“This is spectacular,” Rondal nodded, as they toured the abbey. Not only was the view from the tower incredible, but the real treasure proved to be inside: shelf after shelf of books and scrolls dating back hundreds of years, on subjects as diverse as agriculture and astronomy. There was entire section on magic, although it was secured against casual inspection.
“Come back and browse at your leisure,” Atopol assured. “Some of the canons of the abbey have been real collectors over the years. In some cases entire collections were brought from Merwyn and Vore during the Conquest.”
“I didn’t think there were this many books in the world,” Tyndal said, shaking his head in wonder. “I thought the libraries at Inarion were intimidating!”
“I would love to have a chance to delve into this,” Rondal admitted, incredibly tempted to begin devouring the place at once. “But we have to get Ruderal to safety.”
“He would be safe here,” Atopol proposed.
“We cannot put you in that kind of risk,” Rondal decided, after considering the matter. “If the Brotherhood is, truly, tracking us so eagerly, then the last place we would want to lead them is to our new allies.”
“They would never survive the encounter,” Atopol assured, darkly. “We are not assassins, by trade. But we are not powerless. Though the abbey was not designed for defense, it is not undefended.”
“It’s not that,” Rondal dismissed. “We need to keep our new alliance quiet, for now. Tyndal and I will return, as soon as we deliver the lad and we are able. When we do, I would prefer that our allies were not suspect, and continued to work undetected. We can hardly ensure that if we lead our foes right to your door.”
Atopol sighed. “There is wisdom in that. But if not here, where will you go? The mother is not the adventurous sort,” he said, kindly. “She may not survive the passage across the mountains.”
“I fear that as well,” Rondal agreed. “We have an . . . agent in the area,” he said, uncertain of how to phrase the relationship. “If we can impose on the Nightbrothers to borrow their carriage, overland the journey is not too far, no more than two days east of here. There is someone we can impose upon for help, there. Someone who owes us a boon. We intend to collect, and ensure that she is watched over as diligently as a duchess’ virtue.”
“And who is this stalwart you speak of?” Atopol asked, “And where might we find him?”
“At the Coastlord estate of Oirghort,” Tyndal said, chuckling. “And the gentleman was once known as Sire Gimbal. The Warbird of West Fleria.”
Oirghort was no ancient fortress; it was a modern estate, all elaborate halls and pristine gardens, built as a country home for Astine, the Duchess of Alshar for three years before she was found hung - an apparent suicide - in the palace at Roen. Stricken, the Black Duke was deep in mourning when he met the future Duchess Idrina, only sixteen at the time, at Astine’s funeral. The estate was included in the dowry of the Black Duke’s daughter from his first wife, Duchess Lindis, when she married a count in Castal, and it ended up amongst the prized assets of the current Royal family of Castalshar.
As such, it was the most appropriate residence for the unofficial representative of the King against whom the nobility of Alshar were rebelling. As unusual as the arrangement was, there was ample feudal precedent. Many estates were owned by absentee lords, and the feudal system rarely respected national boundaries in such cases.
Rondal was surprised to learn as he spoke to folk along the road during the two-day journey that Lord Gimbal was considered well-respected, despite his Castali origins, and was not suspected of collusion with the Royal government at all, beyond dutifully arranging the transfer of payments from their estates.
“I thought it odd that someone who could so easily be a spy isn’t being watched by the Rebel Council,” Gatina reflected, as Rondal rode next to the girl (in her full ungainly disguise) along the pleasant ride to Oirghort. She’d taken to referring to the Count of Rhemes, the Sea Lord viscounts, and landed barons who supported the regime as “The Rebel Council” in her discussions, now, a development that Rondal noted with concern.
“No one who met the gentleman would ever mistake him for a spymaster,” Rondal assured her. “He is belligerent, crude, and as subtle as a battle axe. A useful idiot, designed to be mistrusted by either side.”
“He doesn’t sound very reliable,” Gatina said, wrinkling her freckled nose. Rondal could not see how the freckles were false, even from this close range.
“It’s his mistrust that makes him reliable,” Rondal explained. “I didn’t understand at first, either. Master Min had to explain it to me. Sire Gimbal was utterly defeated on the battlefield in Castal, held in disgrace, and faced exile at his brother’s court. While he did well at the Battle of Cambrian, he had no real future in Castal . . . until Minalan gave him one. Here,” he said, glancing at the expansive apple orchards that seemed to go on forever, “he is the unofficial representative of a hated foe and presumptive overlord, so he doesn’t dare start trouble. It wouldn’t take much excuse for the Rebel Council to turn on him in force and confiscate the estates he’s been entrusted with, and he knows it.” Damn it, now he was doing it!
“So he was too much of an arse for Castal, and so much of an arse that he’ll get slain in Alshar if he misbehaves,” snorted Gatina.
“Or overthrown by peasant rebellion,” Rondal suggested. “Or killed in his sleep by an irate henchman. Or poisoned by the maid for improper advances. The man attracts that kind of attention.”
