The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  Lady Estret was grace personified as she dealt with the demands of officially meeting her future husband and his household -- but there was no mistaking her enthusiasm and delight. From that point on she was with Sir Cei as often as possible. They were both still a little dazed and stiff to each other, formally polite and cautious in their dealings in public . . . yet there was an undeniable and growing affection that was both amusing and inspiring to witness.

  Cautiously, they courted at first – gingerly holding her hand while walking, leading her in their first dance together at the celebratory ball that night, the way he awkwardly realized he suddenly had another person to be aware of at all times – but by nightfall, she was lightly in her cups and seated in his lap with great familiarity.

  Sir Cei appeared more than a little awkward and uncomfortable in his new role . . . but also clearly still enchanted with his unlooked-for bride. I got the pleasure of witnessing the expression on his face when he realized for the first time that he was going to be – and legally speaking, already was – a step-father, too. Alya and I watched the three of them for a while that afternoon as the couple was fitted for new clothes in matching colors. Red and gold, not black and yellow. Sir Cei’s colors.

  And then that’s when Sir Cei and Alya got the rare pleasure of watching my face as I realized that Cei would no longer be – entirely – my man. When the paperwork was finished, after their wedding he and his bride would jointly swear fealty to Baron Arathanial of Sendaria. I read the terms of vassalage myself, just to be sure I knew what they entailed. I was still new to feudal law but they were straightforward and reasonable.

  Sire Cei would owe Sendaria two weeks of military service to His Excellency per year, providing one lance and three archers with the Baron’s option for paid service for an additional two weeks. He had to provide a hundredweight of honey for the castle every year, twenty bushels of oats in autumn and a pig at Yule. He was charged with maintaining a stretch of road in the fief, both bridges, and could be forced to yield the contents of his pond to the Baron in a time of siege. He was to keep the Baron’s counsels, act as his loyal agent upon request, and extend to him (and expect in return) limited rights of hospitality should Arathanial feel like visiting the decrepit old stony plot.

  It was intriguing reading over Sir Cei’s rights and responsibilities, too. He had the power of low justice over his hamlet (free peasants, not villeins, for the most part), the right to charge rents, a charter for the apiary and a separate religious charter for the attached shrine.

  That was the first time I’d ever read a feudal religious charter. Basically, it granted the civil right for Cargwenyn to host the shrine, employ a priest or priestess (Hivebrother? Beesister?), keep records, perform rites, provide religious instruction, all free from Baronial taxation, and granted it exclusivity. No one else in all Sendaria could legally set up a temple to Noapis, should they be so inclined. That exemption from taxation also allowed the manor to produce and sell a certain amount of honey tax-free to pay for the upkeep of the shrine.

  Baron Arathanial was quite forthcoming about the place to me, the next day when he and Lady Estret appeared at my camp with a young lawbrother to finalize the transfer. The monk was happy to regale me of the history of Cargwenyn.

  The estate had calved off one of Baron Arathanial’s ancestors’ domains, and had been given to a loyal retainer who married an ‘odd’ Lensely daughter a few generations back. When the lands proved too marginal for much grain, the family had capitalized on the beautiful wildflowers that grew along the ridges of Cargwenyn, and turned to the Blessing of Noapis to survive.

  They produced honey of superior quality, and limited supply. After paying upkeep on the shrine, the surplus had been just barely enough to make up for the crappy land and keep the place going peacefully for a few generations.

  Then the beelords of Cargwenyn had lost two promising sons and a score of peasantry in the damnable Lensely dynastic disputes.

  The place barely recovered, the line producing a single daughter the next generation in which the domain placed all of its hopes. Lord Estret’s father had gone into debt to educate her and make her a fit enough bride to attract some handsome (and hopefully wealthy) son-in-law and heir.

  He’d died thinking he’d succeeded. Lady Estret’s first husband was the recognized and ennobled bastard of some Viscount, and he’d set him up decently (enough to buy out the place’s original debt) when he came of age. They’d enjoyed almost two good years before he was called to Farise by Ducal decree, just like I had been.

