The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  * * *

  The celebration that night was impressive. There was a more formal reception held at Chepstan Castle at the end of the Fair, but as grand as the Baron’s fete was, I’d like to think the Sevendori camp was where the real party was. This was a celebration not just of Sir Cei’s victory, but of his upcoming union, the new alliance with Sendaria that resulted, and the resurgence of Sevendor, all rolled into one. Once again I spared no expense to honor my Castellan and his future bride, and I think we did a passable job.

  Sir Cei and Lady Estret were seated at a place of honor, under a small canopy, awkwardly eating from the same plate and drinking from the same cup. They got more comfortable with each other as the night went on, and exchanged many small kisses and glances, as if they were both unsure whether or not they were dreaming.

  We hired musicians for the event, and a professional team of victualers. The celebration began with a delicious roast oxen feast and a barrel of ale, climaxed with speeches and blessings and the giving of gifts. I had Tyndal and Banamor put floating magelights all over the place in different sizes and colors, and I did a passable job of some firework effects after dinner.

  Then I spoke to my people. I congratulated all of the contestants, and even made special mention of Sir Tyndal’s third-place success in the swordsmanship competition and one of my better archer’s accomplishments of taking second in the bow. Then I went into a rousing (and highly embarrassing) lauding of Sir Cei’s prowess, Lady Estret’s beauty, and the attraction that resulted. I announced my purchase of Cargwenyn’s debt, much to Lady Estret’s shock and surprise, and then I presented the couple with a draught of a thousand ounces of gold, drawn on Ifni’s temple treasury in Sendaria.

  Sir Cei had tears in his eyes as he tried to accept the princely gift, and Estret looked so grateful it was almost painful, but I didn’t mind. It was only money . . . and money I had won on his efforts, anyway. I could pay off Baron Arathanial, pay for our entire fairgoing, and afford to give Sir Cei such a grand gift and still ride home with coin in my purse.

  At the celebration I felt like a lord, perhaps for the first time. I started to understand what was implied with that title, what it should mean, and the shame that accrued when the practice of nobility failed to live up to the expectation, as was all too common.

  The last few days of the fair we began to pack up and even sent some wagons ahead of us, along with a couple of guards who were already pining for home

  There was one other important – to me – event that happened. I met with several of the spellmongers in the area at an impromptu gathering across the way from a glass vendor. I ran into Master Andalnam, first, with all of his apprentices and daughters in tow, and collected my commission, which he had sent word was ready for delivery. Then Master Velenduin arrived to pick up an order in the company of a brother journeyman from Sashtalia, and Master Andalnam could not resist introducing me to his rival.

  Suddenly we were a small convention of spellmongers blocking traffic to the glasssmith. I offered to buy everyone a round, and we ended up retiring to a nearby ale tent to talk shop before we left the fair. Two more spellmongers who knew Andalnam’s eldest daughter happened by while we were there, I called Tyndal and Banamor in, mind-to-mind, and asked them to bring Festaran, and soon it was a party.

  I outlined for them what the Robinwing Conclave had produced to replace the Bans, and what that would entail. I also used it as an opportunity to promote our magical fair, tell them about snowstone (and had a few samples distributed) and told them about my dramatic showdown with the Censorate. I tried to get them enthusiastic about the changes, and I pledged choice spots for all of them at the fair if they pledged to come. We parted on very good terms, and I felt good about the impromptu meeting with my professional colleagues. Good professional relations are always a plus.

  The ball at Chepstan Castle that closed the fair was grand, and we attended as personal guests of the Baron. It was a lovely feast, one of the best I’ve attended, and I got to rub elbows with the finest lords in the Bontal vale, and listen to their gossip and bellyaching.

  One sight I did not mind seeing was the glowering face of Sire Gimbal; propriety demanded he attend the ball, and he did so at a space respecting his rank and position, but once he’d heard about Sevendor’s back-door alliance with Sendaria through Cargwenyn, he seemed to forget all about the wonderful food and wine and spent the rest of the evening just glaring at us all.