“And you want to leave Ruderal’s mother in his care?”
“He threatens easily,” Rondal observed. “And we have some leverage. Word of his estranged son.”
“A noble and virtuous lord?”
“No, he’s about as sour as his sire,” admitted Rondal. “But he is kin. And as far as Sire Gimbal knows, we are still high in the councils of the King, his current employer.”
“So . . . you’re bluffing him?” Atopol asked, impressed.
“Not exactly,” reasoned Rondal. “We’re more . . . misleading him. And threatening him. And scaring him. And reminding him.”
“Reminding him of what?”
“That he lost his domain, his tiny empire, and the love of his son . . . because of our master. And that he’s being watched.”
“Is he being watched?” she asked, smirking. Rondal had to admit, even with the buckteeth of her costume and her plain brown eyes, there was something alluring in Gatina.
But there was also something disturbing. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
There was her apparent obsession with him, which he found almost frightening in its intensity. It wasn’t that girls hadn’t expressed interest in him, before, but having one - of such rare beauty - do so in such an intent manner made him incredibly uncomfortable. Particularly when she’d breezed past the taller, broader, blonder, handsomer Tyndal as a clumsy buffoon in preference to . . . him.
It wasn’t anything he’d done to purposefully attract her attention. He was merely completing a mission. But the girl was almost obsessively interested in him, for no good reason that he could see, and her stated intention to bear his children some day as his lawfully wedded wife . . . scared the crap out of him.
Still, he tried to maintain his composure. He did not want to hurt her feelings, particularly since she and her family represented a potentially vital alliance. But he was afraid that Tyndal’s attempt to dissuade her had inadvertently set her on the path of a revolutionary.
Because of him.
What could one obsessive shadowmage thief apprentice possibly do to topple the rebels? he’d asked, when Rondal presented the matter to him earlier in the day.
Have you not seen the intensity in her eyes? If she dedicated herself to becoming Queen of the Five Duchies, I’d expect her to wear the Crown of Kamaklavan someday.
But she only wants you, Tyndal taunted. Don’t you feel lucky?
Tyn! I feel like I’m . . . I’m . . .
The term is ‘desired’, his friend explained. She desires you.
Tyn, she can’t desire me! Rondal objected. She just can’t!
Why not? What’s wrong with you?
Besides being partnered to a perpetual exercise in crisis management? How about the fact that I’m a knight in a time of war? A couple of wars?
So is Master Min, Tyndal said with a mental shrug. He’s managed to have a couple of children along the way. And a wife - our friend Lady Alya. He seems pretty happy about it.
He’s ancient, over thirty! Of course he wants to settle down!
And with this little fib, we’ve arranged it so that you can safely perform your errantry and get yourself gloriously slain long before the conditions of our supposed vow are fulfilled, he pointed out.
That’s the thing . . . you heard Gatina. She wants to help, to prove herself worthy of me - and I never set any kind of conditions. How did I get myself into this?
Look, I honestly don’t know, admitted Tyndal. It just kind of happened, and you’re just kind of there. But don’t look at it as a problem, Striker. Look at it as an opportunity. This girl thinks you’re the gods’ gift to magekind, or something, and wants to have your babies. She’s clearly delusional. But someone with that kind of . . . extreme nature is also likely to find fault with you, at some point. Until then, just relax and enjoy the ride. You were right: violet eyes to die for.
Tyndal! Rondal moaned into his friend’s mind. Why are you encouraging this? She held a sword at your throat!
She snuck up on me as quietly as a whisper and could have slit my throat before I knew it happened, admitted the big knight. I almost pissed myself. She handled that blade like she was born with it in her hand. You have to respect that. And she is a mage. A twisty, half-mad, outrageously devious thief of a mage, but still a mage. You could do worse.
You really . . . like her?
Striker, Tyndal assured him, the moment she jumped into your lap and kissed you and made you nearly piss yourself, she won a place in my heart.
Asshole.
Just spend some time with her, get to know her. Find out what she likes, what kind of person she is, what her favorite flower is. Flirt, a little -- Ishi knows you could use the practice. And she’s quite willing to respond. Just . . . don’t reject her. In all seriousness.
Why not? Rondal asked, genuinely curious.
Because women take rejection far worse than we do, he explained.
What do you mean? We get rejected all the time!
You get rejected all the time. But I’ve had my share of snubs, he admitted. Trust me, when you turn your back on a woman who has shown that level of interest in you, you tear at her heart.
So?
So I think this Kitten is not a girl whose heart would bear much rending, before her claws came out, Tyndal said, poetically.
I . . . take your point. But you want me to encourage her?
I want you to get to know her, you clod. Find out who she is and whether you could, in fact, spend the rest of your life bound to someone who is clearly so disturbed. Besides, once she really gets to know the real you, she’s bound to realize what a horrific error in judgment she’s making.