  He’d died of a fever shortly after his return, leaving Lady Estret in perilous straights: a young orphaned widow with an infant daughter to care for, living in a debt-ridden estate of fifty peasants and a single aging beekeeping priestess. She didn’t even have enough men to fulfill her military obligation, if invoked, or properly defend the place against raiders.

  There wasn’t much else she could do. All she had was her comeliness, her wits, and the Baron’s rarely-used feudal obligation to secure a suitable husband for her. Hence, the tournament, where she managed to pick off a genuine knight in shining armor. Sir Cei of Sevendor.

  And he really was starting to realize that he had no idea what the hell he was doing.

  The lawyers and the priests took almost the entire day to negotiate the final marriage contract and resulting transfer of title and enfiefment, and it was only my history of enduring Penny’s constant lectures of legalisms that allowed me to keep up. Alya quickly got bored, so she collected Lady Estret, Lady Sarsha, and a few other stray noblewomen and sensibly went shopping.

  As horrifying as that sounded to me – I was paying for the expedition – I also had a tidy sum in freshly-inked letters-of-credit from the Temple of Ifnia. I mean, how much could they possibly spend?

  That left me, Sire Sigalan, Baron Arathanial, and one of his chief advisors – a cagey old Sendari monk of Luin, lawbrother Hamaras the Clever— at odds under the pavilion. With all that new smoke and drink I’d just procured, and all the lackeys running around doing our bidding, we did what any reasonable group of intelligent men will do in such a situation. We got blasted and talked politics.

  Everyone wanted to know my opinion on Duke Rard’s attempt to upjump himself into a throne. Then the possible ramifications for my profession, class, and vocation in the future were topics of discussion. Both the churning war to the west of us and the dogged determination of the Censorate to turn back the sands of time, no matter how bloody that got, preoccupied much of the sober end of our discussion.

  But after we dealt with the question of the Eastern Duchies and the Dead God and the certainties of war, we cracked open the fifth bottle and the third pouch of herbs and turned our attention to what I was most concerned with, currently: local politics.

  “I will not lie to you, Magelord,” Sire Sigalan sighed, “watching you abuse the Warbird was like a Yule gift from the gods. The possibility of . . . well, let’s call it an alliance with Sevendor, also pleases me. Your man, Banamor, he seems to have arranged a lucrative trade that could turn to real industry for my folk, in time. But that trade is dependent on Sire Gimbal not molesting our precious red mud on the road. He could find ways to kill the enterprise ere it ever profited a penny,” he said.

  “Yes, I heard about that,” snorted Arathanial jovially. “I’d liked to have seen that. The arrogant fool. The Warbird is a fowl we’ll all have to pluck, whether we will it or not. It is good to see to a common good in a common foe. “ He looked anxious for a moment, as he tried to decide if he’d said what he’d meant to say, then decided he had. “I am no warmonger, but there will be war in the valley, one way or another. That strutting cockerel Gimbal is vicious, but his brother is a thug out of fable. They’ve other brothers and half-brothers too in Fleria, where my kin once ruled.” He sniffed in a fit of remembered glories his rheumy eyes had never actually seen.

  “Bah! The Lensely line is still stronger than stringgrass,” dismissed the lawbro
ther. “Deep roots in the Bontal. Strong. Strong enough to bend a few years for a malodorous chicken to strut by, and spring back all the mightier.”

  Lawbrother Hamaras had practiced and prayed here all his life, apparently, and was as steeped in the local politics as a man could be – and he was clearly partisan. I found out later he was descended from a cadet line of the Lenselys himself. “I tell you true: the portents and omens have been clear. War will come, but it will be a war that sees the Warbird roasted!” he cackled.

  Baron Arathanial, who knew the man of longer acquaintance and was used to what seemed to be a practiced refrain, sniffed dismissively. “You said that last Fair, Ham, and we stand no closer to driving the Flerians out of Lensely lands.”

  “Do we not? Have the gods not sent us a powerful champion at a critical time? Is Sevendor not one of the Lensley lands? Are not our coffers filling robustly, Your Excellency?” he asked, with just the proper hint of obsequiousness.

