The Spellmonger’s Yule
A Spellmonger Short Story
By Terry Mancour
Copyright © 2017
To my father
Irving Leslie Mancour
The real Archmage
Drink the mead.
That phrase haunted me, once I returned to Sevendor after the horrific destruction of Duke Anguin’s palace in Vorone by dragonfire. It had been uttered by one of my best friends in a moment of crisis, and I probably would have forgotten about it completely in the ensuing chaos if it hadn’t been so damned... intimate.
I came back to Sevendor into my lab, instead of the through the Waystone I’d installed in the hall I lived in now. I was not quite ready to go home yet, I realized. Despite the acrid stench of dragon that still clung to my clothes even weeks after the attack, it was the echo of Pentandra’s – advice? Suggestion? Mystical direction? – That kept me from going home. Drink the mead. As if that would do anything.
My tower was dark this time of night, but with a commanding thought, the permanent magelights in the lab sprung into illumination. The room seemed… tired in its emptiness. I felt a little guilty for how intensely I’d used it, searching for a treatment for Alya... and then for how quickly I’d abandoned it, when a convenient answer proved elusive.
It was far tidier than I usually kept it, a sure sign of my absence and the diligent efforts of my young apprentice, Ruderal. The young lad was far more attentive to his domestic duties as my student than his predecessors. Dara was too busy to tend to them, usually, with her work at the Mews. Since Ruderal arrived, things had been unnaturally neat around the shop. I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of success or mediocrity, but seeing my usually chaotic workbench neatly organized was a pleasant feeling that merited a contented sigh. One that I could see, in the cold.
The night was chilly this time of year, especially in the unused lab. Since even before the awkward Sixth Annual Magic Fair ended, I’d essentially abandoned the place in disgust at my failures and fled to Vorone for a while to help with the distraction of reconstruction. I had not returned here for weeks, letting my parents and servants tend my children while I brooded in Alshar in a professionally productive manner. The workshop had an unused quality to it that the cold emphasized. Ruderal had deactivated the spells that warmed the place without the need of a fire, and the late autumn cold Sevendor enjoyed had seeped into the white stones of the tower, and thence through my mantle.
I wasn’t planning to be here long, but it was too damn cold – even after Vorone – to be at all comfortable. Instead of re-activating them, however, I glanced at the abandoned fireplace, stacked with logs that had grown dusty. I decided a fire was more suited to my mood than arcane heat.
It was childishly simple to ignite the wood. It took me back to the eruption of my rajira when I was a boy.
The first sign of my magical Talent was when I’d accidentally started a fire with the force of my anger and resentment at my sister. Since then I’d learned a hundred ways to do it, and fire continued to me the element I had the strongest affinity with. Draw power, focus it, form the right cantrip in my mind, select the target location, and activate. I glanced at it, my mind invoked the right combination of runes, I poured power into it until the combination of heat and oxygen ignited... and a moment later, the yellow flames filled the tiny chamber and began radiating heat into the lab. I automatically held my hands out to warm my fingers as the orange flames began to lick at the sides of the dry oak logs.
Fire. It was simple. I contemplated it, as the light flickered across my eyes and warmed my hands. Fire was the most intriguing of the four Greater Elements. Not a thing, but an event. When a bunch of energetic matter met oxygen, a party breaks out, creating the plasma of flame, which consumed and fed like a living thing. A tool for telling tales, firing a pot, melting ore, cooking soup, warming fingers, lighting the darkness… when it wasn’t burning down a palace or destroying your enemies, that is.
“Well, you’ve certainly had a busy time,” came a familiar feminine voice from behind me. Not the one I most wanted to fill my ears, but not an unwelcome one, either.
“It has been eventful,” I agreed, not turning around. Abasing yourself in front of your patron goddess the first time you meet her can be forgiven, but at this point, I was over my awe of divinity. “The sudden dragon attack was particularly exciting.”
