The Congruent Wizard (The Congruent Mage Series Book 2)

by Dave Schroeder

  Duke Háiddon noticed Hibblig’s odd movements.

  “There’s a privy past the king’s heavy cavalry and twenty yards to the rear,” said the duke. “Don’t be gone too long and watch your step, especially near the horses.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” said Hibblig. He spared a moment to scan the northern horizon again and lingered at some sort of thrown-together log platform before moving off in the direction the duke had indicated. He forgot to look down until it was too late and grimaced as he wiped the sole of his boot on a rock.

  “No great loss,” whispered Dârio to Háiddon as his mother’s favorite wizard walked away.

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” the Duke replied. “No losses at all, and no injuries except for the odd sprained ankle or broken arm soldiers get on every campaign.”

  “I meant it was no great loss to have Hibblig leave,” said Dârio. “The man’s lip prints are all over my mother’s…”

  “Behind you, Your Majesty,” said Inthíra. “Turn around, please. You’ve got a visitor.”

  Dârio turned and flashed a broad smile.

  “Eynon! Welcome!” said the king. “This is no visitor, Inthíra. This is Eynon, from the Coombe, the architect of our victory. He’s an honored guest. Hail Eynon!”

  Several nearby soldiers who’d been listening to Dârio sent up a ragged cheer of “Hail Eynon!” but it faded fast, since they had no idea what someone named Eynon had done to deserve praise.

  Eynon’s cheeks turned red. He wasn’t used to compliments from royalty.

  “No need for that, Your Majesty,” said Eynon after a deep breath. “I came to report—and to see the wisents rout Tamloch’s army.”

  “I can understand that,” said Dârio. “Every genius likes to see his plans realized—but you’re too late. Inthíra says her scout-wizards tell her Tamloch’s army is demoralized and neutralized, skating around on the frozen Brenavon with enough wisents to feed the kingdom for half a year. I’ll have to come up with a suitable reward for your service, Eynon of the Coombe.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Eynon. He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks again and blurted out something he knew he shouldn’t say. “I live in the Coombe, Sire, but that’s not where I consider I’m from. I’m Eynon of Haywall. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  “Of course I have,” said Dârio. “From maps, anyway. A king must know the land he rules. Haywall is east of Wherrel, in the central Coombe. You’re part of the barony of Cadelluin. How is old Whats-His-Name?”

  “The baron?” asked Eynon. “I’ve never met him.”

  “His loss,” said Dârio.

  Eynon was confused and pleased. He never expected King Dârio to have heard of Haywall and was happy the wisent stampede had worked so well.

  “Nûd gave me the idea,” said Eynon. “He showed me the wisent herd back in Melyncárreg and said we needed to come up with a few surprises of our own. I just put the pieces together.”

  “I’ll have to come up with a suitable reward for Nûd, too,” said the king. “Where is he? And where’s that wyvern of yours? And Merry, for that matter? I expected her to be standing hip to hip with you.”

  “There they are,” said Eynon, pointing over Dârio’s head.

  The king, Duke Háiddon, and most of the people nearby followed Eynon’s outstretched arm to see a black wyvern and a single wizard on a flying disk gliding toward the army. Archers near the king cocked their bows and nocked quarrels.

  “Stand down,” said Dario, adding a gesture with both hands pushing toward the ground. “Inthíra, signal to them that it’s safe to land.”

  Eynon laughed when he saw Inthíra’s signal. The curly-haired wizard created a blue-tinted solidified sound construct in the shape of a giant hand and used it to beckon his friends down. He waved to Merry and she waved back. As Rocky and Nûd got closer, Eynon spotted his raconette familiar waving, too.

  “Chee’s here, too, Sire,” he told the king.

  “Fetch my arming cap, please,” said Dârio. “Better keep my helm nearby, too.” A pair of royal attendants rushed off to fulfill their king’s request.

  Eynon could understand why Dârio, with his shaved head, especially needed a padded arming cap under his helm, then he made the connection to his announcement of Chee’s impending arrival.

  “Don’t want your head polished today?” he asked the king.

  “Precisely,” said Dârio.

