“What does it mean to be a knight mage?” asked Rondal. As both the term and the institution were new, he had a fair point.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” I promised. “I understand your confusion – I have no more idea how to be a . . . whatever it is I am than you do how to be a knight mage. Fair enough. But you’re going to figure it out. You’re going to learn warcraft. You’re going to learn spellcraft. And you’re going to learn chivalry.”
That earned a grin from Tyndal and a scowl from Rondal. I ignored both.
“Master, whatever I did, I’m sorry—” Rondal began, sullenly.
“I’m not doing this because I want to punish you, torture you or send you away.”
“So why are you doing it, then?” Tyndal asked. I considered. That was a fair question.
“So that you will be more useful to me,” I explained. “I have six jobs for every one of me in this clockwork of magic, military, and bureaucracy I’ve built, and I need men I can trust to keep it working right. Whatever other problems you give me, I know I can trust you two.
“You need to learn chivalry because if we are going to see the profession of magic elevated to the nobility, we damn sure need to establish some boundaries for it. Knights magi will someday, I hope, be the tool we need to strike back at the Dead God. But without the structure and discipline implicit in chivalry, that tool may well turn back on the people who it is supposed to protect.”
“I don’t much like jousting,” Rondal pointed out.
“And I don’t much like reading,” Tyndal shot back.
“And I don’t much like idiocy,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to need you both for a number of missions by the end of the summer. Things I can’t trust anyone else with, frankly. I need you as competent and as trained as possible . . . with all of this boyish rivalry safely buried. You need to learn how to work together, despite your differences . . . because you’re going to be working together, like it or not.”
That wasn’t an understatement. I did need them. The problem was Gilmora.
Last summer the goblins had rushed an invasion of the north-central Riverlands, pouring about a hundred-thousand gurvani warriors, trolls, and the occasional dragon into one of the most fertile and productive regions in the Duchies. Gilmora grew just about everything, but the region’s major crop was cotton. Gilmora grew the finest cotton in the world, and the land had become ridiculously wealthy on its export to Merwyn, Remere, and Vore.
Gilmora was also full of people. It took a lot of people to deliver cotton to market, and Gilmora had a lot of people. Or at least it used to.
Now the goblins occupied the northern and western third of the region. They had not assembled in one nice, neat, easy-to-defeat army, of course. They went after the smaller human settlements piecemeal, mostly looking for slaves, driving the survivors to flee south and east, consolidating them in the larger cities. The invasion had played havoc with unsuspecting Gilmora last year. The folk there were used to civilized feuds between cotton dynasties, not the savage attacks of genocidal non-humans. The Dead God had even sent dragons out of legend there to destroy the armed strength protecting the land.
That hadn’t worked out so well, after the initial shock wore off. My warmagi and I had slain the last one he’d sent. Barely. Tyndal and Rondal had both been involved in that fight.
So now the goblins had stopped advancing. They were just . . . waiting. Waiting and rounding up every human they could find to feed the sacrifice pits at Boval Castle.
This had been a fell winter for Gilmora’s normally-mild climate. The daily dispatches I received from Lord Commander Terleman were grisly tales of gurvani raids that had driven thousands into flight and had seen thousands more captured, coffled, tormented, and force-marched north into the Penumbra and beyond.
As horrific as the reports were, the focus of the nascent kingdom had been on stopping the advance, not reclaiming lost territory. The resistance behind the loosely-defined “front line” was strong in some areas, extinct in others. Gilmora was not a bellicose land – “make cotton, not war” was the motto of one prominent family. Most of those who had chosen to flee from the region were now castled or still moving away from the front lines in long columns of refugees. Those who stayed to try to protect their property were often left alone . . . at first.
The goblins weren’t advancing. But they wouldn’t stay in such a playful mood for long. Soon they would be on the march again. South, west, east, any direction they picked to march didn’t bode well for the kingdom. If they persisted in an aggressive attack the kingdom’s resources would be required to repel it.
