There was a long pause before Tyndal answered. Master, that’s . . . that’s brilliant. And devious. You don’t play fair, do you?
I grew up in a house with five sisters, I explained. I learned how to play them off each other pretty early on. It kept me getting spoiled the whole time. Well, most of the time, I amended. If I’d played fair, I never would have gotten out of there alive. But you’ve just made me realize something.
What is that, Master?
That no matter how much danger and discomfort I have to face in the coming weeks . . . at least the gods have spared me enduring that inevitable spat. I owe you, Tyn, I really do.
There was another pause. Just stay safe, all right?
You, too, I replied. To be honest I’m glad you are holed up there in Talry right now. I just pissed off a really powerful mage, and that might be a problem. So if you see anyone show up in the village wearing a black and white checkered cloak . . . smear yourself with dung and hang out in a stable. Don’t try to fight them unless you have to, and if you have to . . . do your worst. Because they won’t hold back even a little bit. I explained about my confrontation with the Censor General, and the subsequent earth-shaking political developments – then told him to keep quiet about them.
That didn’t seem to make him feel any better, but I hoped it would keep things in perspective for him for a while. With the prospect of being pursued by the Censorate, perhaps a squabble amongst my relatives wouldn’t seem so daunting.
Only moments after bidding him good luck and finishing my walk across the darkened courtyard toward my quarters, I happened to run into the one person I least wanted to see in the whole world. General Hartarian was standing, alone, in front of the door to the tower, in full armor, his cloak cast back impressively.
I instantly began to hang some spells, but he held up his hands.
“Peace, Spellmonger, I’m not here to arrest you.”
I let the spells drop, half-completed, their unexpended energy making a weak flare in the air in front of me.
“All right,” I said, cautiously, “a truce, then.” I wasn’t too worried – obviously, he was an adept warmage, he’d have to be in his position. But he didn’t have a witchstone. I was confident in my ability to defend myself. Besides, I still had a warwand in my boot. “What do you want, if it’s not my head?”
He actually chuckled. “Taking your head wouldn’t undo the damage you’ve done, Spellmonger. It would be enormously satisfying, but I am a man of my word. In Castal, the Censorate is suspended. Elsewhere . . . “ he shrugged, as if it were out of his hands. “The fact is, whether you know it or not, you’ve been played for a dupe. Duke Rard is using you and this . . . invasion as an excuse to grab for power.”
“I know it,” I sighed. “That doesn’t change the urgency of the situation. If anything, I’m using him as much as he’s using me. While you and he are playing politics there are people dying, and I seem to be the only one trying to do a damn thing about it.”
“But you don’t yet realize what you’ve done, do you Spellmonger?” he asked, softly. “You’ve opened Belora’s Cave. You’ve helped overthrow the established order.”
“The established order wasn’t exactly serving my needs,” I replied. “Or the needs of the people.”
“Ah, the justification of every revolutionary,” he said, shaking his head. “ ‘The old is corrupt, in with the new!’ Yet few revolutionaries realize the consequences of their actions. You, for instance, feel as if you’ve released the magi from an oppressive burden. In Castal and Alshar, perhaps there wasn’t as much need for such dedicated enforcement of the Bans, but elsewhere . . . well, policing the magi and administering the examinations and punishing those who would violate the Bans, those are secondary functions of the Censorate. Would it surprise you to learn that after three hundred years, there are still those of Imperial lineage who seek to re-establish the Magocracy?”
Well, yes, actually, I’ve slept with one of them and I handed them all a couple of witchstones – why? I thought. But I had the sense not to say it. He had pledge a truce, but even a man of honor has his limits. “Why should I care about that? The Magocracy has been dead for well over three hundred years. It isn’t coming back. The Dead God is here and now.”
