The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  To demonstrate he muttered the command, and a magelight the size of a walnut appeared at the tip of the twig. “Before they always took me half a day to enchant,” he admitted. “Now with my witchstone, it’s like I’m an Archmage. I did this lot this morning after breakfast,” he said proudly, showing me a jar of them. “They should burn for eight or nine hours now, before they expire. I passed out a handful of them over at the Oak Tree Tavern, and they were a big hit.”

  “An impressive feat,” I agreed, after we had tried it out and he had told me the command words. “And one that adds to the security of my fief. I’ll order a dozen for the Diketower and Brestal Tower, and pay full price. It might be useful to have magelight, even if there is no mage around. Banamor, you are becoming quite the important vassal,” I observed.

  “You gave me the chance,” he shrugged. “So far we’ve taken about six or seven more fully-function falohaudi and twenty pieces that won’t work, but which may have other value.

  “But the taperwands? Those have some real value. This is the first big enchantment like this I’ve ever done,” he said, proudly, smiling at his jar of magical twigs. It couldn’t have been easy for a partially trained former footwizard, even with his tiny shard of irionite. It was rare that those kinds of magi managed to properly enchant anything. I made mention of that, without trying to hurt his feelings.

  “I was as surprised as you, Magelord,” he agreed. “I didn’t think it would work, at least not that well. I think it has something to do with the snowstone,” he suggested. “When I’m closer to it magic is just . . . easier. Even with my witchstone. Gods bless me, Magelord, but that stuff may just be more valuable than gold,” he said, sincerely.

  “I’m hoping we can sell a fair amount of it at the fair,” I agreed. “I’ve already had some good reports about it.” I had taken several pieces with me, just pebbles really, and passed them out to the magi I met at the conclave and at the fair for experimentation. Lanse of Bune had been enchanted with how it augmented his enchantments. I’d been too busy myself to give the matter such thought, but I resolved to check in with those High Magi who had gotten some pieces, to see what they had discovered about it.

  I took the opportunity that night to give Alya a gift, the one I’d commissioned from Master Andalnam before I went to Robinwing. He had finally completed the commission, and had delivered it to me at the Fair, three weeks sooner than promised.

  “It’s an enchanted mirror,” I explained as she turned them over in her hands. “That’s what I was one of the things I was picking up at the glass merchant, that and spellglass. I know how you worry when I’m gone, and I know that when I’m away I constantly worry about you. So . . . I took one of the falohaudi stones –the sympathy stones – we’ve found in Trestendor so far, and I had these mirrors enchanted.”

  The pieces were about the size of my hand, two murky glass discs with a slight green tint to them. Attached to the back was a small brass cage that contained half of the falohaudi stone and whatever other components Master Andalnam had included. Alya studied it thoughtfully. “How does it work?”

  “When activated by the command word,” I explained, “a link is opened between them, and you can see and even converse through them. We can leave one in Sevendor and I can take one with me.”

  “That’s the most bloody useful thing I’ve ever seen magic do!” she said, excitedly. “I can’t wait to use it! We can talk all the time, now!” I tried hard not to think about the horrors of a world where your wife can reach out and call you as easily as if she were constantly standing next to you while I let her hug me in gratitude.

  About two weeks after we’d gotten home from Chepstan, Sir Cei returned with his intended bride and a wagon full of honey.

  Alya had spent much of that week preparing a chamber for the two, imposing on Rondal to knock a door-sized hole in the old wall between Sir Cei’s chamber and the one next to it, and then cleaning and decorating the place as gaily as possible when news came of their impending arrival. She also insisted that the Great Hall be properly decorated, wine be prepared, and a special welcoming dinner be made. I didn’t think we had that many spring flowers in all of Sevendor.

  Sir Cei and Lady Estret rode side by side that afternoon, he on his charger and she on a roan mare, trailing a few carts behind them. I saw she was wearing trousers, not skirts, and boots instead of slippers and rode like a man.

