you both?” the monk asked, surprised and embarrassed.  Lady Arsella appeared triumphant, a vindictive smile on her face.  Belsi looked devastated.  Her husband did not looked pleased and glared at her relentlessly.

“Well, it was wartime,” Tyndal demurred.  “We were young, in danger of a horrific death, and terrified.  I don’t blame her one bit,” he said, adamantly.  “Anyone who has been in that kind of situation is exempt from the standard rules of propriety in such an occasion, and to be truthful I was grateful to her for kindness.  Ron and I had been fighting for days, and we were on the run from the gurvani and could have been killed at any minute.  The same was true for her.  A few hours of pleasure was good for all of our morale.  Any who consider it a moral failing . . . well, I might take exception to that,” he said, warningly.  The magelight remained blue.

“And things get even more sordid!” Brother Bryte said, his expression intrigued.  But I had had enough.  I quickly opened a mind-to-mind link with Astyral.

Astyral, call a recess, I commanded.

But why? he asked.  Things are just getting good!

Because this isn’t helping anyone, I declared.  I am done with it.  Call a recess.  I want to talk to some people.

***

Of course Astyral had an elegantly appointed chamber off the great hall with even finer tapestries, statuary, and paintings, because he needed a place to show off how tasteful he was to his closest friends and enemies, not just the populace at large.  I called Lady Arsella, Belsi, their advocates, Tyndal, Rondal, Astyral, and Brother Bryte into it and then cast a spell to ensure privacy.

“This is highly irregular,” Brother Marpol said, as he took a seat.

“This entire case is highly irregular,” I countered.  “I wanted to find out a few things before I intervened.”

“You’re intervening?” Astyral asked, surprised.

“Wait, you’re intervening?” Bryte echoed.

“I’m intervening,” I growled.  “There has been entirely too much death and destruction in Losara since the invasion.  We do not need to prolong it over some petty bullshit,” I declared.  “We’re going to get to the bottom of this quickly and efficiently, and then I will issue a summary judgment in the name of state security.  Can I do that, Brother Bryte?”

“Well, yes, actually,” my lawbrother admitted.

“Good.  That’s what I’m going to do.  First,” I sighed, looking at the incredibly embarrassed Belsi, “I take it you aren’t cowardly enough to deny Viscount Tyndal’s sworn testimony?” I challenged.

“N-no, no my lord,” she said, her eyes downcast.  If a maiden was ever in danger of dying of embarrassment, Belsi was close to it.

“Good.  That makes things simpler.  Why did you make your claim to Maramor?” I demanded.

“Because . . . because my sire was of House Maramor,” she confessed.  “He did not marry my poor mother.”

“Really?” I asked and received a tearful nod in reply.  “Well, that makes things simpler.  I can confirm that, at least.  Lady Arsella?” I asked, as the younger girl stepped forward, wide eyed, and nodded.

“Bide a moment, please,” I said as I summoned Insight.  That surprised both girls, but they did not object.  The spell to assess the biological essences of any individual is obscure, to Imperial magic, but after building Lilastien’s Acennan I had a far greater knowledge of such matters than most.  My baculus was able to establish very quickly the differences in the two girls, including whether or not they were related.  Indeed, Insight told me that they were likely first cousins, sharing a grandfather.

“Well, congratulations,” I said, dryly.  “Lady Arsella, do you have any surviving family after the invasion?”

“Not to my knowledge, my lord,” she agreed.  “Perhaps somewhere, on my mother’s side, but . . .”

“Well, now you have a cousin,” I said, indicating Belsi.  “Family is important; don’t ever forget that,” I instructed her.  “It’s the foundation of our society and should be cherished when it doesn’t drive you absolutely mad.  Belsi, why did you betray your cousin, back then?  Because you hated her?  Mind you, I can cast a truthtell if I doubt your answer,” I warned.

“No, no, I was just trying to hide, my lord,” the woman said, tears streaming down her face.  “I may have resented Arsella, but I didn’t really hate her.  And there was only room enough for one,” she revealed.

“Ah.  Arsella, did you hate Belsi before the invasion?” I probed, giving her my best stare.

I was impressed; she met my eyes boldly.  “Nay, my lord.  In fact, I had a certain affection for my chambermaid.  She always seemed more as a . . . well, a friend, at times,” she confessed, guiltily.  “That does not give her the right to—”

“Shut up,” I ordered her.  “We aren’t in court, I will hear no arguments.  Indeed, I have heard quite enough already.  Belsi, you have a son, I hear?”

“Yes, my lord, two and a half years, now,” she said.  “I love him very much!” she insisted, beseeching me with her eyes.  It’s hard to ignore that sort of thing.  “My dear husband, too, but he will—”

“Shut up,” I said, a little more tersely this time.  “I think I understand the stakes for everyone here.  This is a . . . complicated situation,” I said, out loud as I figured out how to end it.  “We can chuck it into the crucible of the courts for years, I think, and no one would be satisfied.  You will both go broke paying fees to lawbrothers.  It has already lead to one war,” I pointed out.  “If it continues, there will be nothing but acrimony and anger and neither of those things benefits my realm.  Losara was wounded in the invasion,” I reminded them.  “More than half of its people were killed or enslaved.  I would not have the goblins’ invasion reap even more corpses of a place so starkly injured already.  It is not . . . in my interest,” I said, glancing at Brother Bryte.  He was studying me carefully.

“Instead, I am going to impose a solution that will, I hope, soothe the wounds incurred back on that fateful day.  I am inviting both of you young ladies to invest yourself into this solution, for it is the best one either of you is likely to get,” I promised.  “Do we have an agreement?”

Both girls looked frightened but nodded their wide-eyed faces at me.

“Excellent.  That will make things easier.  Firstly,” I said, catching Astyral by eye, “My good Baron Astyral is going to ennoble Maid Belsi – sorry, Goodwife Belsi – for her glorious service to the war effort during the recapture of Losara.  Aren’t you, Astyral?”

“Of course, Sire,” my friend replied, a smirk on his lips.  “Whatever you desire.”

“I like the sound of that,” I agreed.  “If Tyndal and Rondal both thought you helped out in whatever way, I’m willing to reward that.  So, you’re Lady Belsi, now.  Congratulations,” I grunted to the shocked face of the former servant.

Before she could object, I turned to Lady Arsella.  “Now, I recognize you as the true heir of this place – Maramor Manor and environs,” I declared.  “Congratulations, you just got the ancestral home, which I’m sure your cousin and her husband left in good repair before they were forced out of it with their son.  Does that satisfy you?” I asked, my tone implying that she should think carefully before she said anything to change my mind.

“Of course, Sire,” she said, giving me a curtsey.

I peered at her more carefully.  There was, indeed, something familiar about her.  It was hard to tell if it was my own memory, or one of the many I’d inherited from my ancient hosts, but . . .

Then it hit me.  “Vanador,” I snapped.  “You were in Vanador.  You managed to get Gareth’s attention,” I recalled, imagining her with far thinner features and a much dirtier face.  But I was certain it was her.  “I saw you there.  You brought this up then.”

“I had that honor, Sire,” she said, proudly.  “My patrimony means everything to me.  I am the last of my line.”

I looked at Lady Belsi.  “Not anymore,” I pointed out.  “You have kin, now.  Kin who can share the great burden of your line.  Kin who have managed to produce an heir, already.  Which is why, as part of this judgment, Lady Belsi,” I said, emphasizing her title, “will now inherit this other place . . . what was it, Tyndal?”

“Ketral Manor, Master,” Tyndal supplied.

“Yes, Ketral Manor and its environs are to be yours and your husband’s, as a belated bequest from your father’s family,” I announced.  “It is, I understand, proximate to Maramor?”

“Only a few miles away, my lord,” Lady Belsi agreed quietly.

“Excellent!  Then you will be close by to assist your dear cousin,” I enunciated, “with the restoration of her domain, as well as your estate.  Assuming that your dear husband is willing to support this decision.  Tyndal, Rondal?” I said, looking up at my two former apprentices, “I would appreciate both of you explaining to her husband why it is in his best interest to support this decision,” I instructed them.  Both of them assumed amused smiles and nodded.

“But you’re going to let a woman who is an admitted—” Lady Arsella began.

“I am going to end this situation to the benefit of as many people as I can,” I corrected.  “Your cousin is no longer a commoner, but a peer,” I reminded her.  “You will treat her accordingly.  As that stands, Lady Belsi, for her deceitfulness, will pledge herself to build an orphanage under the auspices of whichever temple she chooses to house and raise no less than a score of war orphans within her domain,” I pronounced.

“Once built, in a fit of filial loyalty, Lady Arsella will pledge to support an additional ten more, for ten years.  Neither of those requirements should be too burdensome,” I observed.  “Besides, if you wanted to call into question the morality of a woman in a dire circumstance,” I informed Lady Arsella, “consider that you could very well find yourself sitting in the witness chair, the amulet of truth around your neck, explaining in detail all of the efforts you took during your unfortunate captivity to ensure your survival,” I reminded her.

Her face grew pale.  I had figured as much.  Few can get through three years of hardship and trauma without being forced into making some compromises.

“So from this day forward,” I continued, “both of you will learn to be the family that you are.  Because you simply do not have anyone else,” I insisted.  “You are, both, the last of your line.  You will prosper more if you cleave together.  You will languish more if you are estranged.   That is the wisdom of the Spellmonger.  Understood?” I asked, firmly and received identical nods from the two young noblewomen.

“Good.  We will take a short break, during which Astyral will have his clerks and lawbrothers draw up the orders, and then we will reconvene the court to see this done,” I proposed.  “Once everything is announced, and signed, and sealed and recorded, this affair is done.  There will be no more complaints, no more lawsuits, and no more wars.  As a token of my gratitude as Count of the Magelaw, I will award each of you a hundred ounces of gold toward your lawbrothers’ fees and the sustainment of your collective house.  Your son, Lady Belsi . . .” I prompted.

“He is called . . . Tynron, my lord,” she said, softly, cutting her eyes in a glance toward my former apprentices, who had the good grace to look startled.  “I explained to my husband that it was an old family name,” she admitted, guiltily.

“It appears that it now is,” I agreed, after a moment’s pause.  “Your young Tynron will be an ardent supporter of his cousin Arsella,” I informed her.  “In return, his doting cousin will ensure that her eventual heirs will treat their cousin Tynron with the utmost respect and honor.  I’m certain that Baron Astyral will be happy to enthusiastically introduce Lady Arsella to the cream of Losaran chivalry in order to speed a happy union,” I added.  “As befits two lines of the same noble house, you will come to support each other.  Without discussing who might have betrayed who, and what lies were told during a time of great turmoil in the family history.  If I considered inviting discussion it would be at this point, but I’m not.  This is my judgment.  Accept it and prosper.  Reject it and wither.”

Both girls looked at each other, and a book could be written about the messages and feelings that their faces revealed in that instant.  But Arsella finally managed a tentative nod, as she considered the consequences, and Belsi, for her part, burst once more into tears and nodded emphatically.  They even managed a hesitant embrace, which I was gratified by.  Then I dismissed everyone.

“That,” Brother Bryte said, as he and Astyral lingered behind, “was about as an adept example of baby splitting as I have ever seen in my career,” he declared, admiringly.

“Baby splitting?” Astyral asked, confused.

“A term of art from my profession,” Brother Bryte dismissed.  “A carefully calculated ruling designed to find a solution to an intractable problem,” he explained.

“I just didn’t want to sit through an afternoon of more sordid testimony,” I admitted with a sigh.  “Both of those girls have been through seven kinds of hell.  Neither of them deserved to lose to the other.  Neither of them was blameless – I know what the Vanadori refugees went through,” I promised.  “But neither of them deserved to be crushed by this.  I don’t much care if it was fair,” I decided.  “I just care that it is done, and no one can sincerely complain about how it was resolved.  Besides,” I argued, “it removes whatever pretext the Gilmorans had for making war on Astyral, and that means I can invoke political expediency.”

“Ah, the refuge of every shrewd ruler of note,” Brother Bryte chuckled.

“I have no objection,” shrugged Astyral.  “Besides, my wife is mad to arrange a few marriages amongst our vassals, and this will be a gift to her.  And it helps strengthen the loyalty of my people if the Spellmonger is quietly threatening political and legal action.  Assuming he can maintain the Magelaw’s control of Losara by quietly conquering Farise,” he reminded me.

Because he was a friend, I let him live.

“You never know what can happen.  Feudalism is complicated,” I assured him.

Chapter Forty

Yule In Sevendor

The day of the Solstice dawned cold and clear over Sevendor, and a brisk chill filled the air as the entire domain began to celebrate the shortest day of the year.  I went out on the balcony of Spellmonger’s Hall and watched the sun rise over the eastern ridge, sunlight streaming through the gap where a mountain used to be.  Overhead the morning patrol of Sky Riders had already launched, and were making lazy circles over the valley, occasionally screeching out an exuberant kee-ee-ar! call as their wings cut through the crisp air.  I could see the smoke from morning cookfires puffing in town and in the surrounding villages from my vantage, and the bells in the spires of the temples were ringing merrily.

Yule was at hand, and winter had come to Sevendor.

I felt gratified, as I stood on the balcony and regarded the land I had grown to love – and which I had loved to grow, from its poverty-stricken origins as a squalid mountain village into the prosperous town it was now.  There were more than ten times the number of people living in the place now, perhaps much more.  The little castle that had once dominated the skyline was eclipsed now by the twin towers that flanked the entrance to the new castle, the gatehouse alone towering over the old keep in a patronizing fashion.  This was my ninth Yule in Sevendor, I reflected, and the anniversary of my first real court as magelord.

By tradition Yule is a general holiday in which the people are encouraged to visit temples, exchange gifts, feast and drink and indulge in merriment.  The celebration of the onset of winter is an important part of the agricultural calendar, as it neatly bisects the year into active and passive portions.

The harvest was well in, now, and the livestock was provided for.  The larders and pantries of the folk were full, and the town’s granaries were stuffed with enough wheat and barley to see us all through the rest of the cold season.  There was an abundance of food, of ale and mead, and more wine in the place than ever before.  There was cause to be merry and celebrate.  Not for the hope for a more prosperous year ahead, as much as the celebration of the fulfillment of that promise from previous years.  It was a far cry from that first dingy, smoky Yule that had happened before Minalyan’s birth had transformed the castle, the domain, and the fortunes of its folk for the better.

Like then, Alya was pregnant and we were moving into a new castle.  Unlike then, we weren’t worried about feeding everyone who would attend this evening’s court in the cavernous great hall of the castle.  We were at peace with our neighbors.  There was no immediate threat to the barony.  There was no worry about making it through the winter.  My family was much larger, of course, and far more secure.  I spent a few moments smoking my pipe and just being grateful for that before I began my day.

It was an important day, after all – not merely because of the holiday, but because Master Guri had cleared the first section of the new castle to be occupied in earnest by my people.  The main bodies of the two grand towers were complete, and the great keep that connected them was filled with quarters now ready to be lived within.  Technically there were already a few hundred people living there, in the earliest completed sections – mostly magi employed in the construction and a few researchers who needed close access to my workshops and libraries, like Master Ulin and his staff.

But after today seven floors of chambers and apartments would be opened up for habitation.  That included my own family’s new quarters on the spacious rooftop of the keep.  There Guri and his Karshak masons had constructed a grand palace for us, including private suites for Alya and the children and guest quarters for our frequent visitors.  Sire Cei and his staff had taken great pains (and an embarrassingly large budget) to carefully furnish it as befitted the Spellmonger and his brood.

Indeed, I reflected, this would be the last night we would spend in Old Sevendor Castle.  That made me a little sad and nostalgic, to be truthful.

But I had desired security, and the hollowed-out mountain of Rundeval provided it.  For seven long years the Karshak masons had toiled to build the grand castle that promised protection from even dragon attack.  The old castle would not have lasted five minutes, had the dragon who had assaulted my domain chanced to turn its attention to it.  But not even dragonfire could penetrate the thick white basalt of Rundeval.  If that meant giving up living in a quaint old antique, I was willing to make that sacrifice.

Alya and I had a jolly breakfast with the children, that morning, enjoying griddle cakes with berries and porridge with walnuts and piping hot tea as we distributed little gifts to them.  Then we made our way to the castle’s chapel, where Sister Bemia gave Trygg’s benediction and blessing to us, including a special service to bless Alya’s pregnancy.  Then we began to prepare for the evening’s court.  I had ambitions of making it memorable in every possible way, and that meant a thousand details that needed to be attended to before noon.

Happily, Sir Cei and his small army of castellans had been preparing for weeks, now, and most of what I was responsible for involved approving or rejecting their efforts.  I spent an hour each that day with my castellan, then my almsman, and then my court herald going over the long list of honors and rewards I wanted to distribute to those retainers who had labored so hard on my behalf during my exile.

I spent luncheon with Sire Cei and Sir Festaran touring the expansive central chamber where the court would take place, approving the festive greenery that hung from every great pillar in the place in observance of the season.  The Karshak had taken great pains in cleaning up as much of their construction as possible so that every corner of the underground vault was spotless under the hundreds of magelights that floated overhead.  The castle was far from finished, of course – it would take years for the Karshak to complete the excavations deep within the mountain where storehouses, vaults, cisterns and yet more living quarters would be carved.  But the central and outer areas were complete enough to warrant habitation, thankfully.

