“Yet you are no Archmage,” he countered.
“I’m still working on that,” I quipped, with a small, tight smile.
I wasn’t being serious, at the time. The institution of the Imperial Archmage traced its roots back to ancient Perwin, long drowned beneath the waves. For the Empire founded by its survivors, the Archmage was at first a hereditary non-entity, then a competing power, and finally an all-important figure of unity . . . before he confiscated all the loose irionite, threw it into the sea, and kept just a few pieces for himself.
A few centuries later, the magical aspects of the office had become largely incidental as the Archmagi became sated with temporal power, and saddled with the administration of the Empire. They studied magic less and less. Then a bunch of northern barbarians came along, and they didn’t have the ability to defend themselves. The rest is literally history.
“But it does beg the question, Master Dunselen,” I continued, “that if it is not me who controls who does and doesn’t get witchstones . . . who does? You?”
“Oh, that would be for the Duke to decide,” he dismissed. “Or the Censor General, Master Hartarian.”
“Duke Rard would likely defer to his staff on the subject,” I pointed out. “That would be you. Who would you hand over a witchstone to? And could you guarantee that it would be used wisely, and in the defense of the realm?”
Dunselen looked troubled. “I . . . there are certainly plenty of deserving . . . I’m certain that the political reality . . . His Grace is usually adept in matters of . . . oh.” He heaved a great sigh. “I think I see what you mean,” he admitted, sadly.
“Exactly,” I nodded. “If the task and responsibility is made part of the Ducal hierarchy, then the distribution and regulation of Irionite becomes a political issue, and suddenly you’re handing out stones based on noble birth and wealth and political connections and favors owed, not merit.” Penny had coached me on this part, too.
“I see your point,” nodded the old man. “I think our ancestors were wise to put the Censorate outside of the reach of any single Duchy. Someone who had the power to grant irionite, who could become a powerful, insidious weapon. And a political nightmare.”
“Which is why I insisted on my resolution to the problem. Part of it is pure pragmatism: I’ve got the only stone that can shatter the bond to the Dead God. Which means any truly useful stone has to come through me. I’m not impressed by titles or who your sire was, or how much gold you can loan to the Duke. I’m going to look you in the eye, test your will, evaluate your abilities, and make a decision based on that. This keeps the issue apolitical.”
“You might be right,” agreed Dunselen. “As to the matter of Irionite, I cannot fault your reasoning. But then you propose to let magi buy or inherit property – which makes us an even bigger political issue, when our profession is already reeling from the madness of Orril Pratt.” He looked guiltily through a window facing away from the courtyard, into a private garden. “Did you know that I, myself, was in line to inherit?” he asked, a troubled look on his face.
“I was not aware of that, Master,” I said truthfully.
“It wasn’t a huge fief, but my father was Lord of Greenflower, in southern Remere, long ago. I was the eldest, and the only son. Destined to be a knight, or at least a prosperous lord of the land. When my powers became manifest it was decided that they were too profound to be easily bound, and I was sent to apprentice with old Master Inglo, court mage to Count Brasalan of Remere. It was a great honor,” he insisted, as if he had to convince himself. “My sisters’ husbands divided up my patrimony. Of them, two are dead and their land belongs to strangers. The third . . . she’s feeble, and likely won’t live to see Spring. And then lovely Greenflower will have left the family for good.” He seemed pretty sad about the whole thing.
“If the Duke can be convinced to accept my bargain, then that won’t happen again,” I vowed. “A son could inherit his father’s lands as a magelord. A worthy warmage could be rewarded by the Coronet for good service. And we wouldn’t be a pack of mumbling mystics moving from barony to barony looking for work most of the time. Think of what we could do, with irionite and lands to sustain us!”
