“So what makes magi different than everyone else?” she asked, curiously. She changed tits. She was almost effortless with it, now. Not everyone was, Old Peg had told me more than once . . . today. It was tantalizing – they’d been among my favorite features of her, when we met, and now that they were being used for their intended purpose they were ever-present, but tantalizingly out of reach for the indefinite future. I tried to distract myself with lore.
“Essentially, a mage is someone whose Talent is strong enough, and across enough forms, to allow the mage to employ a symbol system, combined with a profound concentration of will and mental acuity, to make the universe around them do what they want. In its highest form it takes an understanding of reality and physics far deeper than most men. If their Talent is compelling enough, they learn how to use it by necessity . . . regardless of what paperwork they fill out.
“Those are the people the Censorate usually goes after. They’ll investigate a sport, and if they find the Talent dangerous or of sufficient strength to cause worry, they either burn out the parts of their brains that use magic, or they simply order them executed. More rarely they’ll take them away toe Wenshar for study. It’s happened.”
She shuddered. “And you’re saying Minalyan is in danger of that?”
“He was. He might still be. Personally, I’m more worried about him choking to death on the huge volume of milk he’s eating a lot more.”
“At the moment, so am I,” she chuckled, and then winced. “Damn, this hurts. So, you were saying, about the spell . . . ?”
How much to tell her? When I didn’t know much about what happened myself, at all?
“Right. The spell. When I was summoned to help, there was a kind of magical attachment, almost like an umbilicus, between you and the baby. That’s true with every mother and child, to a certain extent, from what I remember from school.
“But for whatever reason, Minalyan’s wouldn’t sever. I guess he was happy and comfortable where he was. More importantly – and this is my theory, now – when he was confronted with facing the world outside of your protective Shroud, he had the ability to somehow resist. In force. When the trauma of birth happened, he just latched on.
“I had no idea what to do, so I improvised. It felt like a binding spell, so I tried a simple counter-spell,” and for good measure I added a prayer to Briga, I added, to myself. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to mention that to anyone just yet.
“There’s also the magical channels I’d already opened here, naturally, the lines of force I’d run through the tower when we first got here. If that had any effect or not, I don’t know. But whatever I did worked, and the separation occurred.”
“Thank you,” she said, quietly. “I guess I never really said that. At the time, I thought I was dying.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to tell her she really had been dying, or it might upset her. “So whatever happened upstairs in the birthing chamber apparently swept out over the valley like a wave. You’ve seen what it did to every bit of silica—
“Silica?” she asked, confused.
“It’s what most rocks are made from,” I explained. It was an overly simplistic explanation, but it worked for the moment. “And sand. The wave imbued the silica with a kind of energy, and transformed it. Enchanted it. I thought the effect would fade, but it seems to be permanent. And no, I still don’t know why or how – I’ve never read anything about it, even in the Magocracy. Believe me, that sort of thing would have been noted.
“That has big implications for Sevendor,” I realized. “We have the only deposit of it known. And I have a feeling it could be invaluable, as a means of lowering magical resistance in the field. Even beyond the stone, anyone in the vale who had an undeveloped Talent – or just under-developed – reacted strongly to it. By vomiting.”
“So . . . what does that mean, now?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. But I have had Sir Cei make a list of everyone who reported throwing up that day. I’m going to bring them all up here eventually and run tests on everyone. In all of my abundant spare time,” I said, wryly. I was already lingering far too long in my warm quarters with my wife and son, while Sirs Cei, Forondo, and my many Yeomen and attendants were bustling about, actually getting things done. I almost felt guilty.
“I threw up,” she pointed out, hesitantly. “Are you saying I have Talent?”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “But I discount your vomit.”
“Thanks!”