  There was plenty of space in front of them for Rocky to land. Merry touched down gently beside the wyvern, put her flying disk on her back, and ran to meet Eynon. He’d stepped out from the royal entourage to greet her and they embraced.

  “It worked beautifully,” said Merry. “The whole herd ran straight down the valley toward the gate. Nûd said that was their usual migration path to their other grazing grounds.”

  “Wonderful,” said Eynon.

  “Me, or your plan?” teased Merry.

  “Both,” said Eynon.

  Nûd joined them and Eynon gave him a hug as well.

  “Thanks for your help,” he told his friend. “I hope Rocky followed instructions.”

  “He’s a good wyvern,” said Nûd.

  Rocky stretched out his head close enough for Nûd to rub one side of his jaw, then nudged Eynon.

  “Who’s a good boy,” said Eynon, rubbing the other side.

  The wyvern let out a satisfied rumble from his chest, then turned and took to the air again. He’d spotted another stray wisent and set off for an early feast of his own that didn’t require hours of roasting.

  Chee had jumped from Rocky’s back to Nûd’s shoulder moments earlier. Now he shifted to his usual spot on Eynon’s shoulder and eyed the king’s shaved head as Eynon, Nûd and Merry walked across the trampled grass to join the king and the others around him. When Eynon was close enough to Dârio, Chee pushed off and landed on the king’s shoulder.

  Before Chee could start polishing Dârio’s head, a nearby retainer handed the king a small cloth bag. Dârio dangled it in front of Chee.

  “Want some dried cherries, little fellow?” asked the king, who knew it was a rhetorical question. Chee grabbed the bag, kissed the top of Dârio’s head, and jumped back to Eynon. The raconette hid himself in the space on top of Eynon’s pack, partially enclosed by the upper section of his flying disk. From time to time, Eynon could hear contented sounds of chee-chee-chee behind him.

  Eynon had another chance to see Nûd and Dârio together, standing just a few feet apart. The resemblance between the two men was striking. Eynon told himself he’d ask Nûd about it later, in private. The old made-up stories he’d heard and read were full of illegitimate royal children and he didn’t want to embarrass his friend by asking about it in public.

  Merry didn’t seem concerned by how much the two men looked alike. She was talking to the king.

  “Hi Dârio,” said Merry. “You look good in armor.”

  Eynon saw Duke Háiddon hide a smile, then a smiled himself when he watched a young woman with brown hair step out from behind the duke to stand beside Dârio. She was poised in a way the girls back in the Coombe could never be, and wore a sky-blue leather jacket over a wine-colored shirt and practical black pants tucked into high black boots. He was surprised to see someone who clearly wasn’t a soldier or a wizard here with the king on the battlefield, but assumed it was as safe to be here as anywhere, given that Tamloch’s army was skating on not-so-thin ice to the east.

  “Who’s this?” asked the young woman, indicating Merry.

  “Jenet, meet Merry, Merry—Jenet,” said Dârio. “She’s with Eynon.”

  Eynon put his arm around Merry’s shoulders and smiled at Jenet. Merry looked up at Eynon with a different kind of smile, pleased he was more interested in her than Jenet.

  “Any friend of Dârio’s is a friend of mine,” said Merry.

  “I look forward to getting to know you,” said Jenet.

  The king put his arm around the newcomer. “Jenet is my
favorite shah-mat partner,” he said.

  Duke Háiddon cleared his throat.

  “Since we’re all friends here,” said Dârio, “didn’t you say something about coming here to make a report, Eynon?”

  “Of course. I forgot,” Eynon replied. “I’m here to tell you we dealt with Verro’s surprise—an attack from the rear by barbarians from the southern Clan Lands.”

  “Dealt with?” asked Duke Háiddon. “The southern clans could raise a large force. Did Verro build a wide gate like Fercha did for the legions?”

  “Exactly,” said Eynon. “I had a lot of energy stored in my magestone from freezing the river.”

  He looked at Dârio, who nodded, remembering how much Eynon’s unusual magestone had been pulsing.

