The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  “A mountain guitar,” he explained, as he tuned it. “A gift from Couther, while you were in the privy.”

  “I didn’t know you played!” I said, surprised.

  “I didn’t take it up until after you left,” he admitted. “I started playing in the mornings, while the dough was rising. Mine is bigger than this one, but the strings are the same,” he said, as he examined the instrument with a critical eye.

  “It’s a literal gift from a literal god,” I pointed out. “It’s exactly the same, I would wager. You learned to play?” I asked, still surprised I didn’t know this about Dad.

  “It brought me some peace, when I was missing you. Just something to pass the time,” he insisted, as his fingers began to move over the strings. Music began to come out.

  “Not bad!” I said, after hearing him play for a few minutes.

  “It just took practice,” he said, as he strummed. “I was pretty bloody awful, the first few years. The cats would flee when I played. But it was something to do,” he shrugged. Then he began to play

  He was good. Not great, but good. Years of practice had, indeed, improved his performance. I had no trouble recognizing the song – a bawdy Riverlands ditty called Kayli’s Lament, about a randy young widow. Then he started to sing it, enthusiastically.

  He was awful. His singing was tone deaf to the extreme, to the point where it hurt my ears to hear his competent playing be tortured by his voice. He couldn’t quite settle on a key. He attacked the lyrics with eagerness, and left a bloody pulp in his wake. I can’t deny that there was a certain charm in his horrible delivery, but he caught me wincing when he butchered the chorus.

  “My playing improved,” he explained. “My singing didn’t. It’s appalling. It always has been.”

  “I didn’t mean to criticize,” I said, diplomatically.

  “Oh, I know it’s bad, Son,” he assured me, as he continued to play. “The only one who likes it is your mother, and she’s biased because she has to sleep with me. Everyone hates it when I sing,” he said, cheerfully.

  “And yet you persist,” I observed.

  “Indeed I did,” he said, proudly. “Because I enjoy it. Even if no one else does. I learned a couple of dozen songs,” he said, proudly. “I do well, on the instrumentals. But when it comes to singing, I’m bloody awful.”

  “And so eager to share,” I chuckled.

  “That’s kind of my point,” he said, as he began playing a surprisingly intricate tune that required some adept fingering. “That’s a lesson I didn’t learn until you left, Min, and one I wanted to pass along to you: you don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it,” he said, philosophically. “I’ve always loved music, but I never thought I had any talent at it. And I don’t.

  “For years, that kept me from enjoying it,” he continued, his spoken voice so much preferable to his singing. “I avoided places where I might have to sing. But when you left for Inarion, I got melancholy. I wandered around in a haze, even got your mother worried. Nothing seemed right, with my boy gone.

  “But then I heard a Calrom tinker play, that summer, and something changed. I bought his instrument and paid him to teach me a few things. After that, every morning I’d get up, start the bake, get the dough ready, check the ovens . . . and I’d play. Every morning, for an hour or so, I’d struggle through the few songs I knew until I was better. Then I learned a few more. My playing got better. My singing never did.”

  “It’s really fine, Dad,” I soothed.

  “I know it is, Son,” he agreed. “I mean, I know it’s bloody awful, but that’s fine. I had to learn that it was all right to enjoy something you weren’t good at, for the pure indulgence of it. I’ll never make it into a trade, or earn a penny from my playing. But in the midst of my melancholy about you, I found that sometimes a man just has to throw his head back and sing . . . no matter how it sounds.”

  “It made you feel better? I had no idea my leaving was that hard on you,” I said, guiltily.

  “It’s not as if you’d died, but that made it even harder, sometimes,” he said, quietly. “Music gave me something to focus on, instead of how badly I wanted to row downriver until I got to you. Even the cats got used to it, eventually.”

  He proceeded to launch into a series of simple, quick-tempoed village songs that were popular back home. Songs I remembered from my youth, and occasionally heard with other words in other places. And every new song was a fresh opportunity for Dad to show off just how bad his voice really was.

  Dad didn’t care. Indeed, I understood that was the point of the exercise. He was singing for the pure fun of singing, for his own amusement and for no lesser purpose.

