Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “If you say so, my lady,” he sighed.

  “I do!” she assured. “I’ve read all the secret accounts of my ancestors. Those who survived the biggest heists and greatest challenges may have been blessed and lucky, but they possessed an adventurous spirit, a sense of honor common thieves would sneer at, and a commitment to their vocations few priests could match.”

  “And yet I am no thief, or if I am, not a very good one,” Rondal pointed out.

  “It matters not; you are an accomplished mage,” she shrugged. “Am I mistaken that you have your journeyman papers?”

  “Well, yes, I do, but—”

  “And did you not say that your mentor was none other than the Spellmonger, the most famous wizard in the land?”

  “Yes, but he—”

  “He does not,” Gatina pronounced, “according to all I have heard of him, seem the type to allow his apprentices to wander off half-trained and not notice.”

  “Oh, gods, no! He was brutal when it came to our lessons! More than my first master, even!” Rondal said, horrified at the idea that Master Min was any kind of ‘easy’ master.

  “Once we got to Sevendor and he was able to focus on our work, it was one miserable problem after another. He had me build a bridge - by myself! - while being harassed by a territorial squabble, one time! When Tyndal was guarding Master Minalan’s intended bride at his home village, the poor haystack was forced to fight off a couple of Censors with nothing but a pitchfork! He sent us to pick up a— an informant, one time, with our friend and fellow Sir Festaran, and we ended up fleeing from bandits and fighting our way through to an unfriendly castle, which we had to take on Yule’s Eve with just three knights!” he babbled, recounting his exploits. He only barely noticed how large Gatina’s eyes were getting as he did so.

  “That’s not even counting the times he’s led us into impossible battles! Up the frozen Poros on a makeshift sledge pulled by magical hounds to face a hundred thousand goblins on a frozen lake – and then he unfroze it under our feet! Into the teeth of the invasion of Gilmora to face a dragon and Cambrian! Against a band of marauding goblins in the Wilderlands to rescue a Tree Folk refuge with only us, some half-trained militiamen and a couple of Tal Alon! And we won’t even mention Timberwatch – I was at the top of a rickety old tower watching as he sent a godsdamned fire elemental into the thick of it! No, my lady,” he said, regaining some composure after his outburst, “I would count my apprenticeship as anything but easy.”

  “Well then!” Gatina said, blushing a bit under her freckles. “It sounds like he has given you a life of adventure already. So many challenges . . . and you survived every one. With your honor, commitment and spirit intact,” she said, satisfied.

  Rondal realized too late what he’d done - she’d mistaken his genuine complaining for boasting, and decided for herself what it meant.

  Rondal was strongly suspecting Ishi had it out for him.

  “Gatina,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I didn’t tell you all that to brag. I told it to you to demonstrate that while I’m lucky to be alive, chances are that I won’t be much longer. The life of a knight mage might be . . . adventurous, but it’s also dangerous. Deadly. I honestly don’t expect to live much longer, the way things are going,” he said, earnestly. “If I had half a brain, I’d chuck it all, cuddle up to the first incredibly lovely girl who might consider it, and go find a village somewhere where no one could ever find me!”

  “So . . . would I qualify?” she asked, slowly. For a second, Rondal could see beyond the fake freckles and purposefully ugly wig, and Gatina’s deep purple eyes bore out at him . . . and into his soul.

  He didn’t know why he said it. But his lips conspired with some other bits of his anatomy, totally bypassing his brain. “I’d be a fool not to drag you away from this carriage this very moment, and proceed with that very plan.”

  Something seemed to happen behind those eyes . . . and Rondal saw a young woman go from flirtatious infatuation to falling in love, right before his eyes.

  Oh, shit!

  “Then you are a fool, Sir Rondal,” she said, suddenly, surveying the road ahead. “A fool to duty. An idiot to honor. A moron to--”

  “Uh, could we skip the flattery?” Rondal asked. “I’m starting to get a big head. The reason I told you that was because you can’t want to marry me. I’ll be long dead before Anguin ever sits in Falas. Or even his descendents. And destroy the Brotherhood of the Rat?” he snorted, despairingly. “It’s huge criminal enterprise spanning dozens of cities, with thousands of unknown thugs and killers . . . as hopeless quests go, I picked a couple of bad ones.”

  “The greater the heist, the greater the glory,” she said, like a proverb. “I’m assuming the same goes for chivalric glory? My love, if we must wait until I am old and wrinkled and you are stooped with age before we say our vows, then I shall count myself a fortunate woman,” she assured.

  “You . . . you don’t have to do that!” he said, his eyes wide with terror.

  “You are right – I can choose any mage I wish for my husband. I choose you, and your impossible – well, improbable – quests. That might change,” she conceded. “Should you be slain on your adventures, or dishonor yourself, I might have to settle for another. That would make me . . . well, let us not visit such a depressing prospect,” she sighed.