  “War burns profits like cheap smoke,” observed the Baron thoughtfully. “A year’s worth of labor spent on an afternoon of glory? Chivalry ascends. Prudence fails. Duin’s glory is not worth ruining Huin’s vocation,” he said, making the signs for both the War God and the Earth God.

  “Not unless Luin’s wit and wisdom guide,” Hamaras said, persuasively, invoking the Lawgiver. “Coin spent on Duin’s glory can buy empires, with Luin’s counsel.” His attitude did not surprise me – the God of Law had always angling for a percentage, it seems. The old monk continued, “If the shards of the Lenselys’ former glory can be husbanded but a while longer, perhaps enough of a flame can be kindled to reforge it anew . . . if only enough to gut a bird!” He looked pointedly at Sire Sigalan. I realized with a start that the old monk was trying to push Sigalan into swearing fealty to the Baron. I also remembered the issue had come up before.

  I could appreciate Sigalan’s perspective – he valued Trestendor’s independence, and even if his highland holding was sparsely peopled, raising the Baron’s banner would buy him obligation with little in return. Oh, a pledge of aide in a time of crisis, but if that time didn’t happen then becoming part of the Barony gave him nothing much in return for his fealty. My friend was a prudent lord who thought of his people first: he would not saddle them with more taxes and more obligations for the sake of some imagined dynastic tie.

  But I could also appreciate Baron Arathanial’s position. He had the last solvent piece of a dynasty in his hands, with a couple of nasty neighbors with designs on both his rights and his lands. The Baron of Bocaraton was always angling to steal the lucrative port of Sendaria away, and did not mind using Gimbal as his proxy.

  I was most concerned with Gimbal, of course, but both of the Flerias and their allied domains were starting to throw their weight around the Bontal, from what my new friends were able to tell me. A friendly challenge at your frontier every now and then is one thing, or even an actual dispute over something legitimate. But Gimbal and his brutish brother were scheming conquerors, and not half-bad at the art. If they had not hated each other as much as they did, they might have conquered Trestendor and a goodly portion of Sendaria, too.

  But now I was living here, and Sevendor definitely would alter the political nature of the valley. I suggested as much.

  “Perhaps if Duin’s glory, Huin’s labor and Luin’s wisdom cannot see the way, Yrenitia’s light will guide,” I said lightly but decisively as I sipped something citrusy and hard out of my silver cup. I tend to get dramatic when I have both an audience and a drink., and invoking an Imperial goddess of magic among Narasi lords got a raised eyebrow or two. “Magic is again at play in politics, my lords. And as you should know, just a spark of it can alter the course of empires.”

  Lawbrother Hamaras looked at me unsteadily for a moment. I don’t know what he’d been drinking, but there wasn’t a lot left. “Well, unless you can conjure two hundred lances out of your arse, Spellmonger, West Fleria means to take Sevendor’s virtue. So say the portents.”

  “See, that’s why magi dislike the mantic arts,” I said, conversationally. “Because when you make prophesy, you bind yourself to the fates from that moment. The fact is any number of things may happen ere Fleria might march on Sevendor.

  “Gimbal could die in a riding accident. Gimbal could die choking on a fish bone. He could die of pox or fire or flood or his valet’s overbite, if the gods so decree. Anything could happen.” Of course I had been trying to make them laugh to lighten the mood. But since I had their attention . . . “My lords, where glory and tradition and resources prohibit, magic can sometimes produce the most amazing things, just by existing.

  “For example, a small but important bond between houses,” I said, indicating toward Sir Cei under the other pavilion. “Sir Cei holds no lands from me at the moment, but he swears his sword to me.”

  “Aye, and a mighty sword it is,” Hamaras cackled. “He showed his fitness for the prize on the lists. Good, strong stock, that westman. A worthy addition to the shard of Lensely in Lady Estret’s bloodline,” he said, enthusiastically. “In a score of years I foresee many strong sons, good loyal swords in Sendaria’s defense. And I hear he knows his letters?”

  “He is well-read, for a country knight,” I assured him. “A capable minister of estates, and an ambitious castellan.”

  “So he only steals . . . in the greatest of moderation,” supplied the Baron, to which we all obligingly laughed more than the joke merited. To my knowledge, Sir Cei was too busy to steal.