  Sir Cei didn’t seem to mind – he had a Wilderlands knight’s sense of propriety about such things, not a Riverlord’s. They both looked tired but happy, and their affectionate displays from the saddle were heartwarming. When the entire castle staff assembled in front of the keep to greet them with applause and cheers, Sir Cei looked both pleased and embarrassed at the fuss.

  We were able to get to know Lady Estret’s daughter Faresa, who would be living with her mother and soon-to-be stepfather in Sevendor for a while. She was excited – she had never lived in a real castle before, and we had three days of wild four-year-old running through the Great Hall, up and down stairs, and underfoot, usually trailing a couple of hounds or a kitten behind her. She squealed adorably when she played, and I was astonished that night to witness her – voluntarily – climb into Sir Cei’s lap and give him a big hug that night.

  The knight took it awkwardly, but warmly. Lady Estret looked enormously pleased, as did Alya.

  There was one other big advantage of having Lady Estret around the place, I soon discovered – she was a real noblewoman. As the days went by and she grew more comfortable in Sevendor Castle, she began to slowly assume the proper noblewoman’s duties she saw Lady Alya wasn’t getting around to.

  First and foremost was assuming the role of castle seamstress, and ordering a loom to be built for the purpose of turning wool into clothing. Ordinarily the noblewomen in a castle produce most of the cloth, but Alya grew up preferring cheese to needles. I’d seen her attempts at sewing. They were adequate but un-artful.

  I decided to formalize Lady Estret’s role. It helped that she was universally liked by my people, so much so that I began to fear that Alya might grow jealous of her. But my sweet wife corrected me of that notion one night as we prepared for bed.

  “She’s everything I’m not,” she confessed. “She’s educated, refined, and skilled. I’m ignorant, crude, and skill-less,” she said without judgment as she pulled her dress over her head.

  “I’ve never been as relieved as when she showed up. She told me I was supposed to be growing a special flower and herb garden for the castle, that’s one of my responsibilities. No one told me that. She also said that our tapestries need to be beaten and racked, whatever that means. She asked where the lady’s solar was, and I have no idea what one of those even is. She’s corrected me on a dozen little points of procedure and advised me about running the staff, and I’m so grateful I could kiss her. Yes, yes, by all means, let her take over some of the castle duties!” she urged.

  So I did. The next day I sought her out in her quarters and essentially gave her the job of being temporary Lady of the Castle when it came to such things. She was quietly eager for the chance – her standards were high, and she saw plenty around the place that needed to be done. And she was missing her home, as much as she was growing to love her future husband, so the distractions of her duties were welcome. As was the coin I agreed to pay her for the work.

  It was funny – she, too asked me about Alya’s response, worried about her being jealous of her assuming the Lady of the Castle’s prerogatives, and I assured her that she was not. I don’t think she believed me at first, but she graciously didn’t say so. She was always extremely polite and cordial around me and Alya, almost chatty, and only became quiet, I discovered, in the presence of her intended. She was still in awe of Sir Cei, and never hesitated to tell me so, in private.

  “I really don’t know how or why the gods decided to gift me with that man,” she said, as we were concluding our business, “but I know I have done ought to deserve such a b
oon from Ishi. Magelord, he is as kind as he is strong, as wise as he is stern, as gentle as he is burly. And he loves Faresa already, I feel – and she dotes on him. A widow could not have prayed for a better husband. Nor could a land have prayed for a better lord,” she added, smiling sweetly, “Or a better friend. Magelord Minalan, your generosity to my – to our – domain will be repaid, I promise!”

  “It’s just money,” I dismissed. “I am glad to help. And the honey is, as you have said, magnificent. The cook has already taken twenty pounds and begun to make mead,” I said, approvingly. “Besides, from a purely practical standpoint, we need allies, and this tie between Sevendor and Sendaria could be very useful to bolster a future alliance.”

  “Such things are above me,” she said, shaking her head, and I didn’t believe a word of it. “My husband never spoke to me of politics. Yet I do love my dear cousin, and I see now that Sevendor could become a powerful ally. I like it here,” she added. “Things are growing in Sevendor. And not just your fine crops. You seem to grow hope and pride here the way most lords grow barley and oats. I’ve craved that kind of enterprise since I was a girl, and I delight in watching it now.”