Uh . . . thanks, he’d said, only partially sarcastically. Tyndal did, indeed, have more positive experience with girls, he had to admit. And he seemed to understand their nuances far better than Rondal. Nor had he ever purposefully led his friend astray in his advice on affairs of the heart.
So he’d climbed aboard the drover’s seat of the luxurious carriage that afternoon as it rumbled down the dirt track through thousands of fruit trees arranged in beautiful orchards to converse with her.
He could tell at once she enjoyed the attention, though she stayed perfectly in character the entire time.
“Enough about Sire Gimbal,” Rondal eventually said, worried they’d spend the time engrossed in politics. Tyndal was right, he decided. If she was interested, he at least deserved to know if he was at all interested in her. “What can you tell me about your deridingly odd family?” he asked, in a friendly tone.
“Lies, half-truths, and deceptions built into our house over six hundred years,” Gatina said, with a smirk. “It’s an impressive legacy of fiction, actually. But what I enjoy is the danger,” she said, shivering involuntarily. “The doing something no one else can do, going places no one else can go, stealing things everyone else thinks are impossible to steal . . .”
“Why steal, if you don’t need the money? Honest question,” Rondal explained, anticipating a defensive response. “I make no moral judgments; one can make a fair case that a knight is merely an ennobled murderer. I’m just curious.”
“It’s not about the money,” she said, after some thought. “We have plenty of money. And estates. And other enterprises. Far more than we need to make us comfortable. But the bulk of those resources are quietly hidden. Stored against need in our most secret vaults. By continuing to learn and practice our Art, we ensure it is never truly needed, or if lost, could be replenished as a matter of filial duty,” she said, authoritatively.
“So it’s about the purity of the art,” nodded Rondal. “That makes an odd kind of sense, actually. A colleague of my Master, Master Cormoran, is accounted by some the finest magical bladesmith in the Five Duchies . . . yet he sought out the most backward, primitive place in the Duchies to practice his art when he could have made a fortune in one of the capitals. Because he’s devoted to it, first and foremost. The same is true with Master Olmeg, a green mage back home in Sevendor,” he reflected.
“You know a lot of different kinds of magi,” Gatina noted, glancing at him frequently as she coaxed the team of black horses along. “I’ve really only met shadowmagi, a few thaumaturges who were boring as three hells, and a couple of superstitious hedgemagi. It must be incredibly fulfilling to know so many different kinds.”
“Oh, yes, Sevendor is an authentic Mageland,” he boasted. “The Spellmonger lives there, within a pure white castle, under a pure white mountain, the entire thing made of snowstone. A magical mineral, unique in all the world,” he added, knowingly. “Such a place attracts a great number of magi: enchanters, warmagi, brown magi, green wizards, hedgewitches, spellmongers, resident adepts from Remere . . . Lady Pentandra’s academic specialty was Sex Magic,” he said, immediately regretting it.
“Really?” Gatina said, her brown eyes wide with interest. “She sounds fascinating!”
“Well, she’s your rightful Court Wizard now, apparently, so I suppose you could request an audience – she’s quite pleasant,” he reflected. His relationship with the mage was cordial, but Tyndal and Pentandra seemed very close at times.
But he was suddenly very anxious about the idea of the pretty young shadowmage learning anything about Sex Magic. The way she seemed to obsess about things . . .
“The key to the new order is irionite,” Rondal said, quickly changing the subject. “When we started using witchstones again, and had nearly unlimited arcane power for the first time in four hundred years, it changed things. And then when Minalan created snowstone - that reduces magical resistance in its vicinity, really useful stuff - and started inviting magi to Sevendor to study it, things started to get really interesting.”
“I can only imagine,” she said, enchanted. “It must be incredible to be in the middle of all of that.”
“Oh, Tyndal and I are mostly on the edges of it all,” he said, realizing he was making himself sound more important than he was. “We’re mostly involved in errantry. For the Spellmonger, and now the Order.”
“That must be very dangerous,” she purred. Dear gods, Rondal thought furiously to himself, is there nothing I can say to this girl she can’t turn into a reason why I’m . . . attractive?
“It can be . . .” he admitted, swallowing. “We’ve had our share of close calls.”
“Goblins?”
“Oh, gods, yes! And trolls and siege worms and a couple of dragons--”
“Godde
ss of Night! Dragons?” she asked, astonished.
“Uh, yes. But I’ve never actually slain one,” he said, lamely. “Our junior apprentice, Dara, helped kill one, though. The head of our order is Sire Cei the Dragonslayer,” he added.
“What an adventurous life you lead, Sir Rondal,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.
“It’s mostly been a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the right people,” he decided, when he reviewed his life thus far. “I could have gotten killed plenty of times. Luck and the caprices of the gods are the only reason I’m still alive.”
She snorted. “I’ve known plenty of ‘lucky’ men, and those whom the gods seem to favor against all reason. None of them have seen a dragon with his own eyes and lived to tell about it. It takes more than luck and piety to handle an adventurous life. It takes spirit, honor, and commitment.”
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 15