By the time I was approving the seating arrangements, I was already tired.

I was grateful that my nightly treatments from the Handmaiden had kept my inner voices and ancient memories muted, these days, but Yule was especially pleasant as it was one of the rare occasions when none of the people in my head were clamoring for my attention.  I was just Minalan, for a change, and I confess I counted it as a blessing.  The Mad Mage of Sevendor was banished, at least for the day, and I could enjoy being the Spellmonger the way I had once taken for granted.

That’s not to say that there wasn’t news – in my morning meeting with Sire Cei several dispatches arrived from the Mirror Array bearing news from distant places.  A disturbing report of a defeat of Gilmoran forces attempting to pacify the Westlands was particularly disturbing, as nearly fifteen hundred knights and men-at-arms had been wiped out in a pitched battle with the rebellious cultists.  Details were scant, but somehow a bunch of lightly armed peasants and fanatical monks had managed to lure the Gilmoran army into an ambush that had turned into a rout.

A small convoy of Remeran and Castali merchant ships had been attacked off the coast of Farise, as they tried to make their way around the peninsula to Alshar’s Great Bay.  And news was finally arriving from Merwyn that the two sides of the civil war I’d started there were now fighting over the hotly-contested city of Blavand, in the western side of the Great Valley.  Duke Andrastal’s forces continued to lose ground, I noted, having been driven from the important trade city of Malkros the week before.  Prince Tavard’s men were still freezing in the trenches around Darkfaller, celebrating their Yule with double rations of hardtack and boiled beef and likely cursing their prince for their condition.

But for the most part the kingdom seemed to be at peace, for once.  Perhaps, just maybe, I hoped, I could enjoy the holiday myself without a crises erupting before the luxurious feast that was planned.  At least, that’s what I told myself as I snuck away from all the hustle and bustle of a thousand servants doing my bidding to take a brief nap.  I didn’t even feel guilty about it.

Magelord’s prerogative.

***

If my intent was to stun the folk of Sevendor with the splendor of the new castle, I succeeded spectacularly.

Most of the townfolk and the people of the surrounding villages had only seen the new castle from the outside, watching it grow daily as the Karshak labored.  A few had been as far as the new gatehouse on business, as it was Sire Cei’s official baronial residence, and a select few had actually been inside the mountain at some point or another, usually to make a delivery.  The Yule Court was the first time that at least some portion of the interior was open for their inspection.  To say that it impressed them was the greatest of understatements.

My guests began arriving in late afternoon, although a legion of cooks and drudges spent most of the day hauling food and drink from the old castle’s kitchens and the many inns in town where victuals had been procured.  They prepared the feast in the new castle’s vast kitchens.  They were not complete, yet, but with magic and some fire it was easy enough to keep things hot while scores of trestle tables and hundreds of chairs and benches were unloaded, and cartloads of cups and platters were set up in the cavernous hall.

The size of the place was stunning enough; it was, easily, large enough to hold a tournament inside.  Sire Cei had set up an impressive dais opposite the entrance and stocked it with ornate chairs for myself, Alya, and our high-table guests.  From there a wide aisle separated two clusters of tables.  To the east side were seated the folk of Sevendor domain, each yeomanry in a specific section; to the west were invited guests from across the barony.  Special tables were placed to seat the Karshak, the important Tal Alon, visiting wizards, the Sky Riders of Sevendor Mews, and the men of the City Watch and various petty officials.

Everyone was in their best finery, of course.  Gowns and doublets that had been created just for this occasion were finally revealed, and a long procession of visitors showed off their holiday garb as more than a hundred musicians hired for the event played in the background.  Sire Cei had invited entertainers, acrobats, and troubadours, some of whom had lingered since the Magic Fair, to entertain everyone, paying premium prices for their work.  A small crowd gathered around the entrance as each new noble household or guild made an entrance to the fanfare of horns and the announcement from the door herald.

Alya and I, followed by our children, did not enter the procession until last, of course, just behind Sire Cei and Lady Estret.  Cheers erupted and filled the great chamber as we made the long walk between the throngs of well-wishers.  We waved, of course, ignoring the usual decorum that barons and other important people typically insist upon to demonstrate just how important they were.  I was here to celebrate with my family and friends and loyal retainers.  I didn’t need to look more important than I was.

When we finally settled into our seats on the dais (the children being escorted to a table prepared especially for them at a discrete distance away) we commenced with the court at once.  We had a lot of business to attend to and we intended to finish it before the feast was served.  That just meant that our guests – number nearly two thousand, Festaran assured me – had to survive on lavish delicacies and an astonishing amount of ale, mead, and wine while we addressed the assembled with magically augmented voices.

It was a splendid evening, one of the most festive Yules in memory, and I enjoyed every moment of it.  Since I was paying for the entire thing, I felt entitled.  One by one each of my yeomanries was called forth to swear their fealty to me in the traditional ritual and presented us gifts.  Alya and I, in turn, dispensed plenty of gifts back to them, each seemingly more clever and extravagant than the last.  Sometimes these were in the form of the granting of rights or privileges, other times they were physical presents of great value.  Heatstones and magical chamberpots were old-fashioned at this point in Sevendor, of course; the gifts we gave this year tended to be more elaborate enchantments more richly decorated than when we’d left for our exile.

After the yeomanries of the domain, we accepted the blessings of each of the major temples in town, from the Tryggites to the Brigadines to the Herusites, all of whom vied for a more impressive benediction than the others.  I was lavish in return, gifting each temple special alms of a hundred ounces of gold in addition to the usual Yule stipend every good lord grants the temples and abbeys of his realm.  This was considered generosity passing mere benevolence, but I excused it with a lengthy explanation about how I had been especially favored by the gods and it was only right that I should benefit the clergy of their temples in return.  The people loved that.  Piety is a welcome attribute in an overlord, usually.

Then my senior vassals from the other domains in the barony all came forth to pledge their fealties as well, and yet more gifts were exchanged.  I tried my best to welcome all of them with equal gravity, of course, and praised all of them for various accomplishments and achievements in my absence.  Sir Ryff and Lady Fallawen, for example, officially presented their two baby boys – Renarfal and Rolfayan – to the court.  In turn I gave their father a magical blade and their mother an elegant and thoroughly enchanted spear, complete with a powerful paraclete, with which I charged her to defend our eastern border.

To Lord Motaran of Bastidor I gifted a new set of Yltedene plate armor and shield, and charged him to guard our northern frontier vigilantly, as well as a beautiful set of silver tableware to grace his hall.  To Sire Arkid of Karandal I gave a beautiful, well-trained hawk and a chessboard of silver and gold playing pieces, for I knew the man loved the game.  To Sir Roncil of Northwood I gave a well-trained warhorse from Tyndal’s stables and a magical belt chased in gold that was enchanted to not only make him seem taller and more physically intimidating, but with the proper word would create a disc of arcane force over his head that would prohibit rain from falling on him.  And so on.

Of course, for every gift I gave we received many in return.  That was an important part of the feudal economy.  The goal of the largesse was to demonstrate just how damned generous and magnanimous I was to my allies, and I can honestly say that there was no one who came away from the Yule Court feeling slighted.  Their goal was to impress me with the splendor and thoughtfulness of their gifts to me, and I ensured everyone that I was just as impressed with their generosity as they were with mine.  It’s an elaborate example of the nobility sniffing each other’s arses, but it is expected at such an important holiday.

When the last vassal had sworn their oaths of loyalty and fealty to me, it was time to dispense the greatest of my gifts to certain friends and special retainers.  These were far more elaborate than gold and silver, of course.  And some of them I had labored over for days.

Pentandra and Arborn I dealt with first, as they had to retire early to attend Duke Anguin and Duchess Rardine’s own Yule court in Falas.  I granted Arborn the lands west of Callierd to settle the Anghysbel Kasari, when they arrived, and then gave Pentandra the impressive enchantment I had specially designed for her: the torus of irionite that I had fashioned that would serve as her own kind of Magolith.

She was near speechless as I demonstrated its unique powers, including the ability to speak to any number of High Magi mind-to-mind at once, and the distinctive arcane field it could project.  I called it Pentandra’s Welkinmeed, for it projected a sphere around her which was useful for many thaumaturgical purposes and it was a well-deserved reward for such a loyal friend.  It also gave her more than thrice the arcane power as her older magical devices.  I showed her on the spot how to thaumaturgically connect it to her baculus and gave her the ring in which it could be stowed by hoxter when she didn’t want if flying around over her head.

“Minalan,” she said, quietly, so that the rest of the dais could not hear her, “this is too rich a gift!”

“After me you are the greatest mage in the kingdom,” I reminded her.  “You deserve to have the tools you need to live up to that.  This thing is one of the most powerful enchantments I’ve ever created for another.  There are elements to it even I don’t understand, and it has a paraclete of rare potency directing it.  Enjoy it!” I encouraged her.  “You’ll be the envy of every wizard in the kingdom.”

“I already am!” she complained.  “Damn it!  Now it’s going to look like the barrels of wine and spices I got you are paltry, in comparison.”  She affected being disgruntled, but I could tell she was pleased by the silver disc that now followed her everywhere.  “What does it do, exactly?”

“Exactly?  That is for you to figure out.  I put as many enchantments on it as I could, and it has hoxters filled with useful things . . . including a scroll describing those functions I could explain easily.  But there are some unique elements in there that I cannot really describe,” I admitted.  “The paraclete should be able to help you figure it out, though.”

She embraced me before she left with Arborn, who was genuinely grateful for the additional lands to add to his barony.  He needed them, too; Osbury, the little town that was his seat wasn’t so little any more since the Kasari from the Great March had returned.  It had sprawled from its easily defendable borders, and become a trade hub between the Bransei Kasari and the folk of Vanador.  Getting a little elbow room with some decently arable land was a boon to him, I knew.

But my greatest gift was for the Karshak who had labored for so many years to build this splendid castle.  Master Guri and his sire sat with his senior masons near to the dais, drinking and gossiping in their own language about the quaint antics of their humani employers.  I knew the Karshak celebrated the solstices and the equinoxes in their own way, but not with celebrations like this.  They didn’t mind, of course; it might be a professional obligation, but it was also an excuse to eat and drink to their stomach’s content on my coin, and they took full advantage.

Guri wasn’t expecting anything from me, of course.  But I had the herald call him up and I presented him to the assembled while I gave a little speech.

“My friends,” I began, my voice echoing throughout the great chamber, “tonight we sit and feast in comfort and splendor largely thanks to the efforts of one of the most renown stonesingers of the Karshak clans.

“Few others of his folk could have designed and built such a magnificent fortification, an entire mountain transformed into a fortress able to protect more than ten thousand from any danger the wide world chances to send us.  He and his folk have carved their way through the living rock and excavated this great hall on our behalf, and done so with a cunning that no human mason could hope to approach.  For seven long years he and his lodge have toiled here,” I recounted, while the dwarf stared stonily out at the thousands of humans.

“You know, flattery won’t get you out of your bill,” he quipped, inspire chuckles that rang throughout the hall.

“Perhaps not,” I conceded, “but when you took my commission I gave you certain pledges,” I reminded him.  “At the time some of them seemed . . . unlikely, or difficult, or even impossible.  But I would like to make good on at least one of them, now,” I said, motioning for Ruderal to come forth with a black velvet pouch.  I took it and handed it to the stonesinger.

He sighed and began to open it, looking resigned to receiving some magical bauble or pretty trifle from his human employer.  But when he withdrew the metal sigil and realized what it signified, he looked at me in confusion.

“What . . . what is this?” he asked, already guessing what it meant.

“Well, when you came here you wanted me to help you find the Lost City of Askeorast,” I reminded him.  “So . . . well, I did,” I revealed.  “Indeed, this was taken from one of its outer chambers by me, personally.  I’ve been there.  I can take you there.  You and all of your folk.”

“You . . . you already found it?” he asked, skeptically, even as he caressed the ancient symbol with his fingertips.  The table of Karshak began chattering excitedly in their own language at the announcement.  Master Azhguri looked like he was going to weep.

“I did,” I assured him.  “It was sealed and probably intact, from what I could tell.  And its entrance – one of them – is not that far away.  You might walk right past it and never know, so cleverly was it hidden by your ancestors.  But it is there,” I promised.  “I found it, just as you asked.”

“I . . . I mean, Minalan . . . what I . . . Askeorast!” he finally sputtered.  “You really found it!  You found our ancient mansion!”

“I really did,” I smiled.  “Just as I promised.  Soon I will take you and your grandfather there, and you can explore it at your leisure.  More, we will build a portal archway there so that you and your folk can take residence and still manage to make it to work on time.”

If you’ve never been hugged by a grateful Karshak, feel fortunate.  I thought the stonesinger was going to snap my spine.

There were other impressive gifts to my honored guests, including Sire Cei and Lady Estret, Banamor, Lady Varen, and Lady Ithalia, and then I took a few from my allies, most of whom had sent vassals of their own to Sevendor to convey their well-wishes.  That, too, is a common expectation of a Yule Court.  It is a time when you renew old alliances and propose new enterprises, assuring your closest neighbors that you don’t want to invade them or raid them or take advantage of them in some underhanded way by means of gifts that are just a step away from bribes.

Representatives from Sendaria, Trestendor, and smaller domains were in attendance, each with a gift, a speech and usually a short letter from their lords or barons assuring their deep and abiding friendship with Sevendor.  I had, in turn, dispatched several of my household knights and magi to travel to their realms, where they were holding their own Yule Courts, bearing gifts and similar well-wishes from me.

But the young knight from the barony of Taravanal who presented me with a gorgeous tapestry his young baron had commissioned in my honor also presented me with a letter in the baron’s own hand.  It had the usual flowery assurances as the others, but I was intrigued by his closing; I was just happy I did not read it aloud.

It seems he wanted my permission to open negotiations with me regarding a proposal of marriage to Lady Lenodara of Westwood.

I didn’t mention it to anyone, of course – that might have been embarrassing to Dara, and I did not want to bring any more anxiety to my former apprentice than she already bore.  But it did promise to make the upcoming year very interesting for her and Sevendor.

When the final messenger was dismissed, more than three hours had passed and everyone in the hall was starving, despite the mountain of snacks that had been distributed.  I ordered the court closed, dinner served, and dancing to begin for all who were so inclined.  It was perhaps my most popular pronouncement of the evening.

It really was a splendid affair, as I had intended.  I was trying to project to my people and my vassals and my allies the vision that the Spellmonger was well and truly returned – and could be relied upon to act sanely.  I wanted to demonstrate my greatness not out of a sense of my own ego, but because knowing a great and powerful lord watched over them provided my people with a sense of security that allowed them to carry on with their lives without undue fear.  It had been a hard year for them, and they deserved to feel as if their troubles and trials were behind them, at least for one festive evening.

Alya and I danced briefly, just to demonstrate we could, as well as to show off our pretty clothes . . . but she was already tired and complained that her feet hurt after her long day.  The feast was predictably magnificent with delicacies from across the kingdom presented in a grand series of courses that delighted everyone.  The music was exquisite, and when the dance master declared a recess the musicians provided regular performances of instrumental and vocal arrangements that enthralled the entire hall.

Alya and I didn’t retire to our new quarters until long after midnight, exhausted and drunk and absolutely stuffed.  I quietly thanked the gods for letting me have one day, one glorious celebration of my domain and my folk, my family and my friends, and I was completely sincere about it.  The memories in my head that day were my own, alone, and I counted it as a divine blessing that no tragedy or crises had erupted to disturb the merry celebration I had intended.

Of course, it couldn’t last.  Before dawn the next day Ruderal shook me awake and presented me with a message that Loiko Venaran had sent in haste from Kaunis.  It seems Castabriel was under attack by giant spiders, and Prince Tavard’s forces were likewise in jeopardy.

But I got one godsdamned day to myself.  I had to count myself grateful for that.

Chapter Forty-One

An Unexpected Attack

Waking up with a hangover to face an unexpected attack is a terrible idea.  Take my word for it.

I reached out to Royal Court Wizard Loiko Venaran as soon as I cleared my head enough to do so.  The quickly scrawled message from the Mirror Array was scant on details, and as my heart pounded and my brain tried to fight its way through the fog I silently cursed to myself under my breath.  At least I’d had one perfect day, I consoled myself.  Now it was back to the chamber pot.

Loiko, what’s going on? I demanded, as soon as contact was established with the old warmage.

Minalan!  About two hours ago Prince Tavard’s sappers were overwhelmed as they tried to tunnel into Darkfaller.  More of those giant spiders, he explained.  Many more.  They swept out of the tunnel and now they’re pushing into his camp at the village.

Ishi’s tits! I swore as I imagined the scene.

It gets worse, he promised.  An hour ago, the head of the Arcane Orders contacted me.  Apparently, some sort of portal opened over Castabriel and more giant spiders came falling out of it.  They’re all over the city, now, he reported, grimly.  I don’t have much more information than that, but it sounds dire.  I’ve informed the king and the Minister of War.  Rard told me to contact you, since you’re the Marshal Arcane.  We need your help.

