Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Ah!” Moudrost nodded, as we crossed the Great Hall to the doorway. “That explains the fantastic displays from your mountain, last night. Why, the entire sky above glowed with the power of the spell. I was fascinated by the energies involved in the feat – an arcane entertainment for your liege?”

  “We are always experimenting with new ways to delight and wonder our patrons,” I said, letting the obsequious tone of a real spellmonger seep into my voice. Damn! I’d almost forgotten about the Snowflake! “Prince Tavard deserves only the finest from the Spellmonger. I would hate to disappoint him.”

  “In truth, I doubt any could be disappointed with such a land,” Moudrost told me, sincerely. “I never thought I would see the day when magic is used with such abandon – and to such purpose. Your folk are prosperous, your city is beautiful, and even the Alka Alon pay court to you,” he said, pointing to the spire of Lesgaethael as I escorted him out of the hall. “You have Karshak and Tal Alon as your servants. I’ve never seen a land so well-run,” he complimented.

  “A credit to my staff,” I insisted. “I hire good people. I spend a lot of gold. And I’ve been blessed with good apprentices,” I added, as I saw Ruderal peek his head out from behind a tree in the courtyard, then dart back, displaying an unusual shyness. “Usually. But by all means, if you must depart, let the days before you return be few,” I said, citing an old Riverlands proverb.

  “You can expect to see me again, soon,” Moudrost agreed, with one last handshake before he departed. I watched him walk all the way to the gatehouse (the small one for the castle, not the new one that towered overhead behind us) until he was out of sight. That’s when the smile left my face.

  Three thousand tons. Sixty thousand pounds of pure snowstone. I was already selling it for what I thought was a hefty sum, and getting eager buyers, but this . . . this had the potential to transform Sevendor.

  I envisioned long lines of ox-drawn wains hauling huge blocks of stone across the land to Sendaria Port, as my folk hacked past the topsoil and into the white stone underneath. We could do the actually quarrying magically, of course, which would save time. But that would still employ scores, perhaps hundreds of quarrymen. Men who no longer had jobs behind plows, thanks to the planting wands. A project like this would take years to complete, perhaps lifetimes.

  And unlike other potential buyers, the Sea Folk had an outstanding reputation for honesty in their dealings. They didn’t seem to understand the concept of cheating, from what the lore said. Their funds weren’t dependent on the price of cotton or wool, expected tribute payments, or the harvest. If they said they would pay, they would pay. Enough to enrich my domain and my entire barony for lifetimes to come.

  Not a bad price for one small mountain we weren’t really using for anything else.

  I closed my eyes and contacted Lilastien, my expert on Vundel Affairs.

  My seamage guest just left, I reported, when the Alkan sorceress’ mind touched my own. Good news: he didn’t ask about the war or Sharuel or Korbal, at all.

  That is a relief! Lilastien sighed. I thought it was too early for the Vundel to take note, but with them it’s hard to know. So what did he want?

  Snowstone. A lot of it.

  Really? she asked, surprised. That’s all?

  That’s a lot, I countered. They want three hundred tons of it. At fair market prices. That’s about a mountain’s worth . . . and enough gold to buy my own kingdom, if I wanted.

  Do you?

  Hells, no! I swore. Do you take me for a fool? But this will require a significant investment that will feed my people for years to come, I said, pleased with myself.

  Why did the Vundel want snowstone? she asked, suspiciously.

  I . . . I didn’t inquire, I realized. Something about its effect on their coral beds. They were pleased, I added.

  The corals are what the Leviathans subsist upon, she agreed. The ones in the Shallow Sea are notoriously damaged and anemic, compared to other seas on Callidore. The Leviathans who tend them are scrawny, barely able to survive on what is left.

  So doubling the growth rate of the coral would be worthwhile?

  Doubling? My dear boy, that would be worth just about anything to them. Those corals barely grow, anymore. The ridge corals are millions of years old, and it takes the lifetimes of Alkans to see any perceptible growth. So yes, I can see why the Vundel would be interested in that.