  The people of Sevendor quickly took a liking to her, too. The castle folk were wary at first, but her warm manner and friendly smile put everyone at ease. She had a priestess’ way of gentle persuasion, and she seemed to be able to offer criticism or insight without offending.

  She immediately saw what we were trying to do in Sevendor, and she approved whole-heartedly. When she began convening afternoon events for spinning and weaving and needlework, at first Alya was wary . . . but after attending a few, she started going more often, revealing that it was a delightful opportunity to discuss the events of the domain, learn court etiquette and important history, and, of course, gossip.

  I smiled and took my leave to go back to my lab, when one of the castle urchins ran to me breathlessly and told me that a strange wizard was in my chamber. I thought it was the latest young buck looking for a witchstone, but instead I found Iyugi.

  He still looked as rough and exotic as ever, but he had dropped his cloak in the summer’s heat. The footwizard’s face looked tired and wary, but he stood stock-still in my lab, just waiting.

  “Iyugi is at your service,” he said, bowing, when I came in.

  My magical spy had returned. “Have a seat,” I said, offering a stool he took gratefully. “I was beginning to fear you lost, Iyugi.”

  “I have returned with my commission. First, you asked me to learn the name of the daughter of Captain Arehel, of the Vorean caravel The Blue Lady. Her name was Dasa,” he said, simply. He was right. Arahel had gotten six flagons drunk on seawine when he finally told me the tragic tale of his daughter, Dasa, dead with her mother over fifteen years before.

  “That is one,” I agreed, somewhat impressed.

  “Next, you request I bring you the name of the lover of Lady Esmara. The young lady’s name is Flosa. She is the daughter of a weaver, and she sees the lady at least twice a week when she is in Wilderhall.”

  “Well done,” I agreed. I’d only learned that secret last year, and it was closely kept. “And the final secret?”

  “Magelord, Iyugi tells you that Lady Pentandra has a small bean-shaped mole between the second and third toe of her left foot.” He said it with utter confidence. And he was, indeed, correct. She hated the thing. I offered to remove it for her once – a simple little spell – but she refused and seemed offended I’d offered. Women are the strangest creatures.

  “Well, my friend, you have completed your task well enough,” I said, digging in my pouch. “Take this and go spend a day or two at the inn. Then we can discuss your further employment. And the granting of Irionite.”

  “Iyugi – I mean, I’m grateful,” he said. “But as much fun as it was discovering those obscure secrets, Magelord, I’d prefer something more . . . meaty in the future,” he said, his wide, dark face wrinkling. “Indeed, I think I already have something that may prove of interest to you that I heard on the road.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That Duke Rard will become King of the western Duchies,” he said, warily. “That he means to crown himself at the approaching Coronet Council at Castabriel.”

  “That would be correct information,” I nodded.

  “But that was not all of it,” Iyugi said, matter-of-factly. “The Duke of Merwin is incensed, and prepares an army to march.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t speak to that, but that would be very expensive for him. And true to form, if the rumors of his temperament are correct.”

  “Expensive or not, the world says he prepares. And lastly, Magelord, while I was . . . skulking about, I chanced upon these rumors: that the goblins of the Kulines are agitating, and consider joining the Dead God. That dragons have descended in Gilmora and destroyed at least five castles. And that the Spellmonger has retreated and abandoned the war to the Dead God while innocents die in the breath of dragons.”

  Ouch.

  I sighed, and reached for the pouch at my waist. I had brought it with me, in case he had succeeded in his commission. “All right, Iyugi, you have proven your worth and earned your stone – not the most powerful I’ve given, nor the most sophisticated, but if you discovered those secrets, I doubt you’ll need a more powerful one than this.”

  “Subtlety has always been my strength,” he said, shaking his head eagerly. “But power is a spirit worth drinking with an open throat!”

  “And drink it you will. More than you ever thought possible. I’ll teach you to bond with your witchstone, and how to use it without undue hazard, before you leave, once you have taken your oath.

