Rondal was beginning to understand. “A very small order, I take it,” he suggested. “Made up of only a few of the sons and daughters of the nobility - the relatively minor nobility,” he added.
“Sounds like the sort of place that collects a lot of ugly daughters and idiot sons,” Tyndal remarked.
“Just so,” Atopol grinned. “At least, that’s the image it projects. An ideal place for study into the deeper subjects of nature and the universe, and really gain an appreciation for all of the night’s activities. The original Saganites were astronomers, first and foremost, and this installation was apparently theirs in antiquity. When they learned of its discovery, back in Merwyn, they sent an expedition to recover it. It was largely their pleading that convinced the Count to grant it to them . . . with certain conditions.”
“Such as?”
“The village below the mountain is within the abbey’s estate, and subject to the abbot,” Atopol related, “the abbey and its holdings are exempt from taxes, tribute, and scutage. The abbot has rights within the count’s library, which extended to the Ducal libraries when the Narasi took over. The abbey is forever proof from search or the removal of its relics and scriptures, which are amongst the most ancient in all of Alshar.
“The abbot’s carriage - this is the important part, for us - can traverse the length of the county - and now duchy - without being stopped, as the venerable clerics within may be sleeping, due to their nocturnal activities. That is quite a handy ecclesiastical right,” he observed.
“The abbey has a duty to assist the Lord of the Waves’ Master of Navigation, the Court Wizard’s request for access to the archives, the Lord of the Field’s request for advice on calendrical matters, or any reasonable request from the court in the order’s obscure, cosmic, and utterly incomprehensible area of expertise - something that has not happened in a very long time.”
“And the members?”
“There is the academic wing,” said Atopol, “a colorful collection of sages happy to bend your ear for all of eternity about the nature of the Cosmos. They’re the original Saganites. The subsidiary order, the Nocturns, study other, more practical aspects of the night. The Saganites are the senior order, reserved for career clerics. The lower order focuses on . . . education and instruction,” he said, diplomatically, “as well as service. It is an open lay order, with obscure membership requirements and some truly bizarre initiatory rituals. So bizarre that very few outside of the legacy candidates are ever accepted.”
“Legacies from small but distinguished noble houses,” nodded Rondal. “Who I would imagine have no trouble appearing as, say, unfortunate looking daughters and idiot sons.”
“It’s a sad but necessary part of life in Alshar, alas,” Brother Atopol agreed, with mock sorry. “But convenient for those unfortunates who, for whatever reason, need the solace of a contemplative retreat for a period of time.”
What in nine hells are you two babbling about? Tyndal asked.
He’s taking us to the secret academy of shadowmagic, Rondal explained. It’s hiding in plain sight at the abbey. They use it as cover for moving things and people around the Duchy without detection, and use it as a front for hiding assets from taxation.
He said all of that? Really? Tyndal asked, impressed. You really are subtle, he praised.
Thanks. Now pretend to be bored and be wary for attack. Somehow I don’t think the Brotherhood is in the mood to respect ancient ecclesiastic tradition.
I’m ready, Tyndal assured, yawning, as Atopol explained some basic things about the obscure order.
“The abbot is known as the Nightfather, and the upper clergy as Nightbrothers and Nightsisters. Amongst the Nocturns, the Duskmother heads the Duskbrothers and Dusksisters. Those are the times when they are most active. The Nightbrothers wear black robes, the Duskbrothers’, gray. The Saganites and their archives are high above the village of Ejecta, where the Nocturns have their many halls and dormitories.”
“Fascinating,” nodded Rondal, impressed, imagining the role in history the secret college of shadowmagic might have played. “I take it your family are legacies?”
“Founders, patrons, and frequent abbots,” nodded Atopol. “It has been our honor to serve, study, practice, and prepare for over five centuries.”
“Prepare for what?” Tyndal asked, suddenly.
“Whatever comes next,” Atopol said, philosophically. “Every night the story of the sky changes, as does everything below.” He peeked outside the curtains as the rumble of the cart changed in timbre. “We’re crossing the drawbridge, now. If we haven’t been assailed by now, it’s unlikely the Brotherhood will discover our stratagem. You folks should relax, perhaps take a nap. We have a journey of several hours ahead of us before we come to Palomar, and points beyond.”
The cart rumbled across the dirt track that passed for a road in the coastlands for hours, and arrived long after dark. Atopol and his sister brought the carriage to a stop outside a tidy little hall decorated with stars and moons over the doors and helped everyone inside.
“You’re safe now,” the monk assured Ruderal and his mother, as he led them to a chamber where a fire was crackling against the damp. “No one who owes you ill knows where you are, and you are surrounded by brave knights. Blessings of the Night upon you,” he said, as he closed the door to the chamber.
“Well done, Atopol,” Tyndal said, as he sprawled in front of the fireplace in the front hall. “While I prefer a barge or a horse to a cart, it was far preferable to fleeing from the scene on foot.”
“What compelled you to intervene in our mission so decisively?” Rondal asked, as he sat at the lone table and got out his pipe.