  “By the sacred scrolls, if you swear to stop that noise I vow to happily submit to another beating!” came a weary voice from the back of the wagon.

  “The monk is awake,” I noted.

  “The monk is alive,” Dad said, stopping his playing. “My music clearly has restorative powers.”

  “I cannot deny it was inspirational, my friend,” the monk called. “Indeed, it convinced me that the oblivion of unconsciousness was not as preferable as it appeared, if I was to be subjected to such . . . entertainments. Where am I, my friends, and who are you?”

  “You are in the back of a wagon, miles away from where we found you,” I informed the man, as he sat up and looked around. “You were beaten and near frozen to death.”

  “Your timely arrival and intervention was the answer to my prayers,” the thin monk assured us, dejectedly. “And I’m not a particularly devout monk.”

  “If having a noose around your neck doesn’t inspire divine devotion, nothing is likely to,” my father agreed, reflectively. “It’s the type of situation that can test a man’s faith.”

  “You speak as a clergyman,” the monk noted, keenly.

  “I’m a senior laybrother of Briga, Drexel Temple,” my father admitted.

  “You’re a sacred smith?” he asked. I could understand why he would think so. Dad was a big man, even before decades of hauling bags of flour and kneading untold amounts of dough had built his arms and shoulders.

  “Baker,” Dad grunted. “Thirty years, now. But I’ve faithfully attended to my spiritual duties.”

  “We all seek the divine through our own means,” the fellow said, philosophically . . . though I could detect a note of condescension in his voice. Dad could, too, but he let it pass.

  “Briga makes the dough rise,” Dad said, quoting a proverb.

  “And Luin brings light and order to human society,” the monk countered, conversationally. “My name is Brother Bryte the Wiser,” he introduced. “Practicing Lawbrother of the Temple of Luin.”

  “The ‘wiser’?” I asked, curious. “Don’t you mean ‘the Wise’?”

  “Alas, that title was taken, when I was a lexit newly admitted to the temple,” he sighed. “There was a senior brother, Lamisar the Wise. Argumentative bastard,” he grunted at the memory. “During the spring debates my first year he invited all comers. He styled himself as Wise. I boldly called myself Wiser. I won the debate against him. It stuck.”

  I got the distinct impression that he was the sort of fellow who looked for nearly any opportunity for an argument. That was a good thing for a Lawbrother to have, I suppose, but experience had shown me it wasn’t necessarily advisable in a traveling companion.

  “I’m Rinden, this is my son, Minalan,” Dad said, as he put his guitar away. “We’re headed west. Does that suit you?”

  “Anyplace that wasn’t where you found me suits me well, Master Rinden,” he sighed. “I suppose I should thank Briga for my delivery, then, since Luin was clearly ignoring my prayers. Which one is a greater reflection of the divine, I wonder?”

  “Which one can you go four days without and not be ready to riot?” my dad asked. “Everyone needs a baker. I’ve known men who’ve died happy never meeting a lawbrother. And plenty who’ve gone to ruin for their acquaintance.”

  “Yet if it was not
for the order Luin brings to the world, the baker would not be safe to perform his holy rites,” the monk reasoned. “For you to prosper and bring bread to the people, you need to ensure you can purchase flour without being cheated, sell your bread for a fair profit, and protect the fruits of your labors,” he proposed. “A man might starve after four days without bread, but he may suffer far longer and die by more brutal means without law and order.”

  “Aye, I’m not ignorant,” my father sighed. “Luin and Briga and all the other temples have their role in the functioning of society. But I find more meaning in providing the bread of life to my fellow man than I ever could in . . . lawbrothering.”

  “Yes, well, the legal rites attract a certain kind of character and intellect, to be performed properly. And it might surprise you to know that I am not entirely in disagreement with your assessment of my order. Far too many have exploited the very canons they have sworn their souls before the Scales and Sword to protect and enforce, or rendered corrupt judgments. But as you can tell by the state of my attire and my condition when you found me, it was not corruption that guides me.”

  “‘Never hire a skinny lawbrother,’” I said, with a chuckle, quoting an old market saying.