  You don’t sound particularly hopeful about that, I pointed out.

  Oh, it’s better than a general eviction, she agreed, quickly. But it comes with some new problems. This is the first time I can recall when there was something the Vundel really wanted. Now I think we know why.

  Why would snowstone affect the coral growth?

  Because the coral system is magical in nature, she explained. Reducing the thaumaturgical resistance around it would allow the cells to metabolize much more quickly, she reasoned. If provided with sufficient minerals and sunlight, then yes, that would accelerate the growth rate. Which would allow the Shallow Sea pods to repopulate.

  There seem to be plenty of them around, I pointed out.

  Not as many as there used to be, nor as many as there should be. The Sea Folk you see now in the Shallow Sea are a thin remnant of the great fleets of Leviathans which used to ply the glorious reef system. The damage was that extensive. Even a modest improvement in their food supply would allow several more pods to split off, and their Clippermen to transform into Leviathan mothers.

  So . . . maybe that will keep them from throwing us off the world? I offered, hopefully.

  It’s a good start, she agreed. Let’s see how the experiment goes. Speaking of experiments, Lord Aeratas and his party have arrived. With three hundred more Tera Alon warriors to protect the borders of the Tower.

  You sound annoyed by that.

  I . . . yes, I am, she admitted. Permit an old lady a few complaints when her household is disrupted, Minalan. And, before you say it, yes, I understand the necessity. That doesn’t’ mean I enjoy the company.

  Did he bring Lady Falawen with him?

  Every sulky, irritating bit of her. She reminds me of my older sister. That is not a positive thing, she added. But they’re here, and are awaiting your arrival this evening.

  I’ll be there, I assured her. Thanks for the counsel. I’m hoping we can continue to escape their notice as anything but humble purveyors of shiny rocks.

  That’s probably in our best interests, she agreed, dryly.

  When I broke contact, I took a moment to re-orient myself and look around at the bustle of activity across the courtyard.

  Porters were unloading a long string of wagons bringing ordered provisions to the kitchens, both here and at the Gatehouse. Tal Alon drudges were sweeping and scrubbing the exterior of the castle, while Tal Alon gardeners clipped the trees and bushes within the bailey walls. Teams of castle workers erected every tournament tent and campaign canopy we had in storage for the expected overflow of guests too important to send into town.

  As I looked around, the distant spire of the Mewstower caught my eye. Dara could probably fit some more visitors in her new little keep, I reasoned. While the first two stories were designed for storage and supplies, the meandering third story, I knew, was a barracks only a quarter-filled with Sky Riders, thus far.

  Dara had two wings of four birds each, quartered here, with a third stationed in Vorone. The barracks story the Karshak constructed had room for three times that many, and comfortably appointed, too. The fourth floor, given over to the craft of falconry, also contained the standard sort of mews.

  But the fifth floor, the very peak of the tower, still enwrapped with scaffolding as the Karshak toiled to finish it, was the home of her giant birds. There was room for as many as sixteen, someday, but for now half that number nested in the massive mews. That was where Dara’s private apartments were, too, near to her birds.

  I hadn’t seen much of her, since I returned from Yule, but it was probably time I paid her
new home a visit. Especially if I wanted her quartering my vassals. It was her hall, after all.

  “Master?” came a hesitant voice from behind me. At first, I thought it was my page, but then I saw it was Ruderal, my youngest apprentice. The normally quiet boy looked more than a little disturbed, which wasn’t like him.

  “What is it, Ruderal?”

  “Word has come from the Diketower,” he reported. “The Ducal Envoy is approaching, a party of six. You asked to be alerted,” he added, politely.

  “Of course,” I said, absently. “Have the castellans quarter them in Spellmonger’s Hall, and allow him and his party to rest and recuperate from his long journey. Inform them that I shall attend them in the morning.”

  “You have plans for the evening, Master?” the boy inquired.

  “I need to go fix Ryff’s wedding,” I confided. “Especially if we want to see it occur on Briga’s Day, with all due ceremony.”