“My master received a report from within the Brotherhood - yes, our house has informants within their foul brood - that the Spider, himself, had taken charge of the search.”
“They were that irritated about the warehouse?” Tyndal asked, surprised.
“They were that panicked about the disappearance of the boy. The Rat known as the Spider is their most secretive leader. He guards the great hidden treasury of the Brotherhood, and seeks to know everything of value that happens in Alshar. He sits among their highest councils, along with Lord Jenerard, the Rat King, and the others. But he’s also the one who arranges all of the deals the Brotherhood makes with all outside entities - the Iris, the Calrom, the pirate gangs of the Shattered Coast . . . and the gurvani,” he added, condemningly.
“You have proof of this?” Rondal demanded. “That is treason!”
“If not proof, then assurance enough to act,” agreed Atopol. “When we intercepted word of this, we felt obligated to assist on that basis alone. But when my fath— my master discovered why they wanted the lad, he became convinced that he was important enough to expend an awful lot of resources to see him escape.”
“Your master is a good man,” Tyndal said, raising a flask.
“What now?” Rondal asked.
“That is up to you,” Atopol said, as he quietly transformed from a middle-aged monk into a teenage boy in front of their eyes. “But the way you used to enter through the Narrows is no longer to be trusted. The Brotherhood has the smugglers there deep in their pockets.”
“So what, then, back to Enultramar and look for passage to Farise?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.
“Not if you don’t wish. Believe me, there are many ways through the ridges into the lands beyond. Not large enough for armies, but certainly accessible to a few quick fellows.”
“If you can provide passage, that would be appreciated,” Rondal said, gratefully. “From what I learned on our cruise up the river, keeping him out of the hands of the Brotherhood is essential . . . and getting him safely to the Spellmonger might be a boon to us all.”
“What can he do?” Atopol asked.
Rondal glanced at Tyndal, who nodded. “He can see the internal enneagram of just about anything with self-awareness. It’s a sportish Talent, but I think he bears a full measure, and could beco
me a great mage, one day.”
“What do you mean, he can see internal enneagrams?” Atopol asked, confused. “Sorry, but shadowmagic doesn’t use a lot of thaumaturgy.”
“Every self-aware entity can be perceived as an enneagram, with the right knowledge,” Rondal explained, thoughtfully. “Simple, crude ones can even be constructed through the use of high-level thaumaturgic runes and a whole lot of power . . . but without some force self-directing it, like a living consciousness, the artificial ones soon degrade.
“But what makes Ruderal unique, as far as we can tell, is instead of requiring hours of work and an intent knowledge of thaumaturgy and enneagramatic magic just to perceive them, he can just . . . look.”
“He can look . . . at my enneagram?” Atopol asked, troubled.
“Not only look, but he’s managed enough experience to develop some sophistication with his perceptions. He can tell when you are being disingenuous or insincere, which is usually a precursor to lying. So don’t fib to him unless you want him to know about it.”
“What’s more,” Tyndal continued, filling his own pipe, “with that kind of perception, doing advanced enchantment would be a snap. That has some very impressive potential.”
“Enchantment?” Atopol asked, dismissively. “No one does enchantment anymore.”
“The High Magi of Castalshar do,” assured Rondal. “You remember the wand that dismembered the warehouse? That was a simple one. With irionite, the only limit is our powers of imagination.”
“And an awful lot of research,” added Tyndal, discouraged. He was not fond of enchantment, beyond warmagic.
“Some of the things we’re doing in Sevendor weren’t even done in the Magocracy. The entire Magic Fair this year was devoted to Enchantment. Even that old duffer Dunselen had some interesting things to say,” he admitted.
“Enchantment? Irionite? A Magic Fair? And here we are hiding in the shadows from three old men,” Atopol said, sadly, as he took the flask from Tyndal. “When news of the Duke and Duchess’ deaths arrived in the south, they came with a wave of refugees. Among them were three senior members of the Order, who imposed on the Count of Rhemes to support the Bans and reject the proposed Kingdom. The Three Censors still punish any deviation from the Bans harshly. Their foul checkered cloaks patrol every barony in the land. In fact, they’ve had a regular purge of even common spellmongers and adepts.”
“They’re trying to keep you all afraid,” Tyndal observed. “The fact is, this is about the last place in the Five Duchies that the black and white checkered cloaks hold sway. In Castalshar, they’re banished. In Merwyn and Vore, they’ve transformed into the official magical order of the duchies, The Knights of Nablus, and thus wear red and white checks. Far more stylish.”
“In Alshar, they reign supreme,” Atopol said, darkly. “They sit in their tower and send their brutal thugs out to keep the magi cowed. Particularly the old Coastlord families. The council backs their ugly assaults, as they keep the possibility of Castali influences away from Alshar.”
“Not all of Alshar,” Tyndal reminded. “Duke Anguin sits in Vorone, now. The Wilderlands are free of the Three Censors. Indeed, it is where some of the mightiest High Magi now dwell.”
Atopol shook his head while his sister, still garbed as a noviate, quietly entered the hall. “It’s as if the rest of the world is passing us by.”
