“Oh?” he remarked, his bushy eyebrows rising.
“Only I’m conflicted,” I sighed, as I motioned for a beer. The Tal poured one, apparently unsurprised by the appearance of the Baron at his bar. That’s why I liked the Tal, as a species. Their first thought is to food and drink, not rank or position. “I’ve discovered a very thin, probably illusory hope that might lead to at least partial restoration of Alya’s mind,” I explained.
“So why are you conflicted?” he asked, reasonably.
“Because it is a mad, faint hope with at least some risk involved,” I confided. “And I know that there are those who would see me abandon Alya as dead, and find a new wife.”
“Then they have the sense not to say it to me, ” he growled. He was incredibly fond of his only daughter-in-law.
“Or me,” I nodded. “But I have a duty to the people I rule. They deserve a functioning baroness. And baron,” I added. “It seems foolish to pursue this new hope, when I have already exhausted all reasonable means to cure her. Not even the gods can restore her.”
I didn’t mention to Dad why I knew that – technically he was a lay brother of Briga’s temple, and had achieved the highest of honors for his service to the Flame That Burneth Bright... and Baketh Bread. No need to shake his faith in her by revealing that the goddess had admitted as much to me herself.
Dad took a long pull on his mug, and then inhaled deeply on his pipe. His face took on a thoughtful expression above his flour-stained beard.
“Bullshit,” he finally said, jabbing the air with his pipestem.
“What?”
“Son, long before you were ruling over this marvelous land you and Alya built, you stood before the gods and my neighbors and pledged your life to that woman. She is your wife. You vowed to take care of her until she died, and as far as I know she’s not dead yet. You have an obligation to her long before you had one to the Sevendori... who are doing just fine, by the way, despite your long absences and sullen silences,” he added, critically. Dad would know. For the last year he’d been in the market every day, baking and selling his wares to everyone. The baker hears everything, in a small town.
“But I’m not just a husband, I’m—”
“You were a husband first,” he declared. “Before those wars and honors, you and Alya made a pact with your loins, one which entangled your hearts. Mayhap the nobility toss away such riches at the first sign of tarnish,” he snorted, derisively, “but I raised you better than that, Minalan. There are few things in life upon which a man may depend,” he continued, thoughtfully. “Riches, power, wealth, position, all of those are fleeting and meaningless. When you sift through a man’s life and take out all the chaff, no matter his class or his stars, there are only a few things that he can count on to bring happiness. One is fulfilling work,” he said, patting his dusty apron.
“The other is family,” he continued. “And the basis of all families is the love and commitment we make with our wives,” he declared. “Those grandchildren I play with every night are the result of that love – mine for your mother, and yours for Alya. Whatever oaths you’ve sworn, that is one you may never forswear. King or villein, a man’s family is sacred. It’s worthy. And a man’s worth is measured, at the end of his life, not by how fulfilling his work was or how much treasure he has, but by how he’s lived up to that duty.
“So consider that. You’ve an obligation not just to my daughter-in-law, whom I love more than a little, but to those children to restore their mother, if you possibly can. That’s your duty to your family.”
Dad’s words were not kindly delivered, but they weren’t words of rebuke. It was pure paternal wisdom, the kind that cuts through the strings of complexity we entangle ourselves in and reveals the essential.
Sure, Dad was a bit of a mystic – he was a senior lay brother in Briga’s temple. But his belief was not predicated on the laws of the gods or divine instruction. It was good, fatherly common-sense, plainly delivered, father to son.
“Thanks, Dad,” I sighed, as I finished my beer. “That actually helps.”
“Good,” he murmured through the cloud of smoke. “Now go do whatever wizard business you need to before your kids grow up. Your mother is starting to worry about you, and gods help you if she decides to help you.”
*
*
*
Sire Cei arrived at my study just after his normal breakfast duties, when I had Ruderal discretely inform him his baron wished to speak with him in private. Thankfully Sire Cei is subtle enough to understand the subtext of the invitation, and mentioned my arrival to no one before he knocked on my door.
