My idea to establish a grand library and study center, for instance, was subject to his criticism. While I expected that most of my professional library would be installed at Spellgarden Keep, eventually, I wanted to grant access to some of the more common works, and envisioned a grand hall to keep them in. Instead, Speredek convinced me to grant a ten-acre parcel of marginal land to the Avetaline monks who had come to Vanador at my invitation to help with construction. He seemed to think it fitting that the Spellmonger would endow a clerical order devoted to the Imperial god of magic and engineering, and pointed out – wisely – that by the endowment I could not only house the library at the abbey, but require the monks to make copies as part of their rental agreement.
Speredek seemed to have a useful answer for every idea I threw at him, from placement of the domain’s mill to the site of the eventual Mewstower Nattia and I had discussed building on the other hill. He advised me on thousands of details, showed me hidden features of the land I now owned, and discussed my aspirations for the place far into the future without discouraging my vision. Even as the first story of the great tower he was building me was constructed that summer, he indulged me in all manner of arcane experimentation . . . but always kept me from the brink of disaster.
Building Spellgarden was as close to a dream project for both of us as we could have wished. Speredek wanted to make impressive things, much as Rumel and Carmella did, and I wanted to produce the perfect arcane estate. As much struggle as I’d had even trying to get old Sevendor Castle repaired and refurbished, starting from scratch allowed me to avoid mistakes I’d encountered there. Between the two of us, Speredek and I ended up creating one of the most picturesque and well-run magelands in the Magelaw.
We spent more than a week there, in late summer, and I spent a lot of that time discussing my vision with the man. Speredek took copious notes and made long lists for his later review. His encouragement was infectious, and made me even more excited for the project. By the time the children were growing bored with fresh air and rustic exercise, and even Alya was starting to miss Vanador, I was loath to abandon the work and return to the business of war.
***
I worried that Alya would react poorly to the undead assault at Falas at Midsummer. She was very quiet for a few days afterwards, but after a treatment with the Handmaiden she seemed to return to her new normal . . . or at least to the state she had been in before the wedding. If there was any difference, it was a subtle new solemnity that crept into her mood. She seemed thoughtful, more than curious or bewildered.
I tried to speak with her about the attack while we were enjoying our country holiday, but she dismissed the undead and changed the subject toward religious art, of all things.
“Minalan, when you put me in that shrine,” she said, when I’d asked how she felt about that day, “there was a statue, there.”
“The Maiden of the Havens,” I nodded. “She’s a Sea Lord goddess, I believe, one of the five daughters of the Storm King.”
“Right,” she nodded. “But the Sea Folk behind them . . . are they real?”
I sighed. “I don’t know a lot about the Sea Folk in iconography but yes, those are the Vundel. Leviathans and clippermen, but woefully out of perspective with each other. Nor do the clippermen ride leviathans like horses.”
“And what were the things swimming around the border?”
“I believe those were porpoises,” I explained, recalling the mural.
“What are they? What do they mean?”
“The Sea Lords consider them the Maiden’s sacred animal. They’re like fish, I suppose, only they breathe air, not water. They’re an importasta creature,” I explained. “And the Vundel are symbols of the mysteries of the sea, and the risks to the voyage. As well as profitable trade.” I’d learned a bit about the Sea Lords’ religion when I was a student at Inarion, and haunted the docks between errands in town. I’d learned a lot more about them in Farise, where the cult is widely-practiced in the port. “A Sea Lord who successfully bargained with a clipperman for coral and such might be invited to a leviathan. It’s considered a high honor and a sign of the Maiden’s favor.”
“The Vundel . . . they are real?” she asked, her expression a mystery.
“As real as porpoises,” I nodded. “I saw a leviathan, once, from afar, on the troop ship returning from Farise. And I saw clippermen come ashore there a few times. The Vundel are real.”
“They’re harvesters,” she said, a statement not a question. “The . . . leviathans.”
“Yes, I suppose they are,” I agreed, surprised and intrigued by her line of inquiry. “They come in from the Deeps every year to follow the great Golden Reefs in the Shallow Sea. Or at least that’s what I understand. So I suppose they are probably harvesting . . . something.”
“For what purpose?” she asked, intrigued.
“I believe it sustains them, somehow,” I answered, realizing that I really didn’t know much about the details of the Vundel’s existence. Lilastien was a bit of an expert, I knew, and I’d picked up a few details about the Vundel in our conversations, but I really didn’t know a lot about the most powerful force on Callidore. When they did interact with humans, they did it through the cult of the Seamagi, the magical, quasi-religious cult that served as translators and intercessories for the Sea Folk.
“And there are no . . . others?” she asked. There was a strange tone in her voice.
I looked at her curiously. “Others? What do you mean?”
“Who do the harvesters serve?” It was an odd question.
“As far as I know, they don’t serve anyone,” I shrugged. “The clippermen and the other stages of the Vundel are the children of the leviathans, but the leviathans are the leaders.”
She snorted. “The harvesters? They can’t be the ones . . . in charge!”
“Why can’t they?” I countered.