  “But there’s more to it than that, Gatina!” he said, thinking furiously. “I’m going to be on errantry for the foreseeable future – with occasional bits of hopeless battle. And there is no telling what fortune and duty will vomit into my lap. I may have to . . . well, I might have to seduce someone,” he sighed, as ludicrous as the idea sounded coming from his mouth. He found Tyndal’s spirit infecting his words. “There’s always some dim maiden or disapproving aunt that needs distraction on these things,” he said, dismissively. “We operate in many guises – surely you can appreciate that. Some will require intimacies that a man pledged to a woman would be unable to fulfill,” he said, apologetically.

  “Oh, I understand,” she assured him. “I’ll have to kiss boys myself – it’s a key talent of distraction and evasion,” she said, with a shrug. “The requirements of the vocation supersede our personal lives – I’m no idiot myself, my lord.”

  “Nor did I mistake you for one, my lady,” Rondal said with a sigh. He didn’t want to admit to himself how much the idea of Gatina kissing some dim-witted guard or corrupt magistrate in the pursuit of a heist bothered him, all of a sudden. “I just wanted to ensure you were properly informed about the realities of my life. And impending death.”

  “Until you do die, then,” she said, “I will assume that your hand is reserved for mine, when your quests are fulfilled.”

  “Even if it takes a lifetime,” he added, warningly.

  She smirked, without looking at him - a strangely threatening expression, he noted. “My lord, while prophecy was never extant in the magi of my house, I daresay that I can foresee your quests ending much more quickly with a secure alliance with House Furtius, the greatest thieves of Alshar. We need not announce the details of the arrangement – Daddy would not approve, I think – and as a secret, our love becomes that much more precious,” she reasoned. “Darkness, you may even, if at need, use me as an excuse on your errantry.”

  Rondal’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How so?”

  “I’d imagine that whilst on your errantry, when confronted with, say, an irate dim-witted maiden, a lord with a sword at your throat, and a priestess, that you may find it worthwhile to have already plighted your troth to a maid in a far-away land,” she suggested, making it sound terribly romantic coming from her pretty lips. He chuckled at her, despite himself. She smiled in return. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A fair maid, pining away in her tower, while you go about on your errantry?”

  “Oh, it’s every young knight’s dream,” he agreed, with mock seriousness. Then he sighed. He felt like he was deceiving Gatina, even though he’d done his best to be honest wit
h her.

  Except for the gigantic lie about taking a vow.

  “Gatina, you are a maiden of rare beauty and rarer intelligence,” he said, a statement of fact, not a conceit of flattery. “You deserve better than a former common spellmonger from the Wilderlands.”

  “I alone am the arbiter of what I find desirable in a husband,” she said, resolutely. “My house requires I choose a mage of demonstrably impressive power and preferable noble birth – but beyond those qualifications, it grants the lady of the house considerable latitude. We have traditionally looked for only the finest magi to bring into the family – there have been notable exceptions – and I intend to introduce only the greatest. It is not a matter of what I ‘deserve’,” she reasoned, “it is a matter of who I can find.”

  Rondal shifted uncomfortably. “And you can find no better than me?”

  She snorted. “The magi of Alshar are a timid, weak-willed lot. Oh, there are a few interesting fellows amongst my cousins in the cadet houses – we’ve gone there, if no better candidate is available – but now that the Bans are lifted, things have changed.”

  “They have – and there are far better magi in the world!” Rondal insisted.

  “Will you just shut up and let me love you?” demanded the Kitten of Night suddenly and fiercely. “Sweet Darkness, you’re the first, best, most handsome young mage who has wandered into Alshar in an age, and I’ll be damned as a thumb-fingered burglar before I’ll let you leave without me pleading my case!”

  “Pleading your case?” Rondal asked, shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not content with merely finding a mage of power,” she explained quietly. “I want more: a mage of power, full of valor, a mind full of intelligence, and a heart tender enough to sweetly love a maid,” she said. “Do you have any idea how impossible that is to find, Sir Rondal?”

  “I . . . I hadn’t considered it,” admitted Rondal, uncomfortably.

  “Well, then please do,” she said, irritated. “I understand your hesitancy: I’m a weird-looking little girl barely glimpsing womanhood, approaching you from the darkness during a time of need – you really would be an idiot not to take advantage of that – and me,” she added, slyly.

  “All of that being said, I also pride myself with being practical,” she continued, looking away. “When your family specializes in avoiding attention, attracting a lad’s attention can be problematic. And our creepy obsession with night-time activities and attitudes toward property rights can be off-putting. So . . . I understand. I am hardly an ideal bride,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. “Yet I work with what the gods have given me. If I can convince someone like you that I could be . . . well . . .” she said, trailing off.

  Rondal stared at the girl. “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’, Gatina?” he asked, warily.

  “A hero,” she said, as if it were obvious.

  “A . . . hero?”

  “A hero, like the stories of old. Brave, kind, generous, clever, strong . . . handsome,” she added, blushing. “Not merely a knight, but a knight mage, and one of high repute. Darkness, even my brother likes you – and the last boy I liked he threatened to throw off a balcony.”

