Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Yet Gatina continued to work on the problem, even as they kissed and held each other in front of the fire that night.

  “You know, the hoxter pockets . . . they change everything,” she murmured sleepily.

  “Yes, but it’s hard to use them if you aren’t actually close enough to your loot to use them,” Rondal pointed out.

  Gatina closed her eyes for a moment . . . and then they shot open, a moment later, bright and alert.

  “I know how to rob the treasury!” she declared, gasping at the idea.

  “What?” Rondal asked, confused.

  “I know how we can . . . if we can . . . but then they will . . .”

  “Uh, can we try speaking in complete sentences?” Rondal suggested, gently.

  “Ron, if we can fool . . . if they think . . . if you and Tyndal . . . oh, sweet Darkness! This could be the greatest heist in history!” she insisted.

  Before he could respond to her excitement, he felt the brush of mind-to-mind contact. As annoying as it was to answer, he knew that he had duties to attend to. Of course it was Tyndal. His partner seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing just when Rondal was considering making a move, and ruining it. Now was no exception.

  I hope you and Kitten have had a happy time, he informed Rondal. Because your holiday mission is over, now. I just got a message. We’re needed in Sevendor.

  Sevendor? Why? Did that bastard from Sashtalia break the truce?

  Oh, much worse, Tyndal told him, grimly. This didn’t even come from Minalan. It came from Alya. It seems the Arcane Orders have declared war on Baron Dunselen and his lady wife, Isily. Alya needs our help to go yank their witchstones out of their hands.

  “What is it?” Gatina asked, sleepily. Her shift had fallen off of one shoulder, during their embrace, and she had not seen to replace it. “Trouble?”

  “Duty beckons,” he sighed, as he sat up and looked around for his tunic. “I just got the message. I have to go back to work.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ruminations

  “Ferocious flames of a smithies’ fire

  Cold compared to our hearts’ desire

  Urgent emotion compels all to wed

  For comfort of table, hearthside and bed;

  Let no man confound love’s truest path

  Let no woman forestall it by duplicity or craft

  When love and lust and Nature conspire

  Then Love’s fulfillment will surely transpire!”

  Hymn To Ishi No. 12

  Of the Alshari Liturgy

  It was two weeks before Rondal and Tyndal were able to resume their business in Enultramar. Two weeks packed with tragedy and healing, spent in Sevendor, where a pall of depression hung over the entire domain.

  The surprise assault upon Salaisus Castle had gone as well as a military operation turned rescue mission could; the two of them had assisted in the fight and performed honorably in the horrific struggle. While Rondal had been wounded in the assault, it hadn’t been serious.

  What had been serious was the aftermath. Both Baron Dunselen (former Castali ducal court wizard) and his young, pretty shadowmage wife, Baroness Isily, had died, and Baroness Alya had been mentally maimed in the attack. Indeed, considering the arcane forces involved, Rondal was shocked she hadn’t died in the fight. He and Tyndal suspected the divine was involved in that, but they weren’t exactly sure how – or which gods. Minalan wasn’t exactly talkative after the horrific battle.

  Though the two outlawed magi had been dealt with, the consequences of the attack were dire. Minalan was distraught to the point of stupor. Alya was comatose, lying and wasting away in an abbey in Sevendor. And a sinister plot that saw Isily and the renegade warmage Lady Mask collaborating was revealed.

  Salaisus had a potent and sobering effect on both boys. It had been the culmination of their power as warmagi, fighting other warmagi, and it was certainly a successful mission. But the cost in lives, particularly in losing Alya, who had served as a kind of loved and respected older sister to the lads for years, was taking a toll on them both.

  It was a blow for Rondal, especially. He’d always enjoyed a close relationship with his master’s wife, and was always grateful for the warm and welcoming way she’d included he and Tyndal in their household. It was, sadly, the closest to a functioning mother that Rondal had had since his infancy, and he took the news particularly hard.

  His wounds from the battle were not grave, and with some magical assistance from his arcane peers he was quickly on the mend. But some wounds could not be healed with power and potions, and the memory of seeing Alya, all but lifeless on the bed at the abbey they’d brought her to for recovery, had stricken his heart.

