“Discarded mash,” I observed. “Lots of it. It molds. I should have recognized it when we got here. I wonder how Sir Cei didn’t . . .”
Sagal chuckled. “Oh, that’s because Sir Cei never had to deal with illegal stills in Boval. If a fellow wants to make liquor, he just ferments cider all autumn, and then lets it freeze come winter. Chuck off the ice, you have the spirits underneath. Don’t need all the ironmongery,” he said, almost proudly.
“Ice distillation,” I nodded. “That makes sense. Put this place to order, and if you have any trouble send word and I’ll bring the whole garrison. This little hold doesn’t look like much, but if anyone can set it to rights, it’s you. Just let me know what you need.”
“My pleasure, Min,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he began to plan. “My pleasure.”
* * *
I almost called it a day and rode back to the castle – it was already early evening. Then I recalled Alya’s mood this morning, and I decided I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t call on the other Yeomanry in the eastern end of the vale, Yeoman Ylvine of Southridge Hold. I had left my escort with Sagal back in Farant’s Hold – we’d have to come up with a new name for it now – so I was proceeding by myself, but I figured I could handle it.
I really enjoyed the ride across the valley, once I left Farant’s land. Even in winter, Sevendor was a pretty vale. The setting sun made magnificent colors across the face of the exposed rocks of the cliffs to the southeast, and the rolling pitch of the bottom lands made the whole land seem as active as a seashore. I took my time as I crossed the pasturelands that lead to Southridge, and by the time I arrived at the wooden palisade near twilight, I had a warm, homey feeling.
That lasted until I spoke to Yeoman Ylvine.
He could have been distantly related to Jurlor, as he had the same shaggy head and beard, and his eyes were similar. But he did not have Jurlor’s broad shoulders, and his lips were thinner and his nose longer than the other Yeoman. When I pounded on the closed gate of the palisade, Ylvine was the second person I met, after the boy who answered the knock ran off to get him at my summons.
I hadn’t given my name, just that I was from the Castle. Ylvine came out, sword at his belt but unarmored, and gave me and Traveler a long look.
“You’re from the castle?” he asked, surprised.
“You’re Yeoman Ylvine?”
“I ask the questions in my own hall,” he barked back.
“Which means you are Yeoman Ylvine,” I pointed out. “Excellent. I bear a message from the Lord of Sevendor.”
“The upstart?” he snorted. “This should be good. What does his lordship say?”
“You seem ill-disposed toward your new lord,” I observed.
“Don’t really matter who I pay taxes to, does it? Erantal I learned to do business with, the black-hearted bastard. Who is this new lordling? I hear he was a miller’s son – and now he wishes to command a man of my station?”
Oh, this was amusing. I wondered just how far he’d go. “He was knighted for his valor and granted this estate in gratitude from the Duke, himself.”
“Well, goody for him!” exploded Ylvine. “Some stranger coming in and upsetting the whole vale . . . bringing those queer folk with him . . . and a wizard, too! From all the tales I heard, it’s never good to serve a Magelord. It’s not proper to bend a knee to a man who—”
“You know,” I interrupted, before he said something I’d have to take official notice of, “it’s a little dark out here.” I waved my hand and summoned a magelight into being between us, a little thing not larger than a hen’s egg, so that it illuminated both of our faces in the gloom. “There, that’s better. Now, you were saying something about magelords?”
It took a few moments for him to catch up, but he eventually nodded his head. “You’re him, aren’t ye?”
“I am,” I nodded. “Sire Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor. And I’m a baker’s son, not a miller’s son. And I aim to set this realm to rights, after Erantal’s disgraceful neglect. I’ve just discharged Farant from his Yeomanry.”
“You what?” Ylvine asked, surprised. “That sorry rat? Good riddance! Maybe you aren’t so bad after all.”
“You didn’t mind Erantal, but you hated Farant?” I asked, in surprise. “Can I ask why?”
