The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  “He a friend of yours?”

  “More of an acquaintance, actually. He wasn’t at Boval Castle, but he fought well in the Wilderlands campaign. He earned a stone and his lands for his service, there. Unlike the rest of us, he’s kept out of greater politics and wisely tended his own land. Those riots are the first tale of trouble I’ve heard about Robinwing.”

  It took only twenty minutes after we introduced ourselves to the assistant castellan at the gatehouse (who only believed I was the real Spellmonger when I produced my baculus, Insight, from a hoxter pocket in front of his disbelieving eyes) before we were ushered into the chamber of the Magelord.

  Forandal looked fit and well, and seemed as pleased with my unexpected appearance as he was surprised. He’d filled out a bit in the last few years, and domestic life had been kind to him – though he had a few new gray hairs than the last time I’d seen him. He was respectful, meeting my father, and invited us both to dine with him in his chamber that night, as his wife and new child were visiting her parents in the countryside.

  “So what brings you to Robinwing, Minalan?” he asked, once the wine was poured. After the chill of the hike up the mountain, the warmth and the delicious wine conspired to make me want to nap. But I couldn’t be rude to my host, who was genuinely curious about my surprise visit.

  “Exile, actually,” I admitted. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Prince Tavard has exiled me for three years. Ducal prerogative. Over the attack on Castabriel and the death of his son.”

  “That was . . . unchivalrous of the Prince,” Forandal admitted, hesitantly. His reluctance was understandable. Criticizing a sitting duke was dangerous, even in your private chambers.

  “It was understandable, and it’s preferable to war,” I countered. “I’m headed to the Wilderlands, now. The northeastern portion has been granted to me as a palatinate.”

  “The Wilderlands?” he scoffed. “I’m afraid we get little news here, in Robinwing, particularly about the Wilderlands. Is there anything left of it, at this point?”

  “Barely. But the High Magi have been using it as a staging area for attacks against the shadow for years, now. Duke Anguin has given it to me to make into a new mageland: the Magelaw. I’ll be inviting many of my colleagues to join me there.”

  “I . . . I hope you haven’t come to enlist me, Minalan,” he said, slowly. “While I appreciate the—”

  “After what I’ve seen of Robinwing, Forandal, you are exactly where you need to be. This is a model mageland,” I observed, “from its administration to its construction. It’s like Sevendor, only without Sevendor’s problems. No, I’ve merely stopped by to see how you were faring. I am satisfied. The only thing that concerns me is the riots . . .”

  “Yes, the ‘Red Harvest’, the peasants are calling it,” he said, troubled. “Sorry you heard about that. It’s not as bad as it sounds, actually, but we had a few tense weeks, there. Had to hang a monk – that’s never a good thing.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I nodded, as I sipped wine. “But when they’re preaching revolution and sedition, and getting people hurt, you don’t have much choice.”

  “It’s a perplexing problem,” Forandal agreed. “The yields on my estates have gone up dramatically, since we started using the wands. The price of grain at market was low, even for a harvest season. I’ve nearly run out of make-work to take up the slack in labor, but unless I want to pave the roads from here to Castabriel, or build a castle as big as Darkfaller, there just isn’t much pay work available,” he said, glumly. “I’ve doubled the number of servants hired here at the castle, and increased them on my estates. I’ve even increased the number of petty officials to put some coin in the pockets of the peasantry, but . . .”

  “It is perplexing. We’re facing the same issues in my barony, but we have better resources. And a mountain of snowstone to throw at the problem. The thing is, if we don’t solve this problem soon, those radical monks will start preaching in earnest, and we may be looking at a peasant’s revolt.”

  “Yet I cannot merely hand them money,” Forandal continued. “I’ve increased my alms to both temples and the poor in general, but my treasury cannot support a population of destitute peasants. I’m looking at new edicts to prevent evictions for back rent, and having the cottage rents at my personal estates reviewed to see if they’re too high. But we have little industry, here, to absorb them. No mines, no great forests, no sprawling vineyards. It’s getting so that I’m contemplating a small war just to employ them as troops.”

