“Cydnerth! Awake!” he demanded. “Your lord needs a drink!”
“His lord?”
“Anguin made me lord,” he shrugged. “He gave me the estate nearest to the Kasari lands for my own. Cydnerth is from there. This is his shop: the Flickering Flame.” Indeed, there was a small sign that showed a painting of a cozy little fire in a fireplace.
Cydnerth opened the door, welcomed Arborn whom he recognized at once, and when he heard that Lady Pentandra was in labor he bustled about the place. In moments, he put a bottle of spirits and a plate of biscuits on the board while he stirred the fire into life.
“Relax,” I urged him, as I dug out my pipe. “This will be fine. By morning you may be the proud papa of three daughters,” I pointed out. “You’re doomed.”
The spirits were apple, distilled from the hard cider that was so common in the Wilderlands. It tasted like concentrated Autumn, leaves swirling on my tongue, and burned all the way down my gullet. The smoke helped cool the flames, and I started to relax myself into a warm, apple-scented haze.
“I fought for an entire day, at Olum Seheri,” the dark-eyed ranger said, as he sipped his spirits. “I faced creatures that should never have been made. Dead men with glowing eyes. Yet I’d wish myself back there again, rather than endure this helplessness.”
“Yet you must,” I advised. “Let the birthing chamber do its work. I’m here,” I reminded him. “If there are issues, Pentandra has the best possible resources. I can have Master Icorod or one of his journeymen here within the hour, if there is trouble. Hells, at need I can appeal to Trygg, herself. She’s already blessed this pregnancy,” I reminded him.
“I know, I know,” the big man grumbled. “None of that makes any difference, in my heart.”
“That, I can understand,” I sighed, sympathetically. “To compound your anxiety, let me be the first to tell you that this is but the beginning of your journey into terror. The fear you feel now? It is nothing, compared to the fear you’ll face the first dawn you have three daughters to concern yourself with. That day, my friend, you will begin to know the meaning of terror.”
“You really aren’t making me feel better,” Arborn accused me, sullenly.
“There’s nothing that can make you feel better,” I offered. “Well, there’s one thing.”
“What?” he asked.
“It’s . . . well, it’s a bit of magic. Not to take away your anxiety, exactly, but . . .”
“What is it?” he demanded. “What can I do?”
“Drink that,” I said, pouring his glass to the rim. “Quickly. And then let me make an inquiry.”
It took a few moments, reaching out to different people, mind-to-mind, but I eventually got someone (Banamor, who delegated it to one of his staff) who could procure what I needed, and sent it through a hoxter. Twenty minutes and three drinks of spirits later, we were ready.
“Come with me,” I said, mysteriously, as I tapped out my pipe and put it away. “Cydnerth! Boil some water. We’ll want tea and biscuits, when we’re done, and porridge.”
“Where are we going?” Arborn asked, confused, as I led him outside . . . and around the back of the tavern.
“Right about here will do,” I decided. I cast a magelight to illuminate the place. The first faint glow of dawn was arising along the horizon in the east, but it was still as dark as a miner’s butt. “When my father heard that I was having a girl, he gave me some advice,” I said, stripping off my mantle. “As the father of five daughter’s himself, he was full of sage wisdom on the subject of raising girls.”
“Are they any different than raising boys?”
“Worlds apart,” I nodded. “But he said there are some things that you can count on with girls,” I continued, philosophically. “When a young father has a girl, he’s strong. By the time she grows into a lovely young woman, age takes a toll on a man. He’s not as strong.
“So . . . when a young woman enters courting age, you might not be as hale as you are now, my friend. And you will find the nights colder in your bones.”
“You . . . you fear I won’t have the strength to show him the door?” He still looked confused. And a little drunk. As big as he is, Arborn is a lightweight when it comes to his cups.
“Oh, no. When the wrong sort of suitor shows interest in your daughter,” I explained, as I took out the hoxter wand, “then passion can provide the strength you need to contend with the situation.
“But passion fades, when the deed is done. And then you are left with but your decrepit strength, and a long night of work ahead.” I manifested two shovels from the hoxter. “My father told me that the wise father of any daughter has the foresight to dig the hole while he’s still young and strong. It saves the trouble of a long night, when you are old and weary.”
“A hole? For . . .?”
“My father assures me this is effective: for someone who is not impressed by being shown a hole an attentive father dug before he was born and intended for him, at need,” I supplied. “Mine is behind the stable at the castle. If a young man is worrisome, I’ll show him the hole, and explain the purpose. You have three daughters. That’s three holes. I’ll help you dig.”
After a long night of labor, Pentandra gave birth to Fentra mid-morning the next day, with Glyfara born right at noon and little Cynnila born a quarter-hour later. All three girls will healthy, pink . . . and loud. Pentandra was doing fine. Her midwives had expertly handled the delivery, and Pentandra’s mother was tending to her – she’d persuaded her assistant to use the Ways to Remere, to fetch her.
I left the happy, exhausted family in their croft, after I secured a bountiful breakfast from the Sevendor bakery, and decided to walk around Pentandra’s hidden gem.