“But that does not mean that those diehards will not cause trouble,” he insisted. “Without irionite, they were a nuisance, a bunch of old men huddling in caves and plotting the ruin of the Duchies while smiling obsequiously and protesting their innocence to our faces. The Duchies don’t care about their plots – because the Censorate has always stood on guard against them. As long as they could not operate in the open, and they had no irionite, they could stay a nuisance. That was why we went after the Mad Mage and made ruin of all of Farise: they had agents there, where they could indeed work in the open outside of the Censorate’s control. That alone could be tolerated.
“But when Orril Pratt revealed himself with his witchstone, that was unacceptable.”
“But why?” I demanded. “It’s powerful, it’s true, but the magi used it peacefully for hundreds of years before Perwin fell.”
“It is because Perwin fell that it must not be used, Spellmonger,” he insisted. “And these mad fools with misplaced loyalties in their hearts to a long-dead empire would seek to use it again to unleash such devastation on Callidore. Have you ever heard of . . . the Forsaken?”
The way he said it, I half expected a peal of thunder to sound in the distance. “No,” I admitted. “At least I don’t think so.”
“Good,” he nodded. “For it is a closely held secret, and the Censorate has been charged with keeping it a secret for three hundred years. The Forsaken are some . . . powerful beings, I suppose, gods or demons or perhaps some powerful magi, who were locked away before the Inundation. The reason is lost to history, but I can’t imagine it would be a pleasant one. When Perwin fell, it was thought that they, too, were eternally imprisoned safe beyond the grasp of man. Yet . . . “
“Yet?” I asked, prodding him on cue. All right, despite my fear and anger at this man, I was curious.
“Yet, these scions of the Magocracy have hidden themselves for centuries, plotting to reawaken the Forsaken. Indeed, it is the focus of their cult, and has been since before Perwin sank. But they need irionite to accomplish the ritual. And the Staff of the Archmagi. And they must be at the Spire of Perwin.”
“Well, the Staff is locked safely away at a temple in Vore,” I pointed out. “And the Spire of Perwin is a long, long way away.”
“But not unreachable,” he said, urgently. “And if they have the opportunity and the means, they will not hesitate to perform their damned ritual. And then what, Spellmonger? Instead of one divine enemy of the human race, we get . . . thousands? Tens of thousands?”
“I’m far more concerned with the one staring us in the face than the possibility of facing more later. Because if the Dead God isn’t stopped, then it won’t matter if the Forsaken – who comes up with these names? – it won’t matter if the Forsaken want to dance on our graves.”
He sighed a great and heavy sigh. “Perhaps you are right. Despite what it may have seemed like in counsel, I do recognize that there is a grave danger in the west. And even as I curse you for imperiling the Bans, I do admire your passion in raising a defense. I’ve spent twenty years watching the Dukes ignore such perils in favor of pursuing their own ambitions. Some have paid with their lives. Rard . . . Rard is a smart one. Of all the Dukes, he has the best chance in three generations of establishing a monarchy, if the other Dukes will permit it. I wouldn’t have thought him capable, but this invasion provides him the perfect corridor to the great throne.”
“I had no idea he was going to do that, in court,” I protested. Hartarian looked up at me sharply.
“No, I don’t suppose you did – you were as surprised as I, I could tell. Rard wouldn’t have told you, that is not his way. He is a very cagey ruler. That wife of his is no fainting flower, either.” So Har
tarian didn’t know Grendine’s alter ego as Mother? Interesting . . .
“That’s far above my position, General,” I said, carefully. “I don’t care about who rules what. My concern is for the gurvani and the Dead God. I was not exaggerating his power. Nor the necessity of matching it with witchstones and Imperial magic. It may well take every mage in the Duchies armed with irionite to defeat him.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, General, you are certainly a formidable warmage in your own right. A warrior such as yourself would be of great use against the Dead God. And I do have other witchstones. Put aside this vendetta against me and my order, and I will take your oath and grant you one, and you may feel the rush of power on the battlefield such as you’ve never known.”