  Alya was impressed by the style of the Lenselys, and loved their castle. We were both introduced to the aging baroness, Arathanial’s wife, who seemed as taken with Alya as any noblewoman had yet been. I got my share of attention from the noblewomen myself, forcing Alya to intervene a few times when my admirers got too friendly. We danced badly until long past midnight, and liberally toasted the winners of the various competitions as we enjoyed the comforts, delights, and entertainments of the high table.

  Once the honors were done, toward the wee hours of the morning, we poured ourselves into the wagons and slept while the drovers started us on the road toward Sevendor. Sir Festaran had overseen the striking of our camp and our preparation for departure, and Sir Roncil had turned up, after spending the evening . . . somewhere mysterious, ready to oversee the guardsmen.

  I slept until we passed into Sashtalia, only waking up long enough to bid Sir Cei and his betrothed as he went off to inspect his new fief. Then I passed back out.

  I love a good fair.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Growth Of Sevendor

  The week that followed was delightfully uneventful, save for Sir Cei being gone left me running things, and that’s almost never a good thing. As it was high summer, though, there wasn’t much for folk to do but weed and herd and sit around and watch the crops grow.

  And what crops they were! As spring progressed Master Olmeg’s experiments continued to prosper, from the potatoes and corn to the vegetables, oats, wheat and rye. The Greenwarden himself looked as content as a pig in slop as he loped around the vale barefoot, wrapped in his mud-stained green robe and mantle and big straw hat, often with a wain or pack mule trailing behind.

  Olmeg was the hardest-working mage I’ve ever seen, getting up at dawn and toiling all day, only retiring to his little hut at dusk. Yet he neither complained or worried about his work in the slightest, seeming to be content to sit with his pipe around whatever fire was convenient at night.

  From his tiny hut in Sagal’s Hold, he went forth every day with a new task or project, never hurrying but always moving quickly and with purpose. Sometimes he took a work levy with him, sometimes just an assistant – one of the Bovali lads, or young Gareth, or the Yeoman of the estate he was tending.

  His various stockpiles of clay, sand, pebbles, and various kinds of earth provided his materials, the sunlight and fields his medium, and the additional water from the pond allowed far better irrigation in the western end of the vale as we were getting into the dry months of summer. The fields of Gurisham, Sevendor, and the nascent Boval Hall were bursting . . . whereas the fields of the Genlymen were respectable but meager compared to the rest of the valley.

  The matter of the pond was getting to be a problem, however. Our deep pond was only a third full, and at the current rate of consumption, if we didn’t get rain soon, at least some our crops would wither before harvest.

  Olmeg and I discussed possibly doing weather magic in a rare visit to my laboratory, a few days after I’d returned. We were debating encouraging a little extra rain over the northern ridge, but neither of us were eager to do so. Weather magic is messy, that we both agreed. To my mind, it was easier to just stop up the stream.

  Olmeg was appalled at the idea, at first. Water was supposed to flow in and then flow out – he didn’t mind if it stayed around awhile, but it shouldn’t be stopped. I pointed out that it would only take a few weeks of constant flow to put us where we needed to be to secure a bountiful harvest.

  Olmeg pointed out that the folk downstream
would then be deprived of the water they needed. I pointed out that the folks downstream were not very friendly, and I was not in the mood to accommodate them. They wouldn’t starve, if their fields failed, not unless their lord was incompetent. The Greenwarden sighed but agreed. Even he understood the importance of political necessity. He took the opportunity to change the subject.

  “I’ve been examining the cleared land at the edge of the Westwood, within the snowfall circle,” he said, referring to the zone around my castle that had been affected by the wild spell. “The trees still along the outer band seem to be faring well enough, particularly the natava,” he said, approvingly. “Indeed, while the cleared land is poorly situated for crops, I believe we can foster a nursery there, Magelord, that can specialize in particular arboreal crops.”

  “Arboreal crops?” I asked, confused.

