The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  “Dragon-proof,” Dad nodded. He didn’t like dragons, after seeing what one could do in Sevendor.

  “Dragon-resistant,” I corrected. “But it’s a good place to start. There’s already a kind of little village there. When we freed all those slaves, we built a few places to help out. Now that I’m in charge, a bunch of wizards are trying to turn it into something worthy of the Spellmonger. They’re even building a hall for me and Alya. It will be ready before we arrive.”

  “But no castle?” he prodded, between bites. Dad had a commoner’s opinion of castles: expensive pains-in-the arse . . . but he didn’t want to live anywhere he couldn’t find refuge in one.

  “We’ll build one,” I promised. “The castles that are there are primitive, ruined, or occupied by goblins, so we’ll have to. I’ll also have to build an army, a market, and a bunch of temples. It’s fine,” I assured him. “I’ve done this before in Sevendor, remember?”

  “I know, it just seems like an awful lot of trouble,” he shrugged.

  “It will be easier the second time,” I said, half to myself. “I can avoid a lot of mistakes I made in Sevendor. And try some things I couldn’t in the Riverlands.”

  “What kinds of things?” he asked, curiously.

  “There are limits with what I can do with magic, in a place like Sevendor. Having giant magical constructs walking around, lifting loads and such, for instance. That would disturb even my allies, if I tried doing that,” I guessed. “In the Magelaw, we should be able to do that sort of thing. When goblins are your only neighbors, you don’t have to worry about gossip as much.”

  That caused a chuckle in the old man. “It sounds like you’re doing more planning,” he observed.

  It was my turn to shrug. “I have to, I think. I’ve been thinking about this obsessively, Dad: all the places where I went wrong along the way. All the places where I made mistakes that I shouldn’t have, with a little planning. I pride myself on my ability to make things up as I go, but I’m realizing that there are limits to that kind of improvisation, too. It’s sloppy,” I admitted.

  “You have been a bit introspective, lately,” Dad commented, dryly. “You’re just like your mother, that way. She can throw a good brood like no one else. But don’t beat yourself up, Son. You’ve managed.”

  “Have I? When I actually get lucky and things work out, everyone thinks I’m a godsdamned genius. Then they tell me I’m a godsdamned genius, when I just got lucky. And that’s dangerous. Because eventually I’ll start thinking I’m a godsdamn genius. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from studying history, that sort of thing leads to calamity, more often than not.”

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked, pouring his mug full.

  “I’m going to try something novel: planning. Towards an achievable outcome. I think my days of wildly grasping at flashes of inspiration are over.”

  Dad frowned. “I don’t think your life is going to encourage that, Son,” he informed me, sadly.

  “It’s certainly not going to help,” I agreed. “But I’m starting from nothing, once again, and need to build it into something. Fast. That’s a goal I know I can do. Hells, I’ve done it,” I reminded him. “If I can do it when I don’t know what I’m doing, think of what I can do now that I know what I’m doing.”

  “You know what you’re doing?” he challenged, an eyebrow raised.

  “I’m the godsdamned Spellmonger,” I sighed, gloomily. “I’d better know what I’m doing. This time, I have definite goals and easily-defined assets with which to meet them.”

  “Such as?”

  “Getting a town up and running properly within a year,” I said, ticking my goals off on my fingers. “Getting tens of thousands of former slaves back into real homes with real futures. Building a fortification that can protect all of those, as well as my family. And making it attractive enough to my foes to distract both the goblins and Prince Tavard away from the Riverlands.”

  “Goblins?” he asked, surprised. “You’re taking my grandchildren into a war zone?”

  “Dad, the Wilderlands is where the invasion started. Half of it is under shadow, now,” I reminded him. “Vanador is much, much closer to them than Sevendor is. If I make it an attractive enough target, perhaps they’ll spend their time focused on it, instead of the Riverlands. Once it becomes known that the Spellmonger is in charge, I’m going to attract new foes like a pretty widow attracts suitors.”