“I know, I know,” he said, testily. “I’ve thought of little else since we ended our session yesterday. Do you not think I haven’t dreamed of this impossible day? I’ve had a longer life than you, Minalan, and I’ve read more. I’ve read accounts of the greatness of the Magocracy, of the even greater heights of lost Perwin. The magelords of old brought fertility to the fields and flocks and protection for the people. They flew from place to place in magical contraptions. They could speak to each other at a great distance. Their powers seem boundless . . . our modern profession grasps at the crumbs from their table and tries to call it progress!”
“So you are in favor of me pushing the Duke on this?”
“I think I am,” he said, decisively. “We are all doomed if we don’t do something.”
“And what are the chances, do you think, of convincing him?”
Dunselen pursed his lips over his frosty white beard. “He won’t make any decision until he has consulted with the Censor General. But he has no real love for the Bans or a loathing for our trade. He’s a good leader, and simply wants to rule his realm in peace and prosperity. If this will help with that, then he will consent.”
“Gods help him if he doesn’t,” I sighed. “I’m serious about my pledge: if my terms are not met, then you can expect to see me and my warmagi on the next ship for Vore. It will take a couple of generations for the Dead God to reach that far east, and perhaps by that time the remaining Dukes will have better sense.”
“The Duke may not allow you and your brethren to leave,” suggested Dunselen.
“The Duke may want to re-think that,” I answered. “I daresay I could defeat any attack he cared to throw at me. And with my men with me, there’s not force that can stand against us. No human force,” I amended. My warmagi and I had stood against the might of Sharuel and were lucky to be alive. He swatted at us like bugs. Compared to him, all the knights in the Duchies were preferable as foes.
“So I advised him,” Dunselen agreed. “I don’t think such a course is likely. I feel you have nothing to fear from the Duke. The Censor General may have other ideas. As I said, great power has come to you. And that power will attract enemies.”
“So how about you, Master Dunselen?” I asked, slyly. “Are you my friend or my foe?”
“Neither,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I may not be the most powerful mage in the Duchy, but I am the most politically adept. Of course I’d like to call you an ally – it’s rare that the Court Mage has an ally in court. But I will not betray my Lord for the chance. Your oath . . .”
“Only concerns the realms of magic,” I pointed out. “It merely governs how the stones are to be used and prescribes them from misuse. And invokes your aid or assistance in supporting me in removing stones from those who prove themselves unworthy.”
“And if a mage you’ve given a stone to does prove unworthy?”
“Then the stone is forfeit to me. I make no claim on the mage’s life. I merely reclaim the property and give it to another.”
“Those are not arduous promises,” he conceded. “Mayhap the Duke would allow such an oath, if it would grant the Duchy a stone.”
“The Duchy does not get a stone,” I declared. “The stone belongs to me. I grant it to an individual, regardless of position or title. And it stays with that individual, regardless of position or title. The Duchy cannot take an oath.”
“But you would consider granting a stone to . . . to me, personally?” the old man asked, his voice quivering.
“I have long admired your work and been impressed in how you administer the Duchy’s magi,” I admitted. “You are correct: you are not the most powerful or adept mage in the Duchy. But you have good sense, political savvy, and the ability to put the needs of the Duchy and its people before your ow
n. I would certainly consider granting you a stone.”
He looked as happy as a kid with a sugar lump. “Really? Truly?”
“As a matter of fact, I would accept it as a condition of the deal. If the Duke meets my terms, then you shall take the oath and have a stone. You may use the stone to defend the realm and shore up its defenses, or you can go east and make yourself fabulously rich. I’ll leave that to your conscience. But I need the Duke to listen to my plans and do as I say. And it is known he turns to you often for advice.”
“Of course, of course,” he nodded. Then he paused, a biscuit halfway to his mouth. “Master Minalan, are you using a witchstone to bribe me for my support?” he asked, suspiciously.
I considered. “Yes, actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I conceded.
He thought about it for a moment, and then his biscuit resumed its journey. “All right, consider me bribed. I lust for the power of the stone – as any mage might.”
“And once you have it, you will realize just how pale a lust it was, compared to the fulfillment of desire,” I promised.
“Then you shall have my aide,” he granted, nodding. “It may be that you will remake the image of the magi throughout the Five Duchies, Minalan.”