“A gift from Shereul,” Briga, the goddess of fire agreed. “Retribution, which is the only way I have a hint of why he did it. He was unhappy at the recent raids and skirmishes. Particularly the two fortresses Anguin destroyed on his frontiers. Some of his human servants overheard, which is the only reason I know about it. The dragon was revenge for the attack,” she informed me.
“Which was in response to an unprovoked assault on the Wilderlands, in violation of the precious treaty with Shereul,” I said, still not turning around. The radiant blaze of heat was driving the chill away, and I lingered until the heat on my chest was almost uncomfortable.
“An attack he did not order,” Briga replied. “That was an... independent operation by some of his less-disciplined forces. Instigated by a splinter faction, led by the Enshadowed. Nor does he consider the treaty binding on himself. That was with the ‘Goblin King’s’ representatives, not his .”
“Are you arguing in the Dead God’s favor of, now?” I asked, amused and irritated at the same time. The radiant heat from the fireplace had almost saturated my chest. It felt delicious.
“I’m reporting intelligence so that you understand the true nature of the situation,” Briga countered. “You were supposed to be lured into a full-out assault by the raid, a plan for which neither we nor our foes are ready to consider. It was not the Dead God’s plan. It took Sheruel’s loyalists by surprise, as it was organized and executed among disaffected elements. They serve mostly along the periphery of his power base, closer to the Penumbra and the Hills. Some of his... more energetic auxiliaries were responsible,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“You are speaking of the Enshadowed,” I nodded, finally turning around. The time had come for a change of perspective. My chest was too hot and my ass was getting cold.
“Indeed,” the redheaded goddess nodded. She looked magnificent in a red mantle that was more red than blood, her multi-hued tresses dancing in the firelight. “But the attack and Anguin’s response not only took Sheruel’s loyalists off-guard, it confounded their planning. Worse – for them – it sowed distrust among the various factions of the enemy.”
I wasn’t confused by what she said, but perhaps she thought I was.
“Shereul felt he had to respond, but couldn’t violate the treaty with his vassal the Goblin King by sending an army,” she over-explained.
“Yes, I understand, dragons were not covered in the treaty,” I chuckled. “An oversight I shall bring to Tavard’s attention the next time we meet. It’s at least gratifying to know that insubordination and disorder aren’t exclusively human traits.”
The pretty goddess nodded, and suddenly there were two silver flagons of wine in front of her on the worktable. Show off .
“Sheruel’s forces have always been advised by the Enshadowed, but now that they have awakened Korbal, raised him and his followers to strength, and granted them the fief of Olum Seheri, it is becoming a point of resentment among the gurvani. The priests of Shereul are suspicious. Particularly as the nascent gurvani kingdom seems far too cozy with them. Once the urgulnosti priests ruled supreme in fallen Boval. Now there are Nemovorti in his court, advising and manipulating it for their own purposes.”
“Isn’t the gurvani king kind of a sham?” I asked, skeptically.
“Believe it or not, he’s the gurvani’s way of attempting to adapt to the situation,” Briga disagreed. “When the invasion began, the goal for most of the gurvani was the recovery of their ancient homelands, the ones they claimed after their rebellion. Many are satisfied with having achieved that, and are unenthusiastic about continuing the war.
“The gurvani kingdom was originally conceived as a means of ruling the common gurvani without direct ecclesiastical supervision, while the Black Skulls and the Enshadowed prepared the rest of the war. A puppet king to administrate over all the tribes and factions, so the urgulnosti need not be bothered.
“But instead it became a hub of those who wanted to adapt to the humani civilization, the ruins of which they are now living in. The average gurvan has not had a good life in the Mindens since before the Goblin Wars, which were hundreds of years ago. They want to improve the lives of the gurvani within their sphere and elevate them to humani levels. The King and his court are an opportunity to do that, to their minds.”
“But not those of the human slaves who built the civilization to begin with?”
