Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  When the gentlemen departed an hour later, Sire Cei warmly thanked Sire Pangine and quietly passed him a few coins “in earnest of our desire to hunt these lands” later in the season. As noble and ostensibly gracious a knight as Pangine was, he was also of common enough means to appreciate such largess.

  “He will look forward to the next time he sees us,” Sire Cei explained as they rode back down the road toward the village. “It cost us but a few silver and a glass or two of wine, and we have learned a great deal for the price.”

  “We did?” Tyndal asked, curious. “I thought he was an old boor.”

  “Who is careless with how he speaks,” Sire Cei reminded him. “If one knows which questions to ask, and how, and if one pays attention to the answer and how it is delivered, then a man might say a few words in passing that give you what you desire to know.”

  “So what did we learn?” Sir Merendol asked, chuckling.

  “Sir Rondal, how many armed men in the keep?”

  “Three, Sire Cei,” the apprentice answered. “Top of the tower, at the gate, and one inspecting the back wall.” Tyndal swore to himself. He’d missed that last one.

  “Sir Tyndal, what is the most defensible place in the castle?”

  “The tower,” he answered. “One entrance in, with a portcullis and door.”

  “We also learned that Sir Pangine is the only knight, that his closest neighbor is six miles north, that he and his neighbor are not amicable, and that he has not laid eyes on his liege in two years.”

  “Why is that important?” Tyndal asked.

  “A man is loyal to his liege in proportion to his proximity and his acquaintance. Sir Pangine served honorably as a mercenary for the Lord of Sashtalia’s castellan and was taken on as caretaker – not liegeman – of Taragwen. While he collects the rents and pays tribute to Sashtalia, Taragwen is not, strictly speaking, his own.”

  “Why is that important?” Rondal asked. “He looks pretty comfortable to me.”

  “It’s important because a man who watches another man’s property fights differently than one who defends his own,” agreed Sir Merendol.

  “Exactly,” agreed Sire Cei. “Taragwen is not well defended, it is not in great repair, and it is poorly provisioned. Ten men, at most, could garrison it at once, and there are half that number there.”

  “So it’s a dump,” conceded Tyndal. “So what?”

  “Did you see any sign of riches? Of new wealth?” inquired the knight.

  “No,” Rondal answered. “So . . . if someone is mining snowstone, he hasn’t been involved.”

  “Correct,” agreed Sire Cei. “So let us discover who has.”

  Rondal was able to lead them to the outcropping, using a spell that pointed the direction toward the lowest etheric density in the area. The trail led into a wood and up into the higher reaches of the mountainside. From here they could see the white peaks of the mountains that had been affected by the spell, but the ridge closest at hand was gray and brown.

  They had climbed three hundred feet up the trail before they discovered the mine. The perimeter of the snowstone spell cut through the southernmost edge of the mountain, and a large expanse of stone had been transformed – as had a shallow valley of soil, home to a small grove of cedars and hickories and ash trees.

  The mine itself was on the edge of the hollow. An area three rods wide had been excavated, the soil removed and the dead vegetation laid aside. A pile of rocks had also been gathered.

  “Luin damn them!” Rondal swore. “They’ve probably taken half a ton of it already!”

  “Why is this white stone so important?” asked Sir Merendol.

  “It is unique,” answered Tyndal. “It makes magic easier to do. Unfortunately, it also makes magic easier to do for goblins. Or unscrupulous magi.”

  “The soil also has some interesting properties,” Rondal agreed. “We’re growing a couple of enchanted forests in Sevendor with it. But Master Minalan is worried that it could be misappropriated.”

  “Having a bit of snowstone outside of his control is vexing him,” agreed Sire Cei. “Is there any sign—”

  “Of a camp?” Tyndal asked, as he discovered a cache concealed behind some brush. “I think so. Tarpaulin, a bit of food, some firewood, and a lantern.”

  “There’s a fire pit over here,” Sir Merendol called. “Looks to be at least three or four days old.”

  “How did they get it down?” asked Tyndal, looking around. “The trail is too narrow for a wain.”

