High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Look, you were concerned with his politics,” I told the magical apparition in the basin. “I know them intimately, now. I’ve also ensured that he isn’t going to do anything rash in the next six months to a year, like hire an army and lay siege to Moros. Why is that a problem?”

  “Hartarian has informed me that this raises his stature among the magi,” she said, with a sniff I could hear through the connection. Mostly speaking by Mirror is like having a conversation under water. “He thinks this could be a useful stepping stone for Dranus to advance his position against his brother,” she said, accusingly.

  “Perhaps,” I shrugged. “I thought the loyalty of the Count of Moros mattered more than his history,” I reminded her.

  “It does,” she snapped. “But we’ve been cultivating the current Count of Moros for months, now.”

  “Let us let the matter rest for now,” I encouraged. “A lot can happen between now and the time of the council. Moros could betray you. Dranus could betray me. Both of which would be instructive. But for now I’ve given a talented man a challenging job. If he does well, he may prove a far superior Count of Moros than the present one.”

  I was taking great pains to keep her from addressing her real concern: a magelord admitted to the Peerage without her control. Despite the current pro-magi stance of the regime, there was a lot of native reluctance to accept magi into the ranks of the nobility, particularly at such a powerful level. No need to give her the opportunity to display hers. I figured it would be a generation before magelords were looked upon as something other than a novelty.

  “That’s not the only reason I called to you,” Her Majesty said, her lips curling. “We have set the date for my son’s wedding. This Spring, two days after Ishi’s Day. It shall be in the capital, of course, and we expect you to attend.”

  “Of course, Sevendor would be delighted to come,” I said, bowing.

  “I would like for you to arrange some sort of special magical demonstration for the occasion – fireworks, or whatever it is you people do. It must be magnificent, utterly grand, and set aside any ideas that the regime is on less than a firm footing.”

  “I will consult my staff and develop a suitable display,” I promised. “Who is this Remeran girl who is to be your daughter-in-law?” I asked, figuring Grendined would enjoy talking about her dynasty-making.

  “Lady Armandra, eldest daughter of the Count of Remeralon. An ancient and distinguished lineage. She’s a vacuous moron,” the Queen said, frankly. “Pretty girl, and well-spoken, but she’s barely been educated and she’s so soft-spoken that you barely know she’s in the room. Of course her father is a boor and her mother is a heartless shrew, so it’s no wonder she’s not used to speaking up . . . but she might be queen someday! She needs . . . guidance,” Grendine suggested, leaving me no doubt as to whose hand would be providing it. “And perhaps some tutoring from the ministers she will someday be ruling is in order. That includes you, Spellmonger,” she added, as if I was unaware.

  “Me? I’m not a minister—”

  “You were as of the Autumnal Great Council,” she corrected. “The Head of the Arcane Orders was made a minister-without-portfolio. Congratulations,” she added, without emotion.

  “The Court Wizard isn’t going to like that,” I warned.

  “Hartarian suggested it,” she said, shaking her head. “He had some excellent points of argument, too.” I made a note to thank the good master for his advocacy next time I saw him. Possibly with a blunt object. “But I want you, especially, to help coach this idiot girl into her new role. She can smile prettily and wave, but she needs much work before she can hope to be anything but a brood mare.”

  “You expect heirs quickly, then?”

  “If I know my son, she may already be with child,” nodded Grendine, pleased. “He is not the sort to buy a barrel without sampling it, first . . . and as I said, the girl is comely.”

  “And not too bright,” I added. It wouldn’t take much to seduce such a lady, I’d come to discover. Especially not if your title is Prince. Even if there wasn’t a crown at stake, his fame and title alone would make him irresistible to many women. “Mistress to the Prince” would be nearly as powerful a title as “Princess,”, after all. And Rard’s offspring was handsome, I had to admit. As a married man I wasn’t sure whether to be envious . . . or relieved.

  “That does seem to be the way he prefers them,” she sighed. “Probably just as well. It will be enough that she is complacent, obedient, and fertile. But with you as her tutor, there will be less pressure on her from other forces at court. You seem to favor Remerans, anyway.”

