“Not in mine, Excellency,” Anguin assured her. “I have questioned and vetted Daranal thoroughly, with the arcane assistance of the Court Wizard. He has my full confidence.”
“Still, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, looking disturbed. “Sir Daranal was well-known to be a . . . well, a spy. And not a very good one – Duchess Enora, Trygg rest her spirit, was slain in her bed under his very nose!”
The Prime Minister, who to this point had remained silent, finally spoke. “He was, indeed, in service to the court in that capacity,” agreed Count Angrial, quickly, nodding his snow-white head. “And it is the determination of His Grace that he rendered good service, in good faith, in the face of cataclysmic circumstances. He is a good man,” Angrial’s voice was not that of a warrior or a knight, but it’s reedy tenor. Yet it carried the full authority of both reason and sovereignty when he spoke. “And we are in need of good men as much as we are good coin. His loyalty is established. He is a warrior. He is literate. He is educated. He is intelligent. He has ability and knowledge of the lands he is to rule: Priomar Caste, its original estates, and the march towers near the Penumbra.”
“Those are good lands,” murmured Baron Dasion, fingering his mustache. “Horse country!”
“It was once – it shall be again. Those are good lands. I prefer them under more dependable administration. I expect that you gentles will treat him as a peer. Nor will he and Marcadine be the only ones to gain, under the re-ordering. Each of you will gain at least a few additional estates, I think, and the more tangible your support, the more richly you will be rewarded.”
“That certainly is an . . . intriguing proposal, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, pleased. He’d baited the hook, Pentandra saw. She was curious to see if they would bite.
“But beyond the finances of the reorganization,” Anguin continued, “we must visit the military commitment owed to the duchy.”
“How so, Your Grace?” asked Baroness Burshara asked, suddenly. “We have an enemy on our border - occupying our lands - and there are bandits and rebels and worse to contend with before I can claim to rule beyond the horizon. Or spare troops for any adventures.”
Duke Anguin looked at her sympathetically, like an older aunt he was appealing to. “I have no army beyond what you’ve seen, I’m afraid, and I will need to call upon one to keep order and defend the realm. I cannot depend upon mercenaries, nor do I think you would wish me to.”
“We have sworn out fealty, Your Grace,” Marcadine said, with a deferential nod, as his empty bowl was cleared away. “You have but call your banners to see our lances in the field.”
“Ordinarily, that’s exactly what I would do at need, summon my vassals to supply the men. In some cases, that might be sufficient - I pray it is.
“But with only a half-a-dozen barons to depend upon, that is just not going to work if we’re faced with a major offensive again. I need more men than you can provide.”
“So how do you propose getting them, Your Grace?” Baron Dasion asked, politely. He seemed pleased at the Duke’s announcements.
“If there are not enough Wilderlords to fulfill my military needs, then the folk of the Wilderlands must be taught to fight,” Anguin pronounced.
“With all respect, Your Grace, you plan on taking uneducated peasants and turning them into fighting men?” asked Count Marcadine, skeptically. Though many of the Wilderlords lived not much better than their yeomen, the aristocracy had a natural suspicion of civilians in arms.
Minalan had explained it to her, once, when she was irritated by his castellan, Sire Cei.
It was partially due to the nature of the Wilderlords’ preferred method of warfare: heavy cavalry charge, followed by mounted hand-to-hand battle with sword and shield. With their broad wooden shields and heavy ash lances - complete with eighteen-inch steel tip - when they charged, they knew their business, the Spellmonger told her. Though the region boasted some of the finest archers and rangers he’d ever seen, Minalan had complained, the Wilderlords refused to believe that anyone but they could properly fight. She was glad to see Anguin was prepared for that argument.
“They have been fighting men since the invasion, and their lives are proof of their competence at arms, even if those arms are a lowly axe or a pitchfork turned to other purpose. Nobility does not alone possess the essence of valor, Count Marcadine,” Anguin reminded him. “A little girl can show valor when old men fail. When the Narasi first came to the Wilderlands from Gilmora and Enultramar, commoner and lord alike were armed. After the settlement of the Wilderlands, the freemen laid down their arms and relied upon the Wilderlords to protect them. The time has come for the commoners to take them back up again in our common defense.”
“Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, nervously, as the prerogatives of his class were attacked, “in time, we will be able to--”
“Alshar cannot await a full generation for new knights to be raised, trained, and equipped by the few noble houses remaining in the north. There are not enough old Wilderlord houses left to provide them in three generations, my lords. That is not foreign sedition speaking, that is the simple arithmetic.
None of the peers could come up with a convincing argument against that fact. Pentandra had learned through gossip and the endless stream of meetings she attended that many of the houses that were left were now ruled by infants, or sons too young to have gone off to fight. Anguin nodded in agreement with his prime minister’s assessment, and continued.
“So we will begin training and preparing the commoners we have – and we have a gracious plenty – to fight. Nor can I wait for the people to naturally trickle back to their lands. I will have to compel them. I cannot do that unless they feel protected, and I can’t protect them unless I have good warriors. Therefore, I will train good warriors, and see where the rest leads.”
“But will that not undermine the social order, Your Grace?” asked the Baroness, a little scandalized by the idea.
“More than an invasion that wiped out all but a tithe of your ancient houses?” Pentandra pointed out, perhaps a bit more sharply than she intended. The Baroness regarded her thoughtfully from across the room.
“If we permit commoners to arm themselves, Lady Wizard, what distinguishes them from the nobility?”
“What indeed?” asked Father Amus, spreading his fingers. “As skill at arms is the essence of nobility, then common men of valor will of course be recognized and, where appropriate, elevated in their station. If we cannot find enough Wilderlords, then we will make more of them ourselves.”
“I grant that the society of the Wilderlands has been disrupted by the invasion,” conceded the Baroness, “but Your Grace, upending what social order remains . . .”
“Yes,” the cautious Baron Rei agreed. “We must not allow our society to fade in the face of this . . . disruption! I’ve been tempted to sell my lands and retire to my estate in Gilmora, where things are still done properly.” Baron Rei was a Castali-leaning baron, though not as much as Edmarin had been.
“Arming the peasantry is out of the question,” insisted Baron Steldru of Corthomoch. His fief was one of the ones bordering Castal, and he had more in common with the Riverlords of Gilmora than most Wilderlords. It was also one of the strongest, offering nearly fifty lances. But he needed that kind of military. His barony was the only one she was aware of that had actual villeins, not just free commoners. An armed peasantry was a danger to his rule as a result.
That did not concern the duke.
“The goblins are adapting,” Duke Anguin said, echoing Astyral’s words. “They are changing their own society to better meet their needs and the necessities of their struggle against us. If we are less committed to survival than they, then how likely are we to prevail against them? If we cannot depend upon the Wilderlords for protection, then as Father Amus said, we will make new ones. If the present feudal order does not meet the necessities of our time, if the Wilderlands, as it was, cannot survive, then we will make a new one.”
“How that new one is composed will depend largely on you, my lords,” Count Angrial nodded. “As much as we need the coin you owe in tribute, we need your loyalty, ideas and leadership more desperately. If we are to re-settle the ragged north, we must do so secure in the southlands.”
“That kind of security can only be bought by wise and careful governance, Your Grace,” Count Marcadine said, boldly. “It takes time, and trust. When you speak of upending the social order, how can you expect our endorsement?”
“I am not advocating rule by peasant mob, my lord,” Duke Anguin smiled. “This is a strategic policy I propose. You once counseled my father to move to protect the northlands, and we suffered in his delay at taking your advice. The southern baronies will be far more secure with the northern vales peopled with valiant warriors, not goblins and bandits. You fear the burden of tribute on your domains – yet that burden will be greatly lessened with more domains contributing to the ducal coffers.”
“More, to help persuade you,” Lawfather Jodas said for the first time, “His Grace has authorized my office to expedite certain legal matters that have been vexing your various estates.”