You realize yesterday was Yule? I reminded him, as I started pulling off my doublet.  I’d piled into bed in my court finery last night because I was too drunk and too tired to take them off.  That wasn’t helping my mood.  My head began to hurt.  Most of my people are still drunk or demoralized.

Then get them sober and get them enthusiastic, he ordered.  I’ve started to mobilize what troops I can from here, but it will be hours before we’ll be able to get underway.  By then . . .

Yes, I know, I groaned.  Castabriel was a large city.  Most of its garrison and City Watch had been redeployed to Darkfaller.  That left it relatively defenseless.

I’ll do what I can, as quickly as I can.  Why do I suspect that Tavard is responsible for all of this?

I think it’s more likely that Mycin Amana knew about the Yule holiday and planned an offensive when we were most vulnerable, he countered.  I’ve got to go armor up.  I’ll let you know if I hear anything else, he promised, and ended the connection.

I sighed, heavily, and felt sorry for myself.  My head was starting to really pound, now, and my stomach wasn’t feeling much better.  I looked up at Ruderal.

“Get every warmage in the castle – no, in the town – get them awake.  Tell them to arm themselves.  We’re apparently going to war in Castabriel.”

“There are really more giant spiders?” he asked.  He didn’t look like he wanted to hear the answer.

“There really are,” I affirmed.  “Get them awake.  All of them.  Start with Tyndal and Rondal.”  The lad nodded, wide-eyed, and stumbled off to do as I commanded.

“What’s happening?” Alya asked, from under the covers.

“Giant spider attack in Castabriel,” I muttered, quietly.  “I have to go deal with it.”

She sat up, a confused and disbelieving expression on her face.  “But it’s the day after Yule!” she protested, blearily.

“I know,” I croaked, as I started to look around our new suite for my armor and such.  Most of our things were still in Spellmonger’s Hall at the old castle, I remembered, so that wasn’t going to be helpful.  “Go back to sleep,” I urged, glancing at the windows where I could see it was still dark.  “I’ll send you word when I know more.”

Alya groaned and flopped back down, pulling the quilts over her head.  She’d managed to at least get her fancy gown off before she went to sleep last night.  She hadn’t drunk nearly as much as I had, of course, due to the baby.  I envied her.

If I couldn’t get to my armor yet, I was able to conjure a sturdy pair of boots, once I found the right hoxter pocket.  While I was pulling them on, I tried to call Pentandra, mind-to-mind.  She did not respond.  If she had any sense at all she was still asleep back in Falas.  Then I tried Terleman.

What is it? he demanded, his mental voice laden with complaint.  Do you know what time it is?

Time to get into your armor, I instructed him.  Castabriel just got hit with giant spiders.  Darkfaller village, too.  Time to go to work, Marshal.

Godsdamnit, Min!  I just got to sleep maybe an hour ago! he protested.

I’m not any happier about it than you are, but the king has ordered us to go defend the city.  As far as I’m concerned Tavard is on his own, but we can’t let all those people get . . .  I didn’t want to finish that sentence.

I know, I know, he agreed, resigned.  Fine.  Damn it!  I’ll rouse my men, if I can find them, and see what we can do.

Call me when you’re ready, I ordered.  We’ll convene down at the archway and go by the portal.

The next hour was filled with frantic communications to drunken warmagi who had not anticipated needing their weapons and armor at Yule.  Rondal and Tyndal appeared – they’d stayed at the quarters in the Rat Trap last night, after the end of Court, and they’d even managed to get some scraps of armor on them.  But neither one looked terribly enthusiastic about it.

I detailed Rondal to go to Falas and wake Pentandra up and tell her what was going on.  I sent Tyndal to Vanador to try to rouse as many warmagi as possible and convince Sandoval to mobilize as many of his troops as he could.  Then I sent Ruderal to awaken Sire Cei and tell him what was happening.

Of course, the problem with that was I didn’t really know what was happening.  So, I went to the chamber of the Snowflake where I hoped I could do a bit of preliminary scrying.  That’s not easy to do with a pounding headache, but I needed to know something before I started sending men into combat.

I began with Darkfaller Village.  It was still dark there, of course, but magic is good at that sort of thing and in a moment, I was watching what was going on as if it was daylight.  I almost wish I hadn’t.  The mine head Tavard had established to send a shaft under the walls of the castle was overrun by Paranchek – males, I saw, about half the size of the females we’d faced within the castle.  Their bodies were a little larger than a warhorse, and while their legs were comparatively shorter and stubbier than the females, that did not keep them from being incredibly agile.  I watched in horror as one ugly arachnoid after another pulled itself out of the tunnel and threw itself into the fray.

There was already at least a score of the nasty things swarming the western side of the village.  The response by Tavard’s men was erratic – it was clear that they had been unprepared, and many of them weren’t even wearing armor as they tried to defend themselves against the monsters they suddenly fought.

As the spiders slashed their way into the streets, they faced little pockets of two or three warriors at a time.  The humans weren’t faring too well – there were already hundreds of dead bodies on the cobbles, and while I could not hear anything there was clearly a hue and cry to awaken those still sleeping off their Yuletide excesses.

In one area a pair of knights wielding greatswords stood shoulder to shoulder trying to defend themselves against the flailing claws of one monster.  When one of them was impaled through the stomach I quickly moved on.  A block away there was a cluster of crossbowmen hiding behind the village well, firing frantically at the pair of Paranchek advancing on their position.  They were hitting the things on a regular basis, but I didn’t see that their bolts were having much effect on them.  In another corner of the village, some enterprising horseman had managed to get to his mount and was trying to charge against a spider that was trying to block the street with a web the size of an anchor chain.  I watched, hopeful, as his lance pierced the thorax of the thing . . . and then watched as the two scimitar-like front claws sliced horse and rider into little bits.

The entire scene was like that: the defense was erratic and unorganized, with men running in a panic away from the unexpected attackers.  And every few minutes a new Paranchek would emerge from the tunnel and spread out across the village.  There were torches being lit as the word spread, and to the east, in the long lines of tents, the men were struggling to arm themselves before the spiders were among them.  They looked terrified and confused by the din in the village, but their Ancients and officers were screaming at them to move more quickly.

It was about then that I started to feel one of my ancient memories arising.  I prayed that it would be Tuaa Folauga who would be my influence today – that ancient warrior and scientist had battled these things for years, on many worlds, in all sorts of environments.  I also prayed it wouldn’t be the utterly useless Palgrave.  Just about anyone would be better than he.

Thankfully, it was Prince Maralathus who rose to the fore as I scried.  That was not a bad thing, I realized.  Tuaa Folauga might have been a warrior, but Maralathus was a leader, and today I would need to be a leader.  A great leader if there was any hope of stemming this horrific tide.

With a sigh and a growing sense of control I switched from Darkfaller Village to Castabriel . . . and immediately wished I had not.

Whereas the encampment outside of the castle was in turmoil, what I witnessed in the scrying glass was no less than pure chaos.  Unlike Darkfaller, Castabriel had been beset by more than a dozen female Paranchek, as well as twice as many males.  They now prowled the darkened streets slaying everyone they came across with indiscriminate brutality.  Bodies lay strewn behind them, punctured, poisoned, and torn apart by those gigantic claws.  People were running from them in terror, helplessly falling to the spider’s superior reach and faster reflexes.  It was no less than a slaughter.  They had come down from the molopor’s portal in the center of the city, the saddle between the two hills, and were spreading in all directions.

The palace was not yet being attacked, but it was only lightly defended in the first place.  There were definite signs that the alarm had been raised there, and men from the skeleton garrison Tavard had left in Donrard’s Spire were hurrying to their posts . . . but doing nothing to go forth and meet the foe.  Cursing, I switched the view to the Arcane Orders chapterhouse in the Temple District.  I was gratified to see six or seven warmagi defending the place, using their spells and their blades to keep two male Paranchek at bay.

But they weren’t having an easy time.  The spiders were quick and cruel and utterly fearless as they repeatedly attacked the entrance to the chapterhouse.  One warmage was down already, and the others did not look particularly well suited to the task of defending the place.  They were there to keep beggars from bothering the magi, not fight against a gruesome monster in the darkness.

I felt a mind-to-mind contact – Pentandra!

Minalan, what is happening? she asked, a note of panic in her voice.  Rondal just woke me up and said there was a problem.

Spider attack, I answered, tersely.  Darkfaller Village and Castabriel.  I need you to use your new toy to contact every warmage you can and get them to Sevendor, armed and armored and ready to deploy, I instructed her.  I’m scrying the area now, and it’s getting ugly fast.

Spiders?  Those giant spiders? she asked.  Her mental voice was almost shrill.

At least three score, maybe more, between the two battles, I affirmed.  Our side is getting slaughtered.  We need everyone we can get, Penny.  And send word to the palace; Anguin is going to want to know about this, I predicted.

I’ll do it, she confirmed.  Where are you now?

The chamber of the Snowflake, but I won’t be here long.  The Arcane Orders chapterhouse is under attack.  I’m going to try to help.  But let me know when you get a moment how much help I can expect and from where.

Good luck! she said, and she was gone.

A few moments later, Taren appeared through the Ways.  He was still in the dark purple velvet doublet he wore to the Yule Court, but he’d managed to put on a dragonscale breastplate, his fighting harness, and had slapped a helmet on his head.  He had his spear in his hand.

“Tyndal said you needed me,” he said, breathlessly.

“Where’s Terleman?” I asked, barely looking up.

“He’s gathering our forces,” he informed me as he started to watch the scrying glass.  “He’s sending them to the plaza so we can deploy.  Is that Castabriel?”

“For a little while longer,” I answered, grimly.  “That’s the chapterhouse.  They’re about the only place defending against them at all, and they aren’t doing too well.  Those are just Sentry Rods,” I reminded him.  “Not the best weapon against these things.”

“Min, there are at least two hundred magi in there,” he pointed out.

“I know,” I said with a disgusted sigh.  “And they’re going to get killed if those sparks fail.  And they’re failing,” I said, as one of them fell to a claw at that moment.

“We have to do something!” he said unnecessarily.

Prince Maralathus’ calm demeanor helped steady my mind, and my headache receded.  The Alka Alon monarch was excellent at establishing priorities and making tough decisions quickly.  I looked up at Taren.  “Do you want to take a little exercise before you break your fast?” I offered.  “If we can help out for a moment, we might be able to rescue some of our people.”

He stretched his neck to the left and to the right and then nodded.  “I’m ready,” he shrugged.  I smiled.  I could always rely on Taren.

It only took me a moment to activate the small portal in the chamber and connect it to the much larger one at Castabriel.  I changed out my baculus for Avalanche and realized that this was the first time I would be using the battle staff in earnest.  “Let’s go,” I said, and plunged through the portal.  Taren was right behind me.

The streets were dark in Castabriel, of course – the eastern sky was just starting to brighten before dawn, but it did not help to illuminate the scene.  I did that myself as soon as we emerged, sending a blindingly bright pair of magelights to hover over the Paranchek males.  The giant spiders' great multifaceted eyes didn’t adapt as quickly to changes in illumination as ours did, and the spell gave us a few precious seconds to press our attack.

The warmagi who were facing them were startled at our appearance, but as we only had two legs apiece and the foe had eight, they quickly formed around Taren and me I as we began lobbing war spells at the beasts.

Not to shame the brave warmagi that had the task of guarding the chapterhouse, but they were just not as equipped as Taren and me to fight against these things.  Taren’s spear – his favorite weapon -- had gone through several iterations as he’d experimented with enchantments in Vanador.  It was an elegant weapon: a nine-inch broad blade of deadly-sharp, mage-hardened steel with two small hooks, like a boar spear, guarding the extensive matrix of spells in the head of the seven-foot shaft.  He demonstrated its potency at once by leveling a blast of concussive force from its head that blew both Paranchek males across the street.

But as impressive as it was, Taren’s spear was no Avalanche.

Tuaa Folauga’s memory of the beasts had informed me that they were quite durable, but not invulnerable.  They had a hard time with extreme cold.  The slightly freezing winter temperatures we were experiencing were well within their tolerance, but if they were exposed to much lower temperatures then they shrank into a kind of torpor and eventually died.  Avalanche had an Alka Alon-derived war spell available to me that sucked the heat of an area down to near absolute zero, for a few seconds.  It takes a lot of arcane power in the elemental octave, but I had gracious plenty available.  It’s a good spell for freezing a pond solid or icing a river sufficiently to get a wagon across or making a metal shield shatter.

It turns out that it was also very unpleasant for giant spiders.

My first blast seemed to make their legs contract toward their body like a reflex, curling under their thoraxes as if to conserve warmth.  The second rendered them half-frozen, immobile, and nearly senseless.

“Take cover!” Taren yelled, as he drew a warwand from his harness and pointed it straight over them.  As soon as he saw me and the other sparks had slidden out of the way, he activated it.  A moment later five hundred steel-tipped arrows appeared from a hoxter overhead and plummeted into the bodies of the arachnoids with great force, pinning them to the ground.  It was like an instant volley.

“The Steel Rain spell,” he announced, as he re-sheathed his wand.  “We used it in the Winter War.”

“Nice grouping,” I praised, as approached the twitching, frozen bodies of our foe.  I very carefully used Blizzard to blast the part of the head that contained both central nervous systems.

“How many of those are out there?” he asked the warden on duty, who was staring at the dead spiders with shock and horror.

“I don’t know,” the man confessed, “they just fell out of the sky a block down the street.  They came out of nowhere!”

“Alas, they are everywhere in the city by now,” I predicted.  I thought for a moment, as I assessed the situation with Maralathus’ eye and experience.  “Summon the head of the order,” I commanded him.  “Have him organize an evacuation – everyone in the chapterhouse.  Which of you is the portal warden?  You?  Get them through the arch to Sevendor as fast as they come downstairs.  Then search the building and make sure they’re gone.  If anyone else wanders by, get them through as well, as many as you can.”

“What about us?” one of the other sparks, a young man who looked terrified as he held his Sentry Rod in front of him protectively.

“Get your mageblades, and any other weapons you have, and guard this spot,” I ordered.  “Put up wards as thick as you please.  It’s the only major entrance to the portal.  That’s where we’ll be coming through,” I promised.

“You’re leaving?” the young man asked, wide-eyed with alarm.

“You’re coming back?” another warmage asked, hopefully.

I looked down to the undershirt and breeches I was wearing.  I was still in slippers.  “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion.  And of course, I’m coming back,” I said, as I checked the street to ensure there weren’t any more spiders directly in view.  Then I turned to open the portal back to Sevendor.  “And I’ll bring friends.  In the meantime, you’re no longer employed by the Arcane Orders,” I decided.  “You’ve been conscripted into the Royal Magic Corps for the duration.  By order of the Marshal Arcane.”

***

Terleman had managed to put together a small unit of warmagi by the time we came back through the portal, and there were more on the way.  He’d had a half-dozen of his own staff, including his protégé, lodging at an inn in Sevendor for the Yule Court and he’d managed to rouse another dozen from their quarters on his way up to the castle.  There were a score of my household knights and men-at-arms gathered as well, and Sire Cei had donned his armor to command them.

“In another hour I can have fifty warmagi,” Terleman promised, as more hastily recruited sparks came through the Ways behind him.

“Well, Castabriel is a bloody mess,” I reported, as I looked around at our resources.  “We just popped our heads in for a moment to assess the situation.  There’s a squadron securing the portal, but they’ll need help soon to keep it.  There are a lot more females loose there – the big ones, like we faced at Darkfaller.”

“What about Tavard’s men?” he asked.

“They’re in trouble too, but at least they’re armed.  Most of Castabriel’s City Watch and the palace guard and two companies of city militia are there.  Which means they aren’t at Castabriel.  So we devote ourselves to rescuing the city, first, and then go to Tavard’s rescue.  Have you heard from Vanador?”

“Lady Marsden checked in when she heard,” Terleman nodded, “So did Bendonal.  I told them it was a general mobilization.  But I would expect it will take a few hours to get them here.”

“So put a dozen men through the portal to secure it, then send in more by smaller units as they arrive,” I decided.  “Sparks only – I’ll need the castle guards here to handle refugees.”

“Refugees?” Terleman asked, confused.

“He’s evacuating the Arcane Orders and anyone else who can get through the portal,” Taren answered.  “So, we’ll need people here to move them off of the plaza and into the castle, or town.”

“The castle,” I ordered.  “Mycin Amana used the portal to attack Castabriel.  He could use it to attack Sevendor, too, if we leave it unguarded.  This is our base of operations.  We need to protect it.  I’ll put everyone on alert, in case Korbal has more bugs up his maggoty sleave.”

Sire Cei had approached as I was briefing Terleman, and he spoke to me next.

“The castle and the garrison are ready for orders, Count,” he assured me.

“You heard what I told Terleman: prepare for attack here.  Hopefully, Mycin Amana will consider us too well-defended to mess with, but then again she might have a few extra spiders around she thinks would be a problem here.  So put everyone in the domain on alert.  Move the sick and vulnerable to the castles, call out the militia, and prepare our warmagi to defend.  And tell Dara to get some birds in the air,” I added, scanning the lightening skies for sudden rips in the fabric of reality.  “Giant spiders don’t like giant hawks.”