  “They carried it down in sacks,” explained Rondal. “You can see the impressions in the dirt over here.”

  “This is troubling,” murmured Sire Cei. “If you wouldn’t mind reporting to your master, Sir Rondal, I want to take a more thorough look around.”

  They spent nearly an hour searching the outcropping but found little else to indicate just who had been working the mine. Rondal spoke with Master Minalan mind-to-mind and received instructions about how to proceed.

  “Hey, Tyndal,” he said, after he broke contact and opened his eyes. “How much Blue Magic do you know?”

  “Everything I read,” he admitted. “Why?”

  “Because Master Min wants us to do what I did with the Birchroot Bridge, only he wants it a little more subtle.” He outlined the nature of the spell. “Since putting harmful spells on someone else’s lands would be an act of war, Master Min thinks we can figure out who is doing this that way. He wants to know that as much as he wants the mining stopped.”

  Tyndal agreed to help, and the two boys proceeded to tap into their witchstones and erect a sophisticated spell that would not merely indicate who was doing the mining, but that would act upon their minds without them realizing it. Tyndal was impressed with the plan – he would have just lain in wait for the miner to return.

  Sire Cei insisted on stopping at the cottage closest to the mine and politely questioning the fawning widow who lived there, learning that some men had been going up the mountain and bringing back sacks after he’d paid her a copper. They had claimed that it was merely clay for sweetening the soil, but they were led by an armored man with a long tattered cloak, the hood of which was always pulled low over his face. Sire Cei noted that with interest, then paid the old woman a few more pennies for her time.

  They made a point of stopping back by Taragwen Castle to thank Sir Pangine, who welcomed them to return at any time, before they struck back for the road north. They discussed the implications of the mine for the greater war, and the challenge of it existing outside of the Spellmonger’s control.

  “That will be a problem,” agreed Sire Cei. “It is no secret that my liege Baron Arathanial has aspirations of re-taking the former Lensely lands. He has made a proud start after the conquest of last summer, and now the Lord of Sashtalia has lost his most powerful ally in the region. Had we been tarrying in a more important domain, mayhap we would have called too much attention to ourselves being from Sendaria. But you can wager that the Lord of Sashtalia and his men will be increasingly on their guard against any scouting of their fortifications.”

  “This mysterious hooded figure is intriguing,” Sir Merendol said, engagingly. “If that is not some sort of spy . . .”

  “Aye, but from who?” asked Rondal. “The Censorate? Someone from the Royal Court? The Brotherhood of the Rat? Or just some enterprising hedgemage who realized what a find he had?”

  “We’ll know more after the next time they arrive to mine,” Tyndal said with a smirk.

  They pushed on and made the Birchroot Bridge by dusk, just in time to enjoy a dinner of pork and pie. The inn was a little busier that night than before, and after dinner the former highwayman-turned innkeeper, Baston, broke out a battered lute and favored the half-dozen patrons with a song.

  Sir Merendol led them in a bawdy song after that, which got everyone feeling festive, and after that Sire Cei, to Tyndal’s surprise, sang a lovely melody about love in the springtime that did not challenge his limited range.


  Tyndal was almost speechless. He had never considered the older knight a musician, but he did a passable job.

  “Now you, Sir Rondal,” the castellan prompted, gesturing at his fellow apprentice.

  “Me?” the boy asked, horrified.

  “You must remember that being a knight also carries a social obligation,” Sire Cei prompted. “You are expected to ever be a good companion and cheerful company. At any time you may be asked by your superiors to provide entertainment.”

  “The ancient order of professional knighthood, the Narasi Red Branch, would allow no initiate entrance unless he could prove a wholesome companion and also that he was an educated man,” Sir Merendol added, pouring more of the strong ale into Rondal’s glass to prime him for the trial. “Of course back then the knights were all illiterate, so the only way to prove their knowledge was to recite poems thousands of lines long without a single mistake. Consider yourself blessed by the gods to be born in a more enlightened time.”