He smiled at me, almost bitterly. “You tempt me, Spellmonger, for shame. You tempt an old man at the end of his career with a second chance, a chance for glory and death in battle, when all I have to look forward to are a desk, hearings, examinations, and eventual retirement. You tempt me sorely with your offer of power.”
“Well, if the Censorate falls, then you’ll need another job,” I pointed out, remembering what Isily had told me about that prophecy. “You might be betraying your sworn duty . . . but you may protect all humanity by doing so.”
His eyes grew more bitter, and more steely. “Again, you tempt me. The power . . . don’t think it doesn’t hold an allure for me. But I shall not take an oath from you, though I pledge someday I will have a stone – your stone – even if I have to take it from your body on the field of combat.”
“You may find that harder to do than you think,” I said, flashing a quick smile I hope looked confident.
“No doubt I would. But I will not forsake my duty for power or position. It would offend my honor. And while I would be proficient on the battlefield, it would do you little good to win me over. Believe it or not, I am actually considered a moderate amongst the captains of the Censorate. There are those in the east who are far, far less reasonable than I. And those captains have considerable influence at the courts of Merwin and Vore. Between their Dukes’ ire at the possibility of ‘King Rard’ and the zealots of the east – who will not feel honor-bound to respect Rard’s suspension of the their order – you may end up delivering us from the specter of the Dead God only to see the Duchies burn in civil war.”
“The Duchies have fought before,” I said, shrugging. “But they won’t do as much damage to each other as the Dead God can do to us all. He’s my concern, not politics.”
“Ah, but everything is political, Spellmonger,” Hartarian said, laughing humorlessly. “Everything. You would be wise not to forget that.” He suddenly stuck out his hand, quite unexpectedly. “I ride with my men for Wenshar, where we will call a Council General, and gather all the captains to discuss this . . . development. It may be that they depose me and elect new leadership. It may be that they call for war. It may be . . . it likely will be that they will split without reaching consensus. But for you, Master Minalan, I bid you good luck and the favor of the gods on your campaign. If nothing else, I want to see you alive at the end so that we may bring you to justice.”
I took his hand and shook it. “I can think of worse fates,” I conceded, thinking of staring into the Dead God’s sightless eyes on the roof of Boval Castle.
Compared to enduring that again, a rope around my neck sounded downright homey.
* * *
I had eaten well at the war council meeting – it was more of a victory feast than an actual occasion to plan, and the kitchens had treated it as such. Roast oxen, pork, and fowl contended with a number of vegetable dishes and even some decently-baked rolls – and the wine flowed like a river after rain. But I had been too shocked at the day’s events to eat much, so when Ham appeared in the little common room with a tray of meat and cheese, I was extremely pleased.
“Your bed is turned down, Master,” he informed me, “and your clothes for the morrow are laid out. Your ewer is filled, your chamberpot is empty, and the same can be said for your fellow magi, Master. Oh, and that whore is back – I let her into your room.”
I almost smirked. “Thank you, Ham, that will be all. Oh, I think I’ll need another shave in the morning.”
“Of course, Master,” he said, taking his leave with a yawn. “And Master? I heard what happened in court. I wish I could have been there to see it with my own eyes.”
I nodded and sighed. “I guess it was entertaining, if you didn’t actually have to endure it. How did you find—oh. ‘Stable boys’,” I chuckled, answering my own question.
After he left I hung up my hat and took off my weapons harness and dropped them all in a pile by the door to my chamber. When I went inside, there was a single taper burning in the sconce, and my bed was definitely being warmed. Isily was stretched out under the blankets, propped up on one elbow, her figure making them into an appealing shape.
“That was impressive,” Isily said, seductively. “Really, Minalan, that was . . . amazing.” I didn’t really want to see her, after the day I’d had. She worked for Mother. But then so did my valet. And perhaps I could discover some information, trading on her new attachment to me. Oh, I know she was spying on me, too. I had come to expect that. And she might know something.