“I’ll alert the Mewstower,” he agreed.  “I assume you’re going into battle?”

“As soon as I can get to my arms and armor,” I agreed.

“Ruderal is on his way to get them now.  He’s been running errands all over the place.  So has Festaran.  I had him go wake up Banamor.  General alert.”

“I’ve got my first team prepared,” Terleman announced, after conferring with his sparks.  “Shall we proceed?”

“Send them through,” I agreed.  “Then get another one organized.  I trust you’ll ensure they’re adequate.”

“What should we do once we secure the chapterhouse?” he asked.

“Send a few squadrons up to defend Tavard’s palace,” I decided.  “Then the major temples.  A couple of roving squadrons to hunt spiders.  And get the Castali Mewstower in the air.  Maybe they can help Tavard on their way to Castabriel.  But I want birds over the capital as soon as possible.”

Terleman took a deep breath and nodded.  “This could get bad, Min,” he warned.

“It’s already bad,” I countered.  “I don’t want it to get any worse.  The Witch Queen probably figured the morning after Yule would put us at our most vulnerable and she was right.  We should have anticipated something like this.”

“Tavard is going to be screaming for help,” Terleman warned.

“I know, but he shouldn’t have left his capital undefended.  Again.  We take care of Castabriel first.  But . . . have you heard from Mavone?”

“He’s on his way here,” Terleman assured.

“As soon as he arrives, have him get a party together.  When I’m armored, I’ll send them through to a position outside of Darkfaller Village.  Probably on the east side.  Then he can set up the portable archway.  When we have the forces, we can try to relieve His Highness from there.  Or allow him and his men to escape through it, if things don’t go well.”

“Good plan,” Taren praised.  “I’m going to rearm myself, and then meet you back here shortly.  I think I’m going to need more than just this,” he said, hefting his spear.”

“Bring everything,” I instructed.  “That’s what I’m going to do.  As I see it, the only way to handle this is like we did with the raid: we come in very fast and hit them very hard from as many directions as possible.  Just a few big female spiders in Castabriel could be catastrophic.  We need to clean out the place before they can do too much damage.  There are already hundreds dead, I fear, and that number will grow with the daylight.

“Harken!  This is going to be important!” I said, raising my voice until everyone nearby could hear me.  “If they capture Castabriel, Kaunis will be an afterthought to them – and then the kingdom has lost its capital.  Tavard might be an idiot, but as Marshal Arcane it’s my job to protect the king and the capital.  And it’s your job to help me do that.  This is going to be important,” I repeated, with more emphasis, “but it’s not going to be easy.  So get your minds past Yule and find your courage!” I shouted, in what I hoped was a sufficiently inspiring tone.

“Marshal Arcane!” Terleman shouted, raising his mageblade.  A thunderous cheer echoing him rose across the plaza as I bent over, relaxed, and vomited a great deal of the previous night’s feast and an impressive amount of slightly used wine onto my boots and the snowstone flags.

I was off to another auspicious start.

Chapter Forty-Two

Bug Hunt

I must commend Ruderal on how fast he got me out of my vomit and spider-guts splattered clothes and into my armor.  The lad had my kit laid out back at Spellmonger’s Hall and helped me strap on the increasingly complex panoply I was accumulating.

While he strapped each part over the padded gambeson I wore underneath, I used the time to check in mind-to-mind with Pentandra and Tyndal and Loiko and others who were hurriedly trying to put together an emergency response to the attack on Castabriel.  There were plenty of problems doing so, of course, but then things were moving far more quickly than usual in a feudal society.  Our magical corps was springing to life.  Perhaps I would not be a complete failure as marshal arcane.

Dawn had broken by the time I made my way resolutely back to the plaza, where the refugees from the Arcane Orders were starting to arrive, and squadrons of warmagi were preparing to depart.  Sire Cei and his staff were politely directing them either into the mountain castle or down into town if they had business there.  Their eyes were wide with shock and bleary with sleep, but they were alive and thankful for it.  Terleman was still there, awaiting a contingent from Vanador before he went through the portal, but he’d managed to send three parties to Castabriel in the last hour, so I was content.  As long as we could hold the chapterhouse and its archway, I reasoned, we had a fighting chance.

“Who’s available to go through with me now?” I asked him, as he finished with a few fresh arrivals.

“I’ve got . . . Himrock, Aldalen, Naramon, Jekara, and Curmor,” he answered, as he picked them out by eye.

“Curmor?” I asked, intrigued.  “Astyral’s cousin?  Where did he come from?”

“He was at the Yule Court,” Terleman informed me.  “Mostly he stuck to the warmage table.  You were a little too busy to mingle enough to see him.”

“And the others?” I inquired.

“Himrock and Naramon were two of the winners of the Spellmonger’s Trial.  They were both at the Darkfaller raid.  Aldalen and Jekara are mercenaries who were staying at the Sword and Scroll.  They’ve worked as guards for us before.  Good men, Banamor says, but not High Magi.”

“They will be after today,” I promised.  “Get them assembled by the arch.  We’ll leave in a few moments.”

“What are you planning on doing?” Terleman asked, sharply.

“The only real strategy we can employ in Castabriel is to eliminate the Paranchek as quickly as possible after we secure the palace and the chapterhouse,” I pointed out as I sorted out spells and weapons.  “The longer we leave them on the ground, the more damage they’ll do.  So, we’ll have to take the fight to them, one at a time, as hard as we can until they’re driven for the city.”

“Simple enough,” Terleman agreed. “I’ll be along shortly after the Vanadori have started to arrive.

I came up with an even simpler explanation to the squadron that had been assigned to me.

“It’s a bug hunt,” I suggested as I led them to the arch after introducing myself.  “It should be pretty simple.  And very, very hard.  These bugs are difficult to kill, even with magic, and they’re devious fighters.  They can hide, they can spin webs, they’ve got a poisonous sting in their tails, and they can take a lot of damage.  The little ones who look more like giant ticks are males; the huge ones that look more like spiders are the females.  They’re both dangerous,” I emphasized.  “Don’t think that a male is less so just because of its size.”

“So a kind of commando raid,” Curmor nodded.  “How do you want us organized?

“The four High Magi will focus on the fight,” I decided, as we approached the shimmering field of the portal.  “Jekara, Aldalen, you worry about getting civilians out of the way and watching our backs.”  Both men nodded.  Their weapons harnesses and mageblades, I noted, were well-worn and had seen some use – a good sign for a competent veteran.  “Shall we go, then?” I asked as I pushed through the thaumaturgical membrane that separated Castabriel from Sevendor.

It felt good to have Prince Maralathus influencing me today, I realized, largely because of all my ancient memories he was the one most used to the vagaries of leadership.  He had been responsible for providing policy and guidance for more than a thousand years before the Yith took a glance at his life.  He understood the value of confidence, clarity, and decisiveness in his actions, and those were what I needed today.  I was the Marshal Arcane.  This was my responsibility.  A lot of people would be looking to me to tell them what to do in a chaotic, terrifying situation and the cool, competent personality of the Alka Alon prince was just the tonic I needed.

Just as we emerged in the capital, we nearly ran into a crowd of terrified-looking refugees ready to flee to Sevendor.  They quickly let us through to where the chapterhouse’s warmagi and the head of the order were trying to manage the crisis.  To his credit the mousy-looking administrator who oversaw most of the organization had not fled in terror and was manning his post, ensuring that all of his people were being evacuated first.  But he looked as exhausted and terrified as the disheveled number of magi and retainers who were still stumbling down the old temple’s stairwells.

It only took me a few moments to get a report on the status of the city from the chapterhouse’s wardens and the warmagi from Sevendor who were helping to secure the place.  A squadron had been sent on to relieve Donrard’s Spire, on the other end of town, and a second had gone to capture the crossroads betwixt the city’s main gates and the broad boulevard that linked the two hills.  We were the first ones who came through who didn’t have an assignment.

“Where’s the biggest spider?” I asked boldly.  The warmage leading the guards, Micat, took a moment to glance at a messy magemap he had hastily put together.

“Just follow your nose,” Micat suggested.  “Those things leave their stink everywhere!  I got a report of one about six blocks from here menacing an abbey, but that was almost an hour ago,” he suggested.

“It’s a place to start,” I agreed, and began to lead my men in a jog down the cobbled streets of Castabriel.  It was the time of day when bakers should be out selling meatrolls and pies, and street sweepers should be headed sleepily to bed.  Instead, we saw people rushing around in a panic trying to flee, or hide, or just do something useful.  And we saw bodies.  Lots of bodies.

The females were larger and perhaps more destructive, but the male Paranchek seemed to take delight in leaving behind the gory remnants of their kills.  We saw people who had been disemboweled, decapitated, had their limbs torn off, or their chests punctured by those savage claws.  A few were turning black and bloated from their insidious venom.

The males also had an easier time moving through the streets, while the females had to frequently step over smaller buildings or architectural features to make their way through the city.  They weren’t killing as many people as the males were, but they were hell on a building when they passed by.  We saw the rubble and signs of their passage before we came to the first one.

“There she is!” I pointed out, as we turned a corner and spotted the beast – as huge as a wagon, its great abdomen parked on a rooftop while its giant legs thrashed around, picking off whatever humans or animals came within range.  It seemed to be quite comfortable squatting there and didn’t seem like it was in a hurry to move.  I was thankful for that.  “Curmor and Himrock, we’ll move to attack.  The three of you stay in reserve and keep people out of our way,” I proposed.

“Just three of us?” Curmor asked, doubtfully.

“We can call for help if we need it, but we shouldn’t,” I boasted, as I brought Avalanche to my hand.  While it was charging and its paraclete was arranging spells, I directed my men to take flanking positions while I tried a surprise attack on its front.

But when you’re speaking of a giant spider, it’s difficult to establish where the “front” is.  It could see nearly all the way around itself, so its facing merely indicated which direction its natural weapons were pointed.  Its big and deadly legs had no difficulty picking off anyone who came within range.  I thought for a moment and chose a couple of spells I thought would be useful.

“Curmor, attack the legs on the right, Himrock you take the left,” I ordered.  “Try to pin them down or immobilize them.  I’m going to beat it in the face,” I decided.

“How messy can we get?” Himrock asked.  He had a lopsided grin on his clean-shaven face under his helmet.

“Try not to damage the building too much,” I told him, as I selected my spell.  “There are still people inside.”  Indeed, there was an old woman throwing things and screaming curses at the spider from an open window in the building – perhaps some elderly nun with little tolerance for vermin.

I settled on a bit of Alka Alon sorcery, thanks to Maralathus’ influence, an offensive spell known as sakinaralu in their language.  Simply put, it’s a high-octave bolt of magical force that splits when it hits the target, then each side splits again.  Then it erupts in a brief but intense flurry of spinning fields of force that phase through several octaves of raw, destructive arcane power.  It was a good general-purpose offensive spell with a wide area of destruction.  Usually, it was used on small concentrations of foes, but I figured if I could get the right angle, I could shove the bolt through the thing’s great abdomen and do as much damage as possible.

Curmor struck its side with a series of regular Imperial-style force bolts, the kind of concussive blast that could stun or even tear chunks of flesh out of something.  Himrock elected to affix the first and third legs of the creature to the places where they had anchored themselves.  The moment Curmor’s spells struck, the spider tried to avoid them, tripping up chaotically when two of its other legs refused to obey it.  It reared up on one side and made a horrible noise when I lobbed the sakinaralu spell straight into its horrific face when it reared back from the tip of Avalanche.

It was gratifying watching the thing howl in pain from the attack, although the screams of a giant spider are the sort of thing destined to haunt your nightmares until the day you die.  My spell did a lot of damage . . . but it had only wounded it, not slain it.  The thrashing legs and scrambling claws slashed at everything around it, as it tried to get away from the intensely painful burst of energy that had penetrated its innards.

I changed tactics, then, moving to one of the advanced Imperial spells in my arsenal.  I gave the face three quick blasts of high-frequency arcane energy that danced around its face like lightning, stabbing at its eyes and convulsing its muscles, and generally making it a very unhappy spider.  Still, it wouldn’t die.

Curmor finally used his witchstone to lob a hefty piece of granite that had fallen from the building straight up and over its head before plunging it down into its obscenely ugly face.  That was enough to stun it sufficiently so that it flopped over into the street, leaving the crushed roof of the abbey behind it.  Himrock ran forward and began blasting and stabbing the head with his mageblade while Curmor sent a fatal bolt clear through its abdomen with a thunderclap.  Once again, I got sprayed with a fine mist of ichor as the body ruptured explosively as a result.

“That took longer than I expected,” Curmor complained before we moved on.

“I told you they were tough,” I reminded him.  “We’re actually getting better at fighting them,” I said, encouragingly.

We had the chance to prove it when we came across a male Paranchek marauding through an empty local market, chasing some terrified townsmen who had been unlucky enough to cross its path.  I hit it with the freezing spell while my men hacked at it and blasted it with more arcane bolts.  A local picked up a tent pole and impaled it in the side, as it was dying, just to speed it on its way.  And then we moved on.

Another male the next block over had begun pushing its way into a flat, ripping apart the bricks and wattle-and-daub walls like it was destroying an anthill.  We fell on it and distracted it from its task.  Unfortunately, it was quicker to turn its attention to us than the market spider had been.  It whirled and caught Jekara unexpectedly in the stomach with one of its legs, knocking him backward, while the rest of us hacked away.  It was hot work, and we had to be cautious because of how fast the thing was moving, but at one point, Curmor and I were moving with enhanced reflexes, parrying the blows of its claws while he tried to get close to the face.

That turned out not to be necessary.  While I was trying to line up a shot from Avalanche, suddenly three arrows thudded into its eyes almost at once.  Then they exploded.

I didn’t recall any of us armed with bows, as I scraped a new layer of gooey spider guts off my face.  We were getting help from somewhere.  A moment later I watched a lone figure nearly bounce down the walls of a building opposite the flat.

“Minalan!” boomed a familiar voice with a Merwyni accent.  “I wondered when you would appear to help me save the day!” called Sarakeem the Archer with a rich laugh.

“Sarakeem!  Where did you come from?” I asked as the magical bowman approached.  “I thought you were in Merwyn!”

“There is war in Merwyn,” he sighed, shrugging.  “I have friends on both sides.  It was uncomfortable being asked to choose . . . so I chose to come back to Castal.  I’ve been here since the Conclave.  Are these spiders your creation?”

“Nay, they are the slaves of Mycin Amana, who is assaulting the city,” I said.  “Let’s find another one – I’ll explain on the way.”

I was very happy that Sarakeem had joined us.  He’s kind of a specialist, but his aim was always true, and he had a small arsenal of enchanted arrows that were surprisingly useful for this sort of work.  With seven of us in my squadron now we were able to be much more effective at hunting the arachnids that were terrorizing the town.  Sarakeem’s arcane munitions could freeze, burn, or explode as he directed them, and he had a number of nasty attacks that allowed us to pester the Paranchek from a distance before we closed in for the kill.

That’s how my morning went: we would find a spider, spend a few minutes killing it, and then move on.  It did not seem as if they were expecting much resistance from the humans in the city, and in truth, there were only pockets of resistance to the great beasts roaming around.  Some of the residents did manage to arm themselves with spears or bows or axes and try to defend their lives and their property, but by themselves, they were not of much use.  But as we moved through the streets, we were able to direct them to reinforce each other some, and twice the locals pitched in gallantly as we tried to eradicate their horrific foe.

It was about an hour before noon when we spotted the first giant hawk overhead, which produced a cheer.  Laretha’s wing had begun arriving.  While the spiders weren’t particularly afraid of us, they shied at the sound of the giant hawk’s cry, and a shadow overhead made them stop what they were doing and search frantically for what might be hunting them.  Purely an instinctive response, I guessed, but effective.  We killed our fifth and sixth males a few moments after one of the great birds made a sweeping pass overhead and distracted them.

There was a method in my approach.  I was trying a lot of different kinds of offensive spells to see which ones would be most effective.  Fire, of course, was an easy alternative – spiders don’t like flames any more than most creatures, and though their naturally armored limbs are somewhat resistant the oily hair that covered their thorax and abdomens could be coaxed into a blaze if sufficient magical energy is provided.  But as gratifying as it was to watch a spider burn to death in shuddering agony, the fact was that we were in a city and one that was crowded with buildings that could themselves quickly catch on fire.  Indeed, columns of smoke began arising across the skyline as various units of warmagi discovered this for themselves.

I was also looking for patterns in their attack, and I found some.  For example, the females tended to climb up on rooftops and attack the terrified people below like a kitten playing with a moth.  The males tended to concentrate on the street level of the city, seeking populated buildings to break into and slay the inhabitants.  I found that interesting.

Their use of webs began becoming an issue as well.  By noon the streets were starting to be filled with areas where the males had strong thick ropes of web across the street from building to building, quickly erecting a barricade that kept the people from fleeing freely from the town.  The females used theirs to string massive cables of webbing between spires and rooftops, allowing them a quick means of retreat if, say, a party of warmagi showed up and started trouble.  An entire web began to form above the town as these singular cables were reinforced and new anchor points were created to give the females quick access below and a predator’s perch above the street.

