I had high hopes for that. For concealed even beneath the snowstone effort was a secret purpose for the Institute. It provided cover for our search for the Forsaken, and a place in which we could frankly and candidly discuss the plight of the human colony on Callidore without oversight by the Alon. That seed, I hoped, would bear fruit even if we never mastered the secret of snowstone.
To that end, I spent an afternoon writing out detailed instructions for the Institute, should I perish. Including a generous endowment, going forward. I also assigned patronage of the organization to Pentandra if I died. She’d look out for it.
That reminded me of another piece of institutional business I had to attend to. While in Vanador, I stopped by Master Thinradel’s residence, in the Thaumaturge’s quarter. He had little to do with the Thaumaturgical Institute, although he dabbled in the discipline. I had instead tasked him with developing the process by which magi in the Magelaw were trained.
As chancellor to the new magical academy I proposed to build in Vanador, he was in charge of preparing a curriculum and courses of study, as well as hiring appropriate faculty. Carmella had yet to begin selecting a site for the actual building in Vanador – she had a thousand other projects going on – but when she did, I wanted the proper people in place to run it.
A new magical academy was an ambitious undertaking; one hadn’t been founded in more than three hundred years. But I had royal permission to build not one but two. The first would be here, in Vanador; the second would be in Sevendor, once my exile was over. Thinradel would be responsible for founding both, which fed his Alshari pride and ego. As a former ducal court wizard, there was little higher status or title . . . but Academy Chancellor and Founder of not one but two magical academies was a worthy capstone to a long and distinguished career.
Thinradel was also responsible for what came to be called the Tower system, in which talented magi were assigned to a particular tower in my realm for advanced study. Each of the Pele towers I’d built a few years ago had a specialized field, from warmagic to herbology. Thinradel was one of the few people I knew who was knowledgeable enough about magic, in general, as well as administration, to be able to organize and oversee the effort. It was still in its early stages, but no one had blown up a tower, yet. I found that promising.
“I’ll have a complete list of proposed faculty for you by the time you return from your little adventure,” he said, dismissively, as he poured wine for us both. “I don’t think you’ll have any objections, so I will plan on contacting them with an offer of employment whether you return on time or not. I’ll also include a list of alternates. So far, I’ve fulfilled every major department, save for alchemy, elementary magic, and magical history. I’ll have those soon enough,” he promised.
“I trust your judgement,” I assured him.
“I can’t, for the life of me, understand why,” he mused. “Oh, I appreciate the fact that you do, but . . .”
“You’re loyal, for one thing,” I pointed out. “That’s a rare commodity. You’re also competent. Another rarity. More, you seem to understand what I’m doing and why.”
“Oh, that’s where you are mistaken,” he corrected with a chuckle. “I really have no idea why you would want to inflict all of this on yourself. A sane man would rest on his accomplishments, if they were even a tithe of yours, and enjoy his power and wealth without the burden of foresight or consideration of his grand legacy. That said,” he continued, thoughtfully, “as much as it pains me to say it, I grudgingly approve of all of this education. Two magical academies are not enough, now. Not with all the High Magi.”
“The more academies, the more Imperially-trained magi,” I agreed. “And the Tower system, gods willing, will produce more specialists.”
“And that will produce more problems,” Thinradel pointed out. “You do realize that you’ve started a kind of revolution, don’t you? Ruling classes don’t like revolutions,” he warned. “The chivalry are already bridling at the rise of our power. They will take action, eventually.”
“I’m aware,” I sighed. “Prince Tavard already sent seven thousand knights against me. Next time, it could be twice that number.”
“Or more. Much, much more,” he said, shaking his head. “I trust a man of foresight like yourself has a plan for that?”
“Be prepared? Make ourselves too strong to be conquered by the sword?” I proposed.
“I was speaking politically, not militarily,” he countered. “There are more ways to conquer than by the sword. Remember, I played court politics for years in Alshar. As much as I despised it, and most courtiers, it’s a necessary evil. One the Spellmonger cannot afford to ignore.”
“I’m not ignoring it,” I insisted. “I’m just avoiding it. Pentandra keeps tabs for me, as do others. When the occasion calls for it, I can intervene and exert some pressure.”
He looked at me thoughtfully and silently for a long time. “I do hope so, Minalan. For all of our sake. You’ve built something remarkable, here. Don’t let a bunch of lance monkeys tear it down. Because they will, if you aren’t careful. Mark my words,” he warned. “That’s what they’ll try to do, the moment they think they can. It’s in their nature. The only thing they really know how to do is charge gallantly . . . and be arrogant.”
Chapter Four
The Opening of the Palace
The wizard has always been the ‘man who knows;’ our trade is in knowledge and its proper application. But it comes at a cost. For the acquisition of knowledge always comes at a price, be it merely our own ignorance or the shreds of our soul. The true wizard evaluates the price of knowledge, and, with proper understanding, does not hesitate to pay all his purse can bear if the potential for reward is great enough.