Like it or not, these two half-grown half-men who had resorted to exploding chamberpots and itching spells were some of the best potential resources we had. As I watched Tyndal cut sidelong looks at his rival, and Rondal’s eyes narrow in boyish derision, I wondered whether or not we were already doomed.
“I have no choice but to train you into the men that I need,” I said, almost apologetically. “Our fate is rarely our own to choose, but we can make the best of what the gods have gifted us with. You both have tremendous potential. For harm as well as good. You’re both reasonably intelligent,” I understated. “You generally have sound judgment. You’re loyal. You both can read. You’re both fit and hale. The only thing you lack is . . .”
“Experience?” asked Tyndal, hopefully.
“Seasoning?” asked Rondal, warily.
“Instruction,” I replied, flatly. “You are both ignorant children, rustic rubes up-jumped far beyond your station and given power far beyond your capabilities or worth.”
They both looked at me with a mixture of embarrassment, shock, and anger.
“Stings, doesn’t it boys? But that’s what everyone will be saying about you based entirely on what they’ve heard and your accents. They say that because while you are both, in your ways, brave, intelligent, and energetic, you also both know nothing of the world beyond your little mountain vale. You do not understand the social position into which you have been thrust, and you do not have the upbringing that your social peers did.
“But ignorance can be cured with instruction. And yes, experience. ‘Seasoning,’ although considering the dietary habits of our foes that might not be the best term,” I chuckled. The gurvani didn’t mind eating human flesh, and the priests of the Dead God encouraged the practice to inspire terror and dread in us. It was quite successful.
“But beyond knowing how to address a count or seduce a countess, there are a thousand thousands of other things you just do not know. And I need you to know them.”
“Like what, Master?” asked Rondal, a little obsequiously.
“Like swordplay and warmagic, idiot!” snorted Tyndal derisively.
“Like military intelligence and observation,” I began, “how to tie knots, how to read Perwynese with fluency, the proper way to bribe a rich man or a poor man without offending their dignity, how to lie to a woman and persuade a man, how to read a map, how to dance a pavane, how to stop an assassin, how to sail a boat, how to fight in the dark, how to hire a thief, how to run an estate, how to command men in battle, how to use your authority, how to use your wits, how to ford a river, how to climb a mountain, how to explore a cave, how to survive in the wilderness, how to survive at court, how to tilt with gentlemen and brawl with cutthroats, how to inspire loyalty and deliver honorable service, how to kneel to the gods and influence the priesthood, how to order a drink, how to deliver an insult, how to flatter a man or spit in his eye, how to choose a wife, how to duel a jealous husband, when a woman is considering a tumble with you and when she is not – and whether it is worth the trouble. How to make money, spend money, lose money, and yet not let it command you. How to know the law enough to avoid it or use it on your behalf. How to spot a traitor, cultivate an asset, tell if a man is lying, know when he’s telling the truth, and when cutting his godsdamned throat will solve a multitude of your problems.
“A
nd that, gentlemen, is just where we will begin. There is more. Much more. Experience? Seasoning? You’ll have more of both than you are comfortable with. That is what you two ‘knights magi’ are going to learn, if I have to knock your fool heads together three times a day to motivate you!”
Their eyes had gotten wider and wider during my recitation, and I’d gotten closer and closer to them with every item.
“Master?” Tyndal began, hesitantly, “I don’t know if I’m . . . I’m capable of all of that.”
“I’m having reservations myself,” agreed Rondal, his eyes wide. He’s not a violent soul – not that Tyndal is, but my younger apprentice is more comfortable with violence. Perhaps overmuch. “I do not know if I am the man for the job.”
“You aren’t,” I agreed. “You’re still a boy. That’s precisely my point. You won’t be a man for awhile yet. And the process,” I admitted, “might just kill you. That’s a fact. Every man who’s worth a damn risks his life to achieve who he is, one way or another.”
“We survived goblins,” Tyndal agreed, bravely. “We can handle this!”
