“And they have other uses, too. Carrion birds and birds-of-prey delight in nesting in their boughs. Several types of arachnids and insects prefer its loamy roots. Scavenger beasts of all sort congregate nearby, to clean away the offal. If one wanted a proper gibbet, these would suffice.” I had always been squeamish of such displays myself . . . but that was before I was a Magelord, trying to rule my own domain.
“This is an amazing idea, Master Olmeg,” I said, nodding. “Once more, you not only have not failed me, you have surpassed my expectations. How long until your enchanted forest is . . . deadly?”
“I wanted to hurry that along,” he admitted. “Some of these varietals won’t be ready for a few years, even with growth enchantments and plenty of water. So to add a few more immediate obstacles, I . . . gave our future snipers good, secure places to hide behind.”
“That’s rarely considered a strategic advantage,” I observed, doubtfully.
“I had five boulders set up in perfect position, just outside of normal bowshot,” he explained, “with good solid cover in front of them. Just the place where you would want to set up a good place from which to shoot at people.
“But once they get settled in, a few things happen: suddenly, the dry ground under them isn’t very, and the soft and comfy foliage they’re hiding within will start to itch. Poisons Ivy and Oak. That won’t be an issue for a few hours, of course, but most snipers like to sit around awhile before they start shooting.”
“That still allows them to start shooting,” I pointed out, figuring the distance fro where we were in the field to the wall.
“Not for long,” Olmeg said, smugly. “Each of these ‘safe’ hideouts is actually very well known to our archers, by now. Each boulder is equipped with an enchantment to draw arrows like a flowers encourage bees. Any idiot stupid enough to stay here for more than one shot is going to get peppered. Watch,” he said, raising his big horn to his lips and blowing two distinct notes.
“Here,” he said, his big hand pushing me back about three feet without the slightest effort. “Watch,” he repeated.
In moments, a flight of six arrows landed within a handbreadth of each other behind the stone fortification, puncturing any fictitious archer thoroughly. “But I thought we were out of bowshot?” I asked.
“Of those local bows, surely. But your Bovali are using those heavy Wilderland bows. They have another forty or fifty feet of range, when fired properly, and with a bit of enchantment, we can hit each of these advance spots quite nicely.”
He went on to explain plans for importing some more exotic flora and fauna, showed where he had the lads put together some booby-traps, future defenses he’d like to add, once the forest was well-established, that sort of thing.
I was tickled by the prospect, and expressed my pleasure at his foresight and vision. I’ve been in real enchanted forests – that’s pretty much the definition of any place the Tree Folk live – but growing one from scratch as a means of discouraging unfriendly neighbors made me pleased beyond reckoning. Magic in the service of the people, just the sort of thing I was trying to encourage. The fact that it would make Gimbal’s life more difficult was a pleasant bonus.
The future Enchanted Forest ran along both sides of the road for nearly half a mile, deep into what was, technically, West Flerian land. It spread back from the road about a hundred yards, and I could see how, eventually, it would provide an effective deterrent to interlopers long before they got within bowshot. I gave Master Olmeg a bonus of a full ounce of gold on the spot. The Greenwarden was paid a salary, and was entitled to eat from the castle kitchens on demand, but work like this deserved instant praise and reward.
As I was riding back toward the castle, after stopping at Boval Hall and having lunch with Brother Mison and his new pupil, just passed Gurisham I came across young Gareth trudging along the road like any peasant – only instead of a hoe or shovel, he was bearing a long pole to the end of which was tied a thin glass rod about nine inches long – a sastivator. He saw me and stopped to hail me as I rode by.
“Ho, Magelord!” he called in his wheezy voice. I reigned to a stop. I hadn’t spoken much to Gareth since he had failed my test for a witchstone – I had been busy, and he had continued his studies under the other magi in the vale. He didn’t seem to resent his failure – indeed, I think he was relieved he would not be trying himself against the goblin onslaught. I doubted he could try himself against an onslaught of kittens.
Gareth had no illusions about his physical capabilities, but then he had none about his magical ones, either, which were profound. Better, although young, he was turning into a cracker-jack thaumaturge. The sastivator was an indication of that.
“So what are you off to, Gareth?” I asked, as Traveler came to a stop.
“I am taking readings, Magelord,” he replied, proudly. “At Sir Rondal’s suggestion, I have been taking daily readings of etheric density in specific sites and recording them.”
I nodded – that was extremely foresightful of my apprentice, although I would have expected him to conduct the research himself. “And what have you discovered?”
“That the preternaturally low etheric density in western Sevendor is indeed the lowest recorded . . . anywhere. In history.”