  “But then I have another mission for you, a mission that is very important to me, personally . . . “

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Landbrother Mison

  I stood waiting impatiently in the shade out in the field in front of the Diketower, as the Sevendori now called the sprawling wall-ditch-and-tower complex that fortified the entrance to my domain. The only reason I was in shade was the opaque field of magic over my head that cast a shadow I could hide under, a test of the warmage Beethus’ command over his new witchstone.

  Beethus was just as hot as I was, but was so happy with his ascendance that he ignored it to demonstrate his worthiness. It was bad enough I had to come here in the first place – I didn’t need to bake in this heat. The weather was unseasonably hot for the late spring – summer was still a few weeks away. The magical shade was designed to intimidate. If Sire Gimbal wanted to negotiate, he’d have to bring his own shade.

  I didn’t really want to treat with the dislikeable man, but I had been informed that it was considered ignoble to refuse. This truce talk had been arranged by Landbrother Mison, a monk who tended a small temple to Huin in Sashtalia, but who had grown up in Brestal Village.

  He was popular with the peasantry, as most landbrothers are, and the monk preached a humble piety that was popular with the nobility . . . for the peasantry. He and his brethren ran a small hospital and school alongside the temple. He had requested the truce because he was tired of hearing his pilgrims complain of running afoul of West Flerian troops when they made pilgrimage to his shrine.

  The acrimony had turned our frontier into a fortress, and the flow of trade had gotten a lot more expensive. When the water stopped flowing out of the valley and his fields began to dry up, the lord of the domain on our borders, Sire Motaran of Bastidor, quietly asked Brother Mison to intervene in Huin’s name.

  The monk proposed the meeting, offering to act as intermediary in the interests of the temple, under holy offices. I accepted, of course, because I’m a talkative kind of guy, and I wasn’t stupid enough to go pissing off a popular monk. That’s almost never a good thing for a noble to do. Apparently Sire Gimbal understood that as well.

  But the Warbird was late, it was hot, and I was getting cranky.

  That’s when the first contact came, from Terleman


  Minalan, the gurvani sent two legions raiding into northern Gilmora last night, Terleman’s measured mental tones informed me without preamble. Over four thousand of them, along with some human turncloaks or Soulless acting as a cavalry screen. But that’s not the big news. The big news is the five legions they sent past Kriscuk, past Donveline and past Castle Cryters on the Lumber Road, all of which we figured they would stop to invest. They aren’t. They throw just enough scrugs at them to keep them tied to their castles, and they move on south without pause. They’re making more than twenty miles a day. And the next large target in that direction is Barrowbell.

  I thought about the implications of what he reported. That would be strategically bad, I replied.

  It would indeed. If they take Barrowbell, then all the western riverlands are open to them, and they enjoy a clear path down to the Alshari coast

  That’s . . . I . . . We need . . . well, don’t let them! I ordered my military commander, impotently. He chuckled

  That’s going to be hard, he admitted. But not impossible. They cleared a thousand lances at Flasalan like it was harvest time, and the battle slowed them no more than a day. Once they get to the Riverlands, we’re going to have to face them in force, or deal with a lot more than mere raids.

  What do you need to stop them? I knew the answer, but I felt obligated to ask, anyway.

  I just need more troops – a lot more. And some way to keep dragons off of their backs. We’ve squeezed the locals dry and they’re starting to waver when we go recruiting. I’ve got more peasant levies arriving at sword point every day from the east, but they aren’t enough. We’ve exhausted the mercenary pool. We’re arming the refugees and forcing them to fight. The Ducal troops have yet to depart their southern encampments. If that column gets to Barrowbell . . .

  I know. Disaster.

  Barrowbell is in the heart of the Riverlands, one of the jewels of Gilmoran cotton country, where the Lumber Road becomes the Cotton Road, around which sprawls the rich rolling hills and fertile riverlands that produce the prized textile. It was also one of the largest cities in Castal, and the major overland transfer point between two important rivers.