“They are largely the property of the Black Skulls, except for the Soulless, some mercenaries, and a few experiments. To be truthful, many new lords of the gurvani kingdom look to their human slaves for guidance and ideas. They set up the capital at one of the old baronial castles. The place was crawling with Soulless and human slaves. The Soulless who ran the place were smart enough to know how to run an estate efficiently. The gurvani court started depending upon them for guidance, and started adopting some of the institutions – well-changed for their liking, of course. Nevertheless, they had established the rudiments of a state, largely dependent upon the advice of their human slaves.
“Or they did, before Korbal started sending his minions to the Goblin King’s court. Now the Nemovorti are systematically taking control of the institution. They are the ones who conspired to persuade several commanders to launch the summer raids. Ostensibly it was done at Sheruel’s command, but in reality, the Enshadowed were behind the whole plan.”
“I don’t particularly like the sound of that.” As much as dissension amongst the enemy counted in our favor, theoretically, recent experience instructed me that the devious nature of the Enshadowed, and their undead allies, were far more insidious than the straightforward genocidal tendencies of Shereul.
“You are not alone. It has inspired a lot of resentment among the gurvani most loyal to Shereul. And a lot of rebellions amongst the lands and estates of the Penumbra,” she reported. “That’s what allowed the raids to be conducted without Sheruel’s permission. The Enshadowed and their confederates deliberately enflamed the honor of the Penumbra troops who invaded, for their own purpose.”
“You sure get around a lot for a barbarian goddess,” I quipped. The heat was starting to thaw my backside, now. Thank Briga.
“I can’t penetrate the Umbra,” she admitted, “but even being nocturnal, the gurvani still use candles, tapers, and fire. More importantly, their human slaves gossip like all servants,” she added.
“I’m sure we can use that to our advantage, somehow,” I said, with a sigh. “But with Vorone in ashes and Rard obsessing about the rebels in Enultramar, his kidnapped daughter, and his shiny new palace, it’s going to be hard to take advantage of it.”
“Yes, well, that’s human politics,” she smiled. “That’s out of my control as well.”
“That’s out of anyone’s control,” I agreed. “But if we don’t get our collective act together soon, then Korbal and Shereul will work out their differences before we can exploit their acrimony. And here I sit, without my witchsphere... or my wife,” I added, for no particular reason except that I felt like complaining.
The look in her eyes immediately made me regret it. When a goddess can’t cure what ails your wife, the guilt you feel begins to take on divine proportions.
“We’re still working on that,” she insisted. “The three of us... persistent deities have each done what we could. Alya’s body is as well as it could be. It is her mind that is damaged. Not even Trygg Allmother has that power, I fear.”
That did not seem fair. Alya had sacrificed herself in the Magewar against Greenflower, in defense of her marriage and motherhood in general. She never should have been there, but it was lucky for us she was. She won the battle for us, after magelords and warmagi had fallen to Isily’s cunning wrath. Now she was lying in a bed in an abbey two domains away, completely unresponsive to all but the most basic stimuli.
Our children were devastated. Minalyan was scared of his own mother, and Almina burst into tears at the sight of her. Their mother’s body might be there, but she was... gone.
I could sympathize. I was... well, I didn’t have a more potent word than “devastated”. Mostly I was just doing what everyone expected me to do. I did my best to allow myself to be distracted from the aching pit at the center of my soul, but it was hard, these days. It took something like a dragon attack or a midnight visit from a goddess to keep me from dwelling on the hopelessness.
Once I would have said that it was in the hands of the gods. Now that I knew some gods, I wasn’t so hopeful.
“So, which of you divinities does specialize in that sort of thing?” I asked, casually.
“That’s... it’s complicated,” Briga sighed, over her wine. “The gods are bound by the limitations of human imagination and need. You need to start a fire or bake a loaf or cauterize a wound or gain vengeance on the warrior who slaughtered your family, I’m your girl. If you want a deity who specializes in restoring higher brain function... well, your people should have conceived of one!” she said, a little defensively.