“I’ll settle for a nice, prosperous little village somewhere where me and my woman can raise our children unencumbered by gurvani,” I shrugged. “Truth is, Master Dunselen, I have no personal ambitions beyond that. I don’t want to be a court mage, or a warmage, or even a spellmonger, if you want to know the truth. I just want to live my life and pursue my research without being bothered by the weight of the world. Alas, if I get what I ask from the Duke, the thing I want most will be furthest from my grasp,” I sighed.
I might have been a little dramatic about it. It wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t completely candid, either. With the power I had and the money I had, I could afford to buy myself into the nobility if I survived. A small rural lordship somewhere. Maybe somewhere east. But until the threat of the Dead God was abated, I knew I couldn’t rest. Not for long, anyway. He had stared into me with those soulless eyes, and that’s an image that doesn’t fade over time.
“Well, you have my word, I shall support you, Master Minalan,” Dunselen agreed, confidently. “Now, tell me about these warmagi . . .”
The rest of breakfast was far less stressful, once we had covered business. Dunselen’s professional specialty was water magic – the man knew more about how water flows downhill than I knew was possible. His pet project was at one of the Duke’s minor estates, “loaned” to Dunselen to get around the Bans, where he had built an intricate waterwheel and other hydraulic contraptions to harness the magical power of water. Considering Wilderhall is in the border regions between the northern Wilderlands and the southern Riverlands, there was water aplenty to work with.
And I learned something else very important at that meeting. Water is boring.
I excused myself afterward as soon as protocol allowed, and was making my way back to my new quarters, when another page caught up with me. This one was older, maybe eleven, and his tabard had a golden axe crossed with a silver sword on a scarlet field, silver antlers behind – the livery of the office of the Lord Marshal of the Duchy.
“My master’s compliments, milord,” the boy said, his voice cracking at entertaining points throughout his words, “Count Sago invites you to join him in the Practice Yard this morning, if the Spellmonger will consent,” he recited.
“I’ll be there soon,” I answered. “I need to speak with the castellan, first. Tell me, with which weapons is your lord practicing today?”
The page had to stop and think for a moment. “Swordplay, today, milord. Archery firstday, grappling secondday, swordplay thirdday, lances fourthday, maces and axes on fifthday.”
“Swords it is, then,” I nodded. I had run out of pennies with which to tip him. Oh, well. He ran off when I dismissed him.
Indeed I did need to find a castellan, Harren, and I did – after asking three or four gold-tabarded castellans, they directed me to where he was overseeing the laundry. I waited politely before interrupting him as he chastised a group of old women that they weren’t getting the clothes clean enough for the fortune he paid them.
“Master Spellmonger!” he said, bowing deeply when he noticed me. “What service can I provide for you today?”
“Simple: I need some money.” I watched his face contort as a variety of reactions conspired. Better elaborate, I decided, before poor Harren thought I wanted a loan. “I left most of my belongings with my apprentices in my haste to get here, including my purse. However, I do have this,” I said, taking out a rough leather pouch. I opened it and put a single uncut emerald into his palm. “I got this from a gurvani – spoils of war,” I explained. “They use them like money, some of the more civilized ones. In any case, I have yet to have the time to find a jeweler to sell them. If you happen to know of one . . .”
“As it happens, I do,” Harren. I knew he would. “My sister’s second husband is a journeyman in the trade, in town. He does much of the repair work for the ladies of Wilderhall. He will give you a fair price,” he nodded.
“If you handle the matter yourself for me, you may take a quarter of the price,” I told him. His eyes opened a little wide – that was a substantial amount. “I just need some coin in my pocket, is all.”
“Quite understandable, Master Minalan,” Harren nodded. “I suppose usually your apprentice would handle such matters . . .”
I tried to imagine Tyndal, a low-born orphan who was a stableboy when I met him, bargaining with a wealthy jeweler. He’s an outstanding apprentice and a potentially powerful warmage, but Tyndal, unfortunately, lacks sophistication in many things. “Ordinarily, a guest arrives with a manservant or two to deal with such details.”