  That wasn’t the first time I had heard that, recently. At the Magic Fair there had been several whispers about how many Remerans I had in my employ – which was ridiculous. Pentandra was Remeran, of course. And the Order of the Secret Tower was nearly all Remerans, and with Lorcus and Dranus now working for me, I did have a few in high-profile positions.

  But I had far, far more Narasi working for me, and all of my vassals were Narasi. I didn’t see the problem, save prejudice. The Narasi had always been suspect of “loyal” Imperials, even generations after their nation had been conquered. And Remerans had always been considered somewhat “mongrel” Imperials, anyway, due to their remoteness from the center of the Magocracy. The Remerans hadn’t even revolted against Narasi rule since the Conquest, apart from individual dynastic struggles. But the suspicion remained. I found it a bit amusing.

  “You just have to know how to talk to them,” I soothed. “Don’t worry, I don’t anticipate a lot of problems with your new daughter-in-law.”

  “As long as the wedding goes well and she begets an heir in short order, I don’t care if she fucks the horses in front of the stableboys,” she lied. “The next few years are crucial for the dynasty, and this wedding is the next important step.”

  “The wedding? I would have said the war was—”

  “Wars are like dogs, Spellmonger,” she interrupted. “They can be called upon at whim. Political stability, on the other hand, is tenuous at best. It must be carefully built from solid foundations, and maintained rigorously.”

  “Would you like to explain? I’m curious,” I assured her.

  “A wedding is as important as a battle, in such an endeavor. A tangible sign of the gods’ favor – the future Princess was educated in a temple of Ishi, in Remeralon, and was a consecrated novice. “

  “Yet it is not the girl’s beauty or virtue you desire,” I observed.

  “Her family is incredibly powerful, second only to the Remeran Ducal family, and related through several ties of blood and marriage. They’re rich, connected to several shipping firms in the delta and holding interest in companies in Farise and Castal. And they’re popular. Her eldest brother is a dashing young snot who plies the tourney circuit in Remere. Her mother was a famed priestess of Ishi herself, before she renounced her vows and married her patron, the future Count. Marrying her virtually assures us the loyalty of Remere, at least as far as Moros. It also suggests an active and vital regime.”

  “Fair enough,” I agreed. “But—”

  “Beyond the political considerations, my son needs a bride soon, before the throne is overwhelmed with bastard pretenders to the throne. There have already been several . . . incidents,” she said, warily. “If only he had half the self-control of Rardine, it would spare me endless grief. But that’s a mother’s burden. Besides, he says he likes the girl. She likes falcons, apparently, and so they hunted a lot when he was at her estates. Which is why she may already be bearing the Heir.”

  “I see. But—”

  “The wedding has the added benefit of providing a last opportunity for those great lords who have not sworn their allegiance to the crown to do so. It will be their final amnesty. A chance for southern Alshar to come to their senses, before we are forced to take action. It will give the great nobles who have sworn to us a chance to marry off their own children. Traditionally grand state weddings li
ke this are followed by a spate of lesser weddings . . . and that would be a welcome sign of hope to our subjects right now.”

  “I cannot argue with that,” I said, diplomatically. “You may count on Sevendor’s attendance, Majesty. And our support,” I added. No need to get her riled up when she was talking about raising troops against rebellious vassals. “But I remind you, one last time, that this particular dog cannot be called to heel, Majesty. At any time the Dead God could decide to march his legions . . . and will likely choose a time of our least preparedness. There is even speculation that he will attack over the Winter.”

  She looked confused. “In the Winter? Could he manage such a thing?”

  “He has nearly unlimited power, and endless time to plan and plot,” I reminded her. “With the Dead God any number of unpleasant things could happen when we least expect them. Keep that always in your mind, Mother,” I added.

  She held her mouth tightly. “So I note, Spellmonger. But life goes on, and so must we. For the good of the people.”