“And I have been asked to be both lenient and forgiving with the tribute assessments and arrearages due the duchy,” Viscountess Threanas assured them. That got their attention. The priest and the prime minister were relatively new to them, but they had suffered Threanas for decades. If that taciturn old harpy was prepared to be forgiving in any capacity, the barons took note.
“My office will coordinate the training efforts,” Count Salgo assured them. “Militia training, spear, bow, and staff, at first. Particularly bow. Those great Wilderlands bows are worth a lance, when they’re properly trained,” he added, admiringly.
“And I have been directed to lend what magical aid I can,” Pentandra offered, in turn. She didn’t think her words would spark a response any more than Threanas, Jodas, or Salgo’s, but to her surprise they did.
“Magic!” snorted Baron Rei of Gormuis, on the shores of Lake Criochel to the south. A place virtually untouched by the invasion and its aftermath. “We have had quite enough of magic! It was magic that got us into this mess to begin with!” That caused a stir among the magelords who were seated off to the left side of the room.
“It was human magic that protected you from gurvani magic, Your Excellency,” Astyral reminded him. “And continues to, to this hour.”
“And you are, my lord?” the baron asked, his eyebrows arched.
“I do not believe we have enjoyed the pleasure of an introduction,” conceded the charming Gilmoran, with an apologetic bow of his head. “I am Magelord Astyral, currently deployed in the cause of protecting you from gurvani magic,” the smooth-speaking Gilmoran mage informed the baron. Then he turned to the Duke, even more deferently. “Your Grace, I know I have no official standing at this court. I was appointed military governor of Tudry by Minalan the Spellmonger, a Marshal of Alshar of your father’s making. While my appointment was affirmed by royal decree, I understand that I am not your man.
“Yet I must take offense at Baron Rei’s assessment of my profession and class!” he said, with quiet determination. ”Particularly in the face of the great sacrifices the magi have made to defend these lands.” Azar stood behind his friend, a stark contrast in physical features and dress, but as he reached for a joint of meat from across his place, he shot an evil glare at Dasion.
“My lord, I meant no offense!” Baron Rei said, startled. “I merely meant . . . that is to say, it seems as if our troubles have magic at their root, is all.”
“I appreciate your apology, Excellency,” Astyral said, graciously, as Azar returned to his seat, never taking his eyes off of him. “You are not wrong; magic is at the root of our troubles. But it is also the only thing that may yet preserve us. I urge you lords to consider embracing we magelords, and aiding us, as we have aided you.”
“And how would you have us do that?” asked Count Marcadine, warily.
“Merely respect our titles, rights and prerogatives as you would any noble,” he shrugged, casually. “We have no designs on yours, or your lands. We gladly accept the burdens to which we have applied ourselves, as the risk needed to ensure a successful defense. What we rule we do out of necessity, not greed. Treat us with the respect which we have earned.”
“But you are . . . magi,” objected Rei, in a low murmur. “Spellmongers!”
“I have a knighthood that says otherwise, Excellency,” Azar countered, coolly. “Would you care to challenge my valor?”
“We are magi,” Pentandra agreed, quickly, to keep Azar on a leash. “That does not make us commoners.”
Astyral nodded to her, his fingertips together, as he elaborated. “Not all of us, in any case. I myself was raised in a noble estate of ancient lineage and rare culture, as were my cousins in the trade. Lady Pentandra was raised an aristocrat of Remere, and is an academic scholar of some repute. Magelord Thinradel was raised as the son of a Coastlord.”
“And Magelord Azar?” asked the baroness.
“I am Azar, the Scion of Death,” the grim warmage said, fixing her with his gaze. “I was born twixt the bloody thighs of Conquest, sired by the loins of Battle, itself! My midwife was Destruction, my wet nurse, Lamentation!” he said, in the tone he apparently used to impress clients, back when he was an itinerant warmage, Pentandra figured. She was glad he could still use the line.