I’d known of the Anvil since the Long March: a giant, solitary mountain in the middle of a gentle plain, surrounded by other rocky mounds. There had been a few villages in the territory, but they were tiny hamlets of woodsmen and freeholders, spread out and vulnerable to the goblins. Many of the folk here had been killed or driven off by the first great wave of gurvani, before Timberwatch.
Since Pentandra had taken an interest in the place, with Carmella’s robust assistance, the place had been transformed. Roads had been created, whole wards had been staked out, and the first few cottages I stumbled across in the night proved to be a neat and tidy row, newly built, and one of three I saw on my stroll.
Various signs on thick parchment were tied to the stakes, and I amused myself by walking around and peeking at Carmella’s vision: livery stable, read one, well house, said another, and the list went on: smith, cartwright, cooper, inn, tavern, herbalist . . . all the professions one needs for a true city to function. She was ambitious, Pentandra was.
But then I found a few signs that confused me. One labeled Iron Folk, one labeled Karshak, and one labeled Tera Alon. Others were mere abbreviations, and even more obscure and confusing. No doubt Carmella had a construction code somewhere that would explain them.
But as I strolled through the dirt street of the incipient village, I was struck by how beautiful it was. It seemed to encapsulate everything that drew me initially to the Wilderlands: a wide sense of scale, a closeness with the natural world around it, sweet-smelling air and clean, trickling waters. It was a grand place. It reminded me of Boval Vale.
If Pentandra wanted to turn this into a tidy little resort for wizards, I wasn’t going to argue. Hells, I’d invest.
But what drew my eye away from the stakes was the sight of the ragged tent city on the rocky plain below the Anvil.
In the daylight it was much more vast than the campfires had indicated. Thirty thousand people was a lot, and they’d been there for but a few weeks. Tarpaulins and tents filled three central areas – distribution centers, I noted – and more humble shelters spread out beyond. Spear-toting sentries patrolled the perimeter, and there a few Wilderlords and monks working at the three centers.
“Master Minalan!” I heard someone call from behind me. I
turned around to see Gareth, a surprised expression on his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Pentandra gave birth this morning – did you not hear?”
He made a face. “I’ve been up at the Wood Dwarves’ camp to the east of town since daybreak,” he said. “We’re trying to get twenty new cots built for the infirm and elderly. I hadn’t heard. Is she . . . is she okay?”
“Mother and litter are doing fine,” I nodded, smiling.
“Thank Trygg’s holy grace!” he grinned, relieved. “I’ve heard so many horror stories about multiple births, and . . . survival rates,” he added. “That’s why we brought in Birthsister Zoma, from Wenshar. She’s dealt with Valley People before, and they are all multiple births.”
“She’s doing well, though she’s as tired as a charger after a race. Three perfectly healthy little wizardlings. I think maybe even Arborn will recover. So . . . this is your work?” I asked, gesturing toward the massive encampment.
“Not entirely mine,” Gareth said. “I had help. But when you sent me here to assist, I did the best I could. We have three central areas,” he pointed out, “which are used for food, water, and medical distribution. Between mealtimes the liberated are interviewed, to see where they are from and what their station in life is. Those who wish to be repatriated, say, to Gilmora are put on one list and given a parchment. Those who have lost their homes and have no place to return to are put on another. Anyone who has specific skills is put on a third.”
“Arborn mentioned something about that, last night,” I nodded.
“Well, when Sheruel sent his goblins into Gilmora, he really did us a boon,” Gareth said, with dark humor. “Apparently Gilmora was fat with younger tradesmen who couldn’t break into the guilds, there was so much competition. Those who survived captivity are doubly eager for the chance to ply their trade again . . . particularly in a land without too many guild restrictions.”
“So who is in charge?”
“Of the camp? We have a small council of Wilderlords, many of them from this region, governing it. There are a few score clergy who have volunteered for the effort . . . in return for the chance to build a future temple in our future city,” he added. “The slaves – escapees,” he corrected, “have elected representatives of their own. So far, things have gone smoothly. But that’s only because we’ve kept the rations flowing. That was something the gurvani were skimpy on.”
“They have nothing,” I said with a sigh, as I saw the rag-clad, emaciated people go about their business.
“They have hope, now,” Gareth countered. “Master, you have no idea just how bad some of those people had it. There were beatings, starvation, torture, experiments . . . they are happy just to be alive and free. “With hope and a couple of sticks, the Kasari say, you can do anything. Add a little magic to that, and I have every confidence that they will thrive.”
“As long as they are protected,” I warned. “Don’t think that the gurvani are going to let their slaves go without contest.”
“Then they’ll have to contend with the fourth company of the Alshari 3rd Commandos,” Gareth said, shaking his head. “They’ve an encampment at the mouth of the vale. Six hundred men strong, with another thousand armed Wilderfolk as reserves. And a few warmagi who would see such an attack as an extended target practice.”
“And supply?”
