A fried egg.
“Ishi’s tits!” I swore under my breath. About that time he launched another cantrip, a snap-and-bang aural spell that set every chicken in the wagon clucking in panic at once.
Sir Ganulan gave the most livid stare I’ve ever seen at my apprentice, who was bent over double with laughter. And he wasn’t the only one. More than half of the dozens of men on both sides of the frontier were howling. Without another word or even a backwards glance, Sir Ganulan galloped down the road.
“Magelord,” another one of the West Flerians – an older man, his hair touched with gray at the temples, with a sword at his hip and a knight’s chain on the breast of his doublet. “I beg a word. I am Sir Fetalan of Hosly, father of your hostage Sir Festaran. Is there any way you would consider treating with me in private?”
I nodded, while staring angrily at Tyndal. I opened a telepathic link as forcefully as I could, and after a moment’s hesitation he answered.
We will speak of this later. It was all I said. I ended the conversation without waiting for a response.
“By all means, Sir Fetalan, why don’t we repair to the gate tower and discuss the matter over cups. I feel the need to be away from all of the livestock at the moment.” The man looked genuinely grateful at the cordiality of the reception, especially after our treatment of young Sir Ganulan. “I’ve gotten to know your boy over the last few weeks. Good lad. A good heart and a keen mind.”
“It’s kind of you to say so,” Fetalan said, hesitantly, as I led him to the gate tower. His eyes got wider as he stared around in confusion. “Pardon me, my lord, but I was here but a year ago, and none of this—”
“This is a mageland, now,” I pointed out, gesturing toward the blue magelight suspended from the top of the tower, “things move at a different pace in Sevendor. I had refugees from the Wilderlands to settle, and they are an industrious people.”
“So they are,” he nodded, as he saw the progress the Bovali were making with the new village at Brestal Farms. “I’ve heard rumors of war in Alshar . . .”
“All true, and far worse than you can imagine,” I assured him grimly, as we entered the cozy guard room of the tower. “The Bovali here were at the center of it. But Sevendor is safe, at least for a while, if I have anything to say of it.” I poured wine in two cups taken from the common service and shooed a militiaman up to the heights while we conversed.
“I wish to beg for my son’s life,” Sir Fetalan said, quietly. “I understand that he was involved in some foolishness—”
“Let me assure you, he was coerced by those fortune placed above him – a position every man finds himself in, at one point or another. He was against the idea from the beginning, and it was only attention to his honor that compelled him.”
“It is good to know I did not raise a fool, then,” sighed Fetalan. “Yet when I heard that you were willing to allow Sir Ganulan and the squires to return with but a token ransom, but not my son . . .”
“It’s a sophisticated matter,” I said, smoothly – as smoothly as I could, considering this man feared the power I held over his son. “And a political one. And when you are dealing with either politics or magi, subtlety and deception are the rule more often than the exception.”
“I confess you confound me,” Fetalan said, shaking his head. “I am but a simple country knight, Lord Minalan—”
“Magelord Minalan,” I corrected, “and I say it not as a point of pride or vainglory, but to call attention to the fact that normal feudal rules do not necessarily apply when dealing with magelords, especially at this moment. As I said, I’ve gotten to know your lad in the last few weeks, and I can see the influence his father had on him. Therefore I feel I know you, in part, already. Tell me, Sire Fetalan, how are your relations with your liege?”
He looked at me, surprised. “You ask me to betray—”
“I speak not of betrayal,” I said, quickly, “I’m merely curious. The Warbird of West Fleria . . .”
“Sire Gimbal,” he sighed, heavily. “I took my lands two years before his father died and he and his brother parted the barony, east and west. Gimbal’s father was a stout knight and a decent lord, but his sons . . . they were trouble. And Gimbal in particular was ambitious. My domain ended up in West Fleria, and I faithfully executed my duties to the man. Including participating in that nasty business at the crossroads, although I was spared the sack of Brestal.”
“So you are not an admirer of his military ambitions?”