Fondaras the Wise,
Footwizard of Alshar
Alya and I had very little time to discuss her decision – well, demand, let’s be honest – to accompany me in the few days after she made it. That was fine, for me. I considered my acquiescence an inevitable failure of my character. I can’t refuse Alya anything, within reason. Discussing it further wouldn’t help my case – a case I knew was weak when I made it – and it wouldn’t change her mind.
I will admit, just to you, that part of me was secretly elated at the idea of her coming away with me. It was dangerous, it was foolhardy, it was needlessly risky . . . and for all of those reasons, it was undeniably exciting. Do not mistake me: my initial impulse against throwing my wife into a situation where I could not protect her was daunting. As her husband, I had vowed before Trygg and every important person in my life that I would protect her. Allowing to tag along on a journey guaranteed to be deadly was a violation of that vow, in my mind.
Yet I’d also taken a vow not to abandon her, and I could see her point. Throwing myself into danger, however required by my understanding of our world, was taking a risk that I’d never return. If she came along, I wasn’t abandoning her. We were in this adventure together.
I’m certain that such rationalizations would appall those who would take me to task for allowing my wife to venture into such danger. I don’t care about their judgement. I’m married to Alya, and they are not.
Nor did she display any second thoughts about coming, as I hoped she would. She seemed just as determined to go as ever. I resigned myself to it. At least she was somewhat preoccupied about the Duke’s ceremony, if also somewhat nervous. The last party we’d been to at Anguin’s palace in Vorone had been . . . eventful.
The Opening of the Palace was an important ceremony, as it prefaced the arrival of the Ducal Court for the summer, even if the court wasn’t actually coming to the summer capital. This was the first year since the Restoration that Anguin felt comfortable enough leaving Falas for a few months, and tend to his northern provinces. It was also the first year that his bride was reigning over the ceremony. Rardine wanted to establish herself as the Duchess of Alshar, the social epitome of the duchy. That meant a grand display to set her ducal style for the era. Or
something like that. Pentandra tried to explain it to me.
“Just as a duke’s reign is defined by the battles he wins or loses, the laws he enacts, and the feats of governance he performs, a duchess leads the nobility in matters of style and fashion,” she told me, as we prepared to leave for the event from Spellgarden.
“So it’s all about the clothes,” I said, shrewdly. That earned me a Pentandra Eye Roll.
“The clothes are a part of it – but a small part,” she admitted. “The clothing style is certainly a visual and political statement of the duchess’ perspective. When Duchess Enora embraced the double linen underdress at the beginning of her reign, and wore a longer wimple, it signaled renewed ties with Remere,” she pointed out. “But her choice of a chain belt of golden roses as her favorite signaled an affection for Castal . . . one that faded, as her reign wore on.”
“And what is Rardine’s style of choice?” I asked, amused.
“That will be revealed at the ball, of course. If I had to guess, based on her social events in Falas, she will enthusiastically embrace the traditional Alshari fashions in her quest to take command of Alshar not just politically, but socially, as well. It will also be an opportunity for her to make an impression on the Wilderfolk and the Magefolk who will be attending. And, of course, since this is Anguin’s first court in the north since he wed and his first in residence at the new palace, everyone in the minor nobility who can afford to will be attending. So she needs to make a scene.”
“I’m sure it will be a busy social season – I hate that I’m missing it. The balls, the tournaments, the hunts, the ladies’ teas, the itchy clothing, the boring speeches, the endless posturing . . . it will all be over with, by the time I get back,” I said, sarcastically.
“Yes, how terrible for you!” she agreed, her eyes narrowing as she smirked at me. “Don’t underestimate the importance of that, Min,” she warned, more seriously. “Rardine needs to impress the ladies of the Wilderlands, both in the Wilderlaw and the Magelaw. Don’t forget that until recently she was widely blamed for the deaths of Lenguin and Enora . . . because the Wilderlands has not forgotten that. This summer will be her attempt to win their loyalty and make them forget her association with her Castali family. That means bribing them, showing them a good time, flattering their vanities, and granting boons.”
“But Anguin already has the stalwart support of the Wilderlaw and the Magelaw,” I pointed out, confused.
“Anguin does . . . but Rardine does not. Yet. She has won over Falas and most of the south, especially after the attack on her wedding.”
“Nothing like an army of undead to evoke sympathy on a girl’s special day,” I agreed.
“But then she had to convert that sympathy into something more,” Pentandra continued, ignoring my jibe. “All the while she was secretly rooting out pockets of political resistance and discovering traitors and spies. And dodging assassins,” she said, her smirk disappearing for a moment. “But she has been successful. Despite her resemblance to Grendine in both form and manner, her policies and personality have enchanted the nobility and the common folk alike.”
“I’m assuming that you had a hand in that – the enchanting part,” I inquired.
“I did my part, but not as much as you might guess,” she said, with a sigh. “I had other priorities than garden parties and balls. But I did my part. Rardine has everyone convinced that her rejection of Castal and her antipathy toward the Queen has made her the duchess Alshar should have gotten from Grendine. Only she’s far more passionate than her mother in how she rules. And far less bloodthirsty. Alas, as the leading noblewoman of the Magelaw, after Alya, I’m going to have to represent the magelords all summer long,” she said, tiredly. “Somehow I think that factored in Alya’s desire to go with you.”
