Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “So, who were these people?” I asked, conversationally. “Were they all Alka Alon?”

  “Not as you know us,” she admitted. “Physically, we were a bit different and adapted ourselves to Callidore after we arrived. Compared to humanity, the Alon in general tend to evolve to fit our environment far more rapidly and easily. Traits that take six generations to take root in a human population can arise within two, among the Alon. Magic helps,” she lectured, crossing her white-sleeved arms over her chest. “But that’s part of our genetics, too. And one reason we left our homeworld. Without magic, we would have been far less able to adapt to new and dangerous conditions.”

  “Not their physiology – although that is interesting – but who were they, politically? What were their motivations? Were they sent by a desperate government? Were they missionaries? Cultists?”

  Lilastien grinned. “A bit of all of them, the same as your people’s colony. There were five main groups that came, each with their servant species. Once we arrived, however, things got . . . chaotic. The original colonies in the east managed to maintain some of our original civilization, but once my people realized the incredible richness and potential of Callidore, most departed from our original ways. Those early years saw a great divergence among the Alon, as the five kindreds spread out and were affected by the lands they took. And a great departure from the old ways and forms, as our society adapted, too.”

  “Which is why Korbal and the Enshadowed are so irritated,” I recalled.

  “Yes, they were a particularly authoritarian faction,” Lilastien said, with a sneer. “Devoted traditionalists of a bad tradition. And they were particularly brutal about it, too. But they were not the only ones who wanted to preserve the dead past on our new world. They were just more active about it and thus got exiled. And then repressed when they tried to start trouble out here in the hinterlands.”

  “All right,” I sighed. “I appreciate your candor and your indulgence.” I don’t know what I was hoping to learn from her account. But there was no secret incredible revelation that added to my understanding or contributed to an answer to any of my problems. I was a bit disappointed by that. It’s nice when nearly immortal beings can slip you the answers to the hard questions, like Yrentia presenting the Sacred Periodic Tables to my ancestors. But it’s also rare.

  “And I appreciate your curiosity, Minalan,” she agreed, pleasantly. “The truth is, we were as much refugees as your folk, and in many ways, we were far less organized about our colonization. We had our share of explorers, researchers, adventurers and scoundrels when we came. People who wanted a fresh start on a new world with unlimited freedom. That wasn’t always a good thing. We brought our prejudices, hatreds and insecurities with us along with our happier motivations. Just as your people did. We didn’t leave behind war, strife or pettiness.”

  “Forseti says that my people were just seeking a viable world to settle upon . . . and that they actually desired the rural life,” I said, making a face. “I find it hard to believe that we crossed the Void and risked our lives in order to be peasants.”

  That made her laugh. “Actually, the version of rural life your ancestors had was highly idealized from the dirty reality. They were largely an urban folk, before they came. Indeed, they had to seek out farmers and horticulturists from among them who actually knew how to farm and plant, in order for the colony to be viable.” Then her face clouded. “But they were counting on the help of your marvelous machines, not the sweat of their own brow to bring in a crop.

  “Unfortunately, some among my people saw that as a justification for allowing your civilization to decline, after Perwyn sank. Since your people wanted to have a closer relationship with the land, they theorized that forcing the survivors to leave their sophisticated lives on the island to toil themselves in the vales of Merwyn a kind of assistance toward the colonists’ original goal. In the process, they shortened your lifespans by half,” she added, condemningly.

  “And they let the bulk of our civilization sink beneath the waves,” I said, shaking my head.

  “They had ample assistance from factions among your own people,” she pointed out. “You have to understand, Minalan, the politics back then were very different than now. There were those on both sides who presumed to know what was best for both species. And both governments were confronted with existential circumstances that forced unlikely alliances for completely different motivations. It was a chaotic time.”

  “Show me one that isn’t,” I sighed. “That’s why we’re planning hospitals and castles and marching off to yet-another pointless war. It’s hard to imagine that when our ancestors came here, just to struggle against each other so hard.”

  “It’s in our nature,” she agreed, sadly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter where we wander in the universe, we’re just looking for a bigger sandpit to play in. But the game is always the same.”

  There was a moment of silence while we both contemplated the futility of civilization in the face of our inner nature, against the background of a universe that seemed determined to frustrate and kill us.

  “Drink?” I asked, finally, pushing away my dark thoughts.

  “A big one,” Lilastien agreed. “I just realized I’m going to be a hospital administrator, again. Best I start the process, now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Rysh in Spellgarden

  “The Wise understand by themselves; the Fools listen to the crowd.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

  Master Jannik joined me for the day, at my invitation, and endured witnessing the Spellmonger in his natural surrounds, performing my expected duties. Brother Bryte grumbled about allowing such an intimate view of my business by a relative stranger – and proven spy – but Jannik can charm the gods, themselves, it is said, and it didn’t take long for the minstrel to soothe the lawyer. Indeed, by the end of the day, they were engaging as old friends, both intrigued by the other’s intellect.