She had no answer for that. But then I didn’t really have many answers for her, when it came to the Sea Folk. They were Callidore’s original enigma. I know humanity had dealings with them during the colonization, but they rarely intruded into our history since then. Not like the Alka Alon.
“Are there no greater beings in the world?” she asked, skeptically.
“Not for millennia. Since before the Alka Alon came here. I believe the Vundel did once serve greater masters in the Deeps, but that was a long, long time ago, Alya. Why are you so curious about them?” I asked, patiently.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I was in that shrine a long time and I was . . . fascinated by them. I can’t really explain it.”
“I’ll see if I can find out more,” I promised. “The next time Lilastien visits, she can tell you. She studied the Vundel before humanity even came to Callidore.”
“I’d like that,” she nodded. And that was that.
On our holiday Alya seemed almost her old self, actually. The countryside and the fresh air seemed to do her good, and she was far more attentive to the children and her duties than she’d been. Alya had tried to include herself in regular household activities around Spellmonger’s Hall for months. Simple things, at first, like helping the cook shell peas or sweeping the hall with the maid. She had an odd fascination with such work, asking questions the entire time, as if she had to be reassured of why they were doing the task.
A few things she took upon herself as her special tasks, like churning butter or grinding things with mortar and pestle. Simple, repetitive tasks, I noted.
But on that holiday I also noticed a change in her demeanor with the children, after Falas. She seemed to connect more deeply with her maternal streak. Indeed, she became very protective over them both. When we returned to Vanador, she started playing with them in the moss garden or taking short trips with them to the market, with one of the birthsisters escorting them all.
But the undead? She didn’t seem very concerned that her life had been in danger from the draugen.
I made note of the co
nversation and her change in behavior, but I didn’t worry. Or I tried not to. In fact, I was relieved that the episode hadn’t thrown her back into madness. The children were beginning to warm to her, and the last thing I wanted to do was explain that Mommy had gone crazy again.
I also doubled the frequency of her treatments. That seemed to have a stabilizing effect on her.
Honestly, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing with Alya. I didn’t have much control, except how often I let her lie under the Handmaiden’s care. When things were going well, I didn’t treat her as often. When things were tense, I increased the treatments.
Minalyan was very protective of his mother during this time. The bold little lad started carrying the wooden sword one of his honorary uncles had given him constantly, and escorting his mother like a little knight. I spent a little more time with him that summer, along with Ruderal, whom he’d adopted as a role model and foster brother.
Almina was less affected by her mother’s condition, now. Once Alya had begun to be responsive again, our daughter accepted her mother without further reservation. Even in those cases where Almina recognized that Mommy wasn’t doing things right. She very gently and tenderly corrected her, in her little-girl voice, like a teaching sister to a misbehaving pupil.
Instead of being angered by Almina’s temerity, Alya seemed appreciative of her daughter’s simple explanations. It allowed her to correct her behavior without embarrassment, for one thing. And it deepened her relationship between them in some unusual ways.
I confess I relied on Ruderal to help monitor my wife’s condition. I imposed on the boy to examine her enneagram and report to me any disturbances he thought warranted attention. That only happened a few times, but my apprentice faithfully reported anything noteworthy to me any significant shift in Alya’s self-awareness. It was a lot to put on the boy, I know, and he was already bearing the self-imposed burden for his role in releasing Korbal. But he was cheerful and good-natured in performing all of his duties to me, including those involving his special Talent.
I wish that Queen Grendine had Alya’s indifference to the attack on Falas. The Queen had witnessed the sudden appearance of the undead out of thin air in the middle of a crowded reception hall and it did not sit well with her. In the days after the attack she sent one long missive by Mirror after another to me demanding action against such incursions and begging for magical protection from future attack.
King Rard sent one long letter asking a few very cogent questions, making no demands, but explaining what his wishes were in the matter. He also proposed a war counsel in the near future to assess the defenses of the Kingdom against the threat of Korbal the Necromancer. He even wished me good fortune in my endeavors, broadly hinting that he was aware of the preparations and progress I was making in Vanador. Either that or he was just being polite.
I did not hear anything from Tavard . . . directly.
Indirectly the prince had made it very clear that wizards were dangerous meddlers who attracted misfortune. The whispers from Wilderhall were filled with anger and loathing about my fellows and I – and I was decidedly singled out by the rumors for blame for the attack. Nor was Tavard happy with his cousin and his sister, and not even the birth of his daughter seemed to diminish his ire.
I had Count Angrial, the prime minister of Alshar, to thank for much of the intelligence about Tavard. The reformed drunk still had considerable contacts in the court he’d spent his own exile attending. Not to mention a long and profitable relationship with a number of tavern keepers in Wilderhall who were willing to quietly pass along to Angrial what they overheard. Rardine was, actually, frozen out of her contacts at Wilderhall, though she still had a few confederates in the Royal Court.
The proof of Tavard’s annoyance was his continual promotion of Count Anvaram of Nion, and his financial support of the Count’s military ambitions. After the 3rd Commando had left the region, Count Anvaram had used the importance of his new position in the Curia to consolidate power in Gilmora, as most counts were doing.