  As soon as she ended the contact, I drank an entire bottle of spirits to blot the taste of the conversation from my mouth. I found it only barely adequate. I was really not fond of the woman.

  * * *

  Once the boys were back, Yule seemed especially cheerful that year. They didn’t fight anymore, at least not seriously, though there was a steady stream of disagreement and insults that passed for communication between the two. Alya was particularly pleased to have them at the castle, and spent a day with each of them just to listen to their exploits, like a proud mother.

  The Yule Court proved to be one of the finest in memory, allowing me the chance to honor and recognize some leaders in the community with special boons or gifts.

  I entertained a few visitors for the season, including my sister and brother-in-law from Tudry, who were looking to establish their own bakery somewhere – and were looking at Sevendor. Iyugi paused from his constant travels to spend a week enjoying the castle’s hospitality, and briefing me on many, many things he had learned in his journeys. Gurkarl, of course, was a captive to my hospitality, and while his people did not celebrate the change of seasons the way ours did, he was happy to indulge in the holiday delicacies we brought to him in his temporary home under the mountain.

  But there was an unexpected visitor at Yule that deserves special note. Arborn, Ranger Captain of the Kasari, rode in at dusk two days before Yule with a message.

  Not a message, exactly. More of a plea.

  After the man refreshed himself and stabled his horse he petitioned the butler for an audience. Despite the fact that we were getting ready for the Yule court and accompanying celebration, I saw him in the Great Hall, near the fire. It was getting cold out.

  “Welcome to Sevendor,” I said with a bow, as the man rose to greet me. “I believe we met in Carneduin.”

  “Yes, of course, Magelord,” he said, courteously. My butler had already provided the man with mulled wine, which he drank gratefully. “I come after a journey of many, many miles with tidings, news, and a plea.”

  “You have my attention. On whose behalf do you journey?”

  “Whose? Why, the free peoples of the lands. My tidings, first: the gurvani of the Kulines have increased their raids this winter. Settlements all over the Wilderlands have seen their crops stolen from their barns, their herds run off, their outlying farms ravaged and burned. The priests of the Dead Gods are responsible,” he added, darkly. “I fought with one such band and bring you two stones, taken from the hands of the dead.”

  He unwrapped two shards of irionite from a scrap of leather and handed me the package gingerly, as if the things could bite. “I took counsel of the Alka Alon, and they said you alone of the humani had the power to break the taint of the things and turn them to good purpose.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I nodded. Two more stones to distribute . . . two more marbles on the board. “Thank you. The Alka Alon still wish to confer with Gurkarl?”

  “He is the other reason I am here,” he nodded. “I am to escort him through the waypoints to Carneduin, where he will be questioned. It is hoped he can be used to convince the gurvani of the Kulines to depart from the path of the Dead God. I know not how they propose to accomplish such a thing, but then we live in interesting times.”

  “You are truthful,” I nodded. “If the Kulines go the way of the Mindens, I don’t know how much hope we have.”

  “There are not many Kasari in the Mindens,” he pointed out. “Bransei stands, protecting our sacred groves, but it is under constant attack. And they would not dare assail our groves in Kasar. But beyond . . . many other countries in the southlands will be attacked.” Kasari referred to everything that wasn’t their territory as “the southlands,” I’d noted.

  “At best it would be a nuisance. At worst, a war on two fronts – a catastrophe. Let me know what I can do to help.”

  “Lastly, I come bearing tidings from Bransei,” he said, referring to the grove of Kasari who lived closest to the Umbra, north of the wild gurvani tribes. “We have been skirmishing with the gurvani for two years now. Mostly it is minor combat. Every once in a while our rangers will learn something of import. Last month, just before the roads closed, a party of our kith arrived from there, bearing this token.” He took a bundle wrapped in deerhide from his pack and opened it on the table.

  Within was a strange contraption, all of iron save for a single heavy leather strap over the top of it. I scanned it with magesight and did not note any magical signature. I picked it up. It seemed a kind of metal frame, longer than wide by more than half, and tapered at one end. From the bottom protruded a dozen heavy iron spikes, somewhat blunted.