“If you saw what was left of the Wilderlands, you might reconsider,” Tyndal said. “It has been ravaged. Most of the Wilderlords have perished in battle or defending the last few strongholds. The northwest is under the Shadow, with only Tudry standing against it. Vorone is a vast refugee camp, as the gurvani drove the yeomen of the Wilderlands from their homes. It’s a mess,” he said, discouraged.
“But that’s where Anguin went!”
“That’s the only bit of Alshar he could claim within reach,” Rondal pointed out. “And it’s a ducal capital, which supports his claim. He couldn’t very well--humpf!” he said, as the Kitten of Night fell into his lap unexpectedly.
“It is so enticing when I hear you discuss the great and powerful, Sir Rondal,” she purred, nuzzling his neck. The sudden attention made Rondal freeze, his hair standing on end. Gatina was light, warm, soft, and smelled heavenly, despite her drab garb. Gone were the teeth, hair and freckles and the dull expression of an unfortunate-looking noviate nun. Rondal became acutely aware of just how feminine the girl was.
“Sweet Darkness, Gat, leave the man alone!” Atopol commanded.
“Oh, leave her be,” Tyndal urged. “Unfortunately, my lady, Sir Rondal and the other bachelor knights of our order have taken an oath not to marry until the Brotherhood is utterly defeated and the Duke restored to every lost inch of his realm,” he said, apologetically.
That captured the lithe girl’s attention abruptly. “Really?” she asked, her cat-like violet eyes wide.
“Alas, yes,” Tyndal said, sympathetically. “Sire Cei, the head of our order, suggested the pledge as proof of our commitment. Even poor Sir Festaran is denied his beloved,” he said, with a deep sigh. “It is the sacrifice we chose to make to ensure our success. We can do no less, as knights magi.”
“That is so . . . so . . . honorable!” Gatina said, looking at Rondal with new respect. “You would put aside your duty to sire heirs until you see your duty done? A hundred youths I’ve seen who would trade the simplest quest for an estate, a pension, and a pretty wife. None have I met who would eschew the comforts of nobility and filial duty to pursue such a magnificently immense task! Do you realize how very attractive that is?”
“Perhaps you misunderstood, my lady,” Rondal said, uncomfortably. “I am unable to wed. Therefore, we have little hope for a future as man and wife.” He braced himself for the tempest he expected to ensue . . . but instead he found his mouth preoccupied with Gatina’s full, warm, wet lips.
“You merely propose a worthy, monumental goal as a precondition, my love,” she said, dreamily, when she finally broke the unexpected - but not entirely unwelcome, he realized - kiss. “If all I have to do is assist you with destroying the Brotherhood of the Rat and restoring Anguin to the throne at Falas, then my path is clear: only by demonstrating my own commitment will I prove myself worthy of yours,” she decided.
“Worthy . . . of what?” Rondal asked, uncomfortably aware he had a lap full of eager young woman.
“Of you, Sir Rondal!” she declared. “I could never ask you to consider a bride who had not at least equaled your efforts, if not your achievements, now could I?”
“Well, no,” Rondal said, confused by her words and even more by the really large, incredibly soulful eyes that were now mere inches away from his.
“Then it is settled,” she sighed, happily, snuggling into his arms. “We will speak no more of marriage until we stand before Anguin on his throne in Falas!”
Aren’t you glad I fixed that for you? Tyndal asked, hesitantly, as he watched his friend squirm as Gatina curled up in his lap like a happy kitten.
Yes, Rondal replied, stiffly. I really dodged the arrow that time.
Chapter Nine
Palomar Abbey
When the first Counts of Falas began to order their inland realm and fortify it against the Viscounts along the shore, like the methodical, rational Imperial magi they were, they conducted expeditions and sent out scouts to explore and categorize the coastland shelf. From the swamps of the east to the great vineyards of the west, the agents of the Counts of Falas brought remarkable reports of the fair land.
For concealed within the wetlands and hills were several structures of ancient build and human manufacture. Either abandoned or reclaimed by the coastal tribes, many of these ancient buildings were used as the basis for larger fortifications, for their foundations were profoundly strong and their walls incredibly so, for how thin they were. Others were used as barns or seen as simple curiosities.
But some were employed in near-continual use as communal or tribal dwellings, or as the homes of certain
sects of mystics and sages.
The Secret History Of Enultramar
They stayed a day at the quaint little village of Ejecta, a most unusual place.
The mountain upon which the famed abbey stood was unlike any other the two had seen. Instead of a fairly graceful conic shape, as a mountain should be, the entire thing seemed as if a giant had hurled some massive stone to land here. The cliff rose above the village for six hundred feet, slightly overhanging the base by goodly amount.
The summit was crowned with the ancient tower, a broad cylinder of stone that rose five stories to a gentle hemisphere cap. A winding stairwell was cut into the face of the rock of the unusual mountain, and both young knights were eager to make the journey to survey the vale from the vantage point.
The view was gorgeous, with the great green meadows and groves of the Coastlands spread out before them like a gaily colored tapestry. Behind them, to the north, the beginning of the Great Vale could be glimpsed, with the fields being prepared for spring planting.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 14