He was attracting many young noblemen who were freshly-blooded and keen to demonstrate their elegance on the field. While his castle at Nion was no Darkfaller, he was strengthening it and other fortresses in the region and garrisoning them. Ostensibly to guard against a future invasion, the accumulation of military strength, clearly backed by Duke Tavard, had made Count Anvaram one of Gilmora’s leading statesmen.
Thankfully, the Count was one of the leading sponsors of the Great Tournament at Barrowbell. Held just before the cotton harvest began in earnest, it was an annual opportunity for the knights of central Gilmora, and parts beyond, to cross lances like gentlemen, as well as indulge in some mid-season shopping at the fair that accompanied the tournament.
The grand ball afterward was a cardinal social event, too, where matches were considered and discreet proposals for marital alliances were advanced between the various noble houses. That also made it a sordid hotbed of aristocratic romance, so attendance would be high in the wake of the recent losses in the war. There was a bumper crop of rich widows available, and many a bachelor knight went seeking a bride of means.
That was where Astyral planned on making his formal proposal of marriage to Lady Maithieran to her family, who would be attending. That was an important part of my plan, to make Astyral’s proposal official. That would begin the lengthy period of serious dowry negotiations, not just proposals, and entailed other aristocratic matters. That sort of thing could last months. But the two would be officially betrothed, after the ball. And thanks to my quiet machinations, I received word that the opportunity I sought had arrived, and I needed to get back to my real work and stop pretending I was merely a domain lord. Astyral had returned from his secret mission to Gilmora reporting some success.
It seemed that I needed to attend the tournament in Barrowbell . . . where I needed to pick a fight.
“Minalan undertook little in the way of social occasions, aside from the eventful Ducal Wedding at Falas. Nor had he indulged in the entertainments oft favored by the upper nobility, hawking, the hunt, and the joust. The Spellmonger’s leisure pursuits were limited to a few games of skill and chance, and he rarely took the time for them. Therefore it was highly unusual for the man to venture outside of the Magelaw to attend a tournament in Gilmora. Wise eyes saw it as an opportunity for him to project himself into the politics of the fractured province. Wiser eyes saw a deeper and more elaborate motivation.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser
Chapter Seventeen
The Ball at Barrowbell
The Champion’s Tournament at Barrowbell was one of the most extravagant displays of aristocratic indulgence I’d ever witnessed – and that includes Rard’s week long coronation party in the City of Lights.
Barrowbell was the largest city in Gilmora, if you include the surrounding villages, and it handled about half of all commerce in the region. The tournament was an institution stretching back to the beginning of Gilmora’s rise, held to celebrate the sale of the previous year’s cotton harvest at the docks for transport downriver. Unless war intervened, every great house in the fertile region sent their stalwart sons to Barrowbell for the occasion. There the commerce in cotton and the social lives of the aristocracy exploded into raw displays of refinement and elegance to the point of tackiness.
The Count’s Champion’s Tournament was half of the highlight of the season for the menfolk, while the ladies of Gilmora prized their invitations to the Count’s Champion’s Ball more heavily than their virtue. There were innumerable parties beforehand and afterwards, but those were the key functions at which all of Gilmoran society felt obligated to attend to preserve their status.
Ostensibly, the tourney was where each of the five counts of Gilmora had an opportunity to recruit their personal champions from among the finalists – largely a ceremonial position involved in representing his count, especially in political matters. Indeed, I realized that I had no current champ
ion, and resolved to remedy that.
The tournament took three days and four list fields to filter out the greatest warrior in all of Gilmora (defined purely in terms of heavy cavalry) from over a thousand competitors. Bouts were run constantly, on one field or another, from one hour past dawn until the sun set, and the clash of arms (defined as the purposefully-fragile, blunted lances the competitors used against each other) and accompanying cheers shook the tournament complex with predictable regularity.
Nor was the tournament the only feature of the fete; there was a race track to the east that ran horse races all day. The Count’s Shoot provided the region’s archers an opportunity to compete for rich prizes in both bow and crossbow. And all the traditional competitions of swordplay and wrestling were present in abundance.
Should a gentleman or his lady become thirsty, all the wines of the world were available from the wineseller’s stalls, and spirits distilled on a hundred different estates were readily available to slake his thirst. Ale flowed like water, and the water flowed with mud, urine and filth, the residue of tens of thousands of merry-making spectators.
The Barrowbell Tournament was also an opportunity for ecclesiastical outreach and fundraising to every element of Gilmoran society. Every major temple in the region had a booth along the long concourse between list fields, and nearly every scrap of ground was filled with monks and nuns, priests and priestesses preaching, blessing, and begging alms for their shrines and temples.
All except the Ifnites. The Goddess of Fortune’s clergy were in the midst of their holiest sacrament: making odds and taking bets on every single competition at the tournament. Vast fortunes changed hands every hour at Ifnia’s shrines . . . with the temple taking a small but lucrative percentage of each transaction. Gilmoran great houses had been impoverished under Ifnia’s fickle grace at the grand tournament. Likewise, paupers had become rich men by wagering a few pennies on a longshot. Ifnia’s clergy didn’t need to preach. The unpredictable nature of her divine favor was well known in Gilmora.
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