I snickered. “I thought you’d appreciate that. From what your attendants told me, it’s pretty common for a woman in labor to throw up, bleed, shit herself—”
“Yes, the dignity of childbirth,” she said, disdainfully, making a face. “Our blessing from Trygg. Now you know why men are usually banned from the chamber. It becomes hard to maintain your feminine allure once you’ve seen your lady . . . that way.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, reassuringly, “I’d be willing to drag to bed right now, if you were up to it.”
“Five more weeks!” she warned me with a groan and a frightened expression. “Really. At least.”
“Calm yourself, I’m too busy to even think about sex right now. Not only are we still dealing with the aftermath of the blizzard and trying to get everyone properly settled and fed, we also have those ransoms to negotiate, craftsmen to hire, militia to train, and eight thousand repairs that this castle needs before it’s even truly livable, much less defendable. Believe me, you’ll be the first to know when I have time for the next erotic thought in my head.” Sure, I was lying. It was the polite thing to do.
“Just making sure . . .” she said, biting her lip. “I know how you get.”
That stopped me. We had only known each other for less than a year, even though we were married and had a child. And considering that we were just now getting comfortable with each other as husband and wife, I was curious about her observations. “How, exactly, do I ‘get’?”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “Let’s revisit this later, shall we?” she decided, after another moment of consideration. “So back to the spell, just how many threw up?”
I allowed her to change the subject – I wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight. “About a dozen, maybe a dozen and a half so far.” I ran down the list Sir Cei had compiled from the districts. The majority were Bovali, which I found intriguing. It supported the theory that wild outcroppings of irionite could effectively enchant the soil and water in which the people lived, improving the strength of Talent.
Sir Cei himself was on the list, but only four native Sevendori. The worst reaction had been a young girl in Westwood, who had become violently ill that night. She had recovered, it was said, but she had a white streak permanently burned in her red hair as a result.
“But the one which this might affect the most is Sir Festaran, the young knight we’re holding for ransom at Brestal Hall. The others I can watch, since their Sevendori, now. But if he has appreciable Talent – or is even a strong sport – then he could be developed and trained. And he would be a Magelord. Or at least a Knight Mage. Under the Censorate, even that much Talent would place him under jurisdiction of the Bans. And it would lose him his inheritance and his title.”
“The Censorate . . . I still have nightmares of Talry, when those two almost caught poor Tyndal. If it hadn’t been for Pentandra . . .” She shook her head to clear the vision, which disturbed the baby. I was almost amazed to hear my wife speak so well of my former lover. Pregnancy changes a woman. “I don’t know how you could stand living with that danger looming over you all the time.”
“I didn’t like them much at all,” I agreed. “That’s why I tried to find a place as remote from them as possible . . . like, say, Boval Vale. As far away from the Censorate as I could get, off in the Alshari Wilderlands. Quaint little mountain community. Perfectly safe,” I said with a straight face.
Alya rolled her eyes prettily. She was recovering from her delivery, but it was slow going
. The puffiness was subsiding, at least.
“But back to our current problems, I have a theory regarding the stone. It’s now easier to do magic here,” I said, conjuring a bright red magelight for effect and distracting Minalyan from his teat. “It’s more than just having access to power – that’s the irionite. This just . . . makes it easier for your spells to hook, or grab, or flow, or whatever they need to do. It’s like I’ve been exercising in a suit of armor, and got to take it off for the first time. It’s a proximity issue, I think. But I’m going to experiment with Sir Festaran, have him carry a few pieces around in his pockets – very quietly, so the other prisoners don’t get wind. He’s isolated from the rest of the snowstone—”
“Is that what you’re calling it? I like it.”
“So did Sir Cei. So if he carries just a sample around, I can see if his Talent emerges at all, compared to how he reacts before he carried it. And if that’s true . . .” I shrugged. I really didn’t know what that meant.
“And how did the little guy here pull that off?”