“Not even the Imperial pantheon?” I suggested.
I’d picked up that the two loose families of gods, each based on a different culture, were often at odds. The Magocracy’s deities considered themselves superior to their Narasi cousins, due to the great civilization they presided over. Meanwhile, the barbarically rustic Narasi pantheon resented the snooty Imperial gods and delighted over their diminution after the Conquest.
As more than one of the deities worshiped today were syncretic fusions of both pantheons. That meant that divine politics could be… interesting. It’s amazing what Herus the Traveler will gossip about when he’s drunk.
“Perhaps,” she conceded, her nostrils flaring a bit. “They had a lot of minor divinities, at the peak of their decadent civilization. Some were pretty specialized. But few of those ever incarnated,” she pointed out, quickly. “The rule of thumb is that the more specialized a deity is, the less vibrant the energy generated by their worshipers. The Imperials had loads of minor medical deities, but mostly they were personifications of mnemonics or technical gods. Like Yrentia’s many children: Arkameeds, Nuton, Keplar, Planc, Bor, Haking, that lot. Or the daughters of the Storm Lord, if you want to get exotic. Superstition and ritual used to educate and control an increasingly ignorant people during the twilight of their civilization,” she said, defensively.
“What about Yrentia’s children?” I ventured. The Imperial goddess of science and magic once enjoyed a vibrant cult in the early Magocracy, and many of her brilliant children had even made appearances at times. “She manifested enough to write a bunch of vital stuff on rocks in Merwyn, among other great feats. Wouldn’t she know?”
“That was during her mortal phase, from what I understand, something her human seed did before she ascended to divinity.”
I frowned. “Damn. Another glorious myth destroyed.”
“Oh, she was vital to the survival of humanity, and what she did – ensuring that the most basic scientific and magical information would not be lost by humanity – was worthy of deification. Perhaps she could be persuaded to manifest, if you did the right rituals or something.”
“I’ve considered that,” I nodded. “If you and the other persistents cannot repair her mind, then
perhaps Yrentia...”
“Well, her consort Avital shows up every now and then over the centuries, but he’s more engineering focused than neural science. Really, Min,” she said, finally, throwing up her thin arms in frustration, “if there is a god who can put Alya’s mind right, I don’t know who it is. I’ll keep looking, and so will the other persistent deities, but... well, this is far outside of our realms. If you want to restore your bride, then the answer is more likely to be found in thaumaturgy than theurgy. Or maybe the Alka Alon...” she said, frowning.
I snorted. “You think the Tree Folk know more about the human psyche than our own gods?”
“Not them collectively,” she conceded. “But during the early Magocracy there was a period where they worked very closely with humanity. Some were enraptured by the opportunity to study you. Most of that stopped before the Inundation, for various political reasons – that was before my time – but I’ve heard rumors that the Alka studied human beings more intently than we’d ever studied ourselves. Perhaps that knowledge still exists with them,” she shrugged.
“None of the Alka I’ve met seemed particularly concerned with our psychology. Even the three Envoys were mostly ignorant of humankind when they arrived. And Onranion has done what he can for her with songspells, but this is far outside of his area of specialty,” I sighed, the pit of hopelessness growing wider inside me.
“Then you must continue to seek, my friend,” the goddess said, softly and sympathetically. “As will we all. But... beware of your own hopelessness,” she advised. “So much depends upon you, Minalan. If you give in to despair and outrage, you may well doom us all.”
“That makes me feel so much better,” I sighed with bitter sarcasm. “I am doing... what I need to,” I stressed, unwilling to elaborate. She might be a goddess, but a man has a right to his own private spiritual struggle. “And what I need to do most is find a way to restore Alya.”
“That is guilt speaking, Minalan,” she pointed out, gently. “And desperation.”
The Spellmonger's Yule: A Spellmonger Series Short Story Page 1