But we were taking a toll.  As more and more warmagi came through the portal, the number of males on the streets dwindled.  Our hunt was going successfully, despite the high number of fresh corpses in the streets.  Local resistance grew as larger bands of civilian militia broke out hunting crossbows or boar spears.  A volley of a dozen crossbows frequently wasn’t enough to slay one of the things, but they did hurt and enough pain could discourage a marauding male from advancing.

It was the females that were a problem, though.  Two of them had climbed up the huge wooden scaffolding surrounding Donrard’s Spire, and while they avoided the bolts from the warmagi below they seemed to be trying to enwrap the castle in a blanket of webbing.  They seemed more strategically focused than tactical.  They were trying to control the main, important portions of the place, while the smaller males merely killed everything in sight and caused havoc.

But every hour their number fell, and our number grew.  The first Vanadori arrived in early afternoon, and I got the rare privilege of witnessing Sarakeem trade banter and barbs with Caswallon the Fox, who had brought a trio of his friends from the City of Wizards while they sought out more and more of the creepy attackers.

It was late afternoon when the last of the females was forced from the duke’s palace tower, pecked at by hawks and peppered with skybolts and arcane forces that snapped her webbing and sent her plummeting to the courtyard below.  That didn’t kill her, of course, but the moment she landed with an unpleasant plop on the cobblestones, a squadron of warmagi and castle guards descended on her with axes and spears and pikes.

But she was the last one that we could see.  Castabriel was clear, for the moment.

Terleman set up a temporary headquarters at the chapterhouse as my Sevendori forces came through at his invitation and began assembling a field hospital.  It was sorely needed.  There were hundreds, if not thousands of wounded.  There were several thousand fresh corpses in the streets and a few unfortunates who had been cocooned in webs and stuck in the air, perhaps as a snack for later.

“It could have been worse,” Terleman decided, as my team limped back to the chapterhouse.  “It took all day, but it looks like we’re at the mopping up stage.”

“It was no dragon attack,” I conceded, “but in some ways, it was worse.  That was devastating in great swaths of the city.  This has been more destructive in isolated pockets.  How are our casualties?” I asked, not really wanting to know.

“Seventeen, so far,” Terleman replied, somberly.  “Five of those were in one engagement with a female who took the top of the Temple of Trygg for her nest.  And we’ve got a lot of wounded, too.  I’ve been sending them straight to Henga Hospital if they’re bad enough.  That’s just our forces, not the civilians,” he reminded me.

“A lot of people are angry,” Sarakeem reported, as we found a spot to rest in the courtyard.  “Prince Tavard took most of the City Watch away for his war.”

“They wouldn’t have been much protection,” I countered.  “These things don’t die easily just to steel and wood.  You need magic.”

“But it would have been something,” Terleman pointed out.  “As it is, the people probably feel abandoned.  They’ll be in shock for a couple of hours yet, but soon enough they’ll start getting angry.  And when the people are angry, they act out.”

“They’ll start looting, too,” Taren said, as he joined us.  His armor looked battered, and it was covered with an oily sheen of black spider innards.  He’d been running a squadron close to the city gates, and that had been a busy place.  “I’ve already seen it start.  With shops and homes broken open and people fleeing, some of the survivors are taking advantage.”

“That won’t do,” I frowned.  “Terl, have we heard from Sandoval?” I asked.  He was supposed to be mobilizing the Vanadori Guard for us.

“As a matter of fact, just an hour ago,” he agreed.  “He’s got two companies scraped together now.  He’s just waiting to hear your orders.”

“Have them come through,” I decided.  “Take control of all essential areas of the city.  I’m declaring martial law here, for now, in the name of the Marshal Arcane.  They can enforce a curfew and help get people settled.  Perhaps organize some work details to start getting the spiders out of the city before they start rotting.  And all those bodies,” I added, remembering the long trail of corpses the bugs had left behind them.

“Can you declare martial law?” Taren asked surprised.

I shrugged.  “No one said I couldn’t,” I countered.  “I have a military post – a senior level royal court military post.  Until Tavard returns to establish order, my men will enforce the law here.  If he wants to take me to court afterward, he’s welcome to.”

“Uh, Tavard is already returned,” Taren revealed, uncomfortably.  “He was at Donrard’s Spire in his private apartments when the spiders fell out of the sky.  I spoke to his chief of palace guards a few hours back and insisted on checking on his safety in person.  He was, uh, with his mistress,” he mumbled.

“His mistress?” Terleman asked, intrigued.

“Yes, a lovely redhead,” Taren admitted.  “And . . . pregnant, if you can believe it.  He asked me to check on her medical condition while I was there.  She’s about twelve weeks along.  She’s going to have a baby, there’s no mistake.”

“I didn’t know Tavard had a mistress!” Terleman smirked.

“Neither does the princess,” Taren explained.  “In fact, she’s been a secret for a while.  His Highness begged for my discretion.  But I figured the Garden Society would want to know.  He’s been in town since the day before Yule, not out in the field with his men.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Terleman asked, amused.  “Of course, he did.”

“How are things looking at Darkfaller?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

Terleman sighed.  “I just heard from Mavone,” he reported.  “He’s set up the portable archway and an observation post about a mile northeast of the village.  The army has abandoned its front lines and retreated to the eastern side of the village.  They left most of their encampment, too.  They’re trying to regroup in the southeast, but they have precious little to work with.  It’s hard to mount a cavalry charge when your mounts keep tripping over webs on the field.  They’ve been fighting all day.  Casualties have been . . . robust.”

“How robust?” I demanded.

“More than four thousand dead, now,” he said, his lip curled in disgust.  “Mavone kept a mercenary unit that was just arriving from blundering in, but the rest of the army is demoralized, in retreat, and facing no less than a hundred spiders.”

“A hundred?” Taren asked, surprised.  “Ishi’s tits!  How did they get so many, so fast?”

“They grew them,” I answered, somberly, as someone handed me an earthenware jug of water.  I paused to take a great swallow before splashing some more on my face.  It was sticky with . . . well, I didn’t want to think about it.  But this had been the stickiest battle I’d ever fought.  My armor was covered with spider guts.  “The females can lay eggs in big sacks, and they only take a few months to grow into a formidable size, if they are properly fed.  I’m sure the catacombs below Darkfaller Castle are filled with them by now.”

“What do they eat?” Curmor asked, his face pale.  He could guess the answer.

“They feed on prey the males procure for them,” I explained.  “In this case, it is likely the human prisoners Mycin Amana has captured.  They poison them, wrap them up in webs so they can’t escape, and then the spiders slowly exsanguinate them over time.  If given enough nourishment, they can be large enough to be dangerous in months.  They can grow to full size quickly after that.”

“That is . . . a foul thought,” Sarakeem said, shaking his head in disbelief.  “We must do something to help those poor people!”

“We have to save the army, first,” I decided.  “Tavard might be an idiot, but those men don’t deserve to get wiped out because of that.  Terleman, start withdrawing our warmagi as the Vanadori Guards show up.  Regroup in Sevendor.  When we get enough forces gathered to make a difference, we’ll go to Darkfaller and see what we can do.  But until then,” I said, splashing my face one more time, “I need to have a few words with our prince.  Perhaps I can convince him that his poor decisions have led to the loss of thousands today and he should probably shut up and listen to what I bloody have to say in the future!”

“I’m not sure he’s going to be very receptive to that, Min,” warned Taren.  “He looked pretty unhappy when I left the palace.”

“He should be,” I declared, as I pulled my helmet back on my head.  “He’s responsible for a lot of this, today, both here and at Darkfaller.  So I’m going to have a little talk with him.  Someone find me a horse.  Taren, you and Curmor and Sarakeem can go with me.  If he wants my help to rescue what’s left of his army, we’re going to have to get a few uncomfortable things straight before we proceed.”

“And if he complains to Mother?” Terleman asked.

“I just faced a dozen giant spiders to save his capital city,” I pointed out as I fastened my chinstrap.  I was feeling pretty angry, right then.  “I have no problem facing a murderous old bitch.  If I’m going to be the Marshal Arcane, things are going to be a little different from now on.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Tavard’s Reckoning

Castabriel was in shambles as my men and I rode through the devastated streets.  There were dead spiders, damaged buildings, and the fresh corpses of innocent victims still scattered everywhere, and while several impromptu parties of townsfolk had begun to clear the roadways, we had to detour several times along the way.  The people of Castabriel appeared to be in shock after their day of terror.  Fresh greenery left over from the Yule celebrations was still hanging from windows and balconies in mockery of the misery that had replaced the merriment the season was supposed to represent.

It was getting dark already as we carefully picked our way through the rubble and bodies.  It was also getting cold, and our borrowed horses were clearly not pleased with the heavy odor of spiders in the air.  I felt sorrowful for these people; just three years ago they had endured a dragon attack that had slain thousands without warning, and now they had awakened from the happiest day of the year to a new misery and terror.

I was speaking mind-to-mind with Mavone as we rode.  He was still maintaining his observation post a mile from the fighting at Darkfaller Village, steadily gathering the slow trickle of fresh warmagi who had responded to Pentandra’s wide-ranging call.

Things look bad, he informed me, but they could have been far worse.  The spiders have the army pushed back to the fringes of the village, he reported.  They’ve formed a kind of a line along the northern and southern sides, but the army still controls the eastern approach, which is good.  They can escape if they are forced to flee further.  I don’t know how much longer that will hold, but that is how things stand now.

How organized are they? I asked, curious.

Someone down there understands a little about tactics, Mavone reported.  But only a little.  About a thousand cavalry managed to get to their mounts and armor, and they’re riding screens around the bulk of the infantry.  They’ve got barricades of overturned wagons blocking some places in the village, but those are pretty futile.  The spiders just go right over them.  They’ve only killed about three of them, so far, which leaves plenty more.  There are thousands of dead on the streets.  But they aren’t more organized than a mob, from what I can tell.  Morale is low and they’re getting desperate.

I can understand why, I agreed.  There were only two dozen here in the city and they devastated the place.  I’ve spent the day hunting them, and they were damn hard to manage even with magic. I can’t imagine how bad it must be to face them without it.

This is not the kind of foe those poor bastards are trained to fight, agreed Mavone.  How soon can we do something about that?  I don’t want to see them get slaughtered.

I’m going up to Tavard’s palace to speak to the good prince now, I informed him, as my horse stepped carefully over another body in the street.  Apparently, he decided a quiet Yule in his private quarters with his secret mistress while he was ostensibly ‘on the battlefield’ was better than actually being on the battlefield for Yule.  So, he got to witness what the Paranchek did to his city from the comfort of his balcony.

Please don’t kill him, Min, Mavone said.  That would just complicate things.

At first, I thought it was a joke because Mavone has a dry sense of humor, but I realized that he was being serious.  That disturbed me.

Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but why would you think I’d kill him? I asked, curious.

There was a pause.  Because half of everyone thinks you’re half-mad, and the other half think you’re completely mad, he explained, quietly.  I heard about what happened in Sevendor.  I felt what happened in Sevendor, all the way up in the Wilderlands.  I know you’ve been doing some highly experimental thaumaturgy, but you’ve also been acting erratically.  I was . . . I was amongst those who were chosen to contend with you, if things got out of hand.  In that context you killing Prince Tavard would not surprise anyone, I think.

I’m quite in control of myself, today, I objected, Prince Maralathus feeling offended on my account.  And it has not been an easy day.

You seem like it, he agreed enthusiastically.  But I felt I had to check.

Well, if you think I’m half-mad, perhaps Tavard will as well, I reasoned.  I might as well make my bad reputation work for me, for a change.

The warmagi who were still holding the front of the palace convinced the palace guardsmen to allow us entry – not that they were inclined to stop me.  There was a pile of bodies lined up in the courtyard that one of the sparks informed me had accumulated before they’d arrived.  No one inside the castle had any real remedy for giant spiders.  They had greeted my magi like rescuers and had eagerly cooperated as they coordinated the fight.  Huge strands of webbing hanging from the elaborate scaffolding around the spire, some of it burnt, fluttered in the evening breeze as the stench of smoke and dead spider filled the air.  But there didn’t seem to be much additional structural damage to Donrard’s Spire, I noted.

The interior of the place was crowded with frightened servants, courtiers, and retainers who had sought shelter inside against the creepy nightmares attacking the exterior.  There was a murmur and a few cheers as me and my men dismounted and entered.  A sense of relief began to fill the faces of the panicked ducal court.

That didn’t stop one officious little castellan who didn’t recognize me from blocking my path up the stairs.

“His Highness has declared that he does not want to be disturbed until he is done managing the crisis, my lord . . . ?” he asked, arrogantly assuming I was a common warmage.  No doubt with my armor scratched, battered, scorched, and covered in sticky black and gray goo I wasn’t the normal sort of courtier.

“The name is Count Minalan the Spellmonger, Marshal Arcane of the realm,” I told him in Prince Maralathus’ best ‘go to five hells and die a horrible death for all of eternity’ voice.  “As I am now managing this crisis, you may assume that I am here on business.”  He continued to object until Taren sent him unconscious with a spell.  He was good enough to keep his body from falling down the stairs, however.

The guards at the top of the stairs likewise began to cross their glaives to bar me, but a single look from Curmor made them part them and allow us to pass.  The next two checkpoints were more reasonable.  In a few moments I was banging on the heavy, ornately carved double doors to Tavard’s private chamber.

A young, frightened-looking woman with red hair finally let us in.

“Please announce to the prince that the marshal arcane and his gentlemen are here to discuss the situation,” I said, pushing past her.

“My prince is . . . is indisposed,” she said, her voice filled with fear and alarm.  “He is conferring with his ministers.

“I’ll see him anyway,” I growled.  “Where is he?”

“The balcony, my lord,” she said, hanging her head.  “I will show you to him.”

Indeed, Tavard was sitting on a stool in one corner of the wide stone balcony, which was flanked on both sides by scaffolding.  He was staring blankly out over the city at the several plumes of smoke and scattered webs that were catching the failing light.

But he wasn’t alone.  Both Count Moran and Loiko Venaran were with him.  Moran wore a steel breastplate over his doublet, but Loiko was in full armor and carried his mageblade on his back.  He nodded to me as I entered, while Moran just stared at me.

“Your Highness,” I began, trying to get his attention.  But Tavard did not look up.

“His Highness is . . . perplexed,” Count Moran suggested, as he moved to intervene.

“His city was attacked and is still smoldering,” I pointed out.  “His army is getting routed in the field.  I would say he is far more than ‘perplexed’.”

“He is . . .” Loiko said, and then trailed off, shaking his head.

“He is the Duke of Castal,” I supplied, firmly.  “He is the sovereign authority and protector of his realm.”  I considered what Maralathus would have done.  Indeed, he’d faced many similar situations over his long years.  Our memories conceded it was time for a display.  I crossed the balcony, reached down, and grabbed Tavard by his tunic before pushing him firmly against the wall and staring balefully into his suddenly-frightened eyes.

“He is the Duke of Castal!” I repeated, speaking to him directly.  “This is his responsibility!  Wake up, boy!” I commanded, harshly, as I kept him immobilized.  Tavard is not a weak man, but he did not seem to have much ability to respond.  He hung there limply while I lectured him.  “Tavard!  Wake up!  Your people have need of you!  Your duchy has need of you!” I said, forcefully.

He stared back at me with frightened, tearful eyes.  I considered slapping him.  But then I doubted it would do much more than to make me feel better.  “The spiders are gone from here, now,” I informed him, slowly and carefully, as I let my stare bore into his head.  “The magi killed them.  But your men still face fearsome odds at Darkfaller.  What do you intend to do about that?”

“What can I do?” he asked in a harsh, confused whisper.  “I watched the guards face those things and fall.  What can I do?” he asked again, helplessly.

“You can be the Duke of Castal,” I informed him.  “For once in your entitled, spoiled life you can put on the coronet and go save your people.  Or at least look like you’re trying!” I insisted.

“My prince has been studying the situation all day!” objected Moran.  Once again I elected to behave unpredictably.  I threw Tavard across the balcony with a roar, until he fell on his face.  Moran looked shocked, and Loiko looked alarmed.

“You’ve hurt the prince!” the prime minister squeaked, his hand feeling for his sword hilt.  Sarakeem did likewise, but his grasp on his hilt was more compelling.

“I threw him most carefully,” I countered.  “He’s not hurt.”  It might have been the most courteous way to treat my titular overlord, but it had the desired effect.  Tavard bounded to his feet, anger striking the fear from his eyes.

“You dare!” he barked, his dignity offended.

“Trygg’s grace, I do!” I barked back louder.  “Are you awake yet, boy?” I asked, disdainfully.  “Are you awake?  Can you not see what has happened?  Can you not see what must be done?” I asked, gesturing to the city in the distance.

“What in nine hells can I do?” Tavard asked, sourly.  “Go out there and get killed?”

“The danger here is past, Highness,” Loiko assured him.  “But there is the matter of your troops at Darkfaller.  They are hard pressed, it is reported.  I scried the area myself.  They will be wiped out if they do not receive relief.”