  “Just so,” Bryte sighed, depressed. “As is all too often in my order, youthful ideals die quickly to cynicism and corruption. I was in that village to defend a client – for a pittance of a fee – and used a novel legal argument in the purest pursuit of the legal ideal.”

  “And lost, apparently,” my dad smirked.

  “Actually, I won the case,” Brother Bryte reported, proudly. “I cited a county-level precedent and produced the documents to attest to it. In the face of that evidence, the magistrate was forced to rule in my client’s favor.”

  “So, how did you come to be tied to a tree with a noose around your neck?” I ventured. “That seems an unlikely punishment by the court. In a civil case.”

  “Thankfully, you are correct,” Bryte agreed. “The punishment was not ordered by the court, but enacted under local custom. By my client,” he added, ruefully. “The details would only be of interest to a fellow in my craft, but suffice it to say that while he prevailed in court, he felt poorly used by my tactic. He paid me . . . and then arranged for a mob of his relatives to consign me at the border of the barony.”

  My dad shook his head in mock sadness. “I would consider swearing out a warrant, if I were you, Brother.”

  “Not under that magistrate,” Bryte shuddered. “I will content myself with my life, my coin, and an unexpected rescue by a couple of kind-hearted bakers. Although they did take a crap in my satchel. That’s more reward from the Lawgiver than I could have asked for after two days on that tree. This road is not as well-traveled as I’d hoped.” He looked around at the countryside rolling by at a good pace, relaxing into his place amid our baggage. “Considering I would have to slog my way to the next jurisdiction, I count myself especially blessed.”

  “The power of prayer,” my father agreed.

  “I’ll settle for amazing fortune,” the monk professed. “Being bakers, you gentlemen wouldn’t happen to have any bread you could spare, do you?” he asked, hopefully. “I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  “Does it look like I carry an oven in my pocket?” Dad demanded.

  “I thought it was worth asking,” the monk sighed. “If the gods were feeling generous enough to save me, I thought they might consider feeding me, too. Why else would they send me a couple of bakers?”

  “Well, you are incorrect on two counts, my friend,” I chuckled. “Firstly, that the gods were answering your prayers. I believe they were fulfilling my need, not yours.”

  “You need a lawbrother?” he asked surprised.

  “Apparently so,” I decided. “As to your second mistake, we aren’t two bakers. My father is the baker. I’m a spellmonger.” I took the wand Banamor made for me out of my belt.

  “A spellmonger,” he repeated, dully. “Oh. Well, a good and useful trade, I suppose.”

  “More than you might think,” I said, activating the wand and producing two piping hot loaves of bread in his lap. He looked up suddenly, aware, at least, of how unusual such a trick was.

  “You aren’t an ordinary sort of spellmonger,” he shrewdly observed, as he began to tear into the first loaf. “Luin’s staff, this is still warm!”

  “I’m good at what I do,” I said, putting the wand away. “Now tell me, Brother Bryte, why you’re not the ordinary sort of lawbrother.”

  *

  *

  *

  That was a fascinating journey, from that point on. Once Brother Bryte knew who I was, where I was going, and why, his entire demeanor changed. Talking out of his sleeve to a couple of bakers on the road was one thing. Having the ear of a freshly-minted Count Palatine, on the way to take his seat, was quite another. The discussion quickly shifted from the foibles and viscidness of his vocation to a greater discussion about law, authority, philosophy, order, sovereignty, and a host of other issues he felt a ruling lord was responsible for.

  I learned a lot – not the least that Brother Bryte was passionate about his craft and devoted to its ideal execution. He treated law like I treated thaumaturgy, a subject of endless fascination and debate.

  “Law is the rule that sets human society to order,” he lectured, as the miles rolled past. “Though we give the credit to the divine, in fact it is the human application of those divinely-gifted laws that bring us out of a state of chaos.”

  “Like my new province suffers,” I observed, as I got out my pipe. I listen better with a pipe in my mouth.