“I have even less idea about that. Guris wants to call it a sign from the gods. I’d chalk it up to a freak magical accident due to a unique set of circumstances. There are precedents,” I pointed out, and then realized that Alya had studied cows, not magic. “The Citrine molopor, the Vale of Sorrows, even the sinking of Perwyn. Crazy accidents or spells gone wrong that led to unexpected results. Sometimes tragic. Only this time . . . we, uh, redecorated a mountain.”
“Don’t you think that’s going to attract attention?” she asked. “From those men in checkered cloaks who want to kill you?”
“Which ones?” I moaned. “Why do you think I’m building this castle – rebuilding it? So I have someplace to make a stand, some walls to hide behind. But yes, they will know about it. And they will come to see it. And I will probably have to drive them away. But I’m also going to put that off as long as possible. So don’t tell any Censors about it, okay?”
“And all of these? What if it turns out that these vomiting villagers will become sports, or more? You’ll have a bunch of wild magi on the loose. That’s going to attract attention, too, isn’t it? Among other problems?”
“Again, I have no idea,” I sighed. She was right.
She smirked. “I’m starting to think that should be your noble motto.”
“Hmmm, what would that be in Old High Perwynese?—oh! Bide,” I said, as I felt the beginnings of a mind-to-mind communication. Alya nodded, and started burping the baby, who was starting to show signs of satiation. I opened myself to the spell, and was speaking with Rondal, who was stationed up at the dike tower at the moment.
Master, I thought you should know: we have visitors.
Oh, really? What kind and how many?
Quite a few, and a quite an assortment, he reported, wryly. A delegation of six from West Fleria, two peasants from southern Sendaria, with a train of trade goods for market – they’ve been traveling for four days and got caught in the blizzard – and a green mage.
A what? A green mage?
Yes. That’s what he says. He also says that you sent for him. Or something like that.
I searched my memory. Had I? I’d summoned a number of tradesmen, and while I had been wishing devoutly for a green mage – or at least to know more green magic – I hadn’t really investigated the matter further than wishing. Of course, I’d been wishing pretty hard.
Tell me, is he a footwizard? Or is he chartered?
Chartered, Rondal assured me. That was the first thing I asked. He had his papers. He’s out of central Remere, and he’s been a practicing journeyman for twelve years, apprenticed under a Master Ulmecinus. He said he comes by the referral of one Planus, a practical adept in Remere.
Oh! All right, now I know what happened. I mentioned to Pentandra that I wanted one. I guess wishing on a Penny is as good as a spell.
Very funny, Master, Rondal said, without betraying a trace of humor.
What about the West Flerians? The hostage negotiations, I take it?
Three knights, two retainers, and a squire. Among them is our old friend Sir Bromul. But they are led by no less than Sire Gimbal, himself. Only a token escort, but they are armed for a fight. There might be more farther down the road. At least, that’s what the peasants indicated. The Flerians were upset that I dealt with them and the mage first . . . but they were here first, too.
Tell them all to bide, and that you have summoned the Magelord, I decided, after a few moment’s thought. Make certain that they are treated courteously and offer them refreshments.
Yes, Master. Anything else?
Keep the gate guards on alert, and pass word down to the construction camp at Brestal Farms. That was the site of the new village and manor I was restoring in the northern part of the valley, closest to our gate. There were at least fifty Bovali workmen there, even in the wake of the snowstorm – they were that eager to get homes built for their families. While they didn’t have much armor, I’d made sure the guard tower was well-supplied with spears and bows and swords. But tell them to be very quiet about it. You may pass the peasants on through – what are they carrying?
Not much, he admitted. Cheese, sausages, potatoes and carrots. Some cowhides. A couple of bags of random crap. They probably have more that they aren’t mentioning. But they seem harmless enough.
Let them through, I repeated. Keep the green mage there, as long as he doesn’t start any trouble.
He’s just sitting there, like he’s got no place better to be.
All right. I’ll be up there as soon as I can.
I ended the contact and then established a link with Tyndal, who was still on guard duty at Brestal Vale, long enough to give some orders. Then I opened my eyes.