  “So I went through the gate and released it all at once,” Eynon continued. “A couple of thousand Clan Landers got through, but some friends are taking care of them before they can reach our encampment.”

  “Let me guess,” said the king. “You offered Bjarni and Signý’s warriors a bit of sport?”

  “I told Sigrun and Rannveigr,” Eynon replied.

  Dârio laughed. “I can figure out the rest,” he said.

  Duke Háiddon stepped in front of Eynon and offered his hand. The two men shook.

  “Congratulations, lad,” said the duke. “Not many men can defeat two armies on a single day. Verro is reputed to be a powerful wizard, but you ruined his surprise.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” came a new voice from the spot where Rocky had landed. A tall green-robed wizard with dark hair who looked a lot like Nûd and Dârio was speaking. He’d been the leader of the attack at the quarry the previous morning. A dozen experienced wizards, also in green robes, surrounded him. The interface of a gate the size of the double doors of the Blue Spiral Tower back in Melyncárreg shimmered behind them.

  As if imitating Inthíra, Verro created a green-tinted hand of solidified sound that he used to grab Dârio, lift him over his guards, and firmly hold the young king in place beside him. A thick tendril of force extruded itself from the green hand’s wrist, encircled Dârio’s neck, and tightened until the young king could barely breathe.

  “Verro,” said Merry softly. It was quiet enough that everyone heard her.

  Eynon reached for his setting and raised his magestone. He launched seven streamers of red fire high into the air.

  Chapter 72

  Doethan and Salder

  Doethan was surprised it hadn’t been Eynon’s ring vibrating. Instead, it was the counterpart of the ring he’d given Salder, Merry’s brother. His old friend Derry was Salder’s father and Doethan had advised and assisted the young man as he spied on the court in Riyas.

  I hope it’s not something serious, thought Doethan. Salder’s true profession couldn’t have been discovered. They’d never let him keep his rings if it had. Doethan knew Salder carried rings linked to Damon and Astrí as well, and was pleased the lad had chosen to contact him.

  “Hello, young man,” said Doethan as the image on the other side of the expanded ring’s connection grew clearer. “How are things in Riyas?”

  “I’m not in Riyas, Uncle Doethan,” said Salder. “I’m in Dâron, south of Brendinas along the Brenavon. Were those stampeding wisents your doing or Damon’s?”

  “I’m there, too,” said Doethan. “Just south of the Dâron army’s encampment. Unfortunately, the wisents weren’t my idea.”

  “Damon, then,” said Salder. “What a brilliant idea. I’d compliment the old man if his head wasn’t big enough already.”

  “It wasn’t Damon either,” said Doethan. “It was Merry’s new friend, Eynon.”

  “Wonderful,” said Salder. “I’d be glad to give him a compliment. Her friend’s plan with the wisents was more successful than you might realize.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Doethan.

  “Tibbo, Tannis and I are standing at the base of a wooden tower,” said Salder. “There’s a royal observation platform at the top. We gave cider laced with sleeping drugs to the guards at the base. King Túathal, Princess Gwýnnett, and Duke Néillen are above, with only a pair of wizards to protect them. A small force should be able to capture them.”

  “Then shah-mat,” said Doethan. “Checkmate.”

  “Exactly,” said Salder. “Hurry.”

  “On my way,” said Doethan.

  He closed the connection and found the ring that paired with one he’d given Inthíra. She’d be closest and would have the most resources. He tried three times, but she didn’t answer.

  Doethan changed his course from north to northwest. He knew where he could find eight wizards who weren’t busy with other assignments.

  * * * * *

  The eight mages protecting both sides of the gate to Melyncárreg had been happy to hear the rampaging wisents had totally disrupted Tamloch’s army. They hadn’t been given additional instruction after the last beasts had crossed over and had been taking turns passing through the gate themselves to admire the mountains of Melyncárreg as the first rays of dawn caught their snow-capped peaks. They were all pleased to accompany Doethan to the temporary Tamloch observation tower, once Doethan had told them who was on top.

  They circled in quietly from the north, since Doethan assumed Túathal and the rest would be looking south at their enemy or east at their lost army on the ice. He warned them to take particular care with Princess Gwýnnett, since Salder’s previous reports had confirmed her loyalty was to herself, not Dâron.