“She never feels comfortable at those things. Not unless it’s back home in Sevendor.”
“I don’t mind sparing her from this,” Pentandra admitted. “That will be one less thing I have to manage. It’s going to busy enough zipping back and forth through the Ways between Vanador and Vorone for all of these events. I’m going to have to look dazzling,” she complained. “And bring along an entourage of fellow magelords to represent the Count and Countess. But it will allow us to maintain an important presence in Anguin’s court, and that is valuable.”
“I agree. Well, if Anguin and Rardine need the vocal support of the Spellmonger, they shall have it,” I agreed. “I owe him that much for making me count.”
“And Anguin knows he owes you for making him a duke,” agreed Pentandra. “A very good investment, you made.”
“It’s always nice to pick your own boss,” I agreed. “So, are we going directly to the palace, or are we popping in down the street so we can make a grand entrance?”
“The latter,” she directed, as Alya and her maids joined us in the great hall. My wife looked stunning. Someone else had obviously done her cosmetics – she still had little skill with the art – but they’d done a magnificent job. “Arborn will be waiting for us with horses, and several of the other Magelords are already there for the processional so that we can arrive like the aristocrats we are. Oh, bring your flashy staff,” she reminded me. “We can’t allow anyone to mistake you for someone else.”
“Is that even possible?” Alya smiled. “My lord husband has a distinctive presence, wherever he might be.”
“I can be sneaky,” I said, defensively, as I summoned the gaudy, nameless staff that I used for ceremonial occasions like this. Part of it had originally been a lamp at Pentandra’s aunt’s house, she’d told me once, but the gilded stick was now my ceremonial badge of office. It had a number of useful enchantments laid on it, but nothing particularly powerful. But it was shiny.
“Who else is going?” Alya asked, biting her painted lip nervously.
“The cream of the Wilderlands society,” Pentandra assured. “Many old friends among them. I’ll introduce you to the people worth knowing from the Falas court,” she added, warmly, as she straightened Alya’s mantle. She activated the spell woven into it, and the cloth began to change colors from one bright hue to another. The effect was soothing and interesting, not jarring, I noted. My countess looked every inch a magelord in it, no matter what her face revealed.
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Alya protested.
“Nonsense!” Pentandra said, as she led her into position. “This isn’t trouble, this is a bit of fun before you go tromping off through the Wilderlands again. It won’t be like last time you went to Vorone,” she promised.
I just stared at her, balefully, as she prepared the Waypoint spell. “You just had to tempt the gods, didn’t you?”
“One is likely to be there,” she countered, raising her hands. “And it wouldn’t be the first time.”
In retrospect, I have to admit that whoever Rardine had hired to oversee the Opening of the Palace had earned their coin. Vorone looked transformed, and that wasn’t merely due to the new palace dominating the skyline. There had been major repairs and rebuilding throughout the city, after the devastation of the dragon attack. The streets were well-cobbled, the sewers clean of debris and blockages, and the shops and storefronts had been gaily painted and scrubbed for the event.
Banners flew everywhere in the brisk summer breeze: the Anchor and Antlers of the duchy, the red rose on a yellow field that was Rardine’s banner, the standard of the Lord Steward of Vorone, the golden antlers of the Wilderlaw, and the blue and red banner bearing a black hammer and magestars for the Magelaw. That was in addition to the hundreds of banners of the nobility, petty and great, who had crowded into Vorone for the Opening of the Palace.
Music played from every street corner, and vendors and merchants hawked specialty wares for the occasion. Ale flowed liberally, sometimes from barrels left unattended and free for all takers, an amenity certain to cheer the heart of any artisan.
More importantly, the townspeople and the travelers seemed genuinely well-disposed to the ho
liday and the presence of the duke in their city, again. There had been some murmurings, I knew, from some quarters in Vorone who felt Anguin had clung to the city when it was all that he had, but then left it as soon as a richer portion of his realm returned.
This procession should dash that notion, I realized, as we slowly rode through the crowds on horseback. There were two dozen magelords of note in our retinue, as well as brides and husbands of import who rode within open carriages Pentandra had no doubt arranged to deliver them to the palace.
Behind us rode Count Marcadine and a hundred leading vassals of the Wilderlaw in matching red cloaks bearing the count’s device in gold. Each bore a lance with a pennant in the same colors, and four carriages bearing their wives followed them in the parade festooned with more antlers. The throngs threw wildflowers at the parade, and alms were freely distributed to the crowd in return.
This was a happy population, I realized. It had survived scandal, neglect, war, economic hardship, refugees, and dragon attack, but three years after Anguin had re-taken the coronet, the people of Vorone were once again prosperous and secure. Their faces were well-fed, their children seemed happy at the sight of so many interesting visitors. If any held resentments about Anguin’s return – much less Rardine’s – they kept them well hidden.
The palace itself was bursting with fresh cut wildflowers and magelights, both decorative and practical. Indeed, they wound in a spiral around the elegantly blocky walls of the palace and winked in unison. I didn’t know which of Pentandra’s staff was responsible for that, but it was a lovely effect. I resolved to steal it for future use.
Footwizard Page 5