  “Trees, Magelord,” he explained. “Your folk felled nearly twenty acres of wood. Should we plant that in, say, weirwood, kirsieth, colosillia, drassillion or red salltry, it is my belief that they would prosper.”

  That was an intriguing plan – weirwood was an ideal material from which to craft wands of many sorts, and colosillia trees existed in the Otherworld, as well as our own – a rarity for vegetation, indicating some level of sentience. Drassilion berries was where the etherically-sensitive drassilix was distilled from. Red salltry is a distinctive wood that takes enchantment better than any importasta tree, and of course the sap from the arcanely-active kirsieth shrub was thought responsible for the production of natural irionite.

  “That thought intrigues me,” I agreed. “Please investigate – a stand of weirwood alone would be worthwhile. It would be nice to build a wand I didn’t have to retire after using.”

  “It is my belief that the nearly non-existent magical resistance within the snowstone circle will succor the plants, Magelord. With attention to their nutrients and fertility, a little experimentation and observation, I feel that we can grow a find grove. And I already have a project going to test some of my theories about it – in a few weeks it will be ready to show to you,” he added with a mysterious smile.

  While he was in my office, he also told me that the first of the River Folk had arrived in our absence, and he had begun to settle them on Sagal’s Hold’s northern side, where we’d agreed a burrow would be best situated. The little folk were almost obsequiously happy to be in Sevendor, he reported.

  They were already being helpful, he assured me. As Greenwarden he had put them in charge of removing the nightsoils of the various hamlets, villages and settlements, and preparing beds for planting late summer vegetables and roots. Their leadership had come to some agreements, and the hybrid tribe was beginning construction of a primitive burrow to house them.

  I was intrigued by that, as I had never seen a burrow under construction before. We spent that afternoon touring the construction site, meeting my new vassals, and distributing presents of useful things I’d bought at the Chepstan Fair.

  The burrow was fascinating. They began by choosing a magnificent old willow tree to act as the center of their new dwelling, and then they began constructing their burrow around it. Starting with a circular ditch forty feet from the tree, the River Folk proceeded to use willow staves and evergreen saplings to weave what first appeared to be a giant wickerwork string of beads.

  Each “bead” was actually a nearly-spherical living or working space, with little round windows and chimneys built in to let in light and let smoke out. The framework was covered with woven mats of river rushes, which was then cemented into place by a unique mixture of mud and . . . other things.

  The outer circle was two-levels deep, with a second story ringing the first, a single file of rooms built on the shoulders of the lower level. The exterior was braced and then bermed with earth, clay toward the interior and loose soil on the outside. A simple gate bridged at the top by the upper ring allowed access to the compound.

  The River Folk rarely used heavy supporting beams the way we humans did, but as a result the construction could be conducted by both young and old, male and female. That meant that the burrow was built extremely quickly, with as many as three rooms being completed in a day. For a burrow of over a hundred, that still meant there were plenty of little brown furry bodies huddled around the willow tree at night.

  The peasants of Sagal’s Hold took a dim view of their new neighbors – they were already looked down upon by the rest of the vale, and the inclusion of the River Folk in their manor seemed insulting . . . until the River Folk produced a flask. Farant’s folk had ever been partial to spirits, and the loss of his still had been disastrous to some. The River Folk’s reputation as expert brewers and distillers went a long way toward establishing good relations.

  Some of the leaders of the burrow, more accustomed to human civilization than their Wilderland cousins, even managed to persuade a few families to come over and help with the “tall people” parts of the construction. I was pleased with that – hopefully Master Olmeg’s risk would pay off for the vale.

  The one who had the strongest objections to the River Folk weren’t the people of Sagal’s Hold – it was Railan the Steady.

  Railan met me first thing in the morning in the Great Hall, the day after I got back from my trip to the burrow with Olmeg. He was dressed finely, relative to his station, a new dark brown cotton mantle fastened at his throat with a shiny brass clip, over a fine woolen tunic and trousers. His field boots had been replaced with wooden shoes – he looked more like a prosperous merchant than a small hamlet’s reeve.

