The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  “If some other mage can find a way to break the bond between the irionite shards and the Dead God, then perhaps,” I conceded. “But unless it is one of my warmagi who does it, then whatever champion or general the Duchies place in charge of the war will still not have the one qualification I have.”

  She looked at me expectantly. “And that is?”

  “He won’t be one who has stared into the eyeless face of the foe, felt his hatred wrap around your mind, and lived to tell the tale.” Sure, it was boastful. I survived the encounter. I had a right to boast.

  “But does that make you a fit and wise leader?” Rardine asked, an eyebrow cocked. “You’re fair of face and form, speak like a warrior in a courtier’s voice, and you tell a most compelling tale, Spellmonger. Your spells are potent enough,” she added, nodding toward the sea of yellow roses. “But how does that make you fit to guide us, then? When there are older, wiser, more experienced heads for whom war is a not merely a profession, but a way of life?”

  “Your Excellency is wise to ask,” I conceded. “The truth is, I do not know everything about the foe, or about waging war, or about magic or witchstones. I certainly don’t know how to organize the way that will be necessary to counter the Dead God. I’m pretty good at what I do, and I’ve been pretty lucky so far, and the honest truth is that I could be talking myself into a quick and inglorious death – or worse, capture and torment by the Dead God.

  “But I cannot cede this burden to any other, Your Grace,” I admitted, “though nothing would please me more. Until I am certain that the immediate threat is abated, and that we are prepared to counter this enemy in perpetuity, I won’t be able to rest long enough even to see my first child born.”

  Mother and daughter exchanged a meaningful look – which I didn’t know the meaning of. Frustrating. Finally, the Duchess stood. That meant everyone else stood.

  “Walk with me, Spellmonger,” she said in a mysterious tone of voice. She could be about to order me thrown into the river or hand over the coronet of Castal. I bowed and offered her my arm.

  She led me down the gentle slope, past a statue of some legendary ancestor of the Duke, at a leisurely stroll. “You know, when I first came to Wilderhall, it was little more than a draughty old castle with too many hunting trophies hanging on the walls. A menagerie of death. My mother-in-law hated the place, and came up with any excuse to spend the summers south. I rather liked it. Especially the wild roses. When Rard made it his practice to relocate here in the summer, I insisted that he plant the River Garden here, within the walls, but within sight of the bridge and the river and the hills.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said, sincerely. “As a boy, I always remember the Ducal barges passing up and down river to Wilderhall. I’m afraid it’s not quite as impressive as I imagined. A good deal less dragons, the flagstones aren’t made of gold, and not a giant in sight.”

  She laughed, a warm, indulgent laugh, well-practiced but no less sincere. “It’s the air I like best. Master Minalan, I’m beginning to trust you, and that’s dangerous.”

  “How so, Your Grace?” I asked, quietly.

  “Because once I trust you, I have high expectations that you will continue to earn that trust. And when I become disappointed in those I trust, the consequences can be unpleasant. I’m sure you’ve heard it whispered that I’m the ‘real’ power behind my lord husband’s rule.”

  “Your Grace, I have been in Wilderhall less than a week, and I’ve barely had time to get a mug of beer, much less indulge in idle gossip.”

  “A diplomatic response,” she smiled. “And not completely honest, I’ll wager. But there is an element of truth to that rumor. My lord husband is a good man, perhaps even a great man. He is wise and just and kind and merciful. He has seen his realm in victory, and larger than his sires left it to him. His high nobles love or fear him, and there hasn’t been rebellion against him in ten years.

  “And the reason that he enjoys such a high repute among commoner and noble alike is because I am a good and dutiful wife, loyal to his command.”

  “I have no doubt that His Grace depends upon the stability and serene wisdom Your Grace bestows within the realm of matrimony,” I said, mentally squirming uncomfortably.

