Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “If you will be so good as to inform Heeth that I am ready,” I asked. “And then please ask Jannik the Rysh to attend me.” The lad gave a quick bow and was off.

  By the time I got downstairs, Heeth was appearing through the Ways with Jannik in tow. The Arcanist was grinning, but Jannik just looked confused, and perhaps a little hung-over.

  “Did the council with the elves go well, my lord?” Jannik asked, stifling as yawn. “Is the world still ending, or do I need to plan for the future, now?

  “Not really, but that was better than expected,” I explained. “And yes, the world is still ending. But you should not eschew future plans, I think. Mine are already in motion. We will be departing for Anghysbel with a slightly larger party, but we shall still go on time.”

  “That is essential, from what Fondaras the Wise tells me,” Heeth nodded. “There is a limited time in which to pass through the alkali wastes. You will have but eight or nine weeks to complete your investigations and return, else you will be trapped there until next summer.”

  “I will be expedient,” I promised. “But there are a few little details I need to take care of before we depart. Attend me, gentlemen,” I said, as I manifested Insight into my hand and called the Magolith to me. “We need to take a little journey.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Jannik said, uneasily, as the spell began to whisk us all through the Ways. “Two such trips in so short a time is . . . guaranteed to make me vomit!” he said, after emptying his stomach on the grass, as we emerged from the Ways. As usual, Jannik made everything into a theatrical performance, and he took great pains to be as showy with his puking as he was with his playing.

  “Sorry,” he said, spitting and wiping his mouth. “Sorry, I had a busy night last night. All those soldiers returning to Vanador with coin to spend. And there was this one lass, golden hair, voice like a dream . . .”

  I handed him a water skin and let him clean himself up. “Take your time,” I urged.

  “Thank you. Where are we?” he asked, squinting his eyes in the sunshine. It looked far too bright for his tastes.

  “You’re the bard,” I reminded him. “You’ve walked every inch of the Wilderlands. You tell me.”

  He looked around quizzically, for a moment, his eyes lingering on the bright white pillar of snowstone engraved with a harp. Within the pillar was a Waystone, to facilitate travel.

  “I . . . this is familiar . . . let me get my bearings,” he said, clearly uncomfortable about being put on the spot. I don’t know what particular landmark finally inspired his memory, but in seconds he stared straight at me. “You brought me here?” he asked, his voice touched with anguish.

  “The Fair Vale of Cartrefygan,” I agreed. “This is the path that leads there. Shall we walk?”

  “Any other horrific memories you’d like to impose on me?” Jannik asked, softly and sarcastically.

  “There comes a time to move past the terrors of the past,” I said, as I led the way. Jannik reluctantly followed, but with steps like a man being dragged to the gallows. Heeth came behind him on the narrow path. “And a time to build anew. I have heard much about the Fair Vale. Heeth was kind enough to give me a detailed history, including some rather obscure points of which I was unaware.”

  “Obscurity is my business,” Heeth agreed, solemnly. “And it wasn’t difficult to track down. There are plenty of references to this place in the records of Vorone.”

  “I thought it would be good to look upon the place, before I leave,” I said, quickly, to stifle the inevitable witty rejoinder from Jannik. “A place so important in the history of the Wilderlands demands my attention, as its ruler.”

  “I’m sure it’s a lovely ruin,” Jannik said, miserably, as we walked up the hill. “I’m sure the bones of my kin will still be scattered about in a decorative fashion, the burned-out husks of our halls will be festively covered with weeds, and – wait,” he said, as he came to the rise. “The last time I was here, the gate was broken!”

  He stared in confusion at the sturdy wooden farm gate that warded the road. It was freshly milled – mage-kilned and preserved against rot, the spells told me. And the dirt near the base of the post that held it was likewise fresh. “Squatters!” Jannik said, angrily. “Or bandits! Or —”

  “Bandits don’t usually put up gates, they break them,” Heeth told him, as he opened the catch and swung the new gate open. “Neither do squatters.”