“You both have faced death before. This is worse. This is adulthood you are facing. While both are inevitable, the big difference is you cannot screw up dying. Adulthood, and manhood in particular, on the other hand, is all too easy to bungle. Dying is easy,” I summarized. “Being a man is hard.”
“I, for one, look forward to the challenge,” Tyndal said, arrogantly.
“Then you’re an idiot,” I pronounced. He winced, but I’d called him worse. You couldn’t use silk gloves when dealing with adolescent boys. “This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, if I’ve planned it correctly. The boys I see before me will be dead, metaphorically speaking. I can only hope that they will be replaced by men worthy of the investment I’m making.”
“I will not fail you, Master!” Rondal assured me, trying to prove his loyalty through enthusiasm. I groaned. He’d missed my point.
“Yes, yes you will,” I insisted. “That’s fine. I expect you to fail me. That’s how you will learn. I don’t expect perfection, I don’t expect excellence, I don’t expect miracles. I do expect you to try your damnedest and use your heads, honorably and intelligently. We’ll have to see what kind of men you turn out to be to determine how you’re useful, but . . .”
“Master,” Rondal said, suddenly, “speaking philosophically, shouldn’t we have some say in this? What if we don’t want to be knights magi?”
“Interesting position,” I agreed, thoughtfully. “Let’s put aside the fact that – legally – you are both still my apprentices and subject to my mastership. Beyond that, looking at it purely philosophically . . . the fact is, you don’t get a vote.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Rondal said, sullenly.
“And when did the gods promise you a fair life?” I demanded. “It isn’t fair. But it isn’t about ‘fair’.” They stared at me, a couple of browbeaten boys. Time to explain some of the facts of life to them.
“Don’t you two clods realize that our society sees you as nothing more than strong bodies to use up, until you’ve proven yourselves? Behind a spear or behind a plow, free or bonded, you’re young men: if it wasn’t for your strength and tireless energy, you’d be more trouble than you’re worth.
“So you don’t get a vote because among men you have to earn that vote. And you earn it by your sweat, your wit, your ingenuity, your competency and your luck. But mostly by your sweat,” I admitted. “You have little value, apart from your stones and your strength. That’s part of being young men. To women you’re rapacious wolves barely able to speak coherently. To men you are pretentious, ignorant upstarts who have yet to earn the right to their respect. A young girl can be fair, she can be plain, but either way she is youthful. She has value. You . . . until you have been through the forge of manhood, you’re a bar of iron. Dull, thick, blunt and apt to rust, if not put to use.”
“That isn’t very fair,” agreed Tyndal, gloomily. “We’re not that bad.”
“It’s not a matter of being ‘bad’,” I sighed. “It’s a matter of being useful. And you are not terribly useful if you are ignorant. Untrained. Unschooled, unskilled, and uncultured. But that, thankfully, can be remedied. I have done my best to arrange for it to be. All that it will take,” I grinned, “is your enthusiastic participation.”
That earned a pair of groans.
“This is your fault,” muttered Tyndal. “If you hadn’t made that chamberpot—”
“It’s not his fault and it’s not your fault,” I said, patiently. “Blame it on the gods, if it pleases you. But it is something every man must face, regardless of his station. A man is not molded from clay . . . he is pounded like hot iron on an anvil. There is no substitute for that. It’s painful, uncomfortable, and exhausting. But that’s the price you must pay to earn the respect of your fellow men.
“And that, gentlemen, is worth more than gold and titles and lands combined.”
I looked at them as they stared off into space, guiltily. They did not look convinced. “Try to think of it as an adventure,” I suggested. “One with lots of danger, excitement . . . and reading lists.”
Another pair of groans.
The pronouncement didn’t gain me any gleeful looks. They both looked like I’d beaten them. Time for the reward. I handed them each a purse I’d prepared.
“Here’s enough for expenses for your trip to Inarion, and then some. Let me know if you need more, but don’t need more.” Those they took eagerly. I knew they both had a little money tucked away, the results of ransoms or odd magical jobs they didn’t think I knew about. But travel is expensive, and I was feeling generous.