  “Nay, that’s no solution,” Dad interjected. “Begging your pardon, my great and powerful lords, but consider the opinion of an artisan: wars make the people hate the nobility. Especially small, petty, pointless wars. You want to give those men jobs, of some sort, but jobs that don’t make widows and orphans.”

  “That would be my preference, Goodman,” Forandal assured, “but without an alternative . . .”

  “Oh, I understand,” Dad nodded, firmly. “Look, no man wants to go through life dependent on alms and make-work – that’s no way to raise a family. Nor does every man want to be a soldier. Men want to work, and work on something important. Something impressive. Something that promises them a little more than a few coppers for a day’s digging.”

  “Can not the temple hire more?” I suggested.

  “More illiterate cotters?” snorted Forandal. “They have plenty, for preparing parchments and pigments. They’ve even taught a few how to illuminate and a very few how to read and write. No, the Temple faces the same issues we do. They have their own estates, with the same problems.”

  “Well, anyone who is vocal in their opposition, send them to Vanador,” I proposed. “It will be a tough life, but the land is cheap and the opportunities will be great, I’m hoping. But . . . well, this reminds me of something I’ve been discussing with Pentandra and the other High Magi. We’ve been talking about establishing a few archives outside of Sevendor and such places. After the dragon attack knocked over the Chapterhouse’s spire and nearly caught the place on fire, we figured a repository duplicating some of those old records and spells would be wise. Perhaps we can build it at Robinwing. That would solve your problem, temporarily.”

  “Build another temple here?” Forandal asked, surprised.

  “Not a temple, merely a chapterhouse of the Arcane Orders. Someplace where we can keep copies of irreplaceable texts. You already have the temple, with a number of literate clerks. If you can spare a few acres for the site, I’ll get the Orders to approve the funding. That should take a few years to build, and you can hire plenty of peasants to construct it. Along the way, perhaps we’ll teach a few how to read and write. We’ll need clerks for that – lay clerks.”

  “You want to teach ignorant peasants to read?” the magelord asked, skeptically. “I doubt you’ll find more than a dozen with the intelligence for that.”

  “The Kasari tribes manage to teach all of their people how to read and write,” I countered. “It’s not impossible. But it may just absorb the slack in your labor market, locally. At least mitigate it. And that sort of thing attracts visitors, magi, scholars . . . there will be additional benefits.”

  We continued to discuss the possibility during dinner, a somewhat scrawny goose, and by the time Forandal’s castellan showed us to our room for the night, the magelord was positively enthusiastic about the idea.

  Dad wasn’t so sure.

  “What are you going to do, build one of these chapterhouses at every village in the duchy?” he asked, when we were alone.

  “One problem at a time,” I dismissed. “Robinwing is a good place for it. And I can get the Arcane Order to pay for it. It shouldn’t cost more than a thousand ounces of gold.”

  “A thousand . . . you think your Order has that much?” he asked, his eyes wide. Dad wasn’t aware of the economics of my profession, even though he’d lived among magi for two years. “When we raised funds for the temple annex in Drexel, it took us a year to raise three hundred
silver! A thousand gold? That’s enough to build a castle!”

  “Perhaps a small one. If you had a lot of free labor. But it won’t trouble the orders. Do you have any idea how much the fees for a witchstone are? Planus paid fifty thousand ounces of gold for one. A thousand spent on a chapterhouse won’t break us.”

  “Why not just donate the gold to the peasants, then?” he challenged.

  “Because we don’t do that,” I stated, as I began to get ready for bed. “We support legitimate arcane work, and a chapterhouse is a legitimate expense. Building it will employ hundreds. Once it’s built, it will employ dozens more. And I wasn’t lying about the increased travel – right now, there are a very limited number of places a wizard can do research. There are damn few in the central Riverlands, outside of Castabriel. An archive placed here serves many purposes,” I said, my mind starting to supply a few clandestine purposes Dad wouldn’t understand.