“A lord who looks to war is not looking at his estates,” Sire Fetalan said, boldly. “I am no coward, but nor do I seek to thrive at the expense of my neighbors.”
“And your personal opinion of Sire Gimbal? Aside from your feudal obligations?”
The older knight looked at me, understanding the risk he was taking. “He’s a pimple on the ass of chivalry,” he sighed, heavily. “The kind of mean, petty little man who seeks glory at the expense of—”
“Say no more,” I chuckled. “You needn’t compound any guilt over stating the truth about your sworn liege. Still, I felt I had to be certain of your character, even though I guessed well from speaking with your son. I thought as much. Fes has told me about the taxes and regulations and demands he’s made on your domain, and I didn’t think you would be happy about that – or serving the kind of man who would make them.”
“Yet despite my personal feelings, if you ask me to betray my sworn lord—”
“I would hesitate before putting a man of honor in such a position. It’s not my style. But first let me assure you that Sir Festaran is in no danger from me or my men. Indeed, he is quite at liberty within Sevendor, and he has lived up to the letter of his parole.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” Fetalan said, looking instantly relieved. “He is my only son.”
“I just had my first child, a boy, myself. I understand what you mean.”
“Yet, the price of ransom is so high . . .”
“Nor do I mean to beggar your realm,” I chuckled. “Indeed, I don’t want you to pay the ransom.”
“What?” he asked, alarmed.
“Your son appears to have Talent, Sire Fetalan,” I explained. “magical Talent. Enough to consider training him. And due to some . . . unforeseen but fortunate events recently, Sevendor is allowing his Talent to manifest more completely.”
“But . . . if he is to become a mage, then—” he said, struggling with the all-too-common reaction of the petty nobility when they discover their heir has Talent. No noble title, no holding land, no inheritance, doomed to a life of quiet service as court magi or spellmongers. A fate worse than death for a country knight.
“Last year? Perhaps he might have been in danger from the Censorate. This year? The issue is in question. And next year? He should be able to both receive training to develop his Talent and still inherit his patrimony. But until then, the news of his Talent should be kept quiet… for his own safety.”
“Eh? Of course!” Fetalan agreed, as a number of confusing thoughts collided in the vicinity of his bushy eyebrows. “I see your stratagem, now, Magelord: if my son is a hostage, then he is under your care until ransom is paid.”
“Where I can teach him, clandestinely. Not that it will be much of a secret here – but as long as he is a prisoner, he will not be subject to any more of Gimbal and Ganulan’s idiocy. He’s just the kind of young, brave knight who gets sent off on stupid suicide missions. And by that I mean no disrespect to him – but Gimbal strikes me as the kind of man who delights in that kind of vainglorious foolishness.”
“And my son would be honor-bound to do as he was bid. Only as a prisoner . . .”
“Exactly. He cannot honorably serve until his ransom is paid. Would you like to see him?”
“By the Allfather, yes!” the man said, gratefully. “His mother is worried sick that he’s in irons in some dungeon hole. She won’t be content until I’ve told her I’ve laid eyes on him.”
“I’ll do better than that
– it is a long journey back to your home. Please be our guest, have dinner with us, and enjoy your son’s company. You may return on the morrow after witnessing the ease of his captivity yourself.” That eased the knight’s mind tremendously.
I escorted Sir Fetalan all the way back to the castle, noting with satisfaction the astonished look on his face. He was the first real outsider familiar with the vale to come to Sevendor since we’d begun our work. I was pleased to see we had impressed him.
“How many people do you say you have now?” he asked, in wonderment, as we passed no less than four wagons and two full work levies just outside of Gurisham.
“I brought nearly two thousand, with near another thousand and more on the way,” I explained as we walked the horses at a leisurely pace. I told the briefest of tales to explain how they had come here. I don’t believe that their origin impressed Sir Fetalan as much as their numbers.
“You realize I’ve seen more men of fighting age in the last half hour than I have in West Fleria in a two-day ride?” he snorted in disbelief. “Between Farise and this latest levy, it’s amazing there’s a peasant lad of age anywhere in the vales.”