“Then go relieve them!” he snarled, throwing his hands in the air.  “They’re more than twenty miles away, and my city is in ruins, and I have no more troops to send!  Even if I did, they would fall, just like the others.  Only the vaunted magi can fight these horrors, apparently.  Then why do you stand here idly, Spellmonger?” he taunted.  “Do you not have better things to do?”

“Better than speaking to my prince and duke?” I countered, angrily.  “I don’t believe I do.  Wake up, boy!” I repeated, even more loudly.  “You’ve taken your duchy to the edge of disaster.  You’ve ignored good advice and wise counsel to placate your wounded ego.  The least you can do is see it to its conclusion!”

“I will not take orders from a baker’s son!” he shouted back.

“You will take orders from the Marshal Arcane,” I insisted.  “I came here to rally your spirit and get you out in front of your people – your people,” I reminded him.  “The Castali people who you swore in front of the gods that you would pledge your life to protect.  You are failing that!”

“And you delight in that failure!” he thundered.

“I do not,” I assured him, making my voice much quieter.  “Indeed, I despair that I even must be here, but it is clear that I do.  You have been struck a blow, and through ignorance and inaction you have allowed things to spiral out of control.  That is not a good thing to see in a leader – and yes, my prince,” I said, turning the title into a slur, “you are still by the grace of the gods my leader.  Yet you will not lead.  That is intolerable.  You have men dying in the field and you will not lead.  You have children dying in your streets and you will not lead.  Do you want to know what you can do?  Put on your armor, take up your sword, and bloody lead!”

“They will still say that it was Minalan and the warmagi who saved them,” he said, bitterly.  “That it took a wizard to do what good knights could not!”

“What will your own soul say?” I countered.  “What will your conscience say, when you look back on this day?  You have a choice to make,” I said, approaching him slowly.  “You can be the prince you pretend to be, or you can be that leader in earnest.  And you will,” I insisted, “else I will tell my men to stand down and go home.  You can explain to the families of your most loyal vassals how you let them get slaughtered.  Or you can rally your men and raise your sword – however ineffectively – and convince them to fight, not just flee in terror and die.”

“You seek nothing but your own power,” he said, sulkily, as he turned away.  I grabbed his shoulder tightly, earning a startled and offended look.

“I don’t want your godsdamn power!” I shouted.  I let some small portion of the anger that was building in me seep out.  “I never did!  I don’t even want my own, but your stupidity forces me to seek it simply to spare the duchy the damage you do by your indulgence and inaction!  Power?” I asked, letting a bit of madness creep into my voice.  “You think I want power?  Power rots the souls of those who have it, it spoils the best things in a man’s life!  Only a fool seeks it,” I lectured, eyeing the prince pointedly.  “You think I envy you your coronet?  Or the crown you hope to someday wear?  I care not to wear a crown.  I don’t even care if you wear the crown.  Indeed, I don’t care much who wears the crown,” I warned, my nostrils flaring, “I care only that the man who does acts as if he deserves it in some small way!”

At that point, I was merely venting my frustrations at the prince.  The memories of Maralathus informed my mood, as he had always held himself to a higher standard even within his lofty circles of the Alka Alon nobility than most would have dared.  He had trained to lead for a thousand years, learning the craft of kingship like any apprentice.  When he saw a fellow apprentice fouling up the discipline he had so carefully studied and patiently practiced, it inflamed his passions.  He despised Tavard’s incompetence, even as I sought to use it.

But something I said apparently got to Tavard.  His manner changed, somewhat.  “What would you have me do?” he pleaded, angrily.  “Do you have a godsdamn plan, Marshal?  Or do you just want to castigate me?  What do you want from me?”

And that was what Maralathus was looking for: capitulation.  An opening.

“I am declaring martial law in Castabriel until the city is secure,” I informed him, quickly and forcefully.  “In a few hours, several companies of Vanadori Guards will be deployed here to keep the peace and oversee the recovery efforts.  You will instruct your men to cooperate with them fully, as well as the city’s administration.  I have a field hospital and healers that can be brought in.  Food assistance, if needed.

“But that is just Castabriel,” I continued.  “Your men in Darkfaller need help even more immediately.  I am gathering forces to counterattack with warmagi from Vanador, but I need you,” I said, pointing at him rudely, “to get your royal arse in some armor and climb aboard your most impressive warhorse and rally whatever troops you can spare,” I ordered.  “You will be joining me in the fight.  You will take personal charge of the army so that there is no argument over the plan.”

“And what is that plan?” Loiko Venaran asked, with great interest.  No doubt he was representing Rard’s interests in this.

“I have set a temporary portal a mile from the front,” I explained.  “We will gather as many forces as possible and ride to attack tonight.”

“Attack?” Moran asked, skeptically.  “At night?”

“Neither night nor day matter to the magi,” I dismissed.  “Nor to the spiders.  They will keep pressing their attack in the darkness and use it to their advantage.  They are not animals,” I instructed him.  “They are highly intelligent and capable soldiers.  They are under orders.  Mycin Amana wants to slay and humiliate Tavard for his temerity.  She needs slaves and sacrifices.  If nothing else, she needs a clear victory while her master’s eyes are upon her.  For Korbal has reawakened, and he has put Mycin Amana’s leadership on trial.  So, we must deny her that victory by saving as many of your men as possible.”

“You have the men to do this?” Loiko asked.

“I have sent out the call,” I answered.  “I know not how many will respond, but it is my duty – my duty!” I emphasized to the prince, “to lead every man who heeds my call against this blight festering in the belly of the kingdom.  So don your armor, Prince Tavard,” I said, as I walked by him.  “Strap on your sword.  Put your coronet on your brow and present yourself and your men to the chapterhouse at your earliest convenience.  For you are needed in the field, leading your men to survival.  Else their deaths will be on your conscience as well,” I finished and stalked away.

My men followed, wordlessly, and so did Loiko after spending a moment murmuring to Count Moran.  The girl who let us in – the prince’s mistress, I assumed – gave me a grateful look as she opened the door for us.

“That was impressive, Minalan,” Loiko said when he’d caught up to me.  “What inspired you to do that?”

“Anger,” I replied.  “Anger and frustration.  Things are too fragile right now to see one incompetent man – boy,” I corrected, “let his foolish vanity and entitlement endanger so much.  I could not let it happen.”

“I nearly thought you would throw him over the balcony,” Taren said, smiling at the thought.

“I nearly did,” I confessed.  “But I don’t think he would have learned anything from that.  It would have been a transitory pleasure, at best.  As it is, I’ve wasted hours soothing my own conscience by confronting him instead of devoting myself to the task at hand.”

“I wonder what Rard will say about it,” Taren considered.

“His Majesty will be quite happy about it, I believe,” Loiko offered.  “I’ve heard much the same from him, in the last few hours.  Tavard has not responded to his messages, he has sent no word from here about the state of the capital, and he grows impatient with his son’s reaction to this crisis.  That’s why Rard sent me.  But will the prince listen to you, I wonder?”

“We’ll know when he shows up at the portal,” I shrugged.  “Either way, I did what I could to motivate him.  If he appears dressed for war, then perhaps there is hope for him.  If he doesn’t . . .”

“Then you should declare yourself Archmage and take his throne,” suggested Taren.

“That seems a little extreme,” Curmor said, his eyes cutting to Loiko Venaran.  “Even treasonous, in some eyes.”

“I am sick of these horsemen thinking that saddle sores and spurs entitle them to rule,” Taren shot back.  “A prince is as a prince does.  Here Minalan is moving the mountains around and shouting from every tower to defend the realm while Tavard cowers in a fortress he inherited from stronger men.”

“I think declaring Minalan the Archmage would be a little premature,” Loiko replied, diplomatically.  “But if Tavard does not make the effort to defend his lands, I can assure you that his fitness for the crown will be questioned by the counts of the realm,” he predicted.  “There were already plenty of murmurings in that direction at the Curia.”

“Did you not hear me?  I want no crown,” I protested.

“The greatest kings are those who never sought crowns,” Taren observed.  “Haven’t you said yourself that those who seek power are those least likely to use it wisely?”

“I just don’t have the time,” I objected.  “But I might spare the time to ensure that whoever is wearing it is doing at least their duty.  If that’s the price I must pay to do my own, so be it.”

“I don’t think he’ll come,” Taren predicted.  “I think he’s going to hide here instead while foreign troops patrol the streets of his capital, and you rule in all but name.  Or he will slink back to Kaunis and hide behind his mother’s skirts.”

“Her Majesty is no more approving of what he has done than King Rard is,” Loiko informed us.  “Tavard persuaded her to intervene on his behalf with the king, but she was reluctant to do so.  Gossip suggests that there was a heated argument in her apartments.  About many things,” he added, darkly.

“Anything about royal succession?” I probed as we paused in the grand entryway of the castle.  “Perhaps the birth of a new grandchild soon?  One who may not be entirely . . . legitimate?”

Loiko frowned.  “How did you know?” he demanded.

“I’m a wizard,” I shrugged again.  “It’s my job to know such things.”

“Then I am certain you can guess how Grendine is reacting to that news,” he sighed.  “She is livid.  She is even more livid that Tavard used it as leverage to convince her to let him assault Darkfaller.  She was against it.  She thought it was stupid for him to go so steeply into debt to fund such an obviously unwise plan.  She even advocated for him to follow your original plan, but he insisted that he and the chivalry would have to accomplish this siege without you, or the people would prefer magelords to knights ruling over them.”

“Now why would they want to consider something so radical as that?” Taren asked, sarcastically.

“There has been a lot of talk about the appalling lack of good governance in some duchies,” Curmor agreed.  “There are many who think it would be better to be ruled by a wizard than a knight.  Of course, most of those who think that are themselves wizards.”

“I no more want to overturn the established order than I want a crown,” I complained.  “I just want them to do their godsdamned jobs.”

“Minalan, you know that they have no hope against these kind of things,” Loiko said, gesturing to the corpse of a giant spider that was taking up an entire corner of the bailey.  “We do.  Grendine knows that, too.  She told Tavard as much.  He just did not want to listen.  And so, she indulged him, in part out of spite for her daughter-in-law’s apparent infidelity.”

Curmor raised his eyebrows.  “You seem rather well informed for someone only listening to palace gossip,” he noted.

Loiko shrugged.  “I’m a wizard.  It’s my job to know such things.”

“What you said about Korbal,” Sarakeem asked, “is it true?  He has awakened again?”

“Yes,” I assured.  “He is weak, but he is angry.  Does His Majesty understand just how dangerous that is?”

“He often speaks of the day Korbal attacked his palace.  He has not forgotten,” Loiko affirmed.

“Then he should understand just how close to true peril we are.  It was good he made me Marshal Arcane.  For to rely on the instruments of his kingdom to defend him against Korbal is madness.  They cannot pour piss out of a chamber pot when it comes to these matters.  It will be a great matter to fight Korbal on our own territory.  It will take a great effort and a great investment to win.  I hope Rard is willing to pay the price for that greatness, when this is finished,” I warned Loiko.

He paused, and then favored me with a nod.  I appreciated his difficult position: he was the Royal Court Wizard, but he was also a veteran warmage.  I was, in essence, playing on his dual loyalties to send a message to the monarchy: the Mad Mage of Sevendor was expecting payment for his services when the job was done.

“So where to now, Min?” Curmor asked.  “Do you want to go beat up any more dukes?  Because that was entertaining.”

“We return to Sevendor and see what forces have come,” I answered.  “It is nightfall, soon, and there is still much to be done to prepare.  I’m hoping that the Vanadori have managed to mobilize enough of us to keep fighting through the night.  Because if we fail and that army falls,” I reminded them, “then there is nothing keeping them from advancing on Castabriel.  Or Kaunis.

“And if that happens, it won’t matter anymore who wears the crown because there won’t be enough of a kingdom left to rule.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Spiders In The Dark

The plaza in front of the mountain in Sevendor was swarming with warmagi by the time I returned.  The Vanadori had been streaming in all afternoon, apparently, some by means of the Ways and some through the portal.  Spirits were surprisingly high even after it was revealed to them the nature of the mission and the nature of the foe.  I could tell from the cheers and the confident expressions that greeted me that despite the short notice and hasty mobilization, most of the men who had answered Pentandra’s call were eager to undertake the dangerous and unusual assignment.

I was exhausted myself, after a long day of hunting giant bugs, but I could not let that show – Maralathus would not allow me to discourage those who followed me from becoming discouraged by my demeanor.  Indeed, the Alka Alon prince who influenced my mind demanded that I stand straighter, smile more, and generally act like I wasn’t more inclined to throw myself into bed than charge into the night to fight horrible giant spiders.  I’m not ashamed to admit I felt a little resentful of his steadfast resolve.  But I also clung to his influence even as I felt it starting to slip away.

“Minalan!” Sire Cei called as soon as he spotted me emerging through the portal.  He was clad in full armor, though he had yet to don his helmet.  “Trygg’s grace, I’ve been sending men through all day, and heard little about you.  I was starting to worry!”  He handed me a mug of mulled wine and a meat and cabbage roll, because he’s the best castellan a magelord ever had.  I realized that I hadn’t eaten since the feast last night, and I’d lost most of that this morning.  That seemed like an eternity ago.  “How did you fare in Castabriel, my lord?” he asked, as he surveyed my battered armor.

“It is free of spiders,” I assured him as I took a sip of the hot, spicy concoction I usually associated with pleasant indoor festivities, not a prelude to battle.  “It was hot work on a cold day, but the city is spared.  It’s half devastated, but we eliminated the bugs, finally.  I see Pentandra’s call bore fruit,” I noted, nodding toward the crowd of warmagi.

“We have been gathering strength all day,” he assured me.  “I sent the Vanadori Guards through the portal as soon as they arrived to relieve you in the capital.”

I had witnessed that myself, as I had returned to the chapterhouse.  The black-cloaked infantry had been establishing themselves throughout the city as I was leaving, their brightly polished breastplates and distinctive helms providing a visual reassurance to the townsfolk that someone, somewhere was in charge.  I had detailed Curmor to act as temporary military governor in my name before I left.  While I would miss him on the battlefield, he was one of the few men I could trust to manage the complicated recovery and not alienate the prince’s government in the process.  Taren, on the other hand, would have been a disaster.  His opinion of the ruling chivalry was precisely the attitude Tavard and Count Moran feared.

“How many do we have, do you think?” I asked Cei, as I felt the wine hit my empty stomach and spread warmth throughout my body.

“Hundreds,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Baroness Pentandra’s call was emphatic and invoked their loyalty to you and the kingdom in a dire hour.  They’ve been appearing ever since.”

I looked around to try to take stock of the forces I had to work with.

The magelights overhead revealed a robust turn-out for the emergency call.  Azar and Noutha, fresh from their honeymoon in southern Alshar, looked splendid on their matching mounts, leading a strong contingent of Megelini Knights.  Sandoval had brought a surprisingly large group of sparks from his command, as well as a few companies of his best mundane warriors to support our efforts.  Rondal had recruited most of the warmagi he’d commanded during the Westlands campaign, as well as some new blood from Enultramar eager for glory and the chance of irionite.  Wenek and his mangy pack of Pearwoods wizards seemed especially eager for a tussle to break up their midwinter boredom.

I picked out familiar faces from the crowd quickly enough.  Lorcus and Lance of Bune were chatting jovially with a small contingent Forandal had led through the Ways from Robinwing.  Astyral was renewing his acquaintance with the sparks who had ridden with him so valiantly during the winter and spring wars in Vanador.  Rustallo, Landric, and Caswallon were laughing with Golvod of Tenaria, whose mighty double-bladed axe might just be useful against the enemy we faced.  Lady Marsden had led volunteers from the Towers in the Magelaw, and had her troops neatly organized for the coming battle.

And, of course, Tyndal had arrived in magnificent style, leading almost fifty of his carefully cultivated mounted warmagi from Callierd through the portal.  My old apprentice sought me out as soon as he heard of my arrival.

“Well, you certainly know how to throw a proper Yule party, Master!” he said, beaming.  “I brought every man I felt could be of use . . . and made a stop at the Yltedene foundry on our way to Vanador.”

“It seems a little late to be picking up new armor,” I said, confused.

“It wasn’t armor I was seeking,” he said, shaking his shaggy blond head.  He pulled out a simple-looking wand.  “I had an idea from when we fought the dragon in Vorone.  I had one of my men go by the Vanadori bouleuterion and grab every hoxter wand they had prepared.  Then I compelled Master Suhi to fire up his furnaces.  I filled about forty of these with molten iron,” he explained.  “Five molten ingots in each.  They have a limited range, about thirty feet, but I doubt even those big ugly crawly things can tolerate fifteen pounds of liquid metal on their carapaces for long.”

I was surprised and impressed by his ingenuity.  A day spent fighting them had taught me just how difficult it was to kill them even with advanced magic.  The Paranchek were tough, smart, and highly capable warriors.  They used every advantage they had against us, and plenty had fallen as a result.  But from what I knew of the arachnoids, Tyndal was correct: there were some things even a giant spider could not endure.

“That’s not all,” he continued excitedly.  “Lady Marsden raided her store of constructs – she still had some left from last year’s war.  And Ormar the Alchemist brought two-score bundles of dragon cotton and some other devices.  I think we’re ready, Master,” he assured me, confidently.