It wasn’t that I was hiding. I just needed some time to think intensely about my personal options before I was assailed by the needs of my government. Or my family.
“So, you’ve returned from Vorone, my lord,” he began, after the smallest of bows. “We’ve heard dreadful things...”
“Dragon attack,” I nodded. “I would have called you in, but we had the talent to deal with the beast. The palace and a few smaller buildings are completely razed, but the rest of the town is intact. But shaken,” I added.
Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, of dall people, understood that. He still bore scars from his own encounter.
“And Sir Tyndal was the one who slew it?”
“With magic... and a lot of help,” I smiled. “He was the one who delivered the blow. But the palace is wrecked beyond repair and Duke Anguin is ruling from his country estate while Lady Carmella plans a new keep and palace complex for Vorone.”
“It angers me to see such a treasure of my nation destroyed,” he said, grimly.
“Oh, the place was a dump,” I dismissed. “I appreciate the nationalism implied in a palace as much as anyone, but in truth I think Anguin is relieved. Not that so many died, of course, but that he doesn’t have to live in the mausoleum where his mother was murdered anymore.”
“I can see how that might be disturbing,” agreed Sire Cei. “You summoned me, my lord?”
“I have learned of some information that could, possibly, help Alya,” I said, without wasting words. “But I need to do some investigation. A short journey – I hope it is short – and I need someone I can trust to watch my back.”
“My lord?” he asked, both alarmed and cautiously hopeful. “You discovered something?”
“Yes, and something that could lead to more,” I said, trying to be cautious myself. “But it is also the sort of thing that could attract the wrong sort of attention.”
He frowned, his bushy Wilderlands-style mustache fluttering. “Ducal attention?”
“Alka Alon attention,” I corrected. “Can Estret and the rest of the barony spare you for a few days? Up to two weeks? You might miss Yule,” I said, apologetically.
“If my lord has need of me, it is clear where my duty lies,” the big Wilderlord stated, matter-of-factly. “With the Fair and harvest behind us, and only Yule ahead, I have the time.”
“Then if you would discretely prepare for a journey of a few weeks, a carriage and a driver. Get Joppo the Root, if he’s available. For a loudmouth he’s relatively discrete.”
“May I ask where we are headed, my lord?”
“The abbey, to begin with. We will pick up Alya there, and then continue on through the Riverlands. Our ultimate destination is common called Sartha Wood. Remote,” I added, “and dangerous.”
“Then we shall proceed cautiously,” he said, resolutely. “When do we depart?”
“At dawn,” I decided. “The sooner started, the sooner done. And make no mention of our journey, if you will. If the Alka Alon council knew what I planned, I have a feeling it might strain our relations.”
*
*
*
That morning I quietly summoned Zagor, Olmeg and Banamor to my tower that morning. Olmeg and Banamor I called mind-to-mind, but I had to send Ruderal for Zagor. Though he possessed the largest witchstone in Sevendor at the moment, he had resisted learn
ing and using the spell that allowed such contact. What I was planning was both risky and audacious, and when one wants to do something risky and audacious having recourse to a wizard or three is helpful. That holds true even when you’re a wizard yourself.
I explained to each of them separately what I intended to do, and gave them some instruction in my absence. I also received their counsel.
I discussed the (human) political situation with Banamor, who kept up with such things a bit better than I did. His position as burgher, mayor, and merchant gave him access to plenty of news that didn’t get to the aristocracy, and I trusted his judgment on the state of the barony as much as I trusted Sire Cei’s.
My questions for Zagor were more specific – and related to his unusual apprenticeship with the Alka Alon. The Tree Folk took very few human apprentices in their arts, and I had one of the very few who were not so over-awed by the Alkans that they could be objective about their former masters. Zagor had much good advice, once I convinced him what my goals were.
That’s the other thing I value about Zagor. While we were once colleagues, and I’d technically saved his life, he was willing to criticize me – sometimes brutally – to my face. I’d discovered all too quickly how fast the sycophants can assemble around power. If I screwed up, Zagor wouldn’t care if I was lord of the domain, baron, or archmage – he’d tell me.