“Pack up tonight, and in the morning saddle your horses and be on your way. And,” I added, as I turned my back on them, “I expect you two to sort out this . . . animosity you have toward each other without my guidance or assistance. I have enough to do without untangling your feud every five minutes. So keep the distress calls to a minimum, please.”
“Yes, Master,” they both said, glumly.
“Now get down there and clean up that mess before my wife sees it and asks me to re-install the stocks in the village. You should know by now how hard it is to keep an all-white castle clean.”
They skittered out like the boys they were. I sighed. Even after my lecture, they still had no inkling of what lay ahead of them. I don’t suppose any amount of lecturing could, nor, I decided, would it be helpful if it did. Like all Mysteries, manhood was something that had to be experienced as much as taught. And it was rarely a pleasant experience, I knew.
I felt bad about it, a bit, but I also knew it was necessary. I couldn’t coddle them. Not with assassins and goblins and enemies and rogue Censors hiding behind every bush. My court was now filled with flattering magi and exotic adventurers from several races, but the words of each one concealed hidden agendas and obscure loyalties.
It was unfortunate, but I needed them to grow up, and fast. I needed good men I could trust. I hoped that’s what I’d get back.
And I might just get some peace while they were gone. A man can dream.
Part One:
Inarion Academy, Winter
Year One Of Rard I’s Reign
Tyndal
The tests never seem to end, Tyndal thought with a despairing groan as he surveyed the table outside Master Secul’s study. It was filled with scrolls, books, and folios the Remeran Master of Magical Philosophy had suggested should be read in preparation for yet more tests. Tyndal found the process hellish. But the torture of study in his prison of parchment was almost peaceful, compared to the rigor of the actual examinations.
The tests lasted for two solid weeks, day in and day out, within the august and dusty confines of the Inarion Academy of Imperial Magic. And they weren’t just tests; they were examinations, in the literal sense.
He and Rondal were examined by some of the greatest magical scholars in the land. He should be honore
d – Rondal told him so often enough. His fellow apprentice was glorying in the opportunity to test his magical skills and knowledge with adepts of great lore and deep subtlety.
That didn’t mollify Sir Tyndal of Sevendor, sixteen-year-old knight mage, one bit. Sir Tyndal was a man of action. After two weeks on the dreary old campus, he felt the fetters of fine education frustrating his every thought. And that had worked against him today when he was examined for his knowledge of the Philosophy of Magic.
Examined, evaluated, measured, questioned, interrogated, assessed, and – worst of all – tutored. After every master had an opportunity to figuratively crawl around inside his head to see how ignorant he was, Tyndal was given a list of texts – mostly remedial – they recommended to repair the deficiencies in his education.
Therefore, he spent most of his time outside of examinations reading. The vast wooden table he and Rondal were given in the Main Library was filled with thick books and scrolls. The table and their studies seemed as menacing as armies of foes. When he looked at all of the texts he was supposed to consume, he devoutly wished that he was about to go into battle against a legion of bloodthirsty goblins instead.
Goblins he understood. Reading was hard.
It wasn’t that Tyndal couldn’t read; it wasn’t even that he couldn’t read well – he even understood why he needed to read, as some lessons were just far better relayed through the written word, and he had come to appreciate it. He just felt that there was usually something more exciting to be doing when he was reading . . . and usually he was correct.
But he had promised his master to lay aside his mageblade for the next several weeks and diligently focus on his studies. He was being assessed by the prestigious Inarion Imperial Academy of Magic to see how close he was to having a chance at taking his journeyman examination, and he did not want to fail or embarrass Master Minalan.
He was supposed to be getting educated as one of the first Knights Magi, the ennobled and augmented warrior-wizards who were being trained to fight the goblin invasion. It had sounded so exciting, when Master Min had proposed it. Unfortunately his master had decided that he was to do so here, in this dusty old dump that smelled like age, old parchment, and rotting fish, instead of someplace more comfortable with someone bribable.
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 2
