“What’d I do?” I asked, confused.
“He’s just been born, don’t pay him any mind,” soothed the old woman. “Go tend to your lady wife. She struggled valiantly, and deserves your praise more than this little fellow deserves your wonder.”
I approached my bed cautiously, and seeing me near one of the other attendant crones pushed back the canopy to reveal my wife. My very, very tired-looking wife.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” she said, dreamily. “Oh, Min, he’s perfect!”
“He is,” I agreed. “Thank you, Alya.”
“For what?” she asked, confused.
“For going through that,” I said, taking her hand. “I’ve been in a lot of fights . . . but for two days straight? I couldn’t do it. You’re the toughest man I know,” I said, shaking my head.
“No man could have done it,” she dismissed. “Min, it was . . . oh, I wished you were here, so badly, but they said it wouldn’t be a good idea . . . I think they’re right, in hindsight. Some things a man should never have to endure.”
“Um,” I said, delicately, glancing up at the shimmering walls, “I see you redecorated.”
“Me? I thought you did that!” she exclaimed. “There I was, making the last push, and then wham! Suddenly I passed out. I don’t even remember the first few minutes – they say that’s a good thing – but when I woke up . . . this. I thought it was some spell you’d planted to celebrate.”
“I’m not that cunning,” I admitted. “Of course, the only conclusion that leads me to is . . . our son did it.”
“Our son?” she asked, her hand tightening on mine as her eyes got wide. “How did he—?”
“I have no idea whatsoever,” I assured her. “It’s a complete mystery to me. But he’s fine, you’re fine . . . and all I want to do is celebrate and hold my boy.”
“Of course,” she smiled, her face looking a little hard after two days of labor. “What are we going to name him?
“That’s right,” I said. It hadn’t occurred to me. He’d been “the baby” for so long, I hadn’t even thought about it. We discussed a few possibilities, and found one we liked the sound of – one using elements of both of our names, in Alshari mountain tradition.
“So go tell everyone. And then you can come back and make bug eyes at him while I sleep. As soon as you bring me some food.”
“What?” I asked. Who could eat at a time like this?
“Food,” she repeated, gripping my hand tightly enough to hurt. “I haven’t eaten in two days, and I’ve been fighting with that little bastard the entire time. He was relentless, Min! I need food, and then I need sleep. So be a dear and have some sent up, tell everyone the news, and then come back here, with as much food as you can carry. And cider. I want cider.”
“Anything you want,” I agreed. I gave her a long, tender kiss, gave another to my son, and wrapped in a soft, glow-y cloud of contentment and peace, I stood at the top of the stairs, where I realized a couple hundred faces were staring back at me, expectantly. And silently.
“I have a son,” I began shakily. It somehow didn’t seem real until I announced it. “Lord Minalyan the Snowborn, son of Minalan the Spellmonger. And Lady Alya is hale and resting comfortably. Now, can someone bring my wife some biscuits and cider before she eats the poor lad out of desperation?”
The entire hall erupted in cheers. And I fainted again.
Chapter Thirteen
The Snow That Never Melted
“It stretches through here,” Yeoman Guris grunted around pipestem clenched in his teeth, as he used his broad shoulders and long arms to indicate the front wall of his manor house. “This end of the wall is pure white. By the time it ends on the corner, you can only see flecks. It was a wonder,” the Bovali-born Yeoman said, shaking his head.
“It was indeed,” I said, surveying the wall. It was the best example I’d seen yet of the fading edge of the magical effect that had turned my castle – and apparently almost everything else in a two-mile radius – brilliant, unblemished white.
Whatever had happened two weeks before, it had extended to the middle of Southridge Hold, and had affected all the stone and clay in three quarters of his long home. “Notice anything else strange about it?”
“Nay,” he said. “Close your eyes and put a hand on it, you can’t tell it from regular stone. It’s just . . . white. You did it, Magelord? Or one o’ your apprentices?”