“These men have done their service in defense of the Duchies,” I said, diplomatically. “They need a safe place to rest and recover. Sevendor is their new home.”
“My point, Magelord, was that should the Warbird decide to raid your busy little land, he may well find far more resistance than he suspects.”
“I dare say he would,” I smiled. “Do you think it likely?”
“I am not deep in my liege’s councils,” admitted Sir Fetalan, “he mistrusts my loyalty to honor over my loyalty to him, and the gods have spared me that, at least. But if I know the man’s temperament; he will not let a threat like Sevendor stay on his frontier without challenge. He has been preparing to harass his neighbor Baron Arathanial for two years, now, before he was distracted by Sevendor.”
“I was hoping that the new gate fortifications would prove discouraging,” I admitted.
“They are formidable, and they have the entire Bontal valley abuzz, so quickly and solidly did you raise them. In truth they are advanced beyond the point of all rumors. But some assure Sire Gimbal that they are but illusions of magic, and will fade with the first blow struck.”
“He’s welcome to lead a cavalry charge against those dikes if he wishes,” I chuckled, imagining such a debacle. “Though they were raised by magic, they’re as solid as—”
“Great Ishi who birthed us all!” swore Sir Fetalan, his eyes wide with shock as the afternoon sun hit the white stones of Sevendor Castle just right in the distance. It shown like a beacon. “What happened to your castle?”
“There was a slight . . . mishap,” I said, quietly. “It’s perfectly safe – merely a color change. But it affected every bit of stone for two miles. One gets used to that sort of thing,” I said, casually, despite the fact that I still wasn’t used to it. I let the matter go at that. No need to start spreading even more rumors, some with the truth about the stone. I had enough problems.
We continued to chat about small matters like gentlemen as we passed through Sevendor Village and up to the castle. If the change in the latter had provoked him, the change in the former impressed him mightily. “Why, you have the beginnings of a small town, here!” he remarked, shaking his head. “Last summer there couldn’t have been more than a hundred people here, and now you have ten times that!”
“And they eat a lot, too,” I groaned good-naturedly. “But come autumn this year, we should be able to feed ourselves, at least.”
“Is that a tavern?” he asked, gesturing excitedly over toward the growing ale stall on the commons.
We went directly to the practice yard, after the stable boy who took our mounts (when did we get a stable boy?) directed us to Sir Festaran’s location. There, a half-dozen guards were wearing padded armor and using blunted swords to spar with each other, or against the half-rotten pell. Among them were Sir Festaran and a couple of Bovali lads who fancied themselves warriors and wanted to practice.
I’d encouraged that, offering prizes for the best of them. I’d also mandated weekly archery practice at the butts on the common for all lads between twelve and sixteen. I wanted my folk to be able to defend my realm. The aggressive way the boys were going at it, I didn’t think that would be a problem.
Festaran, at least, was giving a good account of himself. Now that he was not fighting for honor or his life, he had reasonably good form and was able to land several sound blows on the peasant boys’ helmets before he realized he was being watched. He waved to me, and as I was returning the gesture he recognized the man next to me.
“Father!” he bellowed, tearing off his helmet and running to embrace his sire. Sir Fetalan looked profound grateful, and if there was a tear and a prayer involved, I wouldn’t be the one to notice. When the older knight had assured himself that his boy was in one piece and in good health, he relaxed visibly.
“I’ll leave you two – listen out for the supper bell, and I’ll join you in the Great Hall. I trust that I have your parole, Sir Festaran?”
“You’d have to tear me away, Magelord!” he agreed, enthusiastically. “Father, come meet my new friends . . .”
I watched with satisfaction as the relieved father went off with his son. I wasn’t worried about him trying to run off – I was pretty sure we had an understanding on that count. And if they did, they’d miss dinner, and it was boar tonight – thanks to Kyre of Westwood, who had sent three of them to the castle the day before. Nanily knew her way around a pig.