  For example, if Tavard’s wrath continued to grow, and he turned his attention to the Orders, then having an archive of our records in reserve would be helpful. I’d already planned on building such a thing in Vanador, out of Tavard’s reach, but having one here, under his nose, suited me. And securing some of the Order’s holdings outside of the capital was just prudent. I couldn’t see a dragon going after Robinwing – it just wasn’t strategically important enough.

  Dad went to bed thinking it was a dumb solution to a crushing problem, but I was satisfied with the answer. It didn’t solve the larger problem, as he’d pointed out, but it kept my friend Forandal from facing an anti-magic peasant’s revolt, led by religious fanatics. That was worth a thousand gold, right there.

  The next morning we departed after breakfast, and by mid-morning we were headed back down the river toward its confluence with the Forkine. I spend much of the morning discussing my plan with various Order officials, from the head on down to the Master of Works and the Mistress of Archives, until I got their assurance that the order would be taken up and the funds would be granted. They were a bit reluctant, at first, but being the Spellmonger and the official head of the Orders gave me a lot of pull. By noon, I ended my mind-to-mind contacts and opened my eyes.

  “It’s done,” I sighed.

  “Really?” Dad asked. “That quickly?”

  “When you talk to people in your head, they can’t really avoid you,” I chuckled. “By this time next year, the chapterhouse should be under construction. Hopefully that will reduce the strain on Forandal’s lands.”

  “Why do you take on that kind of responsibility, Min?” he asked, suddenly serious. “You have no obligation to solve your friends’ problems.”

  “They aren’t just my friends’ problems, they’re everyone’s problems, Dad,” I pointed out, as we cruised downriver and I watched the banks roll by. “Solving problems is what wizards do.”

  “Not every wizard feels compelled to get involved, like that,” he countered. “It seems as if you are taking on problems just for the fun of it.”

  “It’s not fun. It’s necessary,” I stressed. “Besides, this was a minor problem, and one that will be faced by a growing number of lords. I need to test ways to counter it, and Robinwing will be one such trial. Magic should serve and benefit the people, not ruin them,” I stated, authoritatively. “If I can figure out how to sustain both more efficient agriculture and improve the lives of the peasantry, I succeed.”

  “And that success brings you . . . what, exactly?”

  “Satisfaction,” I sighed. “Really, Dad, when you’re contending with the big, existential things, focusing on the small matters – like the livelihood of the peasantry – gives one a remarkable perspective. As much as solving Callidore’s problems matters to me, solving Pug the Peasant’s problems has an appeal. It gives a wizard a sense of satisfaction that merely casting a complicated spell doesn’t. At least, this wizard.”

  “So why you, and not some other wizard?” Dad prodded.

  “Because it needs to be done, and I’m the only one who can even attempt it. Blame fortune, my own ego, or the whims of the gods – I’m certain all three played a part – but I’m the only one who has the means and the desire to . . . do all of this. And I’m fairly certain I’m screwing it up,” I confessed. “But I’m equally as certain that no one else would care as much as I do about . . . about the lives of the peasants when the fate of the world hangs in the balance. The worst part?” I chuckled, mirthlessly. “History is replete with tales of men, just like me, whose intentions were just as noble. And who were responsible for the greatest catastrophes. They didn’t have a tithe of the power I have, now.”

  “That’s a big responsibility, Son,” Dad soothed. “I don’t envy you. But you’re doing the best you can,” he reasoned. “Keep doing that.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” I sighed. “The world’s still here, so far. I suppose I have to consider that a victory.”

  “You wizards think too much,” Dad said, suddenly. “Or, you don’t think enough in the right way.”

  “How so?” I asked, curious about his perspective.

  “Sometimes, a man just needs to . . . to relax, and let the current take the boat where it will,” he suggested, gesturing to the side of the barge. “It takes a lot of work to push a barge upstream. Those husky lads are exhausted, after a day of such work, even the strongest of them. You wizards seem to be pushing even when the boat is going downstream,” he explained.