  “You mistake my meaning, Minalan. I am, indeed, a good wife in the traditional sense. But I also serve as my lord husband’s ears and eyes to the realm. And, at need, his hand. I have spent my reign cultivating spies and agents among the common people, the merchant classes, the temples, the fleets, the magi, and the courts of a hundred peers across the Five Duchies. They see and hear and whisper it in an ear that sends that information to me. And when the security of the Duchy and its people is in peril, I remove the threat.” As she spoke she reached out and plucked a rose from its stem, quickly snapping the thick fiber with a decisive twist of her fingers.

  I looked down at the rose and took a moment to reflect. The Duchess of Castal had just suggested that she was a spymaster. “Your Grace, may I ask how you remove the threat?”

  “Well,” she said, regarding the rose, “it depends upon the threat. But do you remember hearing Count Sharant of Colmont died so tragically last winter?”

  “I do remember hearing about that,” I admitted. The old gentleman had been returning from prayers at his family temple when he slipped on a patch of ice and bashed his head against the stairs. It had been seen by the nobility as the tragic loss of a great elder statesman and adept ruler. It had been seen by the commoners as a sign of the gods’ disfavor.

  “Do you remember the lovely young blonde woman in the cream-colored gown near the entrance? That’s Lady Esmara. She was escorting Count Sharant at the time. When I heard that he was plotting to lead a rebellion against my lord husband, with the backing of some Remeran barons, I sent word to Lady Esmara. She dashed the old coot’s gray head against the steps, and then let him bleed for a hundred heartbeats before she ran to get the guard.”

  I paled, despite myself. I did remember that woman – and she really was lovely.

  “She is not the only agent of mine. The olive-skinned lady who was embroidering that pretty scarf is Lady Aralai of Drenfield. Last year she seduced a Merwini grain merchant, earned his confidence, learned the identities of the Duke of Merwin’s spies in my court, and then drove a knitting needle into his ear while he slept. The harpist is Sister Faress, of the Wilderhall temple of Ishi. She knows twenty ways to poison a man that mimic twenty naturally-occurring maladies. Lady Vrett strangled the mistress of Baron Jindal in Summerspree during the Baron’s daughter’s name-day celebration and left her corpse in his bed as a message. Dame Belanth slit the throat of an entire family . . . ”

  She recited the list of murders and other crimes as if she was giving me a cookie recipe. My blood ran colder as I realized that this sweet, kind, gentle matron was not merely a power-broker, not just the power-behind-the-throne, she was a mass murderer on a holy mission, with little or no compunction about ending a life – or a village full of lives.

  “Now you might think from this admission that I’m some sort of bloodthirsty tyrant, like Duke Edfar of Vore. Nothing could be further from the truth. I do not relish this role, or even enjoy it – but it is a necessary one. In my father’s time, there was an obsequious dandy in the court of Alshar who handled such ‘delicate’ matters – while plotting against my father. When my husband and I assumed our thrones, I retired the gentleman who provided the same services for Castal and I gradually took over his duties.

  “In the process, I transformed the office – for office it is. Every Duchy needs information, Minalan, information upon which wise policies can be made – including the quiet elimination of threats. Who better positioned to lead such an effort than I? The Duchess is above reproach, incorruptible, and beyond the possibility of treason or scandal. And I have schooled my daughter in this subtle art as well. She will lead the effort when I am gone, or for her new husband, whomever he might be.”

  “Your Grace I am . . . near spee
chless,” I said, finally, my mouth agape.

  “Of course you are, dear boy, it’s a horrible, horrible thing for an old lady to have to do. But it’s more horrible to watch one’s sons die because of stupidity or poor intelligence. I cannot entrust that to anyone else, so I take care of it myself.”

  “And this is not widely known?”

  “Most of the Court is aware, of course,” she admitted. “But most of the nobility, even the peers, do not know the extent of my role.”

  That was unfortunate. “So your revelation to me is a confidence, Your Grace?” I waved my hand over the rose she still bore, and when I took it away the flower was the darkest blood-red.