I was about to head back into the great hall and up to my apartments to play with the baby when I could feel the call of another’s mind.
It wasn’t who I expected. It was Mavone.
Min, we’ve got problems, he said, tersely.
What kind of problems? I asked, stopping in my tracks.
The Censorate kind. Hartarian was in a meeting with the representatives of all the ducal Censors until late last night. This morning, his two biggest opponents turned up dead.
Oh, shit! I said, eloquently. How?
One had a heart attack. One fell out of a window.
I considered. That seems awfully convenient, I pointed out.
That’s what the rest of his opponents thought. The hang-the-high-magi-now party is real quiet right now, but they aren’t happy. Hartarian’s local people are loyal to him, and a troop of heavy infantry mercenaries just conveniently camped out across the way from the citadel, so I doubt there will be an attempt to overthrow him, but the Merwini and Vorean delegations are livid, and they’re collecting support from the Castali, Remeran and Alshari Censors who don’t agree with Hartarian.
How many? I asked, my heart sinking.
Probably three-fifths, and a lot of the younger Censors. Many of the older, more experienced seniors are open to listening to Hartarian. Or they were. Before the deaths.
Was it murder?
What do you think? The one with the heart attack was old and gray, and fat as a baker—
Hey!
Sorry. Anyway, the other one was praying in a locked room, by himself, and then just fell over the balcony.
So there were plausible explanations for both deaths, I reasoned. They may not be murder.
Of course, Hartarian’s niece showed up four days ago with a few comely servant girls, Mavone said, casually.
Lady Isily? Then it was murder.
Assassination, he corrected. Her fingers were all over it. I think she and her sewing circle and those mercenaries are Duke Rard’s tangible show of support for Hartarian. But from the way he reacted this morning, Hartarian wasn’t happy with the result at all. Now there are warmagi from both sides skulking about the place, waiting for someone to make the first move.
Did Hartarian bring you before the council? I asked, curious.
No, they wouldn’t allow it, he chuckled. But I met with seven of them privately. I told them about the Dead God and d
id my best to scare them shitless. I think it worked on three of them. The other four were either skeptical or fanatics or both. Of course, two of them are dead now, he reminded himself.
Did Hartarian—?
No, he had no idea they were going to die, I’m sure of it. And he suspects Isily as much as I do. But that doesn’t matter. He’s expelled all those who refuse to follow him from the citadel, and he’s handed the keys over to me in trust to you.
How did they react to his new witchstone?
The General did not enlighten his subordinates about it, Mavone said, diplomatically. I think he wanted to avoid the appearance of being bribed—
--which is exactly what we did, I interrupted.
--and thought that it would be needlessly provocative to flaunt such a powerful bauble. Of course, after my tour of the vaults, a witchstone is almost redundant. Min, this place is loaded to the rafters with all sorts of confiscated stuff! Stuff we can use. And the library . . . I found works I had thought were long lost. The early Censorate confiscated entire estates, and had a lot of the libraries shipped here for ‘academic study’.
Do what you can to take inventory, I advised. I want to know just what we’re going to be responsible for. You don’t think you’ll have any problem holding the place, once Hartarian leaves for Castal?
No, the Censorate’s castellan and I have become fast friends. And the Captain of the Guard understands the change in regime better than anyone, I think. But I’d like to rig the dice.
How so?
How many spare witchstones do we have?
Maybe five. Why?
Because there’s a warmage I’d like to recruit to help out here. He was a baronial Censor in Remere before Farise, when he joined up. But he’s an outstanding warmage – Gerendren.
I had heard of him. He was a combat mage, but not the usual hack-and-slash commando. Gerendren specialized in small unit tactics and command magic. If you’re wondering what that is, so do I. I’ve never gotten a satisfactory explanation for it. You think he’ll be helpful?
Oh, yes. If he’s on our side. But he knows the Censorate already, so there won’t be any crap about an outsider overseeing security. And he’s really good at building the kind of unit we’re going to need here.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 34
