“By dawn it will be on everyone’s tongue,” I continued, taking visceral pleasure in the man’s discomfort. “The people will hear that you are bewitched into indecision, to keep you from leading your armies against the foe.”
“Which I – and my new Court Mage – will deny!”
“Deny all you wish,” I said dismissively. “And the more strongly deny it, the more you will confirm, in their minds, that you are indeed under a spell. And Your Grace, while my order is not given to portents or prophecy – we feel they bind us to the wheel of Fate – I do not need magic to tell you what will happen next.
“In a week the talk of cowardice will surface, only in whispers, at first. And then murmurs about your manliness will come. People may indeed question whether or not you are ensorcelled – but by then, the alternative to enchantment will be that you fear battle so much that you’d rather hide behind your palace walls.
“Then the talk of sedition will begin, and the wise among your nobles will not deny it, and then eventually rebellion – you have five thousand Tudrymen and Alshari peasants who are drilling themselves for war even now, without your leave or encouragement . . . what do you think they will believe?” I asked, raising my voice loudly.
“They will believe what I tell them to believe!” he pronounced angrily. “And I will hang anyone who says otherwise!”
“In the absence of firm, decisive orders from Your Grace, they are going to believe in the story of the spell. They will lose faith in your leadership, what little remains. They will see your executions as making war on your own people when you have foes at the gate. And in such a time of crisis it will take but one spark to start a peasant rebellion that will spread across all of Alshar.”
I looked around again – I had the audience enrapt. One lady of middle years and larger middle was staring at me, her eyes as wide as wagon wheels and a little spot of drool forming at the corner of her mouth. “And one of you – or many of you,” I said, addressing them in violation of court manners, “you will take up the cause yourself or risk being burned in your keeps. And another of you will join him. And yet another will see himself as a wiser monarch, and then the peasant revolt will turn into a full rebellion, into a civil war, perhaps.” I turned back to Lenguin. “All because you refused to rise to the challenge at hand.”
I’m glad Duke Lenguin wasn’t a mage – if he had been, his gaze alone would have burned me on the spot.
“What you speak is treason,” he said, harshly.
“Actually, I’m Castali, so it’s not technically treason,” I observed. “I suppose it would have been, had you not canceled my credentials as Marshal, but since you did, no, this is not treason.”
“Treason in deed if not in name,” he accused. I shrugged. I really didn’t care about that at the moment. “Let us assume you do unleash this . . . this damnable lie to the world, Spellmonger – what do you possibly hope to gain from it?”
“I’m hoping that one of your marshals will have the sense to see that the only way this can be avoided is to strike for the goblin armies at once. That would prove that Your Grace was not, indeed, enchanted. And that, Your Grace, is precisely what I want to gain. I could care less about your honor, your dignity, or your position – but you have an army sitting outside your walls, and I want to borrow it if you aren’t going to use it.”
“I am going to use it!” he bellowed, defensively. “When it is ready, and the time is right! It is a foolish commander who commits his forces too early!”
“And he is more foolish if the right opportunity comes along and he does not act,” I replied. “Your Grace, the time is now. Because there is a horde of ninety thousands of goblins descending on Vorone from the north, at this very moment, and if Alshar will not meet them in the field of combat then Vorone will fall . . . and then Tudry will be encircled . . . and then the hordes will march south to Falas and east to Castal.”
There was a loud and shocked gasp from the courtiers, most of whom had paid little attention to the news outside of court, and had accepted as truth the Duchy’s position that this was a minor goblin incursion. The idea that they might be in danger caused more than a few to start toward the doors, as if to pack or flee or both. But my warmagi were standing firmly in front of them, and would let none pass without my leave.
“You have placed me in an impossible situation, Spellmonger,” he snarled. “You seek to shame me into a course of action that my closest advisors have been warning me against!” He glanced for the briefest of moments toward Baron Jenerard, who was staring as wide-eyed at our exchange as anyone else.