  “Along with my grandchildren,” he stated, unhappily.

  “Yes, along with your grandchildren!” I snorted. “Dad, I haven’t been in a safe place since I was drafted,” I reminded him. “I spent years as a mercenary, after Farise. I thought I was getting away from that when I moved to Boval Vale and tried to be a spellmonger . . . and you see how that turned out.”

  “I don’t know what I did to inflict such misfortune on you, Son, but—”

  “Oh, it was nothing you did, Dad,” I promised. “It was entirely my fault. And the gods’. You did fine,” I insisted. “As much as any father could. But I had to go and develop rajira and then get trained and drafted, and . . . well, everything after that is on me. You have other grandchildren,” I reminded him. “Almost ten, now. Probably more, in a few years. Let me watch Minny and Almy. They’ll be as safe in Vanador as anywhere,” I promised him.

  “I think a tiny village in a nameless domain would be safer,” he suggested. “I’d recommend Talry, but we’ve had our fill of wizards, there. But there must be someplace else . . .”

  “We can’t live in fear, Dad,” I countered. “Not and survive. Not and win. Believe me, there is far, far more going on than you’re aware of. And stakes higher than my children. Or all of the children in Sevendor. If I hide Minny and Almy away, they might survive . . . for a while. But if I fail, it won’t matter where they are.”

  “You really believe that?” he asked, skeptically.

  “If I didn’t, I’d be doing something else,” I offered, pushing the remains of my pie away. “I’m not exaggerating my own importance to say that a lot rides on what I’m doing. For every man in the Five Duchies. I could explain, if you’d like.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said, shaking his head. “It was bad enough when you got ennobled, and were consorting with nobility. Then it was the elves. Then you were attending coronations and feuding with Princes. Going to war against strange folk in foreign parts for no good reason. Nay, I’ve given up trying to understand your world, Min. When I saw a dragon – an actual dragon – fly over my house, it convinced me that whatever you were doing was beyond my ken.”

  That was a powerful admission from a proud patriarch. But that was the kind of man Dad was. He didn’t overlook his own limitations.

  “It flew over my house, too,” I reminded him. “And it had a similar effect on me. The problem is, Dad, there isn’t anyone better to contend with this. I’m now responsible for . . . well, a lot more than Sevendor. And my family. The things I’ve learned about our world would make you swoon,” I predicted. “Explaining them to you would not comfort your dreams, I’m afraid, but inflame them.”

  “Then don’t tell me,” he insisted. “I have plenty that I’m responsible for already. If you think you can handle this—”

  “I really don’t, but there’s no one better available,” I sighed. “If there was, we’d be headed to his house, now. No, this is a hole I’ve dug for myself, like it or not. I can either continue to pretend that what I do doesn’t really matter, or I can stand up and take responsibility for what I’ve been given. I really wish it didn’t matter,” I added, wistfully, as I dug out my pipe from my belt. I’d left my rich-looking pipe in my baggage, electing to use a non-magical one to avoid attracting attention on the road. It was beautiful, a well-polished burl of walnut with a stem only five or six inches long – a traveling pipe. I didn’t even use a cantrip to light it, opting for a taper instead.

  “I do, too,” Dad agreed, gloomily. “I don’t like the idea of my grandchildren in dan
ger. Any other man, I’d ride across kingdoms to rescue them, myself. But I’ve got to trust you, Min,” he sighed. “That’s something I have learned, in the last two years. You do know what you’re doing, despite what you say. Even if you don’t realize it at the time. That’s a hard thing for a father to admit about his son.”

  “That I know what I’m doing?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” he nodded, as he pushed his own portion of pie away. “Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? Just wait until Minny grows up,” he warned. “It’s one thing when the little idiot is making common mistakes that you can easily point out to him. When he starts making mistakes and you have no idea what he’s doing?