“Well done, Viscount,” I praised as others clamored to get my attention.  I did my best to answer the questions that were most important and deflect the rest.  I was getting worried about the time.  Night had already fallen, and the troops at Darkfaller faced their doom if we did not get underway.

But first I had duties to attend to.  I begged to get a moment away.  I found a relatively deserted portion of the plaza and ordered Ruderal to ensure I was not disturbed.  Then I consulted with Mavone, mind-to-mind.

I was wondering if you had forgotten about me, he joked.  That is, until Tavard dragged his royal arse through the portal at the head of four hundred mundane troops a few hours ago.  He looks like he’s been through a lot today, the poor prince, he added, sarcastically.

I had to be candid with him, I admitted, half surprised at the news.  It took a little persuasion to encourage him to rise to the occasion.  But it appears that he took my words to heart.

I put him in charge of the cavalry, to give him a job he understands, Mavone related.  He is to make his way through the first available opening and rally the men trapped on the field, then lead them to the portal and safety.

Trapped? I asked, surprised.

Yes, about three hours ago the spiders managed to encircle the entire force to the southeast of the village – they move damn fast across open territory, and they aren’t slowed down by obstacles that would stop a horse, he admitted.  They’ve cut off the army from the north, east, and south.  There are still around ten thousand men left of the army.  But the spiders aren’t attacking outright yet.  I think they’re waiting to strike until the darkest of night.  Without help, they’re going to get slaughtered, he predicted.

What about the west?  Toward the village? I asked, trying to picture the battlefield.

Oh, the spiders left that open.  But now there’s a force of five thousand or so undead milling around there, led by some Nemovorti.  Mycin Amana or one of her stooges raised them all at once from the fallen in one big, impressive spell.  If the army tries to retreat westward, they will face their recently-slain comrades.  They’re trapped.

Not for long, I promised.  I’ll be coming through the portal shortly to bring the relief.  There must be hundreds of sparks here now, as well as a lot of knights and men-at-arms who wanted a chance to fight.  Is your position still secure?

I’ve had my best men screening it from scrying, he explained, and I’ve got strong pickets patrolling around the archway.  Mostly they’ve ignored us, if they even know we’re here.  A couple of wyverns have flown overhead, but that’s about the extent of their intrusion.  I think it’s safe, he assured.

Any recommendations for a strategy? I asked.  Mavone knew how to read a battlefield better than anyone I knew but Terleman.

Send them in blazing, he recommended.  Maybe hit their rear line with a smaller force to open a hole in it first, and then use your main force as a wedge to keep it open.  But things will get chaotic very fast, in this open country.  As I said, they move like lightning when they have a mind to.

We discussed the finer points of the assault for a few minutes more before I was satisfied.  I like a good charge as much as the next warrior, but it was nice to know what we would be charging into.  After I broke contact with Mavone, I spent a few more minutes discussing the matter with Terleman, Sire Cei, and a dozen other unit commanders who were nearby.  There wasn’t time for a more organized approach.  Night had fallen.  We had hours, at best.

“Sir Festaran!” I called to the knight.  “A moment?”

“Sire?” he asked, with a slight bow.  It’s hard to execute a full bow in armor.

“How many warmagi do you think are here tonight?” I asked.

He got the faraway look in his eye he gets when his power is at play.  Then his eyes refocused.

“Seven hundred and twenty-eight,” he reported.  “Two hundred and eleven are High Magi.  There are an additional nine hundred twenty-two mundane knights and mounted men-at-arms,” he added.

“That’s more than a dozen for each spider,” I nodded, pleased.  “I hope it is a sufficiency.  An entire army of sparks.  Perhaps one of the largest.”  It occurred to me that I had fulfilled the Aronin’s prophecy and had built an army of great power.  Now I was leading them as Marshal Arcane.

Finally, I felt ready to proceed.  I sent the Magolith high in the air overhead and contrived for it to project a massive green magelight to attract everyone’s attention.  Another spell amplified my voice.

“Hark!” I called to them, as they took notice.  The din of conversation and the clank of armor diminished.  I waited a moment until I was certain that most of the eyes on the plaza were facing me before I began.

“My friends and comrades,” I began, teasing out the best inspiration from the fading influence of Maralathus that I could.  “Thank you for heeding my call and responding so enthusiastically.  By now you have heard the news and understand the importance of the battle I have asked you to fight.  Many of us have spent the day defending Castabriel from the assault of the Witch Queen, and I am pleased to report that she did not prevail.  Castabriel stands!” I said, with emphasis.  A great cheer rose from every throat . . . just as I expected.  Not that most of my men had any particular loyalty to Prince Tavard or a fondness for his capital, but it was a victory.  Everyone likes cheering for a victory.

“But the worst of the fight remains ahead,” I continued.  “Prince Tavard’s besieging army has been routed and has withdrawn from its position leaving a third of it behind, dead.  And now undead,” I added, distastefully.  “The men who remain are desperate, surrounded, and demoralized.  To save them is our goal.  And to punish the Witch Queen for her brutality is our aim.  For if we do not stop the advance of her new brood of monsters, then she will attack the capital again, and then Kaunis, and then spread her malevolence across our kingdom.  This we will not allow!” I thundered, earning another chorus of cheers.

“For if we allow this blight to take root in the center of our lands, there will be no stopping it.  For ten long years, we have fought against the darkness on the frontiers of our civilization.  We have defended the realms of men when it was thought all hope was lost.  We have stood in the way of the malignancy that seeks to see our people slain, enslaved, and sacrificed to the dark ambitions of the foe.  We have seen our people fall, even as we have built our strength and risen to fight.  Now that the enemy is striking at our very heart, we must respond to their threat with furious valor,” I explained, expressively.  “Despite our best efforts they have persisted until they endanger us all.

“But tonight we turn the tide,” I promised.  “Tonight we take up arms and ride to blunt their assault, to drive them back, and to deny them one more yard of our lands, one more prisoner to toil in their service.  Tonight we begin our counterattack . . . one that will begin at Darkfaller but won’t end until Olum Seheri and the Dark Vale itself is vanquished!”  More cheers.  But I just wanted to fill their bellies, not make them too tired to fight.  It was time to bring my sermon to a conclusion.

“There is no grand battle plan, tonight, no lofty strategy.  We don’t have time for that.  Our mission is simple: we ride through that arch and we slay every spider we see, however we can.  Don’t worry about the survivors of Tavard’s army – His Highness is already in the field, and he can lead his men away to safety.

“Do worry about the foe we face.  These spiders, these Paranchek,” I said, introducing the word to most of them for the first time, “they are vicious.  They are huge.  They are cunning.  But they can be slain.  Pin their legs, smash their heads, attack their eyes,” I advised.  “Use whatever spells you can.  They are used to chasing mundane warriors who can’t use more than steel or shaft to defend themselves.  They have no idea what an army of sparks with plenty of irionite can do to them.  I encourage you to be creative in your spellworks.  Be unrelenting in your pursuit.  There are at least fifty of the beasts menacing those men.  Let us see each one dead and decaying on the field by dawn!”

I took another sip of mulled wine to moisten my throat while they cheered once more.  Every man going to battle deserves to know why he’s fighting, and what he’s fighting.

“Viscount Terleman will lead the first unit,” I informed them, “to distract the enemy from the northwest.  I am hoping that will shift their position and give us an opening.  The rest of us I will lead into the northeast of the line, to tear that opening asunder enough to permit the beleaguered knights to flee.  Beyond that . . . use your judgment.  Kill everything with more than four legs.  And when you’ve killed one, find another.

“Your kingdom requires your services, and by the power invested in the Marshal Arcane, I call upon you to do your duty to swat these spiders into oblivion as viciously as you can!  Now armor up!” I ordered.  “Viscount Terleman will leave in five minutes.  We’ll be hot on his heels,” I pledged.  “And by morning I don’t want a single living spider to pollute our fair land!”  That earned me a final cheer.

I didn’t need to promise these men riches or titles or glory.  This was the biggest mobilization since Olum Seheri, and they were eager for battle.  Those who had participated in the raid on Darkfaller had a reputation for victory that was only weeks old to defend.  Those who had missed it were keen to see the horrors set against us for themselves and earn a little glory of their own.

Of course, it took more than five minutes to get everyone situated even at a basic level.  But Terleman, along with Lady Marsden and Tyndal, made their way to the front of the line and called their troops to them.  I used Tanno Amberil to transport them to the spot Mavone and I had agreed upon, and for several moments they charged through the archway and disappeared into the darkness.

Then I recalibrated the archway to connect with Mavone’s portable portal, as Ruderal led a warhorse to me.  A few moments later I was plunging back through the arch, regretting I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Alya.  We went from the brightly lit white plaza in Sevendor to the murky, cold darkness of central Castal in an instant.

It took more than half an hour for our army of sparks to pour through the portal, and we took that time to regroup and organize.  I took a moment to find Prince Tavard, surrounded by a clutch of knights from his personal household who looked quite disconcerted by being deployed at night, in the winter, and against such a foe.

“Thank you for attending, Your Highness,” I called to Tavard, as graciously as I could.

“Marshal Minalan,” he replied, evenly, through the bars of his helmet.  His eye caught mine.  “I thought it best to heed your advice.”

“May I ask what finally compelled you?” I inquired, quietly.  He made a face.

“To be frank?  It was the thought of facing Mother and explaining my failure.  And telling my wife her home was in danger of assault again.  I figured death on the battlefield was preferable to either.”

I gave him a respectful nod.  “Thank you for waking up, Tavard,” I said, keeping my tone low.  “We need you.”

We didn’t, really, but he needed to hear that from me.

Soon enough we were moving across the barren fields, the noses of our horses sending out clouds of steam in the starlight.  The battle was ahead, we could see, as Terleman’s force struck and gouts of flame and magical lightning began brightening the darkness.  It was a new moon, and partially overcast.  Almost all of us were using Cat’s Eye spells or similar means to regard the battlefield clearly.

And then we smelled the distinctive odor of giant spiders.  I manifested Avalanche and readied my mageblade.  I could feel another ancient memory begin to assert itself as we sighted the first great lumbering shape of a female Paranchek, and I fretted about who would come to me in this important hour.  I feared the useless Palgrave, or the studious Saram, or the good-hearted Umank.

But I was gratified.  The cold, vengeful spirit of Tuaa Folauga descended upon my mind as the first of his ancient enemies turned to face me.  Memories of the Paranchek from a million years ago fighting across a hundred worlds filled my imagination.  The icy surge of hatred rose in my stomach as I prepared myself to strike.

Tonight would be a good night, I knew as I raised my spells.  I might not survive, but it would be a good night.

***

The battle by starlight was long, vicious, and as chaotic as any I have fought.  When my small army of warmagi spread out and loosed their spells on the Paranchek from behind, the element of surprise became meaningless.  They saw us coming or could sense us through the ground.  They were prepared to meet us.

But we did not care.  We laid into the arachnoids with righteous fury.  From the first engagement to the last, the full power of the magi was unleashed on the spiders unrestrained by such constraints as honor or mercy.  They were bugs, bugs that were a danger, and there was no hesitation among my men in treating them as such.  Gouts of flame and fields of arcane force went flying in a profound display of destruction.

The Paranchek fought hard, of course.  That was what they had been bred to do, slay for their masters.  All day they had done just that, meticulously moving the battered army away from their camp and into the empty fields, enduring flights of arrows and crossbow bolts, and proving to the knights how useless a cavalry charge was against webs and fangs.

What was left of Tavard’s army was more of an armed mob by the time we attacked.  They had exhausted their arrows in largely futile volleys against the spiders as they advanced.  Indeed, the Paranchek had quickly learned the value of a sheet of webbing outstretched in their front legs to shield them from the shafts.  Most of the horses had been slain or were terrified and exhausted by the constant fight and persistent retreat.

But when we hit the rear of the line and started forcing an opening in it, the beleaguered men rallied.  An hour after the first assault Tavard rode bravely at the head of nearly a thousand fresh cavalry to help screen them and encourage their escape through the hole toward safety.  As exhausted as they were, they took to their feet as soon as they had the chance.

I had little time to notice it, however.  I was killing spiders.

The memories of that night have little coherence to me, and instead present themselves in distinct flashes of combat.  The Paranchek did not keep to their lines. Once we hit them, they devolved into individual battles against the new – and unexpectedly energetic – threat that struck them from the rear.  A succession of visions emerged of that battle, scenes in which individual acts of heroism and episodes of valor burned into my mind, while the rest remains a blur.

Terleman, rallying his smaller force for repeated cavalry attacks against the southern flank.  Tyndal, with his warwands projecting molten iron ingots onto the great abdomens of the females, sending them into burning, shrieking agony.  Sarakeem standing – standing! – in his horse’s saddle at a full gallop sending one exploding shaft after another into the flanks of a monstrous spider.  Caswallon leaping on the back of a ferocious male, plying his mageblade while he shouted vainglorious oaths about the beast’s unlikely ancestry.  Wenek getting stabbed by a claw through his thigh even as he beat a spider in the face with his mace.  Ormar bravely cramming a parcel of his chemicals into the jaws of a monster and laughing in delight as its head exploded a moment later.  Rondal leading a surprise sally to protect the flank of Tavard’s retreating army against a trio of aggressive males.

At one point Azar and Noutha charged two females with the Megelini Knights, sending powerful bolts of arcane power to harass them as the mounted warmagi and their mundane fellows attacked the legs and tails of the beasts.  Azar was thrown from his mount, forcing Noutha to defend her new husband ferociously until he could regain his feet.  Soon enough they were standing atop the quivering corpse of the smoldering spider, triumphant.

But for the most part, I didn’t pay much attention to the battle as a whole, as I was too busy trying to stay alive myself and place myself where I would do the most good.  Avalanche raged against the enemy, its eldritch tip crackling with power as I plied its force against them.

Tuaa Folauga’s talent for tactical action took over my thoughts as I directed my forces at each new threat.  I was here to kill the Paranchek, and the vicious hatred that the ancient warrior had for the things fueled my assault.  The moment I had helped slay one I began looking for another.  They were a blight, I knew, a disease on the world that had to be eradicated.  They were the tools of evil beings, perverted from their original vicious form to be perfect killers.  I was there to demonstrate there was a more perfect killer in the world, now.

One by one they fell . . . and when it became clear to all that the momentum of the fight was with us, the Nemovorti relented of whatever clever plan they had entertained.  The shambling army of the recently dead that they had revived charged us from the west, moving down the gentle slope that led to Darkfaller Village to try to engage the sparks that were slaughtering Mycin Amana’s precious bugs.  In retrospect, it was a move of desperation.  But it did force us to face an entirely different foe with different weaknesses and strengths.

But Tuaa Folauga and I were not about to let the undead disrupt the wanton display of offensive magic we were creating.  I rode to face the undead army with a company of thirty and began to screen the rest of the battle from them.  My men quickly erected what arcane barriers they could, while I regarded the dull faces of the charging corpses that assailed us.

That was when I turned the full power of Avalanche upon them.

Using the Magolith to borrow power directly from the Snowflake I conjured a caustic stream of vibrant force tuned to disrupt the necromantic spell that animated them.  For nearly an hour I blasted the bodies of dead men into senseless pulp with bolt after destructive bolt of energy.  The Nemovorti called for their wyverns to harass us from above.  I turned my attention on them long enough to throw them into chaos with powerful wind, while my comrades blasted them out of the sky.  Then we returned our attention to the undead.

I was almost startled when the sky to the east began to lighten, I was so preoccupied with the fight.  There seemed no end of the enemy . . . until there was.  Suddenly in the morning gloom, I realized that the corpses in front of me did not dare move, anymore, and the stench of burning spiders was overwhelming the smell of decomposing bodies.  But there were no more foes nearby.

Minalan, the last of the survivors have gone through, Mavone informed me, a moment later.  Tavard himself insisted on being the last to cross the portal.  It’s time to go, he suggested.

Go? I asked in a daze.  You mean, retreat?

I mean leave the field after a stunning victory, he corrected.  Terleman called on me a few minutes ago to suggest it.  He is collecting the wounded and making his way back to the archway.  I think it’s time we left, he advised.

I . . . all right, I decided, as I surveyed the field in the twilight gloom.  There were few active battles going on, now.  Knots of warmagi were coming together as they slowly dragged themselves away from the great corpses they had spent the night creating.  All right, I repeated.  Sound the withdrawal.  I guess . . . I guess we won, I admitted.

We did, he assured me.  But we have casualties.  A lot of casualties.  Let's get them off the field quickly, before that bitch can send more of her devilry out to hit us while we’re exhausted.  I’ll tell Pentandra to send the order.

I don’t remember too much, after that.  I made my way toward the distant arch, my horse not much more lively than I was.  It had been an exhausting fight, after an exhausting day.  My body and mind were wrung out.

It was dawn, again, and I had not slept since I’d witnessed the last one.  Tuaa Folauga was quietly satisfied with the toll.  I wanted nothing more than sleep and a refuge from my horrific memories.  There was enough fodder in that long night to fuel a lifetime of nightmares, but I was willing to risk it for the chance at rest.  With Darkfaller looming over my shoulder, I made my way to escape from the terror of the night.