  Brother Bryte sucked in his breath. “By all accounts, the Wilderlands, as such, is a disaster,” he agreed. “I did a circuit with a magistrate in Nandine, in the far north, when I was a Lexit. A simple, rustic people, with little knowledge of the intricacies of the law,” he concluded. “But dedicated to fairness. I wonder how Brother Iskal fared?”

  “Nandine is utterly destroyed,” I reported, flatly. “As are most of the large towns you would have passed through. Many, if not most, of the residents were killed or captured in the invasion. The lucky ones fled south to Tudry or Vorone. There weren’t many lucky ones,” I added, discouraged.

  “So . . . what is left to administer?” Brother Bryte, asked, confused. “From what I understand, Tudry is burned, and Vorone is . . . compromised,” he said, diplomatically.

  I couldn’t let it go. “Compromised? How, compromised?” I quietly demanded.

  “I’ve heard . . . I’ve heard all manner of tales from poor Vorone,” Brother Bryte admitted. “Most must be mere rumor, they are so outlandish: the tale that the animals of the wood war in the streets, that the Orphan Duke makes love to Ishi, herself, in his palace while the town rots away . . . or that the whores have taken over civil administration, and everyone is a lot happier, now,” he finished.

  “Not a bit true, the parts that edge close to fact,” I advised, my teeth clenched around my pipestem. “Vorone has had its share of drama, it’s true, but it is stable, now. But Vorone remains the Ducal capital,” I advised. “I have no sovereignty over a ducal capital.”

  “So you are condemned to administer a bunch of freeholds and independent domains in the far north,” Brother Bryte said, philosophically, but with undisguised skepticism.

  “’A bunch’ might be overstating the matter,” I agreed, through clenched teeth. “I have been given an impoverished province. I seek your learned counsel. What guidance can the Lawgirver grant me to turn it into something . . . more?” I challenged.

  The monk took a far longer time in contemplation than I would have guessed. “Where others see ruin, Luin sees opportunity,” he quoted.

  “Opportunity for what?” I demanded. “And don’t; give me some erudite reason I need to do things precisely the way they’ve been done for centuries,” I added. “As the Spellmonger, I have a certain reputation for novelty to uphold.”

  “Novelty? I daresay with your c
urrent reputation, you have every expectation of being able to rule by decree, without a dissenting voice. Particularly if Nandine is ruined, and the magistrates and burghers there fled or enslaved. They were a contentious bunch.”

  “Now they are a manumitted bunch,” I countered. “Most of my new subjects were recently held captive by the gurvani,” I explained. “It was only last summer that we were able to affect their rescue. Largely peasants, both from the Wilderlands and Norther Gilmora, where late the gurvani have invaded.”

  “Oh, I heard,” the monk assured me, sadly. “Indeed, I was holed up in Wilderhall when the news arrived. “You say that many have been rescued?” News doesn’t always travel fast or well, in a feudal society.

  “Over a hundred thousand,” I agreed, with a modicum of pride. “That was the purpose of the raid. We resettled them in two large camps on the east bank of the Wildwater. A third camp lies south of Vorone, in the new Wilderlaw palatinate, under Count Marcadine’s protection.”

  “So, your mandate includes re-settling a bunch of former slaves in abandoned Wilderlands holdings,” he concluded, sagely.

  “In a country where the ruling class has been all but wiped out,” I nodded, grimly. “Most of the northern Wilderlords perished early in the invasion, or later at Timberwatch. I’ve been encouraging the importation of magelords to take up the slack.”

  “Magelords,” the monk repeated, absently, a far-away look in his eye. “That is a term I haven’t heard outside of old legal briefs from the Magocracy.”

  “Indeed,” I nodded, enjoying the rich taste of pipesmoke as the wagon rumbled along. “I’m the first, but by no means the last. It’s an ambiguous honor,” I chuckled, humorlessly. “Most of the new nobility are warmagi ennobled for their service in the war. The rest have successfully had their patents of nobility re-instated by the Crown – part of the bargain I worked out with King Rard,” I added. What point is there to being the Spellmonger if you can’t drop the occasional name? “But it is an uneasy development, particularly for the mundane nobility. As there is damn little mundane nobility left in the Wilderlands, it might be the one place where we can develop without undue strife.”