  Having Jannik around Spellgarden for a while served two purposes: allowing me to better examine a man who might be important to my rule and allowing him the prerogative of bragging to my subjects about attending the Count at his seat. That didn’t preclude him speaking poorly of me, but he could not claim I was a stingy host. An added benefit was Jannik’s willingness to pick up his harp, lute or his guitar and burst into song or tell an insightful, amusing or decidedly bawdy tale. By midmorning, I could see just why the Rhysh were so valued by the Wilderlords.

  Jannik began the day with a few light-hearted songs involving the children, the nuns and even Alya, in the hall, much to their enchantment. Then he and Bryte accompanied me over to the keep for the day’s business. Though it was still under construction, enough of the chambers had been completed to allow me to use it for work.

  “Ordinarily, when a lord conducts his affairs, it is in a brightly-lit solar, where he can enjoy the comforts of the season,” Jannik remarked, as he followed me up the stairs.

  “My lord the Count is at war,” reminded Brother Bryte, behind him. “It is fitting that he take his business in a castle.”

  “Your lord the Count is a wizard at war,” I corrected. “As lovely as a comfy solar might be, much of my work is administrative or thaumaturgic,” I explained, as I opened the door to the lower chamber. “I work better indoors and unexposed. Sometimes even in caves,” I admitted. “And lighting is not really a problem,” I reminded him, as I waved my arms. A fleet of magelights snapped into being across the high ceiling, bathing the entire chamber in bright light.

  “That is helpful,” Jannik agreed, visibly impressed. “It’s warm in here, too,” he observed. “You can still see your breath outside. There’s no fire laid, but the air in here is balmy.”

  “I left the heatstone on,” I grimaced, nodding toward the disk of snowstone in the floor that served as such. “I shouldn’t, if there’s no one here, but I forget, sometimes. Make yourselves comfortable,”
I encouraged, as I made my way to my accustomed chair. It was a grand thing, not quite throne-like, but ornately carved – a gift from Carmella, from the finest Malkas Alon craftsmen. “Eventually, the tower will magically keep such wasteful things from happening, but I get distracted.”

  “Sometimes he’ll get some idea in his head, slip into the Alka Alon Ways and disappear for hours,” Brother Bryte agreed. “The next thing I know, I’m receiving a Mirror message that he’s in Vorone or Castabriel, or some other exotic place. It’s disconcerting.”

  “I’ve no such plans for today, but I make no promises. What administrative matters require my attention, Brother Bryte?” I asked, without enthusiasm. “I dislike that business the most. Hence, I dispense with it first. It’s often the most important,” I confided to Jannik.

  “And an excellent reason to slip away through the Ways,” agreed Brother Bryte, as he removed a sheaf of parchment from his folio. “Today’s business is light, my lord: seven military purchase and payment authorizations, four petitions, five Mirror messages that came in the night, four requests for audiences, two pieces of correspondence – one rather long – some minor business for the manor, Mavone’s daily intelligence report, and status reports from both Magelords Terleman and Sandoval, from the field,” he said, from memory.

  “Who is the correspondence from?” I asked, as I prepared myself for the onslaught.

  “The first and far longer missive is from Sire Cei, assuring you as to the health and security of your barony of Sevendor,” Bryte explained. “The second and shorter is from Count Anvaram of Nion, in Gilmora.”

  “Let’s set them last in the list, then,” I decided. “I’ll plow through the boring matters, first.”

  “Would you care if I played, while you worked, my lord?” Jannik inquired politely, as he reached for his battered guitar. “Just some instrumental pieces I’m working on, no singing,” he promised.

  “That would be delightful, Jannik,” I agreed with a sigh, as the first parchment was placed in front of me. “A little bureaucracy music, please.”

  We made our way through the stack of matters relatively quickly, and while I would like to credit Jannik’s quiet, delightful playing, in truth it was due to Bryte’s equally-masterful organizational skills. Every matter he brought to my attention he had reviewed and prepared a response in advance, sometimes several of them, in anticipation of my decisions. The appropriations were easy enough, of course, as I had ordered most of the expenditures myself and people needed to get paid. The petitions were also easily enough to decide – mostly whether to grant them immediately or push them off to my semiannual courts.

  Jannik just listened, at first, and then started making the odd joke or commentary, which helped pass the time. It wasn’t until I was at the final payment authorization that he made a face that invited comment.

  “You object to strengthening the fortification of Iron Hill?” I asked, surprised.

  “Oh, no, my lord,” Jannik said, stopping his playing. “Indeed, it seems as if you know your business well, in regard to strategy. But Iron Hill Keep sits atop a maze of mines sufficient to shelter half of the vale. Iron Peg has hidden entrances to them all over her precious hill. Including an old shaft that comes out nearly a quarter mile to the southwest – that’s the one she doesn’t want anyone knowing about,” he said, casually.

  “Why is that?” asked Brother Bryte, curious.

  “Because it’s her escape tunnel, for one thing,” he informed us. “Her grandsire had the shaft extended on purpose, to provide a quick exit, should his creditors come knocking. But along the way they dug into a cavern, a big one. For three generations the family has secretly stocked it against . . . well, against something like the bloody goblin invasion,” he admitted. “It’s huge and filled with rations and supplies. There’s even a spring. And a room for her treasury,” he added. “It’s an underground castle where the family can hide if their big fat fortress falls. They could hold out there for weeks, even months. But only a few know about it.”