  Tyndal was content to be sullen after the battle, keeping to himself and working out his frustrations with swordplay. But with a mending shoulder, Rondal was unwilling to undo the damage. Besides, he did not find a relief from the sadness in effort and sweat, he knew. If Tyndal was sullen, then Rondal brooded.

  He took to walking through Sevendor Town in the early morning, and again at twilight, spending the rest of his day in his room at the Rat Trap, reading, or visiting a few friends in the castle or the town. Not even enchantment served to distract him from his cares. The thought of poor Master Minalan at Alya’s bedside, trying every possible spell and contacting every magical healer he could find, drained Rondal’s spirit with helpless frustration.

  On the third day of his brooding he ran into Lord Olmeg, the barony’s Greenswarden, as he directed two carts of manure toward the Enchanted Forest near the Westwood. It wasn’t much of a forest at the moment – the saplings were only ten feet tall at this point – but the tall, bearded, barefoot mage was quietly optimistic about the endeavor.

  But then again, Olmeg the Green was quietly optimistic about everything.

  He was an unusual mage to tell his troubles to, but Rondal felt drawn towards the big hairy wizard as they walked behind the carts. They exchanged greetings and then their expressions of sadness over the fate of the Baroness and their hopes for her recovery, but then the conversation stalled.

  “So who is she, my friend?” Olmeg finally asked, his pipestem clenched between his teeth under his broad-brimmed hat.

  “What?” Rondal asked, surprised.

  “The lady who occupies your thoughts so devotedly,” Olmeg asked, knowingly.

  “Why would you say that?” Rondal asked, confused.

  “When one is conversant with the mating habits of all the plants and animals, my friend, you cannot think that mere humanity has escaped my attention,” the green mage said with a smile. “What is her name?”

  “Gatina,” Rondal said, reluctantly. It was as if naming her to Olmeg brought his thoughts to the fore, clarifying them. “She’s . . . she’s really nice,” he said, lamely.

  “If she wasn’t, you wouldn’t be so perplexed,” observed Olmeg. “So what is your difficulty? Is she ugly?” he asked, without judgment.

  “No, actually, quite the contrary – beautiful,” Rondal admitted, thinking of her. “In an unusual sort of way. Striking.”

  “Then what seems to be the problem?” Olmeg prompted, when Rondal lapsed into silence.

  “She wants to get married,” Rondal sighed.

  “Many women do,” Olmeg agreed. “Some men, too.”

  “I’m not opposed to the idea – eventually,” Rondal admitted. “But . . . I’m just . . .”

  “You are young,” Olmeg supplied. “You fret that you will make an unwise choice.”

  “Something like that,” grunted Rondal. “It’s not that I don’t want to get married someday, I suppose, I just didn’t think . . . honestly, I never thought that I’d survive that long.”

  “Yet the fact that you do – and prosper, even – proves your worthiness in the eyes of the gods and Nature,” Olmeg considered.

  “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem,” Rondal sighed. “She thinks I’m heroic. When I’ll probably be dead before next Yule.”

>   “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t live the comfortable life of a burgher,” Rondal pointed out. “I’m a warmage. A knight mage,” he corrected. “I could easily have been killed in the Magewar with Greenflower.”

  “Aye, or a hundred other times, from what I’ve heard,” the big man agreed in his deep voice. “Yet you persist in breathing, as you have pointed out. Have you considered that, perhaps, you have found a line of work you excel at?”

  “I suppose I’m good at it – I get results, when Tyndal doesn’t send everything into the chamberpot – but it’s hardly something to build a life around. With a woman,” he added, for clarification.

  “Yet do not knights and magi both not wed, and with frequency?”

  “True,” sighed Rondal. “But they aren’t me.”

  “Good!” Olmeg smiled. “You are not the kind of lad to be swayed by opinion and society to make his decisions. Which means you can abandon such transitory and unimportant factors and focus on what is important.”

  “So . . . what is important?” asked Rondal.