“Oh,” the baroness replied, unsure of what to say. “They must be very proud,” she finally decided.
“We are no less suited to be in your company by honor or profession alone, my lords, than any of the clergy, who may have been born to high or low estate,” Astyral said, quickly. “And, in candor, my lords, you do yourselves a disservice with your prejudice.”
“How so, my lord?” asked Marcadine, rinsing his hands out in a basin as his meat course was brought.
“There are advantages to being allies of the High Magi. We are no longer mere sellswords, scholars and spellmongers. You have an opportunity, here in the Wilderlands. An opportunity to work with the magi, not against us. I promise you, you shall profit thereby.”
“I’ve heard many of the wonders the Spellmonger has wrought,” Marcadine said, cautiously.
“Baron Minalan has done remarkable things,” agreed the Duke. “I, myself, witnessed what his magic could do. He built a castle – a small one, a mere pele tower and bailey, with a ditch – in days, my lords. Days. Given weeks, he could have built a fortress the size of Darkfaller,” he assured them.
“In truth, a vassal of yours, Magelord Carmella of Salis Tower, is largely responsible for the construction of those, Your Grace,” Thinradel informed the lad.
“Oh, yes, a remarkable woman,” agreed the duke, thoughtfully. “I have her in mind for a possible . . . security upgrade, here in Vorone,” he said, diplomatically.
“You could not choose better, Your Grace,” Pentandra offered. “And could she not also lend her advice on strengthening the strongholds in the south by magic, against the spells we’ve seen the gurvani use?”
That certainly caused some appreciative nods The stories of the shamans’ spells in the invasion were horrifying to lords used to being able to repel a foe with a deep ditch and a stout wall.
“I think that would be an admirable use of her two months’ service,” agreed Anguin, seeing the improvement of the barons’ dispositions at the suggestion. “As for your standing at court,” the young duke continued, thoughtfully, as he held his cup out for more wine, “I have prepared documents recognizing you as the Lord Steward of Tudry, Magelord Astyral, with another six domains surrounding the townlands for yourself – if they’re worth having.”
“You honor me, Your Grace!” Astyral said, nearly oozing humility. She was tempted to see if he was using a charm or merely relying on his own.
“Lady Carmella is affirmed as the Magelord of Salis Tower and the surrounding domain, and named Marshal of Alshar. And you, Sir Azar,
are affirmed as Baron of Megelin and titled lord of its traditional lands. The coronet, at least, shall respect your titles, rights, and prerogatives, and hold you as valued advisors to the court. That, at least, should take care of the matter of your standing at court.”
That provoked a gasp from the court – announcing Sir Daranal’s ascension to the peerage was one thing. He was a loyal member of the court, and from a minor but prestigious house of Wilderlords. Raising mere warmagi – foreign-born warmagi at that - to the landed peerage so casually was another matter entirely. The southern barons whispered among themselves furiously for a moment before Duke Anguin continued, authoritatively.
“As far as the role of magic in the administration of the realm, it is clear that our existence today is largely due to the rise of the Arcane Orders. I have been shown by no less than Minalan the Spellmonger, himself, just how useful the art can be in governance. And it is also clear that the future of the duchy will depend upon the wise and prudent use of all of our resources – including magical ones.
“To that end, I will be relying heavily on the Arcane Orders and their powers in particular to help re-settle the northeastern lands, those between the great rivers and the Kulines. As there are precious few Wilderlords left - and precious few people in general - there should be little local objection, and I do not see how you lords and ladies could possibly object, considering the generous offers your Duke has given you as incentive.
“Any non-magical noble who takes issue with that had better be prepared to offer a better alternative. The magi will lead the effort to resettle, repopulate, and restore -- nay, to build a far stronger society than the one the goblins smashed. It is through their guidance and with their aid that we will ensure, eventually, see our ambitions toward recovering Enultramar and the rest of our lost lands.
“Isn’t that right, Lady Pentandra?” the young Duke asked, pointedly.
Chapter Fifteen
The Letter From The Queen
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 35