“Actually, we’re still looking into it,” I said, cautiously but confidently. I didn’t want to let him know too much – I didn’t know enough myself to tell him anything more definitive than “it’s white.” “We’ll know more when the weather clears and I can order some special equipment. But it wasn’t done on purpose, I promise you. About the best I can tell you is that it happened precisely at the moment my son was born.”
The farmer looked spooked. “You don’t say? Imagine that. A sign from the gods, perhaps?”
“That’s a better explanation than most,” I conceded. “And I can’t rule it out.” I felt a little guilty, every time someone mentioned the effect as “a sign from the gods”, since I had, actually, appealed to the fire goddess Briga that fateful night in a fit of desperation. I couldn’t rule out divine intervention . . . but that was a damn hard thing to quantify. Or even identify.
“Yeah, I think it’s a sign from the gods. A good one,” he added, hastily. “It’s white, after all.”
“More likely it’s some natural magical phenomenon,” I said, trying to steer clear of theurgy. “But we’ll keep looking into it. Apart from that, how did you and yours fare the storm?”
“Ah, we were fine, Magelord, snug as pigs in slop. Enough to eat, if naught fancy, plenty of wood, an’ dry as a bone, now that the roof is repaired. Apart from the sudden and mysterious magical transformation of my entire new holding . . . it was relatively quiet.” We both chuckled at that.
“Well, keep an eye on it, and report any strangeness to Sir Cei.”
“Strangeness, Magelord?” he asked, curious. “What kind o’ strangeness?”
“People suddenly bursting into flames, cows flying across the pasturelands under their own power, the sudden appearance of giant bees . . . you know, strangeness.”
“Is any o’ that likely to happen, Magelord? Really?” he asked, skeptically.
I shrugged. “It’s only been around a week and a half, and most of that time it was under snow. But every bit of dirt and soil and rock and stone is like this, now. The entire mountain and cliffs, too. I figured the effect was temporary, but it hasn’t faded at all. The truth is, I really have no idea. But if you see anything like that, let us know. So far nothing strange has happened at the castle, and we’re . . . surrounded by it. I’m guessing if there are going to be any odd effects, they’ll likely happen either at the core, where it started, or out here where it ended. So keep us informed.”
“Oh, I will, I will, Magelord,” he assured me, wide-eyed.
“So how are you finding life as a Yeoman?” I asked, smiling, as we walked back through the muddy slush. There was still a foot of snow on the ground, but it was starting to melt. Guris’ men had carved trenches through the snow between the main manor hall and the outbuildings, but the rest of the land was still buried.
“It’s a pleasure, and a far better life than we ever expected, Magelord,” he said, humbly. “And I don’t mind saying I have you and the gods to thank. Back in Boval Castle, during the siege, I figured that was the end o’ me and mine – the great goblin soup pot. Then all those months at that castle, eating cast-off temple offerings and whatever the folk could manage to scrape up. I thought we’d be turned out on the road, by now, bandits or worse.
“And now not a year later and we’re livin’ like lordly folk in this fine house . . . it’s a blessing from the gods, it is,” he said, starting to tear up. “And you, o’ course, Lord Minalan.”
“It’s the least I could do for an old neighbor,” I dismissed, looking away uncomfortably, unwilling to
embarrass the man. “Besides, I think I borrowed your shears back in Minden’s Hall, before the invasion, and neglected to return them before I left, so we can call it even. So how are you situated for spring planting?”
Guris looked thoughtful, puffing away at his pipe. “There’s a sufficiency o’ seed, mostly maize and oats, with a little barley,” he admitted. “Enough for twenty, maybe twenty-five acres. The stock is decent, and I think we’ll have enough hay . . . but if the snow doesn’t clear in the east pasture soon, I’ll have bony beasts or fewer beasts when the fodder runs out.” He sounded grim but accepting of the possibility, as any farmer was. “Storehouse isn’t too bad, either. Looks like ol’ Ylvine kept back more than he let on. Found five hams in a compartment under the corn crib – five!”