  “You should always have at least one or two good songs and stories and poems you know you can recite, and do so entertainingly. Now is an excellent time to practice,” he said, taking some obvious pleasure in Rondal’s discomfort. Tyndal was enjoying watching the boy squirm as well. He knew Rondal disliked such attention.

  “Sire Cei, I think—”

  “I think it would be best if you began with something light and humorous,” Sir Merendol suggested, laughing. “Leave the sad ballads for another time.”

  Rondal looked like he had accidentally drank vinegar. But there was no escaping it. He sighed heavily and struggled to his feet.

  “That’s the spirit, lad!” Baston said, grinning. “What shall you sing?”

  “A dirge, by the look of him!” called one of the patrons, a plowman getting deep in his cups.

  “How about . . . Rosafel?” he asked, hesitantly.

  “Aye, I know that one,” Baston agreed, picking the popular tune out on his lute, repeating the chorus, and then nodding.

  Rondal opened his mouth, a look of terror on his face . . . and he began to sing. Tyndal held his breath in anticipation, half-expecting his rival to bellow like a donkey. But when he began singing about the maid Rosafel and her lover lost in battle, after a hesitant start Tyndal was surprised to hear a strong, clear voice that sang with a certain passion.

  Once again, Rondal had surpassed Tyndal’s expectations.

  It was bad enough that they were sitting near to one of the classier pieces of enchantment Tyndal had ever seen – that bridge was impressive, especially as it was done long before Rondal went to Inarion – but to have him be put on the spot like that and . . . do really well, despite his fear of public attention, that was nearly insufferable. To make matters worse, there were approving nods and smiles from the strangers in the crowd. Strangers who didn’t know how irritating Rondal could be.

  “Well done, lad!” Baston boomed enthusiastically as the crowd applauded. “I didn’t know you had a voice!”

  “It’s only recently settled,” Rondal admitted sheepishly. “I’m glad I remembered the words. I nearly considered singing a marching cadence.”

  “Perhaps not the best choice for this venue,” Sire Cei nodded. “You picked wisely. Short, sweet, and well-delivered. Your turn, Sir Tyndal.”

  Tyndal stared at the knight, his mouth agape. He had been so focused on Rondal’s potential failure that he had forgotten that he, too, might be expected to perform as well. He scrambled desperately for something, anything, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember any song he knew well . . . or completely.

  “Well? What shall I play, young master?” the innkeeper asked, smiling.

  “Uh . . .” he searched his mind for inspiration . . . and with Briga’s blessing it came. “Just an accompaniment,” he directed. “For a poem.”

  It was Rondal’s turn to look startled. Tyndal knew he had a passable voice, and it seemed to be growing deeper by the day. But he couldn’t think of a single song that would not embarrass him for not knowing it all the way through. Poetry, on the other hand, need not be sung, and he happened to have a bit on store.

  “First a little lighting,” he said, stepping into the role of a performer. Unlike Rondal, he not only was not fearful of a crowd, he enjoyed the attention. He cast a pale magelight overhead, bathing him in an unearthly glow. He could see Rondal squirm at the showmanship. “I wish to recite to you tonight the Lay of Gessa and Lukando,” he said, referencing an old Remeran ballad of unrequited love. It was in a complicated verse form, and had some intricate wording. It was not an easy thing to do from memory, even if one had studied it.

  Tyndal had not studied it, but he had read it, finding an old copy in the Manciple’s Library at Inarion. He had taken a break from his studies and read the old scroll in the hopes that it had some dirty parts. While he had been disappointed that the lyrics were, alas, wholesome and virtuous, he had also had the foresight to employ the memory spells he knew to bring the scroll instantly to his recall.

  “ ‘I tell to you a tale of love and loss,’” he began, “’of hearts and lives torn asunder; for in the wake of war and strife, a lady’s heart oft lies ripe for plunder.’”

  He continued to recite, reading from the conjured page and speaking slowly and deliberately, while Baston plinked out a complementary melody in the background.

  He told the tale of Lukando the Remerean mercenary who conquered a rebellious castle on the coast for his liege and was ordered to put all to the sword, and how Lady Gessa’s feminine charms and persuasion kept his wrath at bay until the old duke died, but how when the new duke came to power she changed her tune and rejected Lukando. The mercenary then put the castle to the sack in revenge, finally taking his own life.