  “He was quite excited about it, the last time he was here,” the boy agreed. But there was still something bothering him, I could tell.

  “What is it about the Ducal Envoy that has you so nervous, lad?” I asked, as kindly as I could. “I’ve met the man. He’s a horrible boor, overly ambitious, and he tends to shout everything, but he’s a harmless fool. Or is it the Prince’s visit you fear?” I asked, concerned.

  Ruderal was a little moody, thanks to his Talent for reading other people’s enneagrams constantly, but he had developed a fairly thick skin about letting such things affect him personally.

  “Oh, I look forward to seeing a Prince, Master,” Ruderal assured me. “I’ve never seen one before.”

  “You are not missing much,” I sighed. “So, if it isn’t the Prince’s visit, what is it? Do you not have enough lessons to keep you busy?”

  “Not at all, Master!” he said, horrified. I had him working daily with the court wizard or one of the other magi in the castle, when I couldn’t spare my attention. By all accounts the boy was an ideal student, picking up on his lessons even faster than Dara did. And far faster than Tyndal ever had. “No, it’s just . . . who was that wizard you were talking to, earlier?” he asked, curiously.

  “Him? A seamage,” I replied. “An emissary from the Sea Folk on an errand of business. Why? Is it the Vundel you fear?”

  Ruderal swallowed nervously, and shook his head.

  “I’ve never met one, though I’ve seen their pictures and statues often enough in Solashaven. But they never come to Enultramar, thanks to the rocks in the bay. It’s too shallow for them, even though there are lots of yummy sandflies and spiderclaws on the shore.”

  “Then what is it?” I demanded, getting a little impatient.

  “That man, Master?” he continued, after a thoughtful pause. “I read his enneagram. I didn’t mean to, really, but there was something about it,” he reported, warily. “Something that made me.”

  I paid attention, then. Ruderal’s skill at reading the arcane symbolism of a particular person’s self-awareness had been vital in the past. I was still getting used to the boy’s almost preternatural understanding of what other people were thinking and doing, but he still surprised me on a regular basis.

  “What is it?” I repeated. “Does he mean us harm? Is he not what he says he is?”

  “No, no, Master,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. He’s honest, more honest than Lord Mayor Banamor,” he explained. “He doesn’t mean you or Sevendor harm. He’s uncomfortable this far inland, but part of him is enjoying it.”

  “Then what is it?” I asked for the third time.

  “Master? I . . . I think that man was my father!”

  Chapter Eight

  The Reluctant Bride

  Lord Aeratas was waiting for me at Arth Noafa, the Tower of Refuge with his daughter, Lady Falawen, and a few score of his people. All of them were in their humanish forms, and many were armed and armored in the human-style the Tera Alon were beginning to adopt. Others were dressed in robes and gowns cut in exotic fashion.

  I was gratified to see Tera Alon warriors patrolling both the perimeter of the settlement and the Tower itself. While there were no traditional battlements, the Tree Folk had improvised merlons and such out of stones from the ruins. There were more than enough of them to repel a raid the size of the one the Enshadowed sent at Yule.

  The Tera Alon troops were quartered in an unused corner of the settlement, but spellsingers (in their natural forms) were encouraging three trees to grow in an equilateral triangle. From what I understood the trees would eventually become the kind of hidden tree forts that the Alka Alon – particularly the Avalanti kindreds – preferred.

  I was escorted up to the second-floor balcony, an area of the Tower I’d yet to see. Lilastien was there, also in her humanish form, looking irritated. Lord Aeratas was looking stoic and stubborn. And Falawen was looking resigned and depressed.

  “Thank you for meeting with me here,” I began, without ceremony, as I hung my mantle and my hat on a convenient . . . protrusion. I still wasn’t terribly familiar with Alka Alon architecture, and there were a lot of elements I didn’t know the use for. The thing looked ornate and floral, so naturally I used it as a hat rack. “I am here on behalf of my vassal, Sire Ryff.”

  “We know,” Falawen said, deliberately.