My consultation with Olmeg the Green revolved around entirely different matters. Even my fellow magelords scoffed at me when I’d hired the big Green mage to steward the horticulture of my domains, and in truth they still did. But under Olmeg’s tutelage and advice the yields of the farms in the barony were exploding. The increasingly elaborate mixture of enchantment and floromancy were benefiting everyone but the grain merchants.
But what I needed from Olmeg concerned less growing plants and more killing them. I was not disappointed that he had a solution to the problem... but he was not content to give me advice on floromancy.
“Minalan, my friend, are you certain this pursuit is entirely healthy?” he asked, concerned.
“I seek to restore Alya’s health,” I said, shaking my head in confusion.
“It wasn’t she I was concerned with. If this endeavor should fail, Minalan, what next? I am as hopeful as I can be, but not every seed sown is harvested.”
“I appreciate your concern, my friend,” I said, resisting the urge to lash out. I don’t think anyone familiar with Olmeg could possibly get angry at him – he just doesn’t inspire that kind of reaction. “And I understand it. Sevendor needs at least one working noble. I plan on putting Lenodara in charge in my absence.”
“A sensible girl,” Olmeg agreed steadily, “one with Sevendor’s interests at heart. Yet it is not the domain’s health that concerns me. Minalan, just how far down this rabbit hole do you plan on going?”
“Until I see that it’s pointless,” I admitted, with a heavy sigh. “But you must understand, Olmeg: if I don’t try, and leave her... leave her like this, when there was at least a chance...”
“I know, I know,” soothed the big mage in his deep baritone. “In your place I would do much the same. But... you understand, I worry for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, sincerely. “Thankfully, with your advice, I should be able to prevail. And once I do, I should know whether or not the rabbit hole is worth traveling.”
That did little to mollify Olmeg, but it was the best I could do. There were no guarantees, here, merely a wild chance at an unlikely hope. One I had to take.
Dara was actually the hardest meeting. She knew I was back from Vorone long before most did, thanks to her falcon, Frightful, who saw me in my tower. As anything Frightful sees Dara sees, she was in my laboratory before noon.
“So, you just blink your way home again without even telling me?” she accused me, frustrated.
“I was going to,” I tried to soothe. “I was going to let you know this afternoon.” Her chin jutted out and her nostrils flared. She wasn’t buying it.
“I’m sure you were! Master, when you just up and leave like that and don’t tell anyone, it makes us all sick with worry! And there are things that need your attention! Me, Ruderal, the lab, the castle, the Karshak, the— anyway, when you leave suddenly like that...”
“I’m sorry, Vorone was in danger,” I countered. “You’ve heard about the palace?”
“Rondal told me,” she nodded, gravely. “He says they’re going to go after the ones responsible.”
“That seems to be what they’re planning,” I agreed. I’d already approved the operation, including some highly unusual inclusions to keep the boys on their toes.
I’d largely stayed out of the lads’ interest in Enultramar and their secret war against the criminal Brotherhood of the Rat – they had their own valid reasons for pursuing a vendetta against the gang. But it had pulled the boys firmly into Duke Anguin’s orbit. That was one thing when it meant supporting his claim to the title and to the Wilderlands, but their errantry this summer had involved multiple forays into the heart of southern Alshar. And the ruckus they’d stirred up was now having political consequences.
It put me in a difficult position. I had refused to aid Rard and Grendine with the re-capture the portions of Alshar that had rebelled from their rule on principal. That was, after all, a blatantly political move, the kind of thing that I had wanted the Arcane Orders to avoid. It was important that magi remain institutionally independent from the Kingdom’s bureaucracy and control.
But then Rondal and Tyndal had started their own independent arcane order, the militant Estasi Order of Knights Magi. Their public purpose was errantry in the service of man. Their real purpose was the destruction of the Brotherhood of the Rat.