“Erantal just wanted his rightful tribute, and to tap one of the maids every now and then. Like I said, I could do business with him. But Farant? He’s in the purse of Fleria. I might not like bending a knee to a wizard, but I’m a loyal Sevendori. I don’t sell my loyalty.” He said it proudly, if reluctantly.
“Well, I ask that you and your household come to a special Yule celebration at the castle,” I said, gently. “I discharged Farant for cause, but I won’t turn a man out for speaking his mind, especially if he’s loyal. Of course, if he proves disloyal, then that is another story. But all I ask is that you give me a chance to earn your loyalty. Fulfill your warrant faithfully, and I’ll have no cause to interfere . . . past a certain point. There will be some changes,” I warned.
“Well, stands to reason there would be,” Ylvine admitted. “But bringing in all those queer folk—”
“Those ‘queer folk’ are refugees from the Mindens, from the western Alshari Wilderlands. Boval Vale, particularly. And yes, their accent sounds strange and their customs are going to be different. But they are a good and sturdy folk, as honest as you could ask for in neighbors. I’m Riverborn myself. My folks hale from Talry. But I’ve lived with them for a while, now, and I tell you they are good folk. I ask that you give them a chance to earn your friendship, and in the long term I can see you profiting from that.”
He seemed to consider the matter, but in the end he made a sour face and shook his head. “I’ll swear to you as lord,” he conceded. “That’s only right. But you don’t interfere with me and mine, and I’ll do as my warrant bids.”
“That’s a pretty brave attitude to take with your new lord,” I pointed out.
“You can turn me out like Farant, or you can kill me,” he declared, “but I don’t kiss no man’s ass. Never have. Not Erantal, and not you.”
“Fair enough,” I conceded. “So we can count on your household at Yule, where you will re-swear your oath?”
“We’ll be there,” he said, warily. “Count on two score. And we’ll be bearing arms . . . in honor of our new lord,” he added. Apparently Yeoman Ylvine didn’t trust me.
“Then I’ll make arrangements for that many,” I replied, evenly. “Good evening, Yeoman,” I said as I gathered my reins. I was glad I didn’t bring wine inside. I didn’t want to prolong this engagement.
“Lord,” was the curt reply I got – the first tangible acknowledgement of my rank from his lips.
I got back to the castle long after dinner was over, so I cajoled Nanily to bring me a plate in my quarters . . . where Alya was waiting. She was under the thick blankets we had gotten as wedding gifts back in Talry, looking tired and a little miserable. There would have been a lot more blankets, had I not placed a warming spell on the room. The enchantment made it as comfortable as a cool autumn evening, not cold enough to freeze water in the wash basin as it was elsewhere in the castle.
“Were you avoiding me today?” she accused, her pretty eyes peering out at me tearfully from beneath the blankets.
“I had some business to attend to,” I said as I took a seat at the little table in our room. “I visited three of the Yeomanries today.”
I filled her in on events as I ate, and that distracted her a little from the fact that yes, indeed, I had been avoiding her all day. She was particularly interested in the sudden raising of Sagal’s station. Her pregnant sister had been giving her grief about living in a mud hut while she got to live in a castle. Now she’d get to live in a manor hall.
“Well, Sagal is the right man to order a place,” she agreed, abandoning her ire for the moment in order to promote her brother-in-law. She and Ela, her sister, were not at all alike,
and seemed to work best when there was sufficient distance between them, but she liked Sagal like a brother. “Marrying him was the smartest thing my sister ever did. But aren’t you worried that people are going to start thinking he got the position by nepotism—?”
“He did,” I agreed. “If he wasn’t my brother-in-law, he might not have gotten the opportunity. But this isn’t a village festival we’re organizing here, this is our domain. I need people I can trust in places where they can do the most good. Farant’s Hold is just this side of the ridge from Brestal, and I didn’t want to leave a rotten spot on my frontier. When your sister arrives at Yule, if he’s done a good job I’ll raise him to Yeoman and she’ll have a comfy little estate all her own.”
“And how is that not nepotism?” she asked, pointedly.