  “What is it?” I asked. I was going to suggest a torture device, but the spikes were on the wrong side. “A weapon?”

  “Magelord, from what we can tell, it is a shoe,” he explained. “Our folk intercepted a great wain full of them, destined for the hill tribes near to our groves. An iron shoe for a gurvani foot.”

  I saw at once that he was correct. It was just the size and shape to be a sort of shoe. “But the gurvani do not wear shoes,” I pointed out.

  “Never to our eye,” he agreed. “They have thick pads on their feet. But they are shoes nonetheless.”

  “To keep their feet from hurting?” I asked, confused. “I’ve seen them walk on sharp rocks and hot coals and not complain. And while I suppose the spikes would allow for traction in mud, for instance, I do not see how these would fare better than boots for that purpose.”

  “You reason like a ranger,” he said, approvingly.

  “Which can only mean that this shoe was designed to be used on . . . ice,” I realized.

  “The rumors about your wisdom are vindicated,” Arborn chuckled. “That is just what our folk concluded.”

  “Ice . . .” I repeated, staring into the fire. “Why ice?”

  “There is only one reason I can think of,” Arborn suggested. “If their troops were thus shod, and they used their mighty trolls to plow the snow from their path, then this would be the ideal footgear for a winter assault. Our folk would be trapped in their castles, mostly, in the case of an attack after a snowstorm. These would allow goblins access over road and field, through ice and snow, while we struggled to reinforce someplace under siege.”

  “Which would make each particularly vulnerable to a quick, hard siege and eventual capture,” I sighed, depressed. “And clearly presages an attack this winter.”

  “So we thought,” he agreed. “It was also thought that the Spellmonger would be the man in place to best make use of this intelligence.”

  “I appreciate the trust the Kasari have placed in me,” I said, sincerely. “I have long respected your people. And yes, I can use this. If the gurvani are coming this winter, we must prepare.”

  “Which brings me to my plea, Spellmonger,” Arborn continued, uneasily. “We have need of a mage. A great mage. Bransei, our northwestern stronghold, is a stout and formida
ble settlement. It is unlikely that the gurvani will ever overcome it while the Kasari still fight. Yet . . . there are children in Bransei, children who suffer from the atmosphere of war even if they are not yet fighting it. As beautiful as the groves of Bransei are, they are no longer safe for our children.”

  “What can I do?” I asked, shrugging.

  “We would lead them away from the region, if we had the opportunity. But there are many children at Bransei. They were sent there from groves and Kasari households from all over the western Wilderlands when the goblins invaded. As I said, Bransei is formidable – it is safe from gurvani aggression, for now. But after three years of war, mere safety is not sufficient. Our people wish to send the greater part of their children to safer refuges, in Kasar. While we can spare the men to escort them, that many children will be a tempting target to slavers, no matter how many men we send. Particularly slavers with shamans.”

  I considered the matter. I could appreciate their position – trying to raise children in a siege is difficult, to do so for an extended period of time would be trying. It would not be much of a life for the children, and every day would be fraught with danger.

  But to lead the children through the Wilderlands would be challenging enough in peacetime. The Bransei region was particularly rugged. Raging rivers, broken country, impassable forests – it was treacherous at best. To try to shepherd them while being pursued by slavers and goblins mounted on fell hounds would take . . . magic.

  “So you want me to provide enough of a magical corps to complete your escort,” I reasoned.

  “You have it, exactly,” agreed Arborn. “With High Magi in our midst, we could move with far more security. We can at least get them through the Penumbra. I knew that the Spellmonger would be able to find a way!”

  “I haven’t, yet,” I reminded him. “But escort them . . . to where? And how many are there?”

  “As to where, the elders at Kasar have agreed to take them in. They will be housed in some of the old camps, deep in the groves. Smaller groves have agreed to take any we have not room for, but that seems unlikely. Kasar is vast. It could hold ten times that number and still have room. As to the number . . . nearly two thousand. All under twelve years old.”