  It was a sad and poignant tale, and the complex rhythms in the words made it all the more difficult to deliver without becoming confused. But he had it right there in front of him, he was reading it right from the page. He made no mistakes. When he finished with a lowered voice, and faded his magelight from existence, the crowd was enrapt, and exploded in shouts and applause.

  “Well done, Sir Tyndal!” Baston boomed. “Give me a week and I could make a jongleur of you!”

  That . . . wasn’t bad, Rondal admitted to him, mind-to-mind.

  Thanks, Tyndal said, grudgingly. You, too. I had no idea you could sing like that.

  I’m just figuring it out. But how did you . . . oh! The memory spell! Why did you bother to enchant that one?

  Honestly? Because it’s a skirt-flipper. If you can recite that to a girl on a moonlit night, you’ll be up her skirts in a flash.

  Rondal didn’t respond . . . but he could nearly feel his fellow apprentice blush. That made Tyndal feel better, for some reason.

  * * *

  They tarried back at Cargwenyn for a week, with Sire Cei lecturing them on the finer points of chivalry while they helped him with the work of getting new hives ready for the bees and filtering last year’s honey. But then they left again, this time for a stay at Chepstan Castle, where Sire Cei paid a call on his liege, Baron Arathanial. He had much to report to the old baron in private concerning his journey into Sashtalia. Tyndal considered using the Long Ears spell to overhear their counsel, but Chepstan Castle’s fair ladies kept him too distracted for such a blatant violation of his trust.

  The boys had both met the distinguished baron several times but had rarely had the opportunity to speak with him alone. But when Sire Cei asked his leave to impart some of his wisdom on the art of chivalry, the man was eager for the chance. He spared much of the day for them, allowing them to accompany him as he toured one of his outlying estates for a surprise inspection.

  The knight in charge of the manor was pleased to be able to show off for his overlord, and provided as delightful a feast as his holding could command that evening. If being an errant was a ticket to regular meals, Tyndal observed, the upper nobility were even more richly treated. Of course, since it was Arathanial’s estate, it was his ow
n food he was eating, he reasoned.

  “That is interesting news about the snowstone,” Arathanial agreed at table, after Sire Cei informed him of the illicit mine. “Twice so that Sashtalia does not know what he owns in it.”

  “Yet it is only a matter of time before he does realize it, and seeks to put a guard on it,” Sire Cei pointed out.

  “That is not insurmountable,” the baron demurred as he worked his way through a bowl of beans and salt pork. “What makes it difficult is how many leagues lie between Taragwen and Sendari lands.”

  “Not so many between Taragwen and Sevendor,” Rondal pointed out. “Merely a three-thousand foot ridge.”

  “That may be more insurmountable,” grunted the baron. “What is this snowstone worth, do you think?”

  “It’s weight in silver, at least,” Rondal said, just before Tyndal could say the same thing. “Perhaps as much as gold, once its full capabilities are realized.”

  “I would not have my rival keep access to a mountain of gold in his domain,” pronounced Arathanial. “Nor silver. Currently I have the upper hand in lances, thanks to last year’s conquests. Even with the loss of the men in Gilmora, I have edged out that pretender. But should he suddenly be able to hire mercenaries in large quantities . . .”

  “I see your point, Excellency,” agreed Sire Cei. “I will confer with the Spellmonger and see what can be done about this . . . before Sashtalia realizes what it has.”

  Sire Cei took the opportunity that evening to tutor the boys in how to properly serve their betters at table, among other tasks.

  “It is an honor for a knight to be asked to serve his liege at the board,” Cei instructed them. “It is both a sign of humility and a sign of pride that you would submit so graciously to your master. Even counts see it as an honor to serve a duke his dinner.”

  Baron Arathanial indulgently welcomed the lessons, offering his own opinion and perspective of their service. It was not difficult, Tyndal quickly realized, but there were certain rules you had to follow, lest you accidentally slop soup on someone who could send you to the battlefield someday.