“Did you have any idea they were . . . going to do that?” I asked, as I kicked my boots off of my grateful feet.
“Make a play to establish a kingdom?” she asked, surprised. “No, of course not. I’m not certain anyone else in the Family did, either, actually, though I haven’t been able to discuss it. We’ve been busy for the last several weeks, especially in the south, but . . .” she shrugged – hard to do lying down and even harder to do and still keep the blanket covering her modesty. She failed at the last part. And she was naked under there. I mean, I was pretty sure she was when I came in, but her shrug removed all doubt.
And, apparently, it was cold in the room.
“Well, you knew she was ambitious,” I pointed out, collapsing across the foot of my luxurious bed. “Which, when you think about it, is odd for a Duchess.”
Isily sat up, which I appreciated even more, but shook her head. “No, this is about more than ambition, Minalan. This is about . . . well, she feels predestined. Like she was chosen by the gods to lead her people during this dark hour, or something like that.”
“Well, I can’t say the gods have denied it,” I sighed. “Damn her, she was right: she gave me everything I wanted, and more. So why do I feel so bad about it?”
“Well, she’s not very likable, is she?” Isily volunteered. “I mean, she’s a good leader, an excellent Duchess, and she’ll make a magnificent queen, if she isn’t assassinated. She’s an outstanding match for Duke Rard, and far, far more capable of running a Duchy than her brother Lenguin. But likable? The only people I’ve seen her show a consistent kindness to is her immediate family and some chosen servants. The rest of us . . . we’re just tools to her.”
“Yes, that’s it, I feel like her tool. And I’m uncomfortable with that, even if it gives me what I want. I could tell even when she appeared to be kind to me that she was just manipulating me, using me. Rard, at least, did me the courtesy of being straightforward with me. And now when I should be worried about the Dead God and the war in Alshar, I’m seeing assassins and spies behind every corner and trying to second-guess the mind of a devious Duchess.”
“Yes, poor Minalan,” she said, mockingly, brushing my hair out of my eyes. Which put my eyes in a very pleasant proximity. “Poor, poor powerful magi, with a pocket full of witchstones, the ear of a Duke and a Duchess and now an army at his disposal. Poor Minalan!”
“It’s actually more of an expeditionary force than an army,” I corrected absently, unable to look at her eyes. “But I guess I see your point. I just don’t like being a piece on someone else’s board.”
“Does anyone? Oh, maybe a few fools, perhaps, but we all like the illusion that we are acting free and independent of other forces. You, as a mage, I
would expect would understand that as well as anyone.”
“But those are magical forces,” I countered. “The natural order of things: earth, air, fire, water, spirit, gravity, electricity, magnetism, light, shadow . . .”
“And you have yet to understand that such ‘non-natural’ forces as government and conspiracy and sovereignty and power and politics – politics most of all – are acting on you all the time? No less than gravity or oxygen.”
“I knew it intellectually, I guess,” I admitted. “But it seems so . . . unseemly.”
She giggled again. “It’s no more or less unseemly than the other cycles of life. It’s actually pretty simple, in theory: in order for our society to function, certain specialized rules need to be made and enforced so that we may achieve order, and order leads to prosperity, which is the highest aspiration for any society. Roads, castles, harbors, the post, who owns what piece of land, who has the right to fish in what rivers . . . as long as there are more than two people in the world, we’re going to have to have some system that allows us to grow and build and prosper without killing each other all the time. And for a lot of things, like building roads or digging wells or constructing a fortress, we can’t do these things alone and must find some way to organize ourselves to accomplish them. Make sense?”
I nodded, slowly. “Okay . . . I can accept that.”
“Well, once it’s established that the good of the society rests in part with its ability to organize to establish order and promote prosperity, then you have politics. Someone has to make the rules, be it Duke or Archmage or King or a bunch of unruly peasants. Someone has to decide which thing goes where and who can do what. That’s making policy.”
“Um . . . all right. I suppose. Someone has to decide.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 57