  “He has my blessing to hold the wedding at Briga’s Day, in Sevendor. The Prince of Castalshar will be in attendance, and it would be an auspicious occasion to mark the alliance between our peoples with your union.”

  “So . . . so soon?” Falawen asked, dazed.

  “Soon, my lady?” I answered. “It has been near two years since you pledged your troth. The Tera Alon encampment is nearly complete, from what I understand. Your own folk are gathering for the effort,” I reminded her.

  “I’ve done twenty transgenic spells just today,” Lilastien agreed, wearily. “There seem to be plenty of volunteers, particularly amongst the Avalanti.”

  “We are gaining strength,” agreed Lord Aeratas, his voice sounding like a deep bronze bell. “I have hundreds of Tera Alon warriors, Avalanti and Versaroti both, who have taken the oaths I devised and the form of our allies. Once they gain their forms here, and adjust to them, they are sent to one of several camps to train in the arts of war.”

  “I will not have my home turned into an army camp,” Lilastien said, distastefully. “It is a place of healing!”

  “Nor would we begrudge your hospitality. While I was uneasy with your parole, Elre, I concede that our situation requires many unconventional responses. Arth Noafa is a place of healing. Our new outpost in Sevendor shall serve as our training ground,” Aeratas assured her in a tone that told me it was not the first time he’d made the argument. “There the Tera Alon shall study with the humani and arm themselves more completely.”

  “A feat that would be facilitated, should the marriage to Sire Ryff inspire the proper desire among my folk,” I pointed out with what I hoped was tact. “There is much excitement about the wedding,” I added.

  “Evidentially,” Falawen said, icily.

  “My lady,” I said, politely, “did you not enter into this union of your own free will? What is this show of reluctance you display?”

  “Sire Ryff is a fine knight,” she replied, curtly. There seemed to be much she was not saying. I looked toward our hostess.

  “Lady Falawen’s reluctance is due to the insecurity she feels becoming intimate with Sire Ryff,” Lilastien said, wryly. “Though I have explained the mechanics of human reproduction, including the usual expectations of a marital relationship, she balks at some of the finer matters she finds unpalatable.”

  “Such as?” I asked, wondering if I needed to summon Pentandra. This was really more her type of thing.

  “Such as submitting to his orders and deferring to his judgement . . . in all things? How do your women endure such humiliation?” she demanded, angrily. “The more of your marital customs I study, the more I wonder how your species has survive
d at all!”

  “We’re good at brewing and distilling,” I shrugged. “The Rites of Trygg are fairly straightforward, my lady. And while it is true that they demand a wife submit to her husband’s judgement and obey his orders, they also demand his fair and just treatment of you.”

  “Fair?” she scoffed. “Just? Should he so deign, Spellmonger, he may elect to confine me to my chamber! And I’m just supposed to . . . obey him? Even if I disagree with him?” she demanded, angrily.

  “There are ample provisions in the sacrament for a wife to respectfully declare her objections, if her goddess-given wisdom deems her husband’s orders harmful or demeaning,” I pointed out. “You may even appeal to the Temple of Trygg’s judgement, if he mistreats you. And no vassal of mine would dare ignore a judgement from the temple, on such an important matter,” I added, warningly.

  “You think I fear Sire Ryff would beat me?” scoffed Falawen. “When the man has the legal authority under your insane system to forbid his wife to attend the market, without his leave, a beating would be a welcome alternative to such confinement!”

  “I assure you, my lady, my wife Alya finds little confinement in her role,” I pointed out. “While Sire Ryff is, admittedly, from the rural nobility, I cannot foresee a case where a man so smitten with his bride would consider such extremes.”

  “You ask me to depend upon his love . . .” she said, shaking her head.

  “I am asking you to take the same risks with your heart and your life that any human maid would, entering into marriage,” I said, briskly. I started to realize that her objections weren’t entirely rooted in our strange humani customs. They were starting to sound like the sort of misgivings many a maiden has had, when the reality of a marriage commitment started to set in.