  “I can see that,” Rondal nodded, suddenly appreciating a new facet of the relationship.

  “Sir Rondal, I want to marry you, some day,” she said, so softly he could barely hear it. “As a great lady in our palace, a brilliant thief in our cozy lair, or as farm wife on a freehold . . . in any life, you would be a worthy man for a woman. And an ideal man for me, unless I misread the message of my heart. I just . . . I just want to prove to you that . . . that I have the potential to be a worthy woman, some day. To have you hold me in the esteem in which I hold you.”

  Rondal did not know what to say to that.

  Several miles later, the lad jumped down from the carriage and entered the cabin, where the others were sprawled, mostly asleep or at least dozing as well as they could in the bumpy carriage.

  That was quite a long drive you took with yon novice, Sir Striker, Tyndal observed, mind-to-mind. I can’t imagine that ten miles of apple orchards was that compelling a conversation. Tyndal was slouched in a corner of the carriage with his hat over his eyes, Ruderal snuggled up against him, asleep.

  I’m shocked you didn’t listen in to the whole thing, he replied the same way as he looked out the window at the lines of trees rolling by.

  Aw, I wouldn’t do that to you, he replied. That might joggle your elbow. What happened?

  Well, Rondal returned, philosophically, the good news is that I will likely not be getting married any time soon.

  Ouch! How did she take it?

  Surprisingly well. The bad news is . . . it looks like I’m going to have a secret girlfriend in Alshar, now.

  She bought the vow story? he asked, amazed.

  It’s not a story, any more, Rondal sighed. Consider it in full force. You, me, Fes . . . no one gets married until the Rats are gone and Anguin rules over all of Alshar.

  You say that like it’s a bad thing!

  Just . . . just promise you won’t get married without telling me, first, Rondal requested, lamely. And if you do get married, do not tell Gatina. Oh, and if she finds out you lied to her about the oath? She’s likely to kill both of us. So . . . no sudden fits of matrimony, all right?

  It is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make for the good of the Order, he agreed, pleased. So, she accepted your rejection? You let her down easily?

  Uh, in a way, Rondal reasoned. Let’s just say . . . it’s going to be a very complicated relationship for awhile, he decided.

  Striker, they all are, Tyndal said, with uncharacteristic sympathy. At least she’s cute. Most of the time. I don’t know how she even talks with those fake teeth.

  Surprising well, Rondal reflected, and with the same precision with which she uses a blade. Doesn’t even get in the way of kissing, he added, unintentionally.

  Well, that’s good to know, Tyndal said, the slightest snort emitting from under his hat.

  Chapter Ten

  The Lord Of Oirghort

  While the great river, from the mouth to the Falls, is clearly the gods’ own garden, the lush and fertile soils of the northeastern Coastlands in the shadow of the escarpment are among some of the most spectacular in the duchy. With gently rippling hills and a soil ideal for apples, peaches, pears and even some varieties of oranges, the real bounty of this soil must be the tobacco and grapes grown here. For the leaf of Oirghort is well-known in the finest courts of the land, and the brandy from the region is highly prized when aged and treated with proper care. No wonder, then, that the Black Duke coveted this beatific little land for his own mistress, and later bride. No wonder his successors were so quick to include the scandalous halls there in young Grendine’s dowry to Castal.

  A Secret History of Enultramar

  While it might have been perfectly acceptable for the two errants to ride boldly up to Sire Gimbal’s elaborate hall and present themselves to his castellan, that seemed far too mundane for them. It was also unlikely to produce the effect Rondal desired.

  Instead he chose a surprise appearance - easy enough to manage with a couple of first-class shadowmagi along for the ride.

  When Sire Gimbal retired to his chamber to dine, that evening, he dismissed his servants after they laid his table and poured his wine, and he began reading his correspondence by candlelight.

  “My congratulations, Sire Gimbal, on learning the scribe’s art,” Rondal said, abruptly, startling the man as he took a chair at the lord’s table. “I never suspected you had the brains to learn to read.”

  “Who are you?” demanded the former Warbird of West Fleria, snatching his sword from beside the table.

  “No one you want to draw a blade upon,” Rondal said, contemptuously. “We’ve met, my lord . . . and we’ve fought against each other, and with each other. I even destroyed a few of your castles,” he added, casually.

  “Well,
he helped,” Tyndal disputed as he joined them, seemingly out of nowhere. “Well met, Sire Gimbal. We bear greetings from our master, Minalan, Baron of Sevendor.”

  “The . . . apprentices,” the man said, letting his sword fall. “You’re his apprentices.”

  “Were,” corrected Rondal. “We’ve recently passed our exams. But we still look to our former master, and run the odd errand for him.”

  “Which brings us to here, this magnificent palace . . . far grander than you deserve,” Tyndal added. “I was as surprised as you when Minalan proposed you for this post. I was convinced you were too untrustworthy to hold it, without seeking to betray your liege.”

  “It was a popular sentiment,” recalled Rondal. “Many shared it.”