“It’s exactly nepotism,” I agreed. “That’s my point. This way, if he messes things up worse, I can say ‘hey, I had to appoint him; he’s my brother-in-law.’ And if he does well – which I fully expect, Sagal is no idiot – then I can say ‘see? I know talent when I see it.’ Win-win.”
“That’s . . . that doesn’t seem . . . oh, I don’t really care. I just don’t want people to think . . .”
“Think what? That you are Lady of the land, and that being related to you is a good thing?”
“Think that I’m the type of Lady who’s ready to cram her relatives down the throats of the people,” she finished.
“We’re going to have to stop worrying so much about what people think,” I said, kicking my boots off tiredly. “If we do that, then we won’t be able to get anything important done. I could have waited until Yule to strip Farant of his holding, because the other Yeomen would have seen that as a more appropriate time to do it. But I decided it couldn’t wait, and damn what they might think. I’ve got a domain to rule, and if someone is getting in the way of that, I have a responsibility to deal with that first.”
She smiled at me, which I wasn’t expecting – I was prepared for her to pick a fight.
“What?” I demanded.
“You look really cute when you get all resolute and lordly,” she giggled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend your dignity.”
“That’s something else I’ve got to be willing to part with, at need,” I shrugged. “I’m serious about wanting to be a different kind of lord – I’m committed to proving that magelords can benefit their subjects, not just exploit them.”
“I know, Min,” she sighed. “But don’t get so involved in all of Sevendor’s troubles that you ignore . . . well, things at home,” she said. “I’m not feeling ignored just yet, but I got really lonely today. Really lonely.” She began to weep. “I know I’m just having . . . pregnancy stirrings, but damn it! They feel real enough!”
“Come here,” I said, sympathetically, sliding into bed next to her. “I’m sorry I was gone, but it couldn’t be helped. I’ll try to spend a few days around the castle and make sure you don’t get too lonely. But there are going to be times . . . especially until I can get this relic livable and the Bovali settled . . . there are going to be times when I’m going to have to be away.”
“I know,” she sniffed. “’The duty of a lord is to his people.’ That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Me either,” I said, soothingly. I held her while she wept until she started snoring, and I felt safe drifting off myself.
Of course that’s when someone decided they needed to talk to me.
I felt the stirrings of mind-to-mind contact, and the symbols for the spell swam before me. Reluctantly I activated the request and established a link. I felt obligated. I’d been so involved in Sevendor that I had not only been neglecting the comfort of my bride, but I hadn’t given much thought to the greater war effort in weeks.
Thankfully, I had good competent people to handle that. One of them was Terleman, the Warden of the Magelands, and military commander of the warmagi and magelords in the Alshari Wilderlands who still faced the armies of the Dead God. And thankfully the news was good.
Things have been pretty quiet, he admitted, after we exchanged greetings. I actually contacted you partially out of boredom.
That’s encouraging, I agreed. So no more sorties from the Penumbra? That was the region adjacent to the Dead God’s sphere of direct influence, known as the Umbra.
Not on this side of it. But they’re reinforcing that last big castle in the south they took, Persalan Castle. There’s at least ten thousand wintering there.
Ten thousand doesn’t sound like that many, I observed.
If they were all infantry, I’d agree. But there are at least a company of trolls, and what appears to be the bulk of his engineer corps. And at least twenty shamans.
All right, that does seem like an abundance, I admitted. What are they doing?
Gathering their strength is all, right now. The gurvani don’t seem to want to fight in the snow any more than we do. They haven’t done more than a few raids against isolated settlements. But come spring, a force that large in Persalan can only mean that they plan on continuing a southern push.
What’s the next large castle they’d have to face?
Droverdal. Count Morlad of Droverdal, to be exact. It’s not the strongest castle in the Wilderlands, but then it’s only barely in the Wilderlands. Sixty miles south you come to the Riverlands. And once there . . .
Let’s hope the gurvani don’t discover boats, I agreed. The Riverlands could be traversed pretty quickly, by barge. You should send word of this intelligence to the good Count.