“Really?” I asked. “I mean, I’d guessed as much, but . . .”
“No, Magelord, it really is that low. For all practical purposes, there has been a steady, extremely low density here since Yule. That’s important,” he reminded me, “because so many spells depend on – or are limited by – the local etheric density. An area this big, with a density this low, is unique,” he said, confidently.
“So . . . how did I do it?” I asked the young mage. He looked at me, perplexed.
“Magelord? What do you mean? You were there, if you don’t know then . . .”
“I was asking for a theory,” I corrected. “Or at least speculation. Why would the birth of my son make all the silica transform? Your professional opinion,” I added. Gareth had graduated from Alar Academy, in Wenshar, before he had been sent to me as someone’s idea of an experiment.
Gareth gave it some thought. “Well, if I had to guess . . . I would say that the three-way dynamic nature of the birth, combined with the abundance of power available to you provided the means, and the subconscious fears of a magically-sensitive child and a panicked mother induced the resulting transformation. Think about it,” he said, as casually as if we were students after class, “if the child was sensitive to magic, then the trauma of birth would likely inflate the subconscious desire to flee from the source of the disturbance.”
“That’s why he didn’t want to come out,” I nodded. “But then . . .”
“Then you intervened,” he agreed. “You used the Morath sigil,” he said, meaningfully.
“So . . . what’s so special about the Morath sigil?” I asked. Yes, I’m a thaumaturge. No, I do not know all the secrets of the universe.
“The Morath sigil,” Gareth lectured, informatively, “was originally crafted from a similar Alka Alon cognate spell. It is a dividing spell, an unbinding, but it isn’t as brutish as most others – indeed, it is among the most subtle. Because it seeks to alter reality at the level of the atomi, themselves, not merely hack a thing in twain.”
“I’ve just always found it useful for stuck doors, or gates,” I mused. “And thaumaturgy, of course.”
“So my theory, Magelord, is that somehow your baby, your wife and you all entered into a temporary gestalt, during which the abundance of power and the baby’s instinctive reaction to being threatened with a high-density area in which to . . . be born,” he said, taking a breath, “leads me to conclude that the Morath sigil, combined with some element of wild magic from the baby and the overabundance of power, was able to transform the silica into a substance that, in effect, negates etheric density in any one place. As the Morath sigil is a scalable sigil, and there was an exponentially high level of power available, the transformation effect wou
ld naturally be wide-scale. Affixing to one of the more abundant, stable lesser elements like silica would be a good way to saturate the area with a low-density spell, however it is you do that.”
“Yes, the mechanism is still a mystery,” I sighed. “But that makes a lot of sense. That’s why we use thaumaturgical glass, because of its stability and enchantability. And might explain one or two other mysteries that night. So what made you start to take readings with the sastivator?”
“Just some discussions Sir Rondal and I have been having,” he said, proudly. “We got to talking about the portability issue – the ability to tote around a low magic resistance wherever you go, or wherever you cast a spell – and I got to being curious about just how dramatic the drop-off rate is. So I figured some tests were in order. My notebook is available for the Magelord’s study,” he added.
“I might like to see it,” I agreed. “I am thinking that this snowstone may be almost as valuable as irionite.”
“It certainly makes it easier to do magic,” Gareth agreed, enthusiastically. “And the sastivator’s reading on even a very small piece shows a profound change. A pebble no larger than ten grams reduces the local field to just above nothing. That effect dies in an inverse square, but for a long-term spell, a pebble of snowstone could increase its efficiency by . . . well, there’s no telling how much!”
“Good work, Gareth,” I smiled. “I worried you would be bored, merely hanging around Sevendor, waiting for opportunity.”
“My father always said smart people never get bored,” the young mage said. “I find the vale fascinating, actually – and the snowstone provides a unique opportunity for study. The ability to learn from both hedgemagi like Master Zagor and accomplished specialists like Spellwarden Banamor and Greenwarden Olmeg make it very worthwhile. I like it here,” he said, simply.
“I like having you, too,” I said. “Keep up the study of the stone. There’s no telling how we may be able to employ it, but I would like to know all of its uses, if I can discover them.”
“Well, Magelord, one thing I can assure you of,” he said, scratching his head, “is that the snowfall area will be attracting all manner of creature that depends on magic in various ways,” he pointed out. “I am no brown mage, but I can name a dozen species off of the top of my head that will be attracted to the forests and vales here. And . . . there is always the possibility that the animals native to this zone could become . . . changed, over time.”
“Changed?”