  She smiled at the trick, and it wasn’t warm at all this time. “A confidence? If you like. To put it another way, you have just been recruited into my effort, like it or not. You will either accept my patronage – and my influence on His Grace’s decisions – or you will not. In which case, something terrible may well happen to you.”

  “Your Grace, I mean no disrespect,” I said, swallowing harshly, and feeling a little vomit at the back of my throat, “but it cannot have escaped your notice that I am well-defended.”

  “And it cannot have escaped your notice that no matter how powerful a mage you might be, or will be, you cannot seal yourself away in a tower and be effective. You must have human contact. And anyone you might meet could be an agent. Whether it’s poison, a duel, a tragic riding accident, a fortune of war – one way or another, if I will you to die then only the gods may spare you. I do not mean to belittle your powers, Spellmonger, but you would not be the first magi to die by my order. Even the first with Irionite. Ask Orril Pratt.”

  I raised my eyebrows – clearly she was suggesting that she was partially behind the prosecution of the Farisian campaign. I didn’t want to question her power to her face, of course, but I found that far-fetched.

  Still, she seemed pretty confident about it.

  “So you are . . . recruiting me,” I said, slowly. “Drafting me, in essence. Again.”

  A small chuckle escaped her lips. “I suppose I am. ‘Recalling you to active service’ might be a more appropriate term. But the result is the same. My daughter and I were impressed with your answers about why you wanted to fight this menace so badly, and why you were so adamant about precisely why it must be done your way. We questioned your motives, of course – one isn’t a Duchess long before you question every motive of every courtier, even your family. But when given an opportunity to relent, you stood firm and took responsibility – not for your own aggrandizement or enrichment, but on behalf of the people of the Duchies.”

  I shrugged as casually as I could. “I spoke my heart, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

  “Exactly,” she sighed. “I know you are common-born – nothing to be ashamed of, my boy, and indeed I find it quite refreshing. Noblemen are always so damned entitled, even when they are being magnanimous. They don’t think of their people, as much as their property, even the good ones. But you . . . you speak sense, you speak it clearly, and gods help you, you speak it very persuasively.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” I said, my throat dry.

  “Don’t thank me – you’ve attracted my notice. That may well prove the death of you. But I have to ask: will you serve, willingly, honestly, and loyally? Or will you refuse my offer . . . and the obligation it comes with? Let me know now, Minalan, and be true with your words. For if I decide you’ve betrayed me, it won’t be just you who pays the price. My agents will seek out your family, your father and mother, your sisters, their husbands and children, and your intended bride and her unborn child, and send you all into death together.”

  “Your Grace makes a compelling argument,” I said, diplomatically. “And I would be a fool to reject an offer so kindly made and so plainly stated. I will add a provision of my own, however: if I feel the goals of your organization conflict with my goal of preserving the Five Duchies against the Dead God, we may have words, madam. Threats or no, that has to be my highest priority, even if it is at odds with some scheme or plot of yours.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, after a long pause. “I rarely bargain with my spies, but you are not an ordinary spy, are you? Very well: if we are to bargain, then let us be absolutely plain in our dealings. You work for me, when needed, and I will intercede on your behalf with my husband. Further, even if he is reluctant, I will ensure no violence will come to you from the Censor General. He wouldn’t be the first one who has been removed from office.”

  It was strange – I immediately felt a sense of relief. If anyone could protect me from Hartarian’s wrath, it was this scheming, dangerous old crone. Of course, by accepting her patronage – matronage? – I was trading one dire consequence for another. Not an enviable position to be in.

  “That would be most kind of you,” I nodded.

  “Further, I ask that you inform me of . . . everything. Any little thing you think may be important to the security of the Duchy, I want you to pass along to me. In turn, if I may render assistance to you without revealing myself, I shall. But there is one more thing . . .”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I require a witchstone.”

  That surprised me as much or more than anything else she had said. “Your Grace?” I asked, stunned. “Am I mistaken in thinking that you are a magi, as well as a Duchess?”