  Jannik’s expression was awash with anger and confusion as we led him further into the vale. On the other side of the rise, the road dipped down between two ridges and opened up into a broad valley that was bisected by a pretty little stream that fed into a small lake at the northern reach. The forests grew robustly on its perimeter and across the southern end, and rocky outcroppings dotted the meadows across the acreage. There were several larger outcroppings on the ridges that provided an understated sense of majesty. The place was loaded with charm.

  But the burned-out timbers of the old halls were gone. In their place was a rising structure of fresh wood, surrounded by a cluster of huts. Temporary housing, mostly for the carpenters who labored on the construction.

  “What . . . why . . . my lord, please explain yourself!” Jannik demanded.

  “I shall,” I nodded. “Jannik, you have provided exemplary service and critical advice to me and have served the Wilderlands in the grand tradition of the Rysh for years. I would therefore like to gift my court herald with a holding. This holding. Cartrefygan.”

  “So I can wander around chasing ghosts?” he asked, bitterly.

  “The dead here have been properly buried,” I soothed. “The old halls removed, and what could be salvaged, was. Cartrefygan is being renewed as the seat of the Rysh.”

  “I will not dwell here alone, the last of my family!” he said, hotly.

  “You needn’t,” Heeth offered, kindly. “See those four cottages? That one is where Alun of Mandale lives. Next to him is Cafell the Comely’s cottage and the third belongs to Goodwife Aderyn of Yellin. The fourth is yours.”

  “All are surviving Children of Rysh,” I explained. “Heeth discovered their existence as he pored over the records in Vorone. Atopol did me a favor and approached them about relocating to the Fair Vale. They have all accepted.”

  “Children of Rysh?” Jannik asked, skeptically.

  “Your cousins, to varying degrees,” Heeth nodded. “I think you’ll see the family resemblance soon enough. Alun and Aderyn have brought their spouses and their children. We’ve also brought in two peasant families to work the fields and build back the farmsteads. And a squad of Iron Bandsmen to protect the settlement.”

  “The Rysh is not extinct,” I insisted. “The tree may have been cut down, but four shoots remain. From them something mighty might grow, if properly tended. It will take time, effort, and resources, but I believe it is worth the investment.”

  “We’re just singers and spies,” snorted Jannik, as he studied the settlement in the distance. “Jongleurs. Vagabonds. This was our only real home, and it wasn’t particularly rich.”

  “The wealth of the Rysh was in its influence, as much as its music,” Heeth countered. “I’ve spoken to you often, and your charm and wit are as much lances to duel with as coin to spend for you. My conversations with your kin were similar. Indeed, Goody Aderyn has quite the wit,” he chuckled. “And Cafell could charm the taste out of your mouth. They are your family, Jannik. What little is left of them.”

  “See if you cannot make them into something more,” I counselled. “This land is yours, in perpetuity. I would see it become a place of learning and knowledge about music and lore as much as the Towers are about the magical arts. Perhaps collect the folk wisdom of the Wilderlands, and record it for posterity. Teach music and storytelling to those with the talent to exploit it. Build instruments of surpassing beauty and train those who would play them. Serve as a haven for musicians and artists. That’s what the Fair Vale was meant to do. It will beg
in small, of course, but if you invite the best musicians and cleverest minstrels to study here, at the Hall of the Rysh, then it will blossom, in time.”

  “What makes you think I even want to do this?” demanded Jannik, sourly.

  “Because your sadness makes you weary, and I would have you refreshed,” I said. “Because no man should die thinking that he’s the last of his kind . . . when he isn’t. And because you are a kind, decent man in a horrific world. As adept as you are as a spy, you were meant to be a minstrel. You were meant to be the Rysh. Only your own self-doubt prevents it.”

  “I’m not good enough to be the Rysh,” he said, lamely. I could tell we were having an effect on him. Or it was that valley. It really was beautiful in an elegantly subtle sort of way.

  “You’re the Rysh that we have,” I countered. “Arguably the best Rysh we have.”