  “That’s real fear, Son. If you were just screwing up the dough, that’s easy to criticize. But I’ve been out of my element since you went to school. I can’t tell you how to cast a spell or whether you should. I can’t tell you how to . . . charge an enemy, or storm a breach, or whatever it is you did as a warmage. And when you were in charge of an entire domain? What in three hells could I have said to you? I had to learn how to trust you, when I didn’t know what you were doing or why. You put gray in my beard,” he accused.

  “It’s just flour,” I countered, lighting his pipe for him from my own. “Besides, after raising five daughters I doubt you had any brown left in it. What I contend with now makes running a domain look like baking bread,” I offered. “Especially after storming Olum Seheri, and dealing with the Alka Alon. I learned a lot of disturbing things that makes the dangers of even the war seem minor, in comparison.”

  “Exactly what I mean,” he nodded, as he pulled on the pipestem and surrounded himself with sweet-smelling smoke. “What is a father to say to his son, after hearing that sort of thing? ‘Don’t screw it up, Boy’?”

  “I would hope that goes without saying,” I agreed. “And I’m trying. But I’m working with incomplete information and an imperfect understanding of the situation. That makes it easy to make mistakes, if I’m not careful. Or even if I am careful.”

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked.

  “The very best I can,” I pledged, with a heavy sigh. “First, I’ll set up Vanador as a proper mageland, with as impressive defenses as I can. Then in a few years I’ll goad the enemy to breaking their armies on the Anvil until they get tired. Meanwhile, I’ll search for the hidden secrets of snowstone and discover the lost secrets of our ancient civilization. All while raising my children and keeping my Prince from ordering my execution.”

  “Just what did you do to piss him off, Son?” Dad asked. “I met him, when he came to Sevendor. He seemed all right, for a noble.”

  “He’s not just noble, he’s royal,” I reminded him. “That’s an entirely different level of asinine, believe me. He knows how to act to the public – especially a commoner, during a public event. In private he’s less . . . gracious. Particularly to anyone he thinks outshines his glory,” I added, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “He blames me for his son’s death, in Castabriel. Not the thousands of others I didn’t save, but his son, in particular.”

  “I can see that,” Dad sighed, heavily.

  “So can I, actually,” I agreed. “If something happened to Minny . . . but that’s why. That, and my support for his cousin, Anguin. I can only hope that I can fade from his notice, if I go to the Wilderlands. In a few years his anger will cool, hopefully.”

  “And what if it doesn’t?”

  “We’ll cross that ford when the road comes to it,” I shrugged. “Until then, I’ll retire to the Magelaw, build my new city, raise an army, and bide my time until my exile is over. Maybe I’ll get some reading done.”

  Dad snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it, Son.”

  Part Two

  The Bontal Snowflake

  Thanks to the swift cart ride, we were through the gates of Sendaria Port before nightfall the next day. I didn’t mind tarrying there for another evening, as it allowed me to stop by Andalnam’s shop and chat with his daughter, and complete a few other errands. The next morning the barge was waiting for us at the appointed dock.

  The Bontal was muddy and choppy, that day, swollen with winter rain and melting snow. The water seemed dark and, if not angry, at least discontent, eager to get on with its journey. By contrast, the small barge that awaited us seemed placid and merry, compared to the river. It was a wide-berthed, flat bottomed boat only twenty-five feet or so long, but nearly half that wide. The low prow and wide stern gave ample room for our wagon and team, with plenty of space for some cargo. It was called the Bontal Snowflake.

  The master of the craft was a young man of around twenty named Captain Seston. He and his young wife and their four-year old boy tended the barge. Seston was hired by Andalnam, who had taken charge of the project, once Banamor proposed it the year before. Andalnam’s familiarity with Sendaria Port’s docks allowed him to secure both boat and master. Then he’d detailed his younger two daughters to enchant it for me, as an exercise in their craft.

  The Bontal Snowflake was the result, and I could not fault their work. They’d done an excellent job on the spells. Andalnam had purchased the boat, only two years old, and had it drydocked for a season in Sendaria, where it was refitted to our specifications.

