Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Ah, mortal problems,” he smirked. “My point is that Ghost Rock is valued and protected because it is powerful. People desire it. I would keep its existence a secret.”

  “I’ll throw it in the closet with the others,” I shrugged, as I smeared an extravagant amount of honey and butter on the bread. “I seem to have accumulated quite the collection. From whom should I conceal it?”

  “The Alka Alon council,” he said, quietly. “With the fall of Aeratas you have lost your strongest ally on it, unfortunately. There will be continued pressure to expel you, especially after this little festival. Twenty-one Tera Alon dead,” he reported, sadly.

  “They were volunteers. Following their lord,” I pointed out. “Why would that matter to them?”

  “Well, we won’t know until we make our report to them,” he conceded. “But I predict there will be a strong reaction against this raid. I anticipate the terms ‘rash’, ‘impetuous’, and ‘impulsive’ will be used with great gravity.”

  “To which I will add ‘successful’ and ‘daring’,” I proposed. “Regardless of their prejudices, the information I bring is vital. What Korbal and the Enshadowed are planning – not just against my people, but against all of Callidore – has to be countered. If they want to do it, and relieve me of the responsibility, I am certainly agreeable to that,” I insisted. “Hells, nothing would make me happier.

  “But,” I continued, “as the Council doesn’t seem to want to get off their collective arse and act, I don’t see where I have a choice but to be rash, impetuous, and impulsive.”

  “Oh, that’s why I like you, my boy!” Onranion smiled. “Never afraid of challenging the powers of the world. You’ll need that with them, after losing Aeratas. When do you want to inform them?”

  “When can we arrange for a council meeting? After returning Rardine to court, this is my next highest priority.”

  “A few weeks,” he considered. “I’ll inform Raer Haruthel. He’ll make the arrangements. And I will . . . I will inform Lady Falawen,” he sighed.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “That is my duty. She is . . . she is my vassal,” I decided. “And the Heir to Anthatiel, now. Her father’s death is a complicated story to tell. I should be the one who explains it to her. I might be able to bring her some solace. I think she is best suited to hold Mycin Amana, too,” I added.

  “Then I leave it to you,” he nodded. “I’ve been discussing the battle with the Tera Alon . . . of which I am one, I was surprised to learn,” he grinned. “They were incredibly impressed with your warmagi in battle. Their tenacity, their ingenuity, their valor . . . though they mourn the loss of their leader, they are yet more enthusiastic for the cause he built.”

  “I hope it isn’t a lost cause,” I said, thinking of the ruined, desecrated expanse of Olum Seheri.

  “How can it be? You mortals need to learn something from us ancient ones. As long as someone is still fighting for it, there’s always hope.”

  “How do you think we should do this?” I asked, cautiously, as we approached Alya. She was sitting in the main hall of the Tower, playing a simple child’s game with a Tal servant.

  “I would advise allowing the Handmaiden to determine the extent of her intervention,” Lilastien advised, her hands thrust into the pockets of her white coat. “Allow her a few hours a day of her influence. Not too much at one time, lest she become . . . confused.”

  “On what basis are you making that recommendation?” I asked, curious.

  “Basic medical wisdom,” she shrugged. “We’re dealing with an unknown condition and an unknown variable. Give her a little at a time, every day, and see how she responds. Any more or less than that, and we won’t be able to tell if it’s working.”

  I thought of the brave men who had died to secure this remedy, as I smiled at Alya and sent the Handmaiden to hover over her head.

  “Pretty!” she said, as she stared at the throbbing green gold-clad ball over her head. Then her eyes closed, and I could feel the Magolith begin to work.

  “We might need to keep it for a while, to treat her,” Lilastien suggested, casually.

  “Keep it for as long as you like,” I agreed. “I have other irionite. I don’t think I really want to announce I have a new super-weapon right now, anyway. It might make some folks nervous,” I offered.

  “If the Alkan council saw this, they’d shit themselves,” agreed Lilastien with a chuckled. “Serves them right. If they hadn’t been . . .”