  “This . . . this is . . . I don’t know, Minalan,” he said, uneasily, as he shook his head. “I appreciate your generosity, but this . . . should we not let the past die?” he pleaded.

  “Not when it is the foundation of the future,” I said, as kindly as I could. “You behaved as a man with nothing to lose for years, and we profited from it in the war. Now that the worst of the fighting is over, it’s time for you to build something you’re willing to fight to keep from losing.

  “And I need a place of culture and learning that doesn’t involve magical diagrams. I’d like Heeth to build a residence, here, with your permission,” I continued. “While the facilities in Vanador are becoming more adequate, I think you would both prosper from having him nearby, on occasion. He needs someplace to contemplate and store records. I’ve learned that sometimes having that sort of mental refuge is what you need to really crack the whip on your thinking.”

  “It really is gorgeous, here,” Heeth assured him. “Not as stunning as the Anvil, perhaps, but . . .”

  “Yes, it was once said that we grew charm, here,” Jannik said, as he stared at the hall under construction. “Great, heaping fields of it. Enough to export at a profit,” he said, tears in his eyes.

  “Then do it again,” I urged. “You know how, better than any. The Wilderlands needs the Children of Rysh. And I need a court bard who feels secure in this world. Now, your kin await you down below – Goody Aderyn has prepared a celebratory luncheon for you, and she has a reputation for setting a good table. Go and meet them. Get to know them. They’re your family.”

  Wordlessly, Jannik took a step toward the settlement, as if he was wading through mud. Then another. A moment later, he was walking. A moment after that, he was running. Heeth and I watched him until he arrived at the tables, where he was soon swarmed by his kin and their children.

  “That was immensely satisfying,” Heeth said, with a nod. “The man deserves a second chance. So does this place,” he said, glancing around at the abundant beauty. You know, he’s a wealth of obscure information. And he overhears everything. Giving him this place, this opportunity, is a kindness I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

  “I need him,” I explained, as we began to walk back to the pillar. True, we could have taken the Ways from where we were, but I wanted to familiarize myself with the waypoint, here. I had a feeling I’d be using it. “I need him, and I need him to not be miserable. And you are right, there is too much lore locked in that head to waste. It needs to be passed on and added to. Recorded. Cultivated, like a garden,” I smiled, recalling Falassa’s advice, a few months ago. The goddess had hinted that something like this needed to happen.

  “I’d like a country home, here,” Heeth decided. “Someplace quiet and inspirational. Someplace I could really write, after my researches. Some place to relax.”

  “That’s not a term most wizards are familiar with,” I chuckled. “Particularly me. I’ve fought two wars in two seasons, and I’m about to embark on a dangerous journey. By the time I return, half the kingdom will have fallen apart and Korbal will have regrouped, somewhat. I anticipate a busy autumn . . . but not much relaxation.”

  “A wizard’s work is never done,” he agreed. “By tomorrow I’ll be in Remere, going through some more old records of the Order of the Secret Tower. The keys to finding the Forsaken are in there, somehow, I just know it!”

  “And I will be packing for this journey. Join me at Spellgarden tonight for dinner?”

  “I’d love to,” Heeth nodded. “You know, Minalan, Jannik isn’t the only one grateful for second chances. My position as arcanist is a dream come true. Whoever thought that a talent for obscure trivia would lead to my fortune?”

  “If you’ve a fortune, I’m paying you too much,” I said, as I prepared the spell to leave. “But you do excellent work. If I have a talent, it’s for finding the right person for the job and the right job for the person. You’re very welcome for the opportunity. Just make the most of it. Because everyone is counting on you to figure this out. Or we’re all doomed.”

  “See, this is why wizards never relax,” he sighed, heavily, as we were whisked away into the Ways.

  ***

  They came in the night, just before dawn. Along the roads of the Magelaw, down ever street and lane, they moved looming amongst the shadows. At an hour that few are awake, they came as if drawn like a lodestone. One by one, or in groups, they pushed their way through gates and hedges, letting nothing stand in their way.

  By the break of day, the calls started ringing out from every hamlet and village, every isolated farmstead or freehold.