  “That does bring us back to the matter of this new domain,” I said, smoothly. “I recall the price the Barony would purchase it back for was . . . three thousand ounces of gold?”

  “Ah, that was but a nominal price for the place,” admitted Hamaras, who seemed always ready to discuss business. “Plus the debt, of course,” he muttered.

  “And how much has Your Excellency loaned the domain?”

  Baron Arathanial stroked his beard and looked into the air before answering. “Since our last accounting, Lady Estret has kept her debts to us manageable. Seven, eight-hundred ounces of gold, I’ve extended her domain. If the bees hold this summer, her honey festival prospers, and the price the merchants offer her does not fall in the autumn, then your man can be on his feet in two, perhaps three years. And I would be willing to extend him more credit, if need be,” Arathanial added.

  He didn’t looked thrilled at the prospect, but if eighty or a hundred ounces of gold could buy him a reasonably reliable steward of his property, that was not a poor bargain. Most landholding nobles were used to lending their liegemen money, and sometimes the resolution of that debt could take generations.

  I really didn’t want Sir Cei entangled in that. “I’ll buy out that debt,” I said, simply.

  “That’s . . . generous of you,” Arathanial said, studying me thoughtfully. “Although I actually prefer my vassals be indebted to me. It keeps them . . . polite.”

  “I can see the wisdom in that,” I nodded as I packed my pipe. “But I don’t want Sir Cei so distracted by his holding’s debt that he cannot manage mine properly. So I am removing that as an issue. When I came to Sevendor, I expiated all my subjects’ debt. I also invested heavily in them afterward, and they have repaid that generosity with their loyalty, their tribute . . . and sometimes their blood.”

  “You came to Sevendor a rich man, then?” Sire Sigalan asked, appraisingly.

  “Rich enough to keep my domain from starvation,” I nodded. “My reward for the Battle of Timberwatch. But most of that is gone, now. And while I’ll recoup some of it in the taxes my people will pay, I do not begrudge a penny spent in their support and prosperity. Sevendor is my home, now. I shall endeavor to make it a good one, for all. And I aim to help Sir Cei do the same. If it’s a matter of mere money . . .”

  “There’s nothing ‘mere’ about coin,” snorted Hamaras. “If you can pay off Cargwenyn’s debt, Magelord, that gold can go right to our defense . . . or at least to securing arms. That might be as
good as pulling a hundred lances out of your arse!” he howled, amused at his own wit. Something told me his buffoonery was affectation for mine and Sigalan’s benefit.

  “But I offer a counter-proposal,” I added, thinking quickly. I remembered what Banamor had told me about the Baron’s vassal in Birchroot, Lord Remeas, and his problem with the bridge. “I’ll pay off five hundred gold of the debt in cash, with a draft on the Temple of Ifnia. The balance will be paid by me restoring the stone bridge that leads from Birchroot to Jerune. I have an apprentice adept at stonework, and I shall dispatch him and a team at my own expense to put it right.”

  That captured Baron Arathanial’s interest more than I thought it would. “Ah, and the fact that opening up a strategic road directly into the heart of Sashtalia to me has, I’m certain, no influence on this purely commercial offer?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  I had no idea the bridge was militarily important, but if a man thinks you’re smarter than you are, it’s rarely a good idea to correct him. “Why, that had not even crossed my mind, Excellency,” I said, truthfully. “I merely wished to ensure a goodly quantity of excellent leaf to the region, and help out a friend. If you went to a regular stonemason the cost would be as much or more as the difference between Cargwenyn’s debt and the five-hundred gold, and this way you have the additional assurance of having a spell-resistant, magically-hardened bridge on your frontier.”

  “And one which the Lord of Birchroot would be eager enough to begin collecting tolls upon,” added Hamaras, approvingly.

  “Then I shall be happy to accept your offer,” Arathanial said, looking a little more at ease. I could appreciate his apprehension about my offer. He already had one interloper on his frontier. He didn’t need a second trying to win lands within his domain.

  “More, I shall make a gift to Cei and Estret, to help them keep their feet under them. The sooner Sir Cei can fix what’s wrong and throw money at the problems, the sooner he can get back to making Sevendor a fit mageland.”