“Perhaps your closest advisors are not your best advisors, then. But if you swear to lead your troops against the northern horde, I will promise not to unleash my minstrels,” I said, to a titter of giggles. That made Lenguin turn red.
“And now you seek to compel an oath from me,” he growled. “In my own palace, you try to extort my cooperation?”
“I’m a commoner,” I shrugged. “I heard that’s how things got done in court.” That provoked an even louder burst of giggles. I flashed a smile around the room. Yes, I can be charming at need.
“Your Grace!” one of the Censors – the big one with the bruises – said suddenly, coming forth from the crowd and taking a magnificently humble knee in front of the Duke. “I beg you not to listen to this outlaw’s words! He defies the Bans, and seeks to overthrow the established order!”
“Don’t you think we have bigger problems than that right now?” complained Rustallo. “Ishi’s eternal tits, the goblins are coming, and they aren’t going to worry about the stupid Bans!” Leave it to Rusty to burst out with the obvious at the most inappropriate times.
Only this time his outburst was met with a small but definite murmur of agreement. We were getting somewhere, then – at least amongst the court. That couldn’t be a bad thing.
“Your Grace,” the bruised Censor continued, sternly, “your brother Duke forsook his vows and suspended the Bans in Castal – I beg you not to compound his folly—“
“Oh, please spare us the righteousness!” Mavone said, offended. “Do you have a plan for saving the Duchy, Censor?”
“That is not my duty,” he said, stiffly. “My duty is to arrest, imprison, and prosecute those who would profane the Bans. The use of irionite, for example, is proscribed—”
“So why not do your duty?” challenged Mavone, striding forward, a path opening up in the crowd. He made a show of withdrawing his witchstone, adding a silent little cantrip that made it glow with unearthly green light that made it seem like a star in his hand. Show off. “Go ahead. Stand up, draw your sword, and take away my stone!” He even waved it around, like you would to tease a dog. More gasps, and suddenly there was a lot more space around Mavone. My other warmagi were enjoying the entertainment, but had not let down their watch. Mavone got within ten feet of the Censor. “Last time you tried to do that, in the south, you met with my comrade Azar the Magnificent. I’m assuming you took his stone?” he asked, amused.
The Censor blushed bright red, the parts of his face that weren’t already blue with bruising. Azar really had done a number on him – his nose couldn’t have started out that shape. His hand went to the hilt of his mageblade, Censors being one of the few positions allowed to be armed in the presence of the Duke. His comrade behind him strode forward, a little reluctantly, and stood next to his shoulder, a wand appearing in his hand. He didn’t look particularly confident. He had every reason not to be.
Lenguin raised his hand to stop them before they did something stupid. “Captain Farentine, stay. You too, Censor Landrik. For the moment.” He looked back at me, his beady eyes narrowing. “It appears that there are some magi who are willing to stand against the brigand Spellmonger,” he said, almost snickering.
“Aye,” Farentine said, scowling. “We heard about what you did to General Hartarian, and how you . . . persuaded Master Dunselen and even Duke Rard to violate custom and suspend the Bans in that Duchy.
That may be his prerogative in Castal – may be,” he repeated, displaying some doubt about it. “But this is Alshar, you treacherous dog, and as long as I have even a single brother Censor to stand with me, I shall not yield my duty!” He looked resolute and determined.
Censor Landrik looked less-so. Two Censors against nine warmagi . . . you didn’t have to be a mathematician to figure out how that contest would go. Which gave me an idea, as I stared at Farentine’s nasty face. “Censor Landrik, you know the Bans have been suspended in Castal.”
The mage looked at me curiously, confused why I had addressed him. His wand never wavered.
“Yes? So?”
“So the Censorate is effectively ended in Castal,” I explained., “or will be soon. And the High Magi are under the protection of the Duke.”
“High Magi?” he asked, looking no less confused – and Farentine was looking livid. I’d forgotten that was a term-of-art of my men, not widely known by our colleagues.
“Magi with witchstones,” I explained. “I’ll give you one, provided you swear a simple oath and resign from the Censorate . . . right now. You have my word as a warmage and a high mage.” I paused. “And this will be the only time I make you this offer,” I warned.