“And the natives are getting on with your folk?” I asked. That was the big question, and the main reason I wanted to come out here. The white stone was just a convenient excuse. Southridge had ten families and a bunkhouse full of farmhands, over a hundred and fifty people. Twelve of them were Bovali. I could handle finding more feed or more beasts for Southridge, but if the natives rebelled at the thought of a foreign Yeoman . . .
“Oh, they’ve been fine, Magelord,” he assured me. “A little put-off, at first, but they loosened up a bit, once the beer came out. We’ve got to know each other, thanks to the storm. They’re a little rough, and there have been some disagreements, but I think we’ll do fine. Most are good folk, just scared. As long as no one goes hungry, we’ll be in good shape when the thaw comes. If we can keep the stock alive, that is,” he added, troubled. “I was hoping to have the sheep on the east pasture by today, if there was enough cleared, but there’s still half a foot o’ snow on it. Not much we can do about that. I suppose it will be mutton for a few nights,” he finished, with some consolation.
I knew that was trouble. Southridge was poorly suited for growing most grain crops, apart from some oats and maize, but what it lacked in hearty topsoil it made up for in pasturage. It was once the site of a horse breeding operation, if the castle records were to be believed. In more recent years it had been the holding that had supplied most of the vale’s wool.
Southridge had a small flock, but Guris was hopeful that he could grow it. Having to slaughter stock before lambing to keep the rest fed was a big step backward in getting the place viable. But I couldn’t conjure up hay the way I could light, or run time forward enough to expose the pasture.
Or could I? A thought struck me. “Actually, maybe there is. Where is this pasture?”
I hadn’t tried any serious magic since the baby was born – I was too busy holding Minalyan and being a smitten daddy. I was also still recovering from the big, nameless spell that I’d cast that night. It hadn’t been without effect on me, and for a few days my sphere was touchy, if I tried to use it for anything serious. That had mostly passed, now, but there were still some lingering effects of the exertion.
Today I felt particularly thoughtful about it, not just because of the white stone. It was Briga’s Day, the feast day of the goddess of fire, baking, magic, poetry, midwifery, etc. who I had invoked during the working.
I felt obligated to get out of the old castle and see how Sevendor had held up, because part of Briga’s mythology involved all sorts of unlikely run-ins with other deities in which the goddess usually demonstrated compassion for the weak and vulnerable.
In some ways, this was my ritual to the Bright One, to thank her for sparing both my son and my wife. The weather warmed on Briga’s Day. Traditionally, it was when the ewes are milked for the first time, and all sorts of folklore surrounds observations made on this day concerning weather and crops. Maybe I could show my gratitude to the fire goddess by helping graze her sacred animal.
We had been lucky – it was a major storm that had closed roads and passes for weeks across the Wilderlands, and we had no fatalities. We learned that six people had died of cold just over the frontier with West Fleria, in the depressing district just to our north. We had five times their population, and not one death. I was proud of that.
But if we couldn’t keep our people fed, we’d be in trouble. I surveyed the wide expanse of snow where Guris had led me. It was peppered with the tracks of birds and animals and children, but you couldn’t see a single blade of grass underneath.
Guris watched with interest as I took out my oversized witchstone and began the spell. I won’t go into technical details, but I heated up a mass of air in a disc three hundred feet in diameter. Heated it up by ten degrees. The snow started to melt at once.
It’s usually hard, heating up a stationary air mass in breezy outdoor conditions, so I increased the heat to quicken the process. I figured it would take ten minutes or so to melt it . . . but oddly enough the spell only took a quarter of the time. Mere moments later, a soggy, muddy field of brown grass and green shoots had replaced the field of snow.
“That should help,” I said, simply, putting my stone away. I was tired from the exertion, but it was a good kind of tired. The spell had hooked into place and worked as easily as a dream. This was the kind of work I’d wanted to do as a spellmonger in the first place, good, helpful magic.
“Gods’ truth, My Lord!” Guris said, delighted. “It will indeed! Can’t you do that for the whole valley?”
I pointed to the bottom of the pasture, where it encountered a low hedge. The lowest corner was already filling with pooled snowmelt. “That’s going to flood – and it won’t be the only place. If I did much more than this, then the stream would flood out . . . and right now I have almost a thousand people camped on the flood plain of the commons.”