  “I know,” I sighed. “The important thing now is that we get Alya’s mind repaired. As much as we can,” I said, as I felt the waves of magical energy emanating from the Magolith. “After that, I’ll deal with whatever consequences are involved.”

  “You just kicked Korbal in the balls, without much help from us,” the Sorceress commented. “I don’t think there will be much in the way of consequences. From the Alkan council, at least. You took the fight to him, while they were hiding under their blankets and worrying about their options. They won’t kick you off the council, now. You won. Or at least won as much as you could have expected to.”

  “I lost Aeratas,” I pointed out.

  “He was looking to be lost,” she countered. “He never intended on returning from Olum Seheri. That little bit of necromancy you managed? Reuniting him with his bride? Don’t think that doesn’t have resonance with my people,” she proposed. “He and Hynalinae were amongst the great, of Alkan society in this realm. Her loss was tragic, and their reunion will be joyous,” she predicted.

  “And fraught with conflict,” I chuckled. “You should have heard how she reacted when she found out Falawen married a mortal.”

  Lilastien chuckled. “I wish I could have witnessed that – she was ever a proud Farastamari woman. The very idea of her daughter marrying an . . . an alien . . .” she said, breaking out in laughter. “Forgive me, Minalan, I mean no offense.”

  “I take none,” I shrugged. “If this adventure has done nothing else, it has demystified the way I look at the Alka Alon,” I concluded. “Your people’s ways might seem exotic, but at the core they are just as petty, vindictive, and prone to error as we.”

  “More so,” Lilastien said, moodily, her thin lips pursed. “We were so arrogant, when we came to Callidore. So willing to re-invent ourselves into some new, noble estate. Yet all of our long years and supposed wisdom have done little to either make our lives better, or secure a better future for our children. Hells, some have even eschewed the idea of children, content to indulge in their pursuits without such complications – how can a race thrive with that sort of attitude?”

  “So you think a little alien barbarian warrior-prince blood will help?” I asked, quietly amused by her perspective.

  “Gods, it couldn’t hurt,” she said, as she watched Alya become transfixed by the Magolith. “Something must happen, to lift us from our complacency. Four hundred years I’ve been a captive, here. The world I see now is vital and passionate . . . but my people, alas, are all too content to observe, not participate, in the world around them.”

  “When the Alka Alon first came to us and proposed an actual alliance,” I considered, “we were concerned. They seemed to be appeasing us, merely throwing us trinkets and weapons like the Thoughtful Knife, and irionite, of course. But they seemed as if they were just . . . buying time.”

  “You weren’t wrong, Minalan,” Lilastien said with a tired sigh. “Since our . . . probation with the Vundel, a few reactionary houses have sought to find some better situation for their futures. A situation . . . outside of Callidore.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, sharply. Lilastien sighed.

  “I mean that there are some who are prepared to abandon ten thousand years of history on this storied globe for the possibility of a new life elsewhere,” she admitted. “I’m not proud of it, but there are plenty of clans who will be all too eager to abandon Callidore to the Vundel and Korbal and the Formless . . . and humanity. And seek a more serene and less violent
existence on some other world.”

  “I didn’t think the Alka Alon maintained the knowledge or power for such things,” I said, as the implications of her words came to my mind.

  “It isn’t a matter of power, it’s a matter of knowledge,” she admitted. “Some clans maintain the lore of our ancient forefathers, the knowledge of how to escape this world, at need.”

  “How?” I demanded.

  “You’ve said our people do not build ships?” she asked, quietly, as we watched the Magolith treat Alya. “That is not entirely correct. We do not brave the oceans of this world. But amongst the cosmos, we have crossed the void to find better shores. At need, Minalan,” she said, sadly, “my people are all too willing to abandon this world and the sins they have committed here. And you with it.”