  But Railan was still the same old Railan, even with coin in his purse. After inquiring politely about the fair, congratulating me on sponsoring Sir Cei’s win, and reporting on the state of his fields, Railan launched into a diatribe. There were too many Bovali in Sevendor, now. There were not enough Sevendori in Sevendor Village any more. There were too many herders and not enough plowmen. There were too many horses drawing plows, and not enough oxen.

  The villeins were skipping their boon-work to make extra coin helping the Bovali build or till or plant. The number of free men was intimidating to the villeins. The white soil of Genly was strange and frightening, and while it seemed to grow crops well enough, it discomfited the peasants to grow their food there.

  And the Genlymen could not seem to keep out of the Oak Tree Tavern, and their spending there had had a dramatic impact on the folk of Genly.

  It seems that the poor widows and villein women of the hamlet had enjoyed the prerogative of selling their home-brewed ale to the people at an iron penny a pint, subject to the approval of the reeve – Yeoman Railan. The reeve was the one who licensed the ale tasters for Genly, after all, the inspectors who determined that the brew was of sufficient quality for sale. In return, the reeve received a fee from every widow. It was one of the few ways that the unfree cottagers could make ends meet: by brewing up a couple gallons of ale and turning their hovels into taverns every couple of weeks.

  Only, since the Oak Tree Tavern opened, and with an inn being planned, Railan was quite beside himself: apparently the Genlymen had stopped patronizing the poor widows and their inferior ale, and were instead spending their silver with the Bovali taverner. The ale at the tavern, the Genlymen had assured, was much superior to the poorly-brewed fare that they were used to getting from their neighbors.

  That was bad enough –I had bribed him off about it once already, and wasn’t about to do it again. But when Master Olmeg brought the notorious River Folk into the vale, Railan nearly accused them of being giant rats.

  “They have a horrible reputation, magelord,” Railan assured me. “The worst sort of trouble, making liquor, growing smoking weeds, stealing, pilfering sheep from the flocks, flooding the market with roots, and smelling to the heavens! Do you know they take our . . . our . . . our offal?” he asked, scandalized.

  “Master Olmeg says they make fertilizer with it,” I suggested.

  “Bah! What base superstition! Mark my words, Magel
ord, let these rat-folk into our vale, and they will breed like rabbits! Soon you won’t be able to buy a ring of wheat at market, or a bushel of barley! It will be naught but potatoes and beets, yams and turnips! They’re trouble, these River Folk, trouble!”

  I promised him I’d look into the matter. Then I asked about his compliance with my recent edicts on following the Greenwarden’s guidance on planting, and he quickly changed the subject.

  Banamor was just as busy after we returned to Sevendor as Olmeg had been while we’d been gone. The Spellwarden’s expansive new shop was nearly finished in the northern quarter of Sevendor Village, lacking only the completed tiles for the roof. The wares he’d ordered from the Fair were quickly filling it up. It was almost starting to look like a real spellmonger’s shop.

  In one corner, I saw when I stopped by for a visit to collect the falohaudi stone he’d lost our wager, the first shipments of lourdin from Trestendor were stacked in ten-pound bricks. They were scheduled to go out to the merchants he’d contracted with as soon as he’d searched them diligently for sympathy stones. The falohaudi were in high-demand and he had orders for as many as he could get, something which preoccupied a lot of his mind and time.

  He was also spending a lot of time with young Gareth planning and marking out on the commons the beginnings of our magical fair. He was also spending a fair amount of his free time at petty enchantment– his specialty. He presented me the end result of one such spell about a week after we got back.

  “Taperwands,” he explained, almost embarrassed. “They’re birch twigs I’ve been able to conjure a magelight upon. That’s what I was buying at the thaumaturgic glass merchant, something to make the incandescence permanent, or near enough. I used to make them for peasant families,” he explained, “to save them from burning lamp oil. Particularly useful at calving time, and they won’t burn down your croft if you drop it when the cow kicks you.”