  She smirked at me. “No, I have no Talent. But there are those under my command who do, and it occurs to me that having a stone would be of great benefit to my efforts.”

  “You are correct,” I conceded. “However . . . any stone given by my hand is a loan, not a gift. I must take an oath from the recipient, and teach them the rudiments of attunement to the stone.”

  She nodded. “I will allow this . . . with the understanding that I expect a certain amount of leniency in judging its use. I can appreciate the power and potency of your irionite oath as a necessary check on the power of a mage thus equipped – indeed, I doubt I would have sided with you, without it.

  “But just as I admire and support the codes of chivalry, I also know that there are times and places where the wisest course means abandoning them, at least temporarily, and doing what needs be done without honor’s consideration. The mage who takes this stone will be sworn to my service, first. They will be doing things which may offend your moral sensibilities.”

  “Understood, and agreed,” I sighed. “As long as the recipient is qualified, I see no obstacle to that. And the lifting of the Bans?”

  “A law long-overdue for review and reflection,” she said, with a trace of scorn. “I’ve often thought that we gave up too much in binding magi the way we have. The wonders of the Magocracy were many, and the potential of magic to improve the realms of man is great. Since I think the danger of Imperial guerrillas re-establishing the Empire is probably abated,” she said, wryly, “then the motive for the law in the first place is no longer active.”

  I decided against mentioning that the Order of the Secret Tower, a three-hundred-year-old underground organization of the descendants of those same guerillas was alive and well – and now had a stone of their own. Two, if you counted Penny’s. Really, it wouldn’t have helped my case. And either she already knew about them, or she didn’t need to – that wasn’t my decision to make.

  But that did quite clearly state her support, and I relaxed the tiniest little bit.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” I said, humbly.

  “Besides,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard me, “right now the Bans hamper our sword arm when we need every weapon at hand to fight against this abomination. And making the magically Talented, noble and common alike, commit to magic as a profession or give it up entirely – that’s an artificial restriction that has long done more harm than good. So yes, Minalan, the Bans will be lifted. In Castal, anyway. And likely what’s left of Alshar.

  “As I said, I am recruiting you into my organization,” she continued, glancing at the height of the sun
in the sky. “Let me tell you a few things about it, as it may prove useful, and that will make you more useful to me.

  “Firstly, my people are known as my ‘family’, and our operation is the ‘family business.’ I am known as ‘Mother,’ and wherever I am is the ‘Hearth.’ My most important agents are my ‘Daughters’ and ‘Sons.’ They tend to be my most highly-trained, highly-placed, and most highly-effective agents, and have considerable authority. If someone claims to be ‘Mother’s Daughter’ or ‘Mother’s Son,’ then obey them – or at least understand that they act on my behalf. If you suspect treachery, then merely ask them where the baby is.”

  “ ‘The baby’?”

  “It’s a subterfuge,” she said, reasonably, “If they answer anything but ‘she’s safe at the hearth,’ then you know they are not my true Children. Any agents below them are generally known as ‘cousins.’ And armed agents in my service – and there are more than a few – are known as my ‘stepsons’.”

  “No ‘stepdaughters’?”

  “There are,” she conceded, “but you do not need to know about them, yet. To continue, after myself and Rardine, the third in command is Lady Arnet.”

  “Lady Arnet?” I asked, surprised. The Duke’s minister of lands and estates seemed six years older than dirt, and half-asleep at the best of times.

  “Yes, the same,” she agreed. “Who would expect an innocuous old biddy of being a ruthless spymaster? She collects the information in her office, considers it, and then passes it in the direction it needs to go. She’s invaluable at the task. In fact, it is she who set me on this path, so many years ago.”

  “I’ll never look at an old lady the same way again,” I promised, shaking my head in wonder.

  “No, I expect you won’t,” she chuckled. “One more thing – when you have gathered some interesting information and wish to pass it to the Hearth, then—”