  PART III

  A Wizard’s Work

  Interlude IV

  Gatina

  “The Plan”

  “I have the men, and they have departed,” Gatina announced triumphantly, as she entered the hall. It was a small but stately hall, built back when the Counts of Falas ruled these lands in the name of the distant Magocracy. Her family had many lands and estates, under many names, but of them all Shadowood was the one she and her brother most considered “home”.

  Shadowood was itself hidden behind a massive orchard, beyond a thick forest, on a rocky hilltop in patch of rough terrain than was at odds with the fertile fields around it. It was a modest hall, more decorative than defensive, but it was comfortable. Shadowood was where the children of the family were raised in peace, away from the prying eyes of the other nobility. The tiny hamlet at the base of the hill was the home of four families of retainers, loyal servants of her family since the Magocracy.

  Shadowood was where the Cats of Enultramar relaxed. Here the family could put aside their disguises and deceptions and be at peace. It was where her father, Lord Hance, had placed the Waystone the Spellmonger gifted him with.

  “How many?” her mother inquired, as she finished her luncheon.

  “More than eight hundred,” she reported, proudly, as she dropped her cloak on the floor, earning her a look from her mother. “Freshly trained and eager. I explained the plan to them, after swearing them to secrecy,” she said, flopping in the other chair at the table in a most unladylike manner. “They all agreed, to a man.”

  “You even told them about the . . . inconvenience?”

  “Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Indeed, I dwelt upon it. They seemed to thrive upon the possibility of hardship. The greater the challenge, the greater the honor, and all that. These Wilderlords are a strange folk,” she smiled.

  “But robust and active,” her mother pointed out, fondly. “Much like your young man. Have you arranged transport?”

  “All the way to the port,” she agreed. “The man you suggested was willing to help, of course, once he was paid. He understands implicitly what he must do, and the consequences if it is not done properly. After that, well, they’ll be on their own.” She looked down at her feet. “Did you . . .?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” her mother smiled. “It appears that I remain quite persuasive. My friend in the north will do as we ask. If nothing else, it will draw suspicion away from them. The Council of Counts is always looking for signs of treachery and resistance to their rule, these days.”

  “I heard about the arrests,” Gatina frowned. After a decomposing dragon’s head mysteriously appeared in the middle of the council chamber in Falas, the Count of Rhemes sent his men out to “investigate” the crime of aiding the ‘so-called Duke of North Alshar’, a well-known crony of the usurper, Rard. Several prominent critics of the Count were taken into custody for questioning in the matter – including popular monks and nuns, a high priest, a viscount, two barons, sixteen lords and knights, and nearly a hundred merchants and ship captains.

  “He’s using it as a ploy to silence his enemies,” Gatina’s mother sighed. “Thankfully, the Count allows his personal feelings to dictate who those enemies are. Only a few of our people were caught up in the net, and no one who cannot be freed with time and treasure.”

  “So it hasn’t disturbed our preparations?” Gatina asked, excitedly.

  “Not one bit,” her mother affirmed. “From what my friends at the shore tell me, The Five Counts cannot unify about anything other than they hate Rard and want to be the next Duke, themselves. The Count of Rhemes hunts for spies and saboteurs where there are none, and hires the ones we send him. The Count of Caramas frets at losing control of his backcountry to the undead insurgency, the Count of Erona robs his neighbors to pay bribes to the rest of the council to keep the slave trade running smoothly, and the Count of Arangalan devotes himself to personally intercepting the Castali fleet off Farise.”

  “So they will suspect nothing,” Gatina nodded, satisfied.

  “My daughter, do not think this will be easy,” her mother cautioned. “What you propose to do is beyond daring, it is audacious. You risk not just the political stability of the land, but the lives of eight hundred good men.”

  “Sometimes men must be put at risk, for the greater good,” Gatina countered with a frown. “And this is, indeed, the greater good! Am I not risking my own life in this endeavor?”

  “Yours and a great many others,” her mother sighed. “I trust in you, Kitten, but a goodly number of things could go horribly wrong. And likely will.”