I’d indulged the boys at the time because it seemed like a harmless enough pursuit. The Brotherhood was a vast, insidious organization with thousands of ruthless thugs in its ranks. Making war on them seemed a good excuse to exercise their skills against someone demonstrably in need of it.
But then the two idiots had to take my permission seriously. Somehow or another, before the end of summer they’d arranged to rob their foe blind and deliver the fortune to their liege – or at least most of it. They’d kept a reasonable fee.
While that saved Anguin, the Orphan Duke who didn’t even have a palace anymore, and the nascent government he was trying to run on good looks and a loan I’d made him, it had also stirred up tremendous trouble in Enultramar, Alshar’s storied southlands.
In a few weeks-long jaunts into Enultramar they’d not only slaughtered hundreds of Rats and disrupted their operations far more than I’d ever imagined, they’d gathered valuable intelligence... and discovered that the undead minions of our darkest enemies were plotting to subvert all Alshar for conquest.
Send the boys after a couple of rats, and they come back with the corpse of a dragon.
Tyn and Ron made an alliance with some local rebels who were unexpectedly helpful in their score. Now they were following up with a mission to Olum Seheri, the mansion of Korbal the Necromancer, to verify that the ancient undead lord and his minions had, indeed, purchased Princess Rardine from the Brotherhood, who had captured her at sea, and were holding them captive in that once-beautiful place.
I’d favored their mission, even authorizing a paroled prisoner (Noutha, the former Lady Mask, who had unexpectedly won the Spellmonger’s Trial this year) to accompany them, but I was worried. Worried for their fate if they failed, in that dark place; and worried for everyone else’s if they succeeded. Korbal was clearly attempting to infiltrate the rebel lords of Enultramar, and if he succeeded it would be disaster. Using Rardine as leverage against King Rard was horrific enough, if it was true. But if Korbal or his Nemovorti minions took the time to actually interrogate her, they would discover that she was highly placed in the Kingdom’s intelligence service.
That would reveal far, far too much about Castalshar’s military and clandestine position... enough to win the war. That made Rardine’s
recovery – or death – the highest priority, right now. That’s why I hadn’t hesitated to authorize the risky scouting expedition to Olum Seheri. Whatever happened next was out of my control, now.
*
*
*
“Would it be a breach of security to ask where we might be going, Excellency?” Sire Cei asked, when the coach lurched out of the abbey grounds.
“To the Bontal, first, and thence to the Burine, and thence up the Teelvar,” I sighed. There was no reason he shouldn’t know. “We’re going to a village called Gilasfar, first, and from there we go overland to a little backwoods domain known as Sarthameton.”
“And would it be a further breach of security to know why, my lord?” the big Wilderlord asked.
“Because we’re going to visit an old Alka Alon lady who might be able to help Alya,” I revealed, at last. “She’s commonly known as the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.”
Sire Cei frowned, his bushy mustache drooping. “Is she not a myth?”
“She is not,” I agreed. “I’ve apparently been there before, five years ago. And had my memory of the occasion erased.”
Sire Cei looked shocked and troubled. “How so?” was all he asked.
“Alka Alon magic. By my request,” I hastened to add. I told him most of the story over the next hour, and watched a parade of expressions cross his face. He kept glancing back toward Alya and her attendants. I’m sure he was trying to picture the drooling body of my wife in the midst of such an adventure.
“So we’re headed back to Sartha Wood to let this Lilastien examine Alya again, and perhaps suggest a way to repair her mind.”
“Why the subterfuge, my lord?” he asked, puzzled. “It seems that all would support such a quest.”
“It is nigh Yule,” I pointed out. “In a few weeks it will be the Yule Court, and I don’t want to distract the barony from that with this damn fool quest. You know this isn’t likely to be successful,” I informed him, darkly.
“Minalan, you have earned my trust over and over again. I have watched you entertain impossibility and disaster like old friends at dinner, and emerge victorious.”
The Spellmonger's Yule: A Spellmonger Series Short Story Page 3