  “But you do,” I observed.

  “The Children of Rysh have ridden the northern circuit for generations. We’ve picked up a few things along the way. It can be handy to know things about the Wilderlords that even the Wilderlords have forgotten. The Secret Castle of Iron Hill was known to us fifty years ago. It is House Faradine’s most closely guarded secret. Iron Peg thinks no one else outside of the family is aware of it, though.”

  “That is interesting,” I agreed, my eyes narrowing.

  “It would be well within your rights to inspect it, my lord,” Brother Bryte pointed out. “If it is a storehouse or fortification, even underground, it is a military matter under your purview.”

  “The additional exit could be important, too,” I agreed, as I studied a magemap of the region. “If a significant force could be concealed there, it changes the defensive dynamic of the battlefield.”

  “It likely isn’t protected by magic,” Jannik replied. “The Wilderfolk in general have been hesitant to employ wizards often, and were stingy with payment —”

  “You’re telling me!” I snorted, recalling a year spent trying to sell my services as a freelance warmage here, before giving up and becoming a spellmonger, instead. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “But it would be easy enough for one of your wizards to ‘accidentally’ discover it,” Jannik pointed out, as he began picking a melody on his instrument again. “If he brought it to your attention, you would be forced to. And that would expose a potentially valuable installation to your knowledge.”

  “I like the way this man thinks, my lord Count,” grinned Brother Bryte.

  Jannik continued to offer his advice and perspective more readily, after that. He made several small suggestions, most of which I took, as he quietly played nearby. By the time we got to the correspondence, an hour later, it almost seemed enjoyable. Almost.

  Sire Cei’s long letter detailing the state of my lands and estates after the thankfully-mild winter was welcomed and brought forth many happy memories of Sevendor . . . and not a little homesickness. As both my castellan and steward he took great pains to elaborate the business he was attending with concise precision, until I felt well-informed about my barony. A few paragraphs toward the end included some less-important notes about various personalities in the domain, as well as some news he felt I would appreciate.

  “Well, it seems that Olmeg and Lorcus are married,” I said out loud to myself. “To sisters – witches, actually,” I reported.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the gentlemen, my lord,” Brother Bryte reminded me.

  “You will, someday, when my exile is done. My Greenswarden and one of my vassals – both wizards of great power. And unequal temperament. Neither one was bound for matrimony, I’d thought. But look at me, I’m using news from home to distract me from Count Anvaram’s inevitably threatening letter.”

  “And it is, indeed, particularly threatening, this time, my lord,” Brother Bryte agreed, as he rolled up Cei’s report to be filed. “The usual threats about returning his errant subjects, some dark muttering about the sequestration of Magelord Astyral’s intended bride, and a livid passage proclaiming his dismay and anger at being taunted before his liege, the Duke of Castal, and his Royal Majesty.”

  “Anything new?” I asked, dryly.

  “He says he’s raising his banners, as his vassals are yet-again urging him to defend the honor of the Gilmoran chivalry and punish the wicked sorcerer in the north,” Brother Bryte said, with disdain.

  “As I invited him to do,” I said, shaking my head. “If he wants to lead his men hundreds of miles overland, through Northern Gilmora and past the Pearwoods, that’s his affair.”

  “My lord, you taunt a Gilmoran count?” Jannik asked, with interest.

  “He’s insistent about forcibly repatriating the Gilmoran peasants who were enslaved and then liberated. As you are aware, the Magelaw is particularly specific about that,” I reminded h
im.

  “I wrote that law,” Brother Bryte agreed. “Specifically, because of demanding pricks like Anvaram. While I cannot officially encourage such uncivil behavior, even for a valued client, I cannot slight Count Minalan for his choice of targets. Anvaram enjoys a reputation among the pompous arses of Gilmora as a pompous arse.”

  “And you are willing to go to war against the count to defend the Gilmoran peasants?” asked Jannik, surprised.

  “Among other reasons,” I shrugged. “If he should stir himself and his dainty horsemen out of their comfortable estates – estates they were reluctant enough to defend, when the gurvani invaded them – then I will meet them in the field,” I promised. “I think the likelihood of that is low,” I added.

  “I like that!” Jannik said, with what I recognized as professional interest. “I can use that.”

  “You’re composing a song?” Bryte asked.

  “I’m always composing songs,” Jannik dismissed. “Sometimes, they can be useful. Many of your folk still fear that they will be returned to Gilmora, despite your law. They place little faith in the word of the nobility, after generations of abuse by the Gilmoran aristocracy. A couple of verses set to a jaunty tune can help convince them that the Spellmonger won’t betray them.”

  “They’re a damn sight more useful working toward for their own benefit here than toiling in the cotton and maizefields of Gilmora,” I agreed. “If you want to write a song about that, I encourage you to do so. It can be useful,” I told Brother Bryte, who looked skeptical. “Warmagi do it all the time. Hells, Azar keeps a couple of minstrels on staff just to brag about how godsdamn great he is.”