  Salder, Tibbo and Tannis met Doethan and the eight blue-robed wizards at the base of the tower. Sleeping guards in green livery were propped up against log uprights. Some were snoring. Salder explained his plan in whispers. Doethan and the eight wizards nodded. They all moved out of sight below the observation tower.

  A few moments later, Salder started up the stairs to the platform at the top. He carried an opened bottle of wine, but didn’t need to bring goblets. Tairí had delivered them earlier, at Duke Néillen’s command. On an earlier trip, he’d seen the goblets and the unopened bottle of red from the Isle of Vines, meant to mark Tamloch’s victory, remained untouched on an empty wooden crate serving as a table at the back of the platform. Several other crates had been carried to the top of the platform to provide makeshift chairs as well.

  Uirsé was the only person on the platform to note Salder’s arrival. King Túathal was next to Duke Néillen looking out to the southeast at the last of the wisent herd. Their panic had ended and several hundred of the massive beasts were calmly eating grass on the would-be battlefield.

  The king was anything but calm, however. He was yelling insults at Duke Néillen with occasional digressions to note the shortcomings of Tamloch’s Master Mage and his lack of foresight.

  Duke Néillen stood stoically, letting King Túathal’s insults bounce off him like pellets of hail. Uirsé didn’t like hearing the king berate Verro, especially when his brother wasn’t present to defend himself. She wondered if the duke had thoughts of throwing King Túathal over the edge of the platform. Uirsé knew she shouldn’t have similar thoughts, but she did.

  Tairí stood a few steps behind the king and duke, trying—like Uirsé—to be invisible.

  Princess Gwýnnett stood apart from the others. She looked south, toward Dâron’s army, and fingered one of the oversized rings on her left hand.

  She must be thinking about her son, thought Uirsé. I wonder if he’s more like my Salder—or Túathal?

  Had Uirsé truly been privy to Gwýnnett’s thoughts, she would have known the princess was thinking more about Túathal than Dârio. Gwýnnett had come to a decision. She didn’t need to be a queen. Being the mother of the king of two kingdoms would be enough.

  “Hello, my love,” said Salder quietly. Uirsé leaned against Salder’s side for a moment, enjoying his solid presence. Her feelings for Salder were one of the things that centered her and helped her cope with Túathal’s peremptory commands and tirades.

  “It’s been awful
here,” whispered Uirsé. “The king blames everyone but himself for his losses.”

  Salder put his mouth close to Uirsé’s ear. “I’m glad Túathal isn’t my king,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Uirsé.

  “I’ll explain it later,” said Salder. “Have a sip of wine straight from the bottle before I serve the others.”

  Uirsé looked at Salder, wide-eyed, like he was asking her to commit a crime—against proper manners, at least.

  “Let it be a small act of rebellion, my love,” said Salder.

  Uirsé took the bottle Salder offered. He’d removed the cork. She didn’t check the bottle for potions or poisons. Her beloved had shared it with her. She drank.

  Salder supported Uirsé with one arm as she slumped. He took the bottle from her hands with the other and eased Uirsé onto one of the empty crates with her back against the rear railing of the platform. Her features were relaxed. It looked like she’d simply fallen asleep. Salder hoped she’d forgive him when she woke.

  He kissed her forehead, squared his shoulders and crossed to the opposite side of the back of the platform to collect the goblets. They were still on the silver tray Tannis had given Tairí earlier. Salder hid the original unopened bottle of red behind the crate and filled three goblets with the wine he’d given Uirsé. He cleared his throat.

  “Your Majesty. Your Highness. Your Excellency. I’ve brought you wine,” said Salder in a loud voice that carried to the others below.

  “Wine would be good,” said Princess Gwýnnett. She turned toward Salder and he brought the tray of goblets full of wine toward her.

  “I’m your king. Serve me first,” said Túathal, summoning Salder to him with a wave of his hand. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Let the princess have her wine,” said Duke Néillen. “You can tell me more about my failings as a military commander while you wait.”