  The barge sat lightly on the choppy water – the hull was extremely hydrophobic, reducing the friction and drag on the boat. They’d augmented the poles of the barge so that the force exerted from a push against the bottom was more than double. A dozen other spells further increased the efficiency of the transport from sail to rudder to bright green trim until it was, by all accounts, one of the fastest boats on the river. The Snowflake was usually used for quick trade trips between Sendaria and the bigger markets downriver, or more determined voyages upstream. But it waited in Sendaria, at our disposal.

  “I like being back on a river,” Dad sighed, as we cast off from the dock. Seston and his two polemen steered the craft into the current with practiced ease. “Sevendor is lovely, and the mountain air agreed with me, but I miss the river.”

  I knew what he meant. The River Burine had been a constant in my family’s life, a source of commerce and news. There was always something going by, either upriver or downriver. In Sevendor, if a stranger happened to your door you expected he intended to go there. It was remote – quiet, but remote, compared to a river town. I suppose that’s why I’d always enjoyed my times in Sendaria, I realized. They reminded me of my first home.

  “You always said there was no need to go off in search of adventure,” I recalled, as we settled into a bench and pulled our cloaks close against the damp. “That the river would eventually bring the world to you. But you’re about to see a great part of the world, by river. We’ll be going through a good bit of the Riverlands, and thence to Gilmora by way of Barrowbell.”

  “I’ve heard of Barrowbell,” Dad grunted. “Something about the road?”

  “And the lights,” I agreed. “Barrowbell is pretty, you’ll like it. But we’re skipping Castabriel, though it’s not too far out of our way. No need to antagonize Prince Tavard by lingering in his capital. It was damaged more than Sevendor, and will take longer to recover. Though I’d like to take you to see the new Royal capital, someday. King Rard has the beginnings of something impressive, there.”

  “Grand palaces aren’t my style,” he said, proudly.

  “Nor mine. I prefer my palaces to be cozy,” I said, earning a snort. “But it might be nice for you to see where some of your tax money went. It’s functional, as much as it is ornamental, I’ll give Rard that.”

  “You feel entitled to criticize a king, do you?” he asked, wryly.

  “When I helped put him on the throne, I do,” I agreed. “My father taught me to hold the miller to account. Rard is just a miller on a grander scale,” I decided.

  “What does he use for grist?” Dad asked, enjoying the metaphor.

  “Power,” I said, ticking it off my fingers. “Our taxes. Authority. Leadership. The kingdom he
built is designed to grind all of those into something the people can use to bake bread – their prosperity.”

  “You know, when you use baking metaphors with me, it sounds more than a little condescending,” he pointed out.

  “It’s not indulgence, it’s actually a good metaphor,” I said, warming to it. “Rard has built his government on the proposition that he can take the disparate interests of three duchies and make them work more efficiently, under his leadership. He convinced and bribed Remere, and tricked and murdered Alshar into obedience. But if his governance isn’t better than the old ways, he’ll lose the support of the very Counts he now depends upon for . . . for the grist. They supply the grist. He grinds them into something everyone can use,” I concluded.

  “With royal authority being the millstones to do so,” Dad reasoned. “And the armies to enforce it.”

  “The armies come from the counts,” I reminded him. “If they don’t like his administration, they won’t answer his banner call. That was the general consensus at the Curia,” I explained. “We agreed to try Rard’s new taxation scheme and pledged to follow his military orders. But there were a lot of powerful men, there. The Counts are willing to gather taxes and administer in Rard’s name if he proves a wise leader. If his flour is properly ground, at fair value.”

  “Or if it just enriches their pockets,” Dad said, shaking his head.

  “Some, perhaps,” I conceded. “They certainly work toward their own interests. But those interests include a happy and prosperous people and a well-ordered realm. That’s their first priority. Without that, wealth is something you have to protect, not something you can cultivate. They are the King’s first and largest customers, the ones on which he depends to keep his treasury filled. If anyone has a right to criticize and hold Rard to account, it’s us.”