“My apprentice has better things to do than wait on me,” I said, shaking my head. “But I suppose I should consider employing someone to help out, temporarily. Pray, do you have anyone in mind?”
“I do, Master,” Harren nodded. “My cousin’s boy, Hamlan, is without a situation at the moment, after his last master died. He is well-trained for service, and he seeks employment.”
“If you get enough for that emerald, tell him I want to meet him. Can he use a sword?”
“Master? As well as any townsman. When we are sixteen, we spend two summers drilling with the militia. If I recall correctly, he was tolerable with a blade or spear. Do you expect that to be a necessity for the position?”
“It might be helpful,” I agreed. “And I need someone loyal, too.”
“Of course, Master. Hamlan’s reputation is pristine, although there was little enough to do for his last master. He took ill not long after Hamlan took his service.”
“Fine, send him to me this evening, then.”
Then I headed back to my room, grabbed my mageblade and weapons belt, and headed clear across the inner bailey to the Tower of Swords, where Count Sago awaited me. No doubt he wanted to ‘persuade’ me, as well. I wondered if I was going to have to wait on every courtier in the castle. If so, it was going to be a busy day.
Chapter Nine:
The Terror of Kitsal Hamlet
Green Hill, Late Summer
I used to think that there wasn’t anything worse than the terrifying nightmare of battle.
Not all battle – leading a thunderous cavalry charge into an inferiorly positioned foe, destined to slaughter them quickly and brutally is actually kind of fun, once you get over the pure gore of it.
I mean the other kind of battle, the one where the outcome is uncertain, at best, and your hope of survival is purely a matter of luck, skill, and the fickle whims of the gods. The press of flesh and metal and hair and blood, the screams of the wounded, the dying, the calls to mothers in the speech of infants, coming from the mouths of men grown, the curses and prayers and pleas for mercy, the drums and horns and war-cries by strangers who want to kill you all combine into one ghastly symphony from
hell that assaults your ears and your mind all at once.
Mix that with the stench of fear and vomit and bile and piss and shit and mud and horse and steel and sweat, fire and ash . . . battle has a nauseating perfume all its own. It haunts your nostrils for days after, and there’s no passage of years that can dim the memory of that harsh aroma.
That’s on top of the confusion and shock of being faced with death not once – like when a cart almost ran over you and you narrowly escaped – but again and again and again. Death from the foemen in front of you, death from a fated arrow from the sky, death from behind by someone you didn’t even see was there, death from your tent-mate who mistook you for the foe, trampled by horses or bashed by maces, sliced by swords or punctured by javelins, from any direction at any time – not once, as I said, but over and over and over within the space of a hundred heartbeats.
Where every time you blink a new foe could reveal himself, a new danger could manifest, and you are helpless in preventing or avoiding it. Where every step you take seems foreordained to inch you closer and closer to your own grisly death. Where the surge of terror compels you to fight madly, or to retreat madly, or to scream madly into the chaos in defiance not of the foe, but of death, itself.
Where comrades and friends, men you diced and drank and whored with, lie gasping at your feet, their hot blood pouring from their bodies and pooling at your heels, their terror-filled eyes turned toward you in pleading despair, begging you to save them from their grim fate while knowing – as you do – that there is nothing that you can do to save them from the abyss, and that you will stand their helplessly while they die – or worse, forget about them in an instant as you dodge the next volley, next charge, next slash.
Where blood becomes as common as rain and screams are as normal as breezes, where rank and position and class have no meaning, and the basic commonality of struggling just to survive the man-made madness puts you and the greatest Duke on level. Where retreat into drunkenness, madness, or impervious detachment is the only remedy to the stain of the assault on your memory. Where the subtlest reminder of some far-away battlefield a lifetime away turns your blood to ice in your veins and makes old men wake up in the middle of the night, bawling like babies or screaming like terrified little girls at the memory.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 17