  “Why, that’s up to you,” laughed the green mage merrily. “And thus we come to the crux of your problem. What do you fear the most about a relationship with this girl, Gatina?”

  “Besides ever facing her in a duel? Well . . . I guess that she’ll keep me from what I need to do.”

  “What you need to do, or what you want to do?”

  “I have duties,” Rondal said, expansively. “Duties to Master Min, to the folk of this town, and now to the Duke of Alshar. And then there’s Tyndal—”

  “Ah!” Olmeg interrupted. “Is your friend against the union?”

  “Against it? He’s done nothing but tease me about it,” Rondal said, sadly. “At first I suppose it was funny, when it was novel. That just made it hard to sort out how I felt.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I’m annoyed, because he’s made it into such a jest that I cannot even consider the matter without hearing his teasing in my head!” Rondal said, frustratedly.

  “If he was not in your life,” suggested Olmeg, thoughtfully, “what would your thoughts on the matter be?”

  That was a difficult question, Rondal realized. Tyndal had become such a regular, if annoying, part of his daily existence that thinking back to a time when he wasn’t was hard. Those were his days as Garkesku’s apprentice, not particularly happy times, and he didn’t think of them often anymore.

  Yet when he tried to imagine what his life would be like without him constantly in his head, challenging him and goading him, it was difficult. But he stretched his mind to the thought, and tried to picture a world without an overbearing Haystack telling him what he should do all the time.

  In that moment of peace and clarity, he realized that he did, in fact, really, really like Gatina. She was smart, pretty, active, and had a wicked sense of humor. More, she had a sense of wonder about magic that matched his own, and a dedication to her proficiency that he’d never enjoyed as an apprentice.

  But there was more than that. He realized that without Tyndal providing the voice of doubt in his head, he’d likely already be wed to the pretty young woman. While he didn’t find that objectionable, the same way Tyndal did, it did give him pause for thought. Was he ready to wed, yet? To devote himself to wife and family, perhaps on his own estate, with the babies that Gatina was apparently eager to bear appearing and confounding his work?

  Yet he knew plenty of magi who found fulfillment in married life. True, warmagi did not wed frequently, thanks to their demanding profession, but he was more than a mere warmage. And Gatina was no mere noblewoman eager for her big day before the priestess. He knew that both of them were serious about the idea, after their few days huddled up in the cottage in Rhemes. When he looked at her, into those big violet eyes, his heart ached . . .

  “I see,” Olmeg said, quietly.

  “You do?”

  “You are falling in love, my friend,” he pronounced, gravely, through a cloud of smoke. “It is the natural condition of man, and you are heir to it as much as any other. Your friend obstructs you and delays you, but in his absence you know what you would do. I can tell by your face,” he observed.

  “But he isn’t absent,” Rondal said, discouraged. “And neither is our duty.”

  “No, but now you know what your heart says,” Olmeg pointed out. “Now you must merely negotiate between duty and love, and find a compromise between them.”

  “What, marry Gatina and continue my errantry?”

  “I said it was a compromise,” shrugged Olmeg, philosophically. “I suggest you give some serious consideration to the negotiations before you settle upon anything.”

  “Well, I have a little time, at least,” Rondal decided. “We can’t wed until Anguin’s on the throne and the Brotherhood of the Rat is overthrown in Alshar. But considering how adamant she is, I wouldn’t put it past her to arrange for that before I even return.”

  “She loves you that dearly?” Olmeg asked.

  “She appears to,” Rondal agreed. “I have no idea why.”

  “Because Ishi demanded it,” shrugged Olmeg. “As she always does. You can struggle against it all you wish, but when your heart calls to you, a man cannot ignore it and be satisfied. He will fill it,” he said, as if he was quoting one of the laws of magic. “Nature constantly finds opportunities to taunt us with our own desires to motivate us to its will, through the hands of the gods. If you find you love this woman, and the feeling is reciprocated, what dishonor is there in denying your heart?”

  “Even if it means ending my partnership with Tyndal?” Rondal asked, surprised by how much the very idea pained him.