  “Don’t they always?” Gatina asked, pouring herself a cup of tea. “No heist worth taking was ever free of risk,” she reminded her mother.

  “This is not a simple break-in,” her mother countered. “This is more like a complicated spell than a sophisticated heist.”

  “Which is why I turned to you, instead of Daddy,” Gatina agreed. “Besides, you’re more social than he is. And a lot friendlier.”

  “I have my influence,” her mother agreed, cautiously. “You are fortunate that there are so many who dislike the government of the Five Counts, and more still who resent Anguin’s treatment by his own court. Lenguin was not well-loved, but he was respected, and Enora was admired – Trygg alone knows why,” she snorted in disgust. From what Gatina recalled from her youth, her mother had never liked the Duchess, much.

  “I care not why they join us, merely that they do,” Gatina insisted. She detected a note to her mother’s tone she did not like. “Why, have you encountered resistance?”

  “It is no small thing you ask, Kitten,” her mother said softly, petting her daughter’s white hair. “Many are concerned at the risk. Should things fare poorly, they could be executed as traitors, their estates confiscated.”

  “If they do nothing, they will have to sell their estates to pay the taxes on the slaves that were cheaper than their own villeins,” Gatina said, rolling their eyes. “You’ve seen how things are going, Mother . . . it’s been four years, now, and there are entire domains teetering on ruin.”

  “I am aware, Kitten,” her mother insisted. “And I am persuasive. When the time comes, we will have support.”

  “Enough support?” she coaxed.

  “That is for the gods to decide,” her mother sighed. “I do hope this boy is worth it.”

  “He is,” Gatina assured her. “You’ve met him.”

  “He is a handsome lad, with a deep wit and a confident air,” her mother agreed. “I can see why you favor him, so. But most importantly,” she said, drawing Gatina into an embrace, “he loves my daughter. And my daughter loves him. That is really all that is necessary to enlist my aid.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Rardine’s Redemption

  “Baron Minalan,” Master Hartarian yawned, bowing graciously as I came out of the Ways. The old man was wearing a comfortable robe instead of a doublet and hose, and held his staff of office with a firm but relaxed grip. “Good morning. Welcome to the palace. You said you’d explain when you got here?” he asked, getting to the point without further pleasantries.

  I’d arrived in the residential qua
rters of the palace, the majestic hall that had absorbed so much of the Kingdom’s taxes. He led me across an exquisitely well-crafted floor, using a magelight on his staff to guide us through the pre-dawn gloom.

  “I have need to take counsel of Their Majesties, at the earliest possible convenience, on a matter of the utmost and most urgent importance.”

  “Which is a courtier’s way of waking them up in the middle of the night,” he nodded. “Well, you are a member of the senior Royal Court. It is your right. But . . . can you give me a hint of what’s going on? Is it . . . Prince Tavard?”

  “Nay,” I assured him, “I’ve heard no word of the Prince since he and his fleet made Farise. As far I know he’s safe and in command of his forces . . . as yet,” I felt compelled to add.

  “Then what?”

  “I will reveal all when they are together,” I promised. “Also summon the Prime Minister,” I suggested. “He’ll want to hear this.”

  He frowned, but nodded. “Of course, I’ll have them awakened. We can meet in the Dawn Room,” he suggested, leading me to a beautiful chamber that overlooked the eastern regions of the palace, to enjoy the sunrise through the stained-glass windows depicting – of course – a sunrise. I took a seat at the table there, while Hartarian closed the door and went to summon the castellan on duty. A servant appeared soon after, asking if I’d like any refreshment.

  Before Their Majesties arrived, with Count Kindine tottering in with his deputy, Lord Argas, attending at his elbow, the servants brought a large plate of hot biscuits and muffins, with pots of butter, honey, and jam, along with pitchers of mulled wine and warm ale. Discussions always go better with freshly baked goods, Dad always said.

  “Good morning, Spellmonger,” King Rard said, when he arrived with his guard, bleary eyed and yawning. “I take it this could not wait until a more reasonable hour?”