“We’ve contracted through Banamor,” he reported. “We have about sixty tons of wheat and rice secured in hoxters, thus far, and another twenty each of barley and oats. Tomorrow we’re expecting a shipment of salt fish – we need to get some protein in them. And, hopefully, the millworks we ordered from Remere. Right now, we’re grinding all of our grain by hand, which is fine because we have so many idle hands. But it’s inefficient. And we’ll need it, come next year,” he added. “We’ve got all those idle hands preparing several fields for planting, this autumn. They’re clearing them of rocks and brush, and raking them out.”
“Is the soil rich enough to sustain that kind of planting?” I asked, doubtfully. The fields of the Wilderlands were scattered and few. The rocky soil was difficult to grow more than corn and beans, in most places, and real viable fields of barley or wheat took generations of cultivation to be productive.
“No,” he admitted, “but we’re fixing that, too. One of the local green magi investigated, and made some recommendations. On his advice, we’re going to enrich it,” he said, smugly.
“How? Sheep shit?” That was the usual manner in which fertilizer was added to farmland. The fertile feces of the beasts were almost as coveted by the manor lords as their woolly pelts.
“No, that would take too long,” he chuckled. “Banamor indicated that Master Planus is involved in this new Arcane Mercantile Company. As it turns out, there is a riverway in Remere that is being dredged out – Master Planus’ firm has accepted the contract. He as concerned about where to store the dredged material, which is, by all accounts, filled with fertile silt and decaying organic matter.”
“All of which will be killed by a trip through a hoxter,” I pointed out.
“They’ll make more,” Gareth shrugged. “It won’t take long to restore the microorganisms in a biological mass of decay like that. But from what Planus says, we can move about a hundred and fifty tons of river silt from Remere to our fields. Once we mix that in with local soil, we should have fields fertile enough to sustain the town.”
“That’s a mighty ambitious plan,” I nodded, watching the former slaves as the headed back to the empty fields after lunch.
“I was taught to dream big,” Gareth nodded. “You told me to find a place where my talents were needed, and could be appreciated. I think I found it,” he said, with satisfaction.
Chapter Fifty-Five
The Alka Alon Council
News of Pentandra’s birthing spread with the speed of thought through the arcane community. Once I ensured everything was well with the new family, I went back to Sevendor, where the news was already broken. It had, indeed, come before news of Prince Tavard’s miraculous survival at Maidenspool, which had also broken.
As much as I enjoyed telling the story of that night, I had other business to attend to: the Alka Alon Council meeting was only a fortnight away, and I had preparations to make.
Things were helped by the return of a well-rested Sire Cei to his post as castellan. While Festaran and a rotating group of assistants had kept Sevendor Castle and the domain running smoothly in his absence, there was nothing like having the Dragonslayer back in charge to keep people on their toes. Despite no real problems arising while he was gone, Cei was adamant that his office was filled with issues that required his attention.
That was fine. As long as things ran smoothly and my meals were on time, I wasn’t going to complain.
I spent much time in distant mind-to-mind conversation with Lilastien, as well as several in-person discussions with Onranion and Lady Varen. The mysterious third Emissary was the only one still at Lesgaethael, but she showed no inclination of leaving, as her fellows had.
Their insights into the history and politics of the current Council were interesting. I learned so much about the competing clans and family lines of the various kindreds that my head spun. When you’re talking about dynasties that last thousands of years, and grudges that last as long, things get complicated.
But by the time the day of the Council loomed, I was far more prepared than before. I don’t know if that helped, but if I screwed things up, I decided, I was at least doing so from a place of knowledge, not ignorance.
With Pentandra still on maternity leave, I selected Astyral and Mavone, two Gilmorans, to accompany me to represent the Arcane Orders. Both were from a culture that prized the same kind of social formalities as the Alka Alon, and both were less-likely to accidently destroy something, like, say, Wenek or Tyndal. And, most importantly, both had a better-than-normal understanding of the politics involved, even if they weren’t privy yet to the larger issues of the Vundel.
In addition, I included Dara and Ruderal in our delegation, more because I wanted to expose them to the Alka Alon than because I needed their counsel. Besides, having a couple of apprentices around to wait on me and run my errands makes me look good.
This time the Council had elected to hold the meeting in Anas Yartharel, not Carneduin. Anas Yartharel was just as ancient an Alkan city as Anthatiel, and now that the latter had fallen it remained the only great true Alkan city left. Carneduin is a place of lore and scholarship. Anas Yartharel is the last bastion of Alkan nobility from a by-gone age.
Nor had its remote location, in the western Kulines, not too far from the Anvil, allowed it to escape the war. Twice, now, Korbal or Sheruel had sent dragons to molest the city, and twice they had been repelled, at great cost.
Raer Letharan, the lord of the great city, was no friend to humanity. He had been tepid, at best, to the prospects of an alliance, even when his friend and ally Aeratas had come forward in support of the policy. But even he could see the danger in the rise of Korbal, and after the unexpected fall of Anthatiel, he was eager to discover some means of preserving his unique city from a similar fate. Even if that meant consorting with humani.
I could sense his cautious change of perspective as our delegation came through the Ways to the point in the middle of Anas Yartharel magnificent square.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 82