Before I could count three heartbeats, he’d dropped his cloak of office at the feet of the Censor Captain and took three strides to stand with me, turned, and faced the Duke. “I quit,” he told his former commander. “If this spellmonger wants to fight goblins instead of torturing confessions out of hedgewitches, well, that sounds like a better job for me.”
“Traitor,” spat the Censor Captain. Landrik just shrugged.
There was a long moment of silence, and it was clear that Farentine was just waiting for the command to attack me . . . and die gloriously. But Lenguin eventually just gave out a heavy sigh. Still looking balefully at me, he choked out the words.
“Thus falls the Duchy, to a brigand.”
I did my best to look offended. “Really, Your Grace: I stole nothing but your dignity. I threaten nothing but your reputation. I ask no more than for you to do your duty and win glory and renown and the love of your subjects. I am no brigand, I am a warmage. Swear that you will lead the army north to contest the way with the goblins, and my lips stay sealed, you become hailed as the hero of the realm . . . and you have the full assistance of my Order.”
“So on what will you have me swear this dreadful oath?” he asked, resigned. I blinked. Did that mean I won? I almost didn’t believe it. “Would my sword suffice?”
That wasn’t uncommon – he was a knight, of course, as were almost all of the male nobility, whatever their additional titles. It was common practice to put some sacred relic in the pommel of a knight’s sword so that they would carry the favor of the gods with them into battle (although considering they were usually fighting other knights with their own relics currying favor with the gods, it was somewhat unclear to me how efficacious that was). But that also gave them some conveniently potent object by which to swear an oath. I assumed that a Duke’s sword had some powerful divine relic.
But then, a Duke would not hesitate to foreswear an oath he made as a knight, if it suited his purpose. He very well could be stalling me, trying to get me to go away and then march south with his troops and abandon the north altogether. I had another idea.
“Summon the high priests and priestesses of the temples to witness,” I said. “And you won’t swear on your sword . . . you shall swear on the Alshari Shard of the Crown of King Kamalavan.”
That brought another gasp. The Crown of King Kamalavan had been the only symbol of royal authority the barbarian chieftains of old had respected. When Kamalavan could not name a single heir among the five sons who contended for crown and kingdom, in a fit of anger the King had split his crown into five pieces, giving each one to a new Duke. In each Duchy it was a tangible symbol of the Duke’s authority, and was part of the regalia used to install a new Duke. When treaties were sworn between the Duchies, the shards were often present as relics for the oaths. To my knowledge, no Duke had ever foresworn an oath taken on a shard of the crown.
And if Lenguin made such an oath on the shard, in front of holy witnesses and his entire court, he would have to keep that oath. Or that was my theory. I was starting to learn that when you are dealing with Dukes, it’s hard to be certain of anything.
“Let it be done,” he said in a low voice, dripping with finality. “Summon the priests. Fetch the shard. And fetch my sword as well. I shall lead my army north . . . and fight the goblins . . . and perhaps perish in the attempt.” He looked up at me, anger in his eyes.
“But should I live, Spellmonger . . . we will have further words, you and I. You are Castali, and I know the other end of your bargain. If you are victorious, my brother-in-law will declare himself King and incite a war between the Duchies. So if I go to war and defeat the foe,” he said, slowly, “then I will go to war with my bitch of a sister when she tries to elevate herself and that thug of a husband above their station. That prospect pleases me more than a little.
“If I go to war and I lose . . . then her plans will be wrecked, and the goblins will be at her gates. And I will be gloating from the afterlife while they tear the flesh from her bones. Either way, I . . . shall . . . prevail!”
That was not exactly how I would have phrased it . . . but I suppose his motivations didn’t matter.
“As long as you ride to war and lead your armies, Your Grace, that is all I ask.”
“Then you get your wish,” he spat. “And may we both live to see each other on the field of battle. Then, Spellmonger,” he said, raising his voice, “then you shall see what comes of inciting the wrath of a Duke!”