We had won a battle that should not have taken place.  We lost men who should not have died because of one man’s vanity and ambition.  We had stopped an assault that should never have happened because of one vengeful Alka Alon’s willingness to destroy in order to impress her master.

But Castabriel was saved.  The kingdom was preserved.  The Marshal Arcane had fulfilled his duty.

We had won.

Chapter Forty-Five

Talk Of The Future

A week after the battle, I was cleaning out my old workshop.

It was a bittersweet moment.  It had been almost a decade since I’d turned the old Riverlord refuge tower at the back of the castle into a crude laboratory and library.  As I sorted through the accumulated junk and debris and packed it into baskets or hoxter pockets, memories arose around each unique item.

So much had happened here, I reflected.  The struggle to raise Sevendor’s fortunes.  The birth of my son and the simultaneous discovery of snowstone had happened in the chamber below.  Quiet wintertime nights snuggled with Alya.  The first advanced enchantments I’d created.  The awakening of Forseti.  Visits from gods and peasants and emissaries and lords.  My children playing on the floor while I wrestled with some new thaumaturgical problem.  Tyndal and Rondal and their adolescent squabbles.  Dara painstakingly learning the craft of reading and writing.  All of it blended together to remind me of what had made me the Spellmonger of fame and fable.  Much of it had originated from this old tower.

I was older, now, and arguably more mature.  I was far richer now than I had been when I’d come here.  I had arrived here a mere magelord, among the first of that rank.  I was leaving as Count Palatine, Baron and Marshal Arcane of the entire kingdom.  That sort of difference can make a man reflective and nostalgic.  It was hard to believe I had made such progress in such a short time.

But it needed to be done.  As my stature in the world had risen, it was clear that I had outgrown the simple, shabby comfort of this chamber.  The equipment and old notes seemed almost quaint, compared to the battery of new workshops, libraries, and experimental chambers that now existed in the mountain fortress.  Those were the most advanced thaumaturgical facilities in the world.  This was a dusty old workshop more suitable for a village spellmonger, not a Marshal Arcane.

“Master?” Ruderal called from the doorway.  “He’s arrived.”

“Send him in, Rudy,” I said, hefting the overfull basket from the worktable.  “And go ahead and take this down to the wagon.”

My apprentice groaned but dutifully hefted the basket and headed down.  He had grown by six inches since he’d come to Sevendor.  His chest was much broader, and he had filled out into a handsome young man, I noted.

He still had a lot of learning to do, but the time was near when he could finally sit for his examinations and be discharged from his apprenticeship as Tyndal, Rondal, and Dara had before him.  It was remarkable to me that within the same time I was marveling about my own progress, Ruderal had gone from being a scrawny young boy living in the shadow of a sewer to becoming one of the most accomplished magi in the kingdom.  Fate is a funny thing.

“Uncle Min?” came a tentative call from the doorway.  “Can I . . . ?”

“Come in, come in, Larask,” I answered, as welcomingly as I could.  “Have a seat,” I said, pointing to the battered old stool upon which each of my apprentices had perched over the years.  “I wanted a word with you.”

“About what?” he asked, guardedly.  “Am I in trouble?”

“No, no, not at all,” I sighed.  “But I thought it would be a good time to discuss a few things with you.  About your future.”

That did not seem to mollify the boy in the slightest.  Instead, he seemed to look even more troubled as he took the seat obediently.

“My . . . future,” he sighed.  “I always thought I’d become a baker, like my dad.”

I chuckled.  “I did, too, at your age.  Then the gods and rajira intervened,” I said, apologetically.  “And then a war, and then a hard life, and then a girl.  We rarely get what we expect out of life,” I advised.

“So, what about my future?” Larask asked.

“Well, you do have an abundance of rajira,” I pointed out.  “That should be trained.  Indeed, it must be, if you are not going to be a danger to yourself or others.  That was going to be arranged, I’m told, until the events of the Magic Fair happened.”

“And I got to sleep in a dungeon for a couple of weeks,” he shuddered.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that,” I said sincerely.  “You began your career as a wizard with an adventure, there is no doubt.  Thankfully you survived it.  Now it’s time to look forward.  Into your future.”

“Are you going to scry or something?” he asked, confused.  “Are you going to look into the future and see what happens to me?”

I chuckled again.  “Nothing so mystical, I’m afraid.  I think that you will learn that such spells are not particularly useful when it comes to that sort of thing.  More often they steer us perversely into episodes that our foreknowledge makes us want to avoid.  No, we shall do this the normal way: considering your Talent, your interests, and your opportunities.  Do you want to be a wizard?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Larask looked confused.  I knew that expression because my sister Ladra – his mother – shared it.  But he also looked a lot like my father.  “I . . . I don’t know,” he confessed.  “I wanted to be a baker, but if I have to be a wizard . . .”

“Well, you don’t have to be a wizard,” I conceded.  “You could learn enough about your Talent to be safe and then go into baking if you’d like.  I daresay it would be safer and more secure,” I admitted.  “But then you might find yourself missing out on some things you might regret, later in life.”

“Like wars and magic and goblins and dragons and giant spiders,” he suggested, sourly.

“Not necessarily.  My education and career are more of an exception than the rule.  But to be a wizard is a difficult undertaking,” I acknowledged.  “It is more than merely learning Imperial magic.  These days it is much more.  And in the future, it will be much more than we can imagine.  A wizard is a ‘man who knows’,” I explained.  “That’s its essence – not magic, but wisdom.  Knowledge, you see, is a power all its own.  It takes intelligence to acquire, diligence to maintain, and great insight to turn it to use.  Yet there is much to be said for being a wizard.”

He looked skeptical, which surprised me.  He had grown up in Sevendor around wizards.  I had anticipated he would be more eager at the chance.

“Do you think I’m smart enough to be a wizard?” he asked, hesitantly.  “My sisters say I’m slow.”

“Mine said as much about me,” I laughed.  “I think that’s the opinion of all sisters.  But from what I know of you, you have every bit of the intellect you need to learn what you need to.  Reading, writing, magic, history, alchemy, spellcraft, thaumaturgy, enchantment, and all the many things you will need to know.  The question isn’t whether or not you are smart enough, but how you want to go about it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

“Well, I could send you off to Inrion Academy, or even Alar, off in Wenshar, or start you with the new students in Vanador,” I offered.  “Or I could arrange for an apprenticeship with any number of qualified masters.  Indeed, Master Thinradel will soon be using this entire castle to house the new Sevendor Academy,” I reminded him.  “That’s why I’m clearing out my junk.  Or,” I continued, after a pause, “you could consider apprenticing to family.  To me,” I suggested.

“Become your apprentice?” he asked, surprised.  “But I thought you were important!”

That made me laugh outright.  “So do a good many other people,” I agreed.  “And I suppose I am.  But I am also a family man, and as your uncle I feel an obligation to offer you the best chance you could have for your education.  Indeed, in a few years, I expect that your cousins will all study with me if they are blessed with Talent.  But I would be remiss in my duty to your mother and our family if I didn’t offer you the same chance.  Family is everything, no matter what profession you practice.”

Larask considered the matter, making the sort of face a twelve-year-old makes when he wants to show you how hard he is thinking.  “What would I have to do?” he finally asked, cautiously.

“Well, you would be trained into my service, like Ruderal,” I pointed out.

“I like Rudy,” he nodded.

“You would also be taught how to manifest and control your powers – safely!” I added.  “You would learn the basic laws of magic, their history and use, and the rules for using them.  You would learn to read and write and be expected to do both.  You would learn to cast spells.  You would learn to do elementary enchantments.  In many ways, it would be just like any apprenticeship in any profession.

“But in many other ways it would be different,” I continued.  “If you were to be entered into my service, much greater things will be required of you.  Ruderal was involved in a war with Sashtalia within months of taking his apprenticeship.  And that was far from the most harrowing part of his journey.  Tyndal and Rondal were fighting off hordes of goblins within the year and wielding irionite long before anyone else.  Lenodara the Hawkmaiden fought a dragon within months of becoming my apprentice,” I reminded him.  “In each case, they thought their education would be somewhat boring.  In each case they found themselves thrust into greatness instead.”

“Greatness,” he sighed.  “That’s what . . . I guess that’s what I’m worried about,” he admitted, guiltily.  “Those are all heroes.  They became great, like you did.  What if I can’t do that?”

I shrugged.  “Don’t you think they had doubts about it as well, even as it was happening to them?  None of them sought greatness – well, except perhaps for Tyndal.  Their association with me and my adventures forced them to do what needed to be done, and their greatness resulted from that.  Tyndal became a great warrior and leader of men.  Rondal became an adept spy and agent of his duke.  Dara founded an entirely new kind of warfare with her Sky Riders and saw her mews go from one giant hawk to hundreds.  Ruderal . . . well, I don’t want to tell a story he should tell you himself, but if he’s not as acclaimed as his predecessors, he’s managed to distinguish himself just as admirably.

“My point, Larask, is that each of them was forged by their choices as wizards and as good people.  Fortune had conspired to challenge them with some powerful difficulties, but they used what they had learned and they persisted.

“If you take your apprenticeship with me, you will meet princes and kings and the nobility of the Fair Folk.  You will be expected to comport yourself as a servant of the Spellmonger, with all that the name entails.  You will have abundant opportunities to get yourself killed and get yourself noted.  It will not, I’m afraid, be a standard apprenticeship.  But it could prove incredibly worthwhile,” I promised.

“That seems like . . . like a lot,” he decided.  “I don’t really feel like I’m good enough for that.”

“No one does,” I agreed.  “I didn’t think I was good enough to attend Inarion when I got my appointment at your age.  Hells, I didn’t think I was good enough to just be a normal apprentice.  But you are a bright young man, and the fact that you are actually giving this some thought is encouraging.  Most of us didn’t, at your age.

“But don’t think that being my apprentice leads automatically to greatness,” I continued, as I began to load my pipe.  “I’ve gotten lucky, so far.  I’m hoping that the days ahead are more serene than the days past, but there are no guarantees.  You might just muddle through and avoid certain death long enough to sit for your examinations and then go forth into the world to craft the life you want.  Greatness, like wisdom, always exacts a price.  Not everyone is willing to pay it,” I said, as I charmed the pipe into a good smolder.  “That’s not a judgment on you, either.  Indeed, an attempt to avoid greatness might be the wisest thing you ever considered.”

“But doesn’t it feel good that everyone knows who you are?  That you’re rich?” he asked, searchingly.  “That you’re powerful?  I mean, you’re a count, and that’s almost a duke, and that’s almost a prince or a king.  It doesn’t get much greater than that.”

“You might be surprised that I would be just as happy being a regular village spellmonger like I originally intended to,” I informed him.  He seemed surprised at the admission.  “Being great is a lot of work.  It sets people’s expectations of you quite high, and that can be difficult to live up to.  For every victory, there’s a defeat.  For every triumph, there’s a failure.  Greatness is overrated if you want to know the truth.  The price of fame, riches, titles, and lands is heavy: responsibility,” I said, enunciating the word for emphasis.  “It would be far easier curing warts and finding lost cows than fighting evil and saving the world.  But then, if I didn’t do it, who would?”

“And you think I can do all that?” he asked, skeptically.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, as I blew a smoke ring, just for the fun of it.  “It will depend entirely on what challenges the gods throw in your path.  The problem is that there are always challenges, whether you are a simple spellmonger or the great Spellmonger in his white mountain fortress.  You can’t escape those.  But what you can do is figure out how best to prepare yourself to meet them.”

“But you fight wars and such,” he pointed out, anxiously.  “Would I have to do that?”

“You might have to fight a war as a baker’s son,” I reminded him.  “We don’t often get a choice.  I hope you won’t have to fight, and I prefer that you didn’t, but the cold fact is that war often comes to you, when you’re a wizard.  The question is whether or not you are ready to fight in one.  But you needn’t become a warmage like Tyndal or Rondal.  There are many disciplines in magic that might take your fancy.  Or you might decide you like the thrill of battle – some men do.  And yes, it is dangerous.  My friend Wenek lost a leg when we fought the spiders in Darkfaller.  My friend Taren was almost killed – again.  A good number of great heroes did die in that fight.  And there is always another fight ahead.”

“How about . . . money?” he asked, which surprised me.  It shouldn’t have.  I think every child is concerned with money if they don’t understand it.

“You will be well taken care of,” I assured.  “One of the other advantages to being my apprentice is exposure to as much luxury as there is hardship.  Such things will fade in importance as you learn the craft.  Nor does being my apprentice mean easy times.  The expectations of you will be high simply because you are my apprentice.  The question, I think, is whether or not you’re willing to undergo the difficulties involved in order to achieve what you want out of the opportunity.”

Larask once again sank into thought.  I let him think in silence while I smoked.  A decision this important should be accorded appropriate time to make.

“Uncle Min?  What would you do?” he asked, unexpectedly.  “If you were me, I mean.  I don’t think I’m particularly great, but I am . . . curious,” he admitted.  “I see what the wizards can do.  It looks interesting.  It also looks hard.  There are a lot of books and things involved.  And a lot of stuff I don’t even understand.  But if you were me, what would you do?”

I sighed.  “Larask, I wish I could tell you that life as my apprentice was rich and rewarding and without danger, but the opposite is often true.  But once that is established, I also have to consider that you could end up doing things no other boy your age can dream of.

“We live in exciting times, at the moment, and that could mean anything could happen, good or ill.  There will be adventures, real adventures, where your life will be on the line.  There will be times you will regret accepting my offer, I can assure you.  But I think you’ll find that if you study with your uncle, you will have opportunities that most men would envy.

“For example, in another month or so I will be meeting with King Rard and Queen Grendine about this Darkfaller matter.  You’ll have to meet the nonhuman folk of our world and learn their ways, and that can be frustrating as well as rewarding.  I will have to go to distant Farise, sooner or later, and I’m sure my apprentices will go with me.  There is a lot involved: travel, exotic locales, scary monsters, evil dark lords, talking dragons, mysterious ladies, and danger and excitement.  But opportunity most of all.  That and a good education are about all I can promise you’ll have.”

“You don’t sound very encouraging about it,” he pointed out.

“In truth, I’m as scared of disappointing your mother as anything,” I conceded.  “She’s already faced losing you once, and you aren’t even a wizard yet.  If anything, things will get worse before they get better.  But if I can keep an eye on you and your progress, I can possibly see you survive to become a man of quality; the kind of man your grandfather wants to see you become.  That’s far more important than greatness,  power, or riches.  But the choice is yours,” I sighed.  “I don’t want to pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

He thought little longer, and I wondered what thoughts were whirring through his mind.  Saram was quietly haunting my soul that day, and her influence as an educator was coloring my perspective.  But then some other thought seemed to trip the boy up.

“Uncle Min?  People say you are mad,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.  “That you’re really crazy.  That you . . . hear voices and do things that aren’t . . . well . . .” he trailed off.

“I might be,” I conceded.  “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.  And the madness will pass, what is left of it.  It was a price I paid for wisdom, once.  A hefty one, but I paid it gladly for what I got in return.  I’m not mad all the time, though, just every now and then.  I’ve mostly got it under control,” I said, more to convince myself than the boy.  “I daresay any master you may take could turn out mad.  Or just bad.  This way, you at least know what kind of madness you face.”

“All right,” he said, finally.  “I’ve decided.  I want to be your apprentice,” he declared.  “I don’t know if I’m good enough to be great, or smart enough to be wise, but I might as well try,” he decided.  “If I’m completely terrible at it, I can always go back to kneading dough.”

“Good lad!” I grinned around my pipestem.  “I was hoping you would consider my offer.  Go tell your mother, and I’ll have your apprenticeship papers drawn up.  I’ll even get you a chamber in the new castle – you can share Rudy’s room until I do.  He’ll be teaching you the basics for a while, anyway, while we get settled in.  And then next year when the Academy opens here, we can see about you taking some classes.  We can begin in earnest in a few days,” I promised.

“Thank you, Uncle Min!” he said, sliding off his stool, relieved.

“Actually, from now on I’m not your uncle, I’m your master,” I corrected him as I embraced the boy.  “Now go tell your family the news.  And pack your things.  Your adventure begins sooner than you think.”

As the boy rushed off in his excitement, I looked at the remaining junk in my workshop and sighed.  There seemed no end to it.  But I had helped Larask figure out the next step in his life, and I felt gratified by that . . . and terrified.  I had not been jesting about his chances.  Life as my apprentice is dangerous, and I never wanted to have to face Ladra again with ill news.

That, I decided, was the real mystery in what I had been through these last few years.  I had achieved greatness, of a sort.  And there was a price for that.  Unfortunately, that price was too often paid not by you, but by those around you.  I thought about all the trials and tragedies the people in my life had endured because of me and the life that had been thrust upon me.

My family.  My beloved wife.  My friends and colleagues.  Even when their association with me had elevated their lives, it had exacted a price.  My madness was bearable compared to the thought that I had caused them to suffer.  My only solace was that I had not done so maliciously.  I had tried to take care of my people the best I could under trying circumstances.

Perhaps, I considered, as I pushed the rest of the stuff into a hoxter pocket to be sorted through later, that was the only measure of greatness that really mattered.

The End

Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Chapter Forty-Three
- Chapter Forty-Four
- Chapter Forty-Five