“Oh . . . right you are, Lord Minalan,” he agreed, sagely, after I’d pointed it out. “Still, every acre cleared by magic is one less we have to wait on. We get these beasts grazing for a few days, we can stretch out our hay supply.”
“That’s a good point,” I agreed, reluctantly. “But that causes more problems downstream. That’s the problem with magic, sometimes. You can’t do just one thing.”
“Aye, there’s wisdom in that, Magelord,” Guris said, solemnly. “Come inside for a drink, Magelord?” he asked. “To toast your young’un?”
I sighed. My toes were cold, standing in that pasture. It was warming . . . but that didn’t mean it was warm. The idea of a nip of something sounded lovely.
“That would be much appreciated,” I agreed. He led me back inside and called for someone to bring him his jug. Guris’ oldest lad proudly brought his father an elegantly simple earthenware jug. “Got it from . . . well, you’re brother-in-law,” he said, a trifle guiltily. “Apparently Farant left behind a few gallons of his best, tucked away in the root cellar. He sent me one for Yule, and it’s never been more welcome.” He poured two glasses of the dark brown liquor. “Takes a bit of getting used to the taste . . .”
I saw what he meant a moment later, when the fire hit my stomach. It was awful. Like something that goblins would pass up.
“Briga’s fiery nips!” I swore, “how in seven hells did Farant make a living off of this . . .”
“Aye,” Guris nodded, philosophically, “it does defy an easy comparison.” He poured another. “To your new lad!” he said, and added a folk blessing. I had no choice. I had to join him.
What the liquor lacked in flavor, it made up for in potency. In a few scant moments I felt my whole body relax into a warm lethargy, as the fire seemed to suck both the cold and the energy from me.
“So, Magelord – Minalan,” Guris said, boldly switching to a more familiar tone. He was entitled – for six months we’d been neighbors, just two goodmen working their trades. Our mutual change in station hadn’t quite sunk in, or really affected our interpersonal relationship. “How does it feel to be a dad for the first time? Nothin’ like it, is there?”
I exhaled sharply. “No, nothing at all. Even leaving aside the magical shenanigans, it’s been a potent experience. You look down on that helpless little face and . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he grunted in a fatherly tone, “ the li’l bugger will be talking and sassing you before you know it. Messing up your work, getting into mischief, trying to drown themselves or their sisters in a well . . . enjoy the peace and serenity now. And get some sleep while you can,” he added, wryly. “Can’t say I slept proper since I was wed.”
Guris went on for almost an hour, dispensing invaluable advice about fathering I didn’t know what to do with. I appreciated it, of course, but it was also a bit overwhelming. Luckily his goodwife came in from the kitchen shed, where she and her daughters had been plucking chickens, and interrupted his ramblings. I took the opportunity to excuse myself – I liked the snug little hold, but it was just a little too comfortable and warm on a day when I had miles to ride.
As I was taking my leave, Guris’ wife asked if I could cast a magelight in her hall. While the stone underneath had been transformed, the carbon that comprised much of the dirt in the hall had not been . . . and now her home looked even dirtier than it had when she’d arrived, she was embarrassed to say. She wanted the light to be able to send her brace of drudges into the corners to attack the dirt.
I chuckled, and realized that I’d have the same problem at the castle. I was happy to help, and cast four quick magelights that would last for a day or so, and sent them to line up along the ridgepole, providing illumination across the hall. That’s when I noticed something interesting.
I had used the same basic spell to cast all of the lights – in truth, with the witchstone – witchsphere? at my command I could now do it as easily as coughing. I used the same measured amount of energy, the same series of symbols, and the same psychological components in each one. But they weren’t uniform, I noticed.
The ones on the east end – the solid white end of the hall – were bright and substantial. The one at the far end, firmly in the non-white western portion of the house nearest to the attached byre, was dimmer and less distinct. It was still plenty bright, as bright as thirty candles, easily. But compared to the others, it wasn’t nearly as distinct.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 27