Chapter Thirty-One:
A Lesson In Bureaucracy
Wilderhall, Midsummer
Archmage.
The word came out of antiquity, and was little more than myth and history intertwined to me. I didn’t want to be Archmage. I didn’t even want to be a Warmage, but I’d been given little choice. As I walked back to my quarters after the nominal war council, my head buzzing with my conversation with Their Graces, the word kept spinning around in my head.
Of course, Duke Rard didn’t know what he was talking about. The Archmage had been a temporal as well as a thaumaturgical power, a ruler of men as well as a commander of magi. For me to really become Archmage, I’d have to rule over all five Duchies.
The very thought horrified me. I didn’t even want to rule over one Duchy. Hell, I didn’t really want to rule.
I was muttering darkly under my breath when I felt the tingle of telepathic awareness. I sighed, paused in the darkness, closed my eyes, and opened the channel.
Who? I asked, being tired and valuing brevity.
Master! came Tyndal’s ‘voice’. Alya begged me to contact you, once she knew I had the capability. She and your mother . . . Master . . . they won’t stop arguing!
About what? Crap. Mother was a formidable woman. Alya was strong-willed and stubborn. I should have foreseen this.
About you! Your mother feels like you should move back here, to Talry, and Alya is dead set against it. I don’t really know where she prefers to live, only that it is not close to your mother.
Have they thrown things? I asked, my heart sinking.
No . . . they just have . . . discussions, he said, cautiously. Really loud discussions. And then your sisters started to get involved and—
Oh, dear Breega’s smoldering twat! I swore. What does my father say?
He . . . he and your brothers-in-law retreat to his woodshed when they get going. I’ve gone with them a few times, he confessed. I didn’t know what else to do!
You’re fine, boy, I said with a mental sigh. If Dad is running and hiding, then follow his lead. He’s had years of experience with Mama, and this happens every time one of us gets married. Only this time it’s her only son, and I’m marrying a . . . an Alshari peasant, in her mind, I bet. She probably thought I’d come home and ma
rry a miller’s daughter or something.
Actually, she’s mentioned a young widow in the next village over—
Of course she did. Purposefully, to get under Alya’s skin. And how did she respond?
She suggested that if the young widow was willing to stand by your side against half a million goblins, she might have a chance at winning your heart.
He went on to describe, in gory detail, how each of my sisters got involved and how, with three of them surprisingly lining up in support of Alya, and now one of my nieces – herself at the cusp of womanhood and a busy-body besides – had said some catty things that had the entire house in an uproar. By now the original issue had been forgotten as a imagined slight and purposeful insult had blown it into something far larger.
My dad and brothers-in-law had almost been drawn into the fight, but he had wisely imposed a moratorium on the boys getting involved with a fight between womenfolk, and they had taken to haunting the woodshed. Poor Tyndal felt duty-bound to defend Alya, but he was better equipped to do so when the foe was a tribe of bloodthirsty goblins than a strong-willed matriarch in a power-struggle with a daughter-in-law.
Ouch. All right, here’s what you do: my sister Mirta, she’s supporting my mother in this, right? She’s always been Mama’s right arm, the most like her. That means she’s been the most dutiful and least rebellious – not like Urna, who’d swear white for black to spite her. But because she’s so dutiful, you can use that to your favor: go to her and remind her that it would be a good idea to have Alya’s bridal trousseau prepared for when I come home . . . or my shroud and funeral gown if I don’t. That should give her a little perspective, make her feel guilty, and push Mama to set up a trousseau for the future mother for her grandchild . . . and make her think about a funeral for her only son, all at the same time.
Master? Will that work?
I’m not done. Once you do that, then get the hell out and beg my father for a seat with the menfolk. And if Alya gives you any trouble about the disappearing act, tell her that I said it was necessary for your magical education and the furtherance of the war effort. And if she wants to get a message to me about that, then she had better hurry up, because I am marching off to war and an uncertain future.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 56