  “You think I should lay down my pole and let the world go by without me?” I asked, intrigued by the idea even as I dismissed it.

  “I think there’s more than one kind of pole on a boat,” he countered, as he reached behind the bench and opened a locker. Inside were two short-hafted fishing poles, spools of fishing line, hooks, and other accoutrements. “I bought some grubs from the dockman, before we departed. I thought they’d be useful,” he said, pulling a pouch out of the locker and plopping it on the bench. “You missed out on a lot of fishing, when you went to school. That’s an important part of your education that you lost.”

  I shook my head and chuckled. “Dad, I’m a lousy fisherman.” That much was true. Everyone in the village had the right to fish from the Burine along Talry’s small docks, and most took advantage of it. Riverfish was an important source of protein, particularly among the cotters, and even the artisans regularly took advantage of the right. I recalled Dad taking me with him, a few mornings, right before my rajira arose and I went off to school. After that, other interests took precedent. I think I tried my hand at ocean fishing, on the way back from Farise, but other than that I’d avoided the art.

  “You just need practice. And patience,” he urged, as he started to nimbly dress a line. “I’m serious, Min: there is a kind of mindful attention involved in fishing that can inspire a man. The Goddess likes that sort of thing,” he added, pausing to make a quick holy sign. “I’ve done some of my best thinking, fishing. Without thinking about much at all.”

  I was tempted to roll my eyes. Instead, I shrugged, as he passed me the dressed line and pole. “I’m not doing anything more exciting.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed, as he began dressing a second line. “You remember how to bait a hook?”

  ***

  So Dad and I fished our way down the river, until it came to the fork with the Forkine, and it gave me some satisfaction to prove to my father that I was, indeed, absolutely correct: I’m a lousy fisherman. Dad pulled one squirming fish after another into the boat, while I managed perhaps one for every five fish he caught. We were using the same bait, the same hooks, the same poles, fishing side by side in the same river . . . and Dad’s success was staggering. He threw more than half of his catch back, unconvinced of their size or flavor, but the basket in the locker slowly filled up with our dinner over the course of the day. Largely because of his effort.

  It got to the point where I began to suspect Dad possessed some weird magical sport Talent I’d never been aware of before. Or perhaps Briga was screwing with
me by blessing his efforts – I wouldn’t put it past her. But Dad proved an amazing fisherman, to the extent that the bargemen began to watch his success with interest.

  But Dad never gloated, and he was full of useful advice about how to improve my fishing. I have no idea if it made any difference, but I’d like to think so.

  The fish weren’t the point of the exercise, I quickly discovered. It was the conversations. And the long, comfortable silences between them. The cultivated patience and the controlled expectation of the experience forced you to, indeed, think in a slightly different way than normal. At least, that’s how the wizard in me saw it. I did relax, remarkably, in ways I didn’t know I was tense. I was not rushing into battle, after all, or going to confront a disgruntled overlord. There weren’t any dragons in the sky, nor undead lurking along the banks. There was nary a goblin in sight. For once, I wasn’t the Spellmonger, or a Count Palatine, a Baron, a Knight Mage, Magelord, or even a warmage. I was just Min, and that was sufficient.

  I learned a lot about Dad in a short time – and a lot about the greater family. Stories about my mother’s many brothers, and Dad’s extended family. No great tales of adventure, just normal incidents of import in any family, and a great many humorous incidents that bore retelling. The lives of artisans and peasants are not epic in scope. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t interesting.

  But the silences were just as important as the stories. Long, undramatic stretches of silence where the only noise was the lap of the water against the bow, the cry of birds overhead, and the cold wind blowing over the gunwales. Those seemed as meaningful to the experience as speaking. It was a time of contemplation, where thoughts of fish and bait mixed with far more philosophical musings. My problems with the Prince, the ongoing conflict with Korbal, the arrogance of the Alka Alon, and the destiny of humanity on Callidore faded in importance in my mind. What kind of men my sons would be, and what women would emerge from my girls came to the fore.