  “The cows! The cows are back! The cows!” the excited cry rang.

  That’s the call that brought me to my bedchamber window, that morning. The staff had begun their daily chores and had discovered that our missing cows had returned home in the night. Alya and the children all rushed down to the corral that had been empty at dusk the day before.

  Now it was filled with dozens of shaggy brown heads . . . and some black ones.

  “They’re back!” Alya squealed, excitedly, when she came out and leaned on the fence. “My cows are back! Oh, thank Bova!” she said, sincerely, as she reached out and affectionately petted the neck of a black-and-white cow I didn’t recognize. “I thought the year’s cheese production was scrubbed,” she admitted. “All that work on the creamery, and no cows.”

  “You could have used sheep,” I pointed out, earning a glare from her. But then she was distracted by an insistent nose pushing against her hand. “Uh, doesn’t it seem as if there are more cows here than we lost?” I asked, hesitantly. I spotted the distinctive bull that the Cow Goddess had gifted us, at the center of the herd. But there were a lot more of the other varieties inside the fence than I recalled.

  “She probably sent a few extra, to thank you for the Oxenroast,” Alya guessed. “I’ll ask Milksister Dawnza about it.”

  “She probably won’t know,” I considered. “We’ll probably just have another night-time visit from Bova, herself. Or I’ll ask Herus, next time I see him.”

  Alya gave me a strange look, as if she wasn’t certain if I was joking or serious. “I’m just glad they are back,” she said, smiling fondly at her herd. “Cows are really good to talk to. Hey, it’s the big bull! That’s Davos! Let’s go see him!” she said, climbing over the fence with no sense of propriety or dignity, like the farm girl she had been born as, not the countess she had become.

  I laughed and then very carefully climbed over the fence, myself. We walked through the milling cattle and she greeted many of them by name, or pointed out new additions to the herd, some of which were quite unusual looking. I learned more about my livestock in that half-hour than I ever wanted to know.

  “Gods, I love that smell!” Alya smiled, as she deeply inhaled.

  “All I smell is cows and cow shit,” I complained.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” she sighed. “I love it. I makes me think of home. It makes me feel at home,” she corrected. “I love Sevendor, Min, but this place is starting to feel like home, now.”

  “I know what you mean,” I nodded,
and added my own satisfied sigh. “The gardens are just getting started, but they’re lovely already. And the only person happier to have the cows back than you will be Speredek. He covets their manure for fertilizer. I think that’s what’s going to be hardest about this upcoming journey: I’m going to miss my garden.”

  “It will still be here,” she consoled me. “Tell me, is it going to be dangerous?”

  “More than likely,” I agreed. “Twice as much because I will have no magic, once we get there. The entire place is tainted by the jevolar. I’ll have to survive on my wits, alone.”

  “Well, I can always remarry,” she said, making a rare joke. She used to joke all the time, before Greenflower. It took me by surprise, and it took me a moment to laugh.

  “Really, it will be fine,” I assured her. “We know that there is a Narasi settlement there, and a Kasari one. They manage to live without magic. I think it will be a novel experience. From what I understand from Fondaras, there’s a thriving little domain up there, somewhere. The northernmost portion of our realm. Of all of Alshar,” I corrected.

  “And if the goblins come back?” she asked, hesitantly.

  “There won’t be a goblin between here and the Penumbra that we don’t know about, before long. Nattia is working with Ithalia’s new Sky Riders to patrol for deserters and stragglers. They’re being very thorough.”

  “I hope so,” she said, with a little shiver, as we walked back to the gate and exited the corral the proper way. “I worry about the children. But I do have a surprise for you,” she said, with a shy smile. “I invited Sire Cei and his wife to dinner tonight. He arrived while you were in the privy, before all this started about the cows,” she said, gesturing toward the keep. “I had him wait for you up there while Estret and the children get settled in Greenflower Hall.” She said the name without flinching. More progress.

  “Sire Cei? Why didn’t you say so!” I said, suddenly eager to see my castellan. “Let’s go!”