“I have to go to work,” I sighed. “Sire Gimbal has come to negotiate for the hostages.”
“Tell him you need to be back by sundown,” she said, pouting. “I swear to Briga, I think you make this stuff up just so you can get away from me and avoid unpleasant conversations.”
“Yes, that’s it entirely,” I agreed, sweetly, kissing her forehead, and then the baby’s. I got my face burped in and spit-up on my shoulder for my trouble.
And that, alas, was the high point of my day.
* * *
By now Sir Forondo’s men were well-practiced at deploying from the garrison at Brestal Tower to the frontier dike at short notice, so by the time I had armored and armed myself and roused the rest of the household, then rode Traveler at a gallop to the gate, there were two dozen horsemen milling about, waiting for me.
For that matter, the Bovali camp at Brestal Farms had deployed themselves as militia unbidden. The top of the dike bristled with Wilderlands bows, spears, shields and pragmatic peasants, as did the archer galleries atop the tower and the redoubts on either flank. Sirs Cei and Rondal were also present, girded for war.
I was about as prepared as I could be. I didn’t wear armor, but I had four or five warwands on my person, my witchsphere, and Twilight slung over my saddle. And it beat fighting with Alya.
“How’s his mood?” I asked Rondal, as I dismounted and pulled off my gloves.
“He’s incredibly patient,” my apprentice said, with a grin. “Indeed, his lordship reminds us just how patient he is being with every other breath. Sire Gimbal is the very essence of patience. As he has assured me. Repeatedly.”
“I see,” I nodded. “Have you scryed out their reinforcements?” I asked. It wouldn’t have occurred to Tyndal, but Rondal was more thoughtful that way. He nodded.
“Two dozen mounted sergeants and about thrice that many light infantry. They’re half a mile back, at the holding closest to the frontier, waiting for orders.” Sir Forondo rode up and joined us, wearing his customary battered but still somewhat ornate armor. He was remarkably calm, almost casual.
“We outnumber them heavily, Sire,” he reported. “But I don’t think there will be fighting. It appears to be a negotiation.”
“They seem to be prepared for either eventuality,” I said, and explained how Rondal had scried their reinforcements. “Have a dozen stealthy archers sent to scout them – don’t fire, just observe. I trust you know the men for the job?”
“Ancient Dalcalan, Horo, and Ganon,” he said at once. “They can pick the rest of their men. They’ve been doing a little poaching on the other side of the frontier,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.
I sighed. That was dangerous – poaching within another lord’s domain was grounds for on-the-spot execution, if you were caught red-handed and the nobility was so inclined under the law. Still, the temptation to add a little extra meat to the stewpot at the expense of a neighboring fief was too great for most peasants to resist.
“Then move the rest of the horses back beyond the tower, and have the men keep in readiness there. They likely won’t be needed, but if they are I want them to have enough field to get up to a gallop.”
“Well thought, Magelord,” grunted Forondo, and he rode off to deliver my orders. Sir Cei arrived with a blue bag, which proved to contain my ‘lordly’ regalia. My circlet, the glowing emerald, the whole bit. He’d even brought my staff, which I thought was a bit much. I hadn’t really done much with it since I’d gotten my witchstone, but I suppose it did look imposing, if you didn’t know a thing about magic. I had built it when I was a Spellmonger to impress the peasants. Perhaps it worked on belligerent knights, too. I took it without comment. I was hoping that Sire Gimbal was the kind of man impressed by such things.
“This is your first dealing as a land-holding lord with another land-holding lord. Remember, Sire, this is your domain,” Sir Cei prompted me unnecessarily, but enthusiastically. “You have both the law and righteousness on your side. And you are capable of defending your domain. He will try to intimidate you, bait you, and try to challenge your honor, in order to gain advantage in the negotiations. Do not lose your temper, and count to three in your mind before you speak. It gives the perception of thoughtfulness and deliberation.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 29