  “Why must it end?” asked Olmeg. “You are growing older, and into your mature manhood. I would be far more concerned if you were not thinking of marriage, at your age. Yet many married men continue to see to their greater duties.”

  “But are not their duties divided between home and liege?”

  “Perhaps they are,” agreed Olmeg. “Yet they find a way, and have for centuries. My friend Rondal, do not be afraid of the murmurs of your own heart. You will have to contend with that long after you no longer have to contend with Tyndal. And,” he added, “I think your friend would not wish you miserable, if it was within his power.”

  Rondal snorted. “Have you met Tyndal? He lives to make me miserable!”

  “I do not deny that he is caustic, at times,” Olmeg reflected, “but he is neither unkind nor is he so selfish as to prevent his best friend from finding happiness. If you make it clear to him that this is what you want, I would imagine that he would support you.”

  “How do I know if it’s what I want?”

  “Ah, for that Tyndal is unlikely to be of assistance,” chuckled Olmeg.

  “What if I make a mistake with Gatina?” demanded Rondal.

  “You may well,” agreed Olmeg. “Nature can ensure attraction, but it has no stake in domestic felicity, I’ve noticed.”

  “That’s not terribly helpful,” Rondal said, feeling dejected.

  “Neither is Nature, much of the time,” sighed the green mage. “Yet all of mere creatures must muddle along to its sacred beat.”

  If his conversation with Olmeg helped clarify his own feelings about Gatina – and about Tyndal – the matter was thrown into further confusion later that same evening, when Master Hance made his first scheduled contact by way of Sympathy Stone.

  Rondal agreed to take the initial watch for the contact, as Tyndal was doing a bit of enchantment on his own over at the laboratory. He set up a bowl of water in the messy workroom they had on the second floor for such a purpose, and a little after dusk the surface of the water began growing a pale green, as someone was trying to use it.

  The color was a recent adaption of the basic enchantment, and Rondal found it useful. It was annoying to sit in front of a mirror just waiting for someone to use it – this way one could be working across the room until you saw the light tha
t indicated a messenger. Rondal waved his hand over the light, and the surface of the water cleared until it showed the reflection of Master Hance on the it.

  “Good evening, Sir Rondal,” the master thief said, nodding his head.

  “Master Hance,” Rondal said, returning the bow. “What is the news from Enultramar this evening?”

  “The fleets have embarked on raiding, the fields are planted, and the sun is getting hotter by the day,” he remarked. “The Three Censors are petitioning the Count of Rhemes for additional security, after the theft at the Tower Arcane. Apparently you took most of their operating capital, and they barely have enough left to pay their guards. Count Vichetral executed three nobles for treason, when they tried to cling to prerogatives established by the late Duke, and demand an end to the trade in slaves that beggars their own people. Apart from that, it has been relatively quiet along the Mandros since you two left Enultramar.”

  “Sadly, things have been busier, here,” Rondal sighed. “The Spellmonger’s wife, Baroness Alya, was wounded in a magewar, and lies in silent repose, with her husband at her side.”

  “A magewar?” asked Hance, suspiciously. “With whom?”

  “The Baron and Baroness of Greenflower,” supplied Rondal. “They were conspiring with enemies of the state – and all of humanity, actually – and attacked Master Minalan. They stole some of his magical stones, and nearly killed his family.”

  “Sweet Darkness! Did he prevail?”

  “We did,” Rondal acknowledged, grimly. “But at cost.”

  “Were you wounded?” prompted Hance. “My daughter will insist on knowing.”

  “Only slightly,” grimaced Rondal, unwilling to glamorize his part in the battle. “I’ll make a full recovery. I’m recuperating in Sevendor, now. How is Gatina?” he asked, hesitantly.

  Hance regarded him thoughtfully through the watery spell. “She is well,” he said, carefully. “But she is . . . preoccupied with thoughts of her new lover.”

  Rondal blushed, despite himself. He had not intended to discuss the details of his relationship with anyone, and now he’d not only mentioned it to Olmeg, but was discussing it now with her father.