Already done. And I’ve also requested that His Grace consider ordering a levy in Gilmora. Problem is, Count Morlad is not, shall we say, a friend of His Grace or his ambitions.
Dissent already?
There are a lot of Alshari who resent the mysterious death of Duke Lenguin in the field, and a lot of opportunistic great nobles are using it as a pretext for their own ambitions. Nothing surprising. Working as a warmage could make you jaded about politics, and permanent prohibition against playing in politics allowed us to make judgments about it without being overly involved in it.
We had all seen how opportunism had influenced the outcome of the wars we fought in. Terleman’s ability to understand it without being drawn into it made him an excellent man to command the High Magi in the field.
Unfortunately, he was all-too-willing to rely on rumor, and not get his facts certain. I had to keep nudging him to take a broader view of military intelligence. Keep an eye on him. See who he’s talking to. When I spoke with Mavone and the other Gilmoran magi, they indicated that their countrymen’s proclivity toward revolt would likely be tempered by the threat of goblin invasion. If Morlad truly understood what he’s facing . . .
I’ll see if I can’t give him a private tour, Terleman said, thoughtfully. I need to go inspect the garrisons in that region anyway. We have a sprinkling of High Magi in the area, but I’m sending more. I’ll stop by and tell some tales, give him something to think about. Somehow I don’t think the gurvani are going east, this summer. They’re heading south. Into the heartland of the Riverlands.
There was more, but that was the cheery thought I went to sleep on that night.
Chapter Seven
The Reconquest Of Brestal Vale
The next week was very busy. I barely slept at all.
Tyndal started contacting me magically every night to report on the progress of the next wave of Bovali – there was a final one, after this, that wouldn’t be able to travel until the weather cleared, mostly dotards, babies or the sick and wounded.
They were still in the care of Sir Roncil, one of Sire Koucey’s other gentlemen-knights who had elected to stay on with the refugees. But the main column of Bovali was coming up the Bontal River on four massive barges. More than fifty families and hundreds of straggling, lonely displaced survivors of Boval were arriving, at my expense, to begin their new lives.
My two apprentices, Tyndal and Rondal, were herding them along, with the help of a dozen community
leaders. They had found their welcome increasingly cold at the old Ducal castle where they had been quartered, and while some of them found a new home in the coastal region, the others were anxious to take me up on my offer of a new start.
But getting ready for a thousand new people in the middle of winter wasn’t easy. Feeding them and keeping them warm were the biggest headaches. We had prepared as many shelters as we could, but even with the castle stuffed to the battlements and all my Yeomanries packed to the rafters, we still lacked a place for over twenty families.
A place in Sevendor, that is.
Sir Cei, Captain Forondo and I had been plotting and planning this entire time to kill two goblins with one arrow. We had people to quarter and no good shelter to do so. We also had a third of my realm that had to be recaptured, eventually, and unfriendly neighbors who would object to that.
But the thing is, feudal states just do not make war in the winter. It’s too cold and too difficult to forage for warhorses and oxen teams, so only professional mercenaries will usually fight after the Autumnal Equinox – peasants and knights would rather stay drunk by the fire all winter. Considering any kind of military action before the thaw was just unheard of.
That gave us a big advantage over Gimbal of West Fleria. He wasn’t expecting us to move on Brestal until spring, at the earliest. We needed it now.
I hadn’t been to tour the tower there myself, but I’d sent several native Sevendori to scout on one pretext or another. I’d even climbed half-way up Matten’s Helm to peer at the squat stone structure through magesight, until I was satisfied I had a good idea of the place’s defenses. And, of course, I tapped Sir Cei’s ability to gather rumor and gossip, until I knew the names of just about everyone in Brestal, as well as what they did.
The eastern lobe of my fief had been taken in conquest and given to Sir Ganulan, the pimply-faced sixteen-year-old bastard of Sire Gimbal. But the boy rarely stayed in Brestal, leaving it in the charge of his uncle on his mother’s side, Sir Lanulan. And from what I heard about him, he and Sir Erantal could have been twins.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 12