“Areas of low etheric density tend to have the greatest diversity of plant and animal life,” he reported. “Or so the study of Master Inqlo of Vore said, three hundred years ago.”
“Interesting,” I said, nodding. “I’m more worried about the diversity of human life – namely the number of footwizards who will find their way here, eventually. And what that will do for the folks who live here. That’s why I created the Spellwarden office – which Banamor says you are acting as his deputy, within,” I added.
“Aye, Magelord, while Master Banamor is not the most potent or knowledgeable mage in the world,” Gareth admitted, “he does possess a broad experience that has been instructive in its own right.”
“That was a very diplomatic answer, Gareth,” I smiled. “Let’s make the appointment official, with a half-silver weekly stipend. And title, of course. You’re staying at Banamor’s shop these days?”
“I have a corner in the warehouse,” he admitted. “I’ve been sleeping there at night after I finish up whatever piece-work Master Banamor gives me. I’m also,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “picking up some practical enchanting.”
“Excellent, lad,” I said, flipping him a silver coin for his diligence. “I’ll make the arrangements with Banamor. Keep up the good work!” I waved to him as I rode back through town, toward the castle. He waved, smiled, and shouldered his pole before tromping resolutely over the fields, towards a high spot on incline he had been taking readings from religiously.
I stopped at Banamor’s shop, but he wasn’t there, so I found myself at the Oak Tree Tavern, where young Favm now had almost two walls built around the tree. It was still the middle of the day, and most folk were out in the fields, hoeing weeds out of them or tying them up to stakes. The tavern had less than a half-dozen patrons at this time of day, which gave me plenty of room to take a seat, light my pipe, have a drink of good ale and admire the young ladies who were bathing naked in the coolness of the pond.
The “ladies section” of the millpond was screened from casual observation – and the men’s section – by a line of thick bushes. Such obstacles are no match for magic, however – with magesight, I could contentedly observe the wonders of nature from the comfort of the tavern’s open-air taproom.
Life was good. Here. But the almost-daily dispatches from Gilmora were growing increasingly grim. Terleman had established a regional headquarters in Castle Cambrian, north of Barrowbell, and he was dispatching units of five hundred or a thousand lances to chase down larger bands of goblins, but the depredations of the raiders had gotten worse and worse. Where they found castles and fortresses closed against them, they turned their attention on peasants caught in the open.
The raiders were actually raiding, now, not just burning. When they overcame a manor or a village, they gathered up the foodstuffs and weapons and then led the survivors north into the Wilderlands, after (according to accounts) eating their beloved dead in front of them.
There were plenty of success stories of knights and men-at-arms coming to the rescue of distant towers and manors, and rescuing folks from their attackers – but that hadn’t stopped hundreds of villages and hamlets in Gilmora from being savaged, and in the middle of the growing season, too.
I sat and thought about the war, as I had been doing all too frequently recently, and I sipped my ale and was thankful I wasn’t there, even as I felt guilty. I would have to return to it, someday, else it would find me here in Sevendor.
But here and now, the sun sparkled off of the white-bottomed pond, and the white-bottomed girls, and the air was warm and he scent of blossoms overwhelming. I thought about the Enchanted Forest, and the other one on the boundaries of the Westwood that Master Olmeg wanted to grow, I thought of the bother of leaving my golden little valley again soon, for the rare chance to see a king crowned.
Duke Rard’s coronation, due to happen in conjunction with the Coronet Council, was due to happen around the solstice, and that was only a few weeks away. I’d have to travel again, and I’d have to bring another large retinue, but I might be able to secure things at the Duchy’s capital that I couldn’t in Sendaria – such as a real noble’s seal.
But in the meantime, I planned on relaxing, eating summer berries, playing with the baby, loving my wife, drinking a lot of ale, and enjoying life. Without guilt, I reminded myself. I had earned this peace.
A sparkle in the distance made me sit up and take notice – and using magesight, I found the spot on the ridgeline where young Gareth must be using his savistator. I admired his dedication to the science of magic, the way he dutifully noted in his records the exact reading at the exact time of day.
Then I discovered that, from that particular spot, a mage with magesight has a completely and utterly unobstructed view of the women’s bathing area below. Something which Gareth, apparently, had discovered early on – and had diligently reported from every day.
Such dedication, I smirked. But why not? It was high summer in Sevendor, and if it was too hot to wear much clothes, then it was too hot to go to all the bother of averting your eyes. As I swept back to take another glance at the flower of Sevendor’s maidenhood, I noted that they, themselves, were staring unabashedly and with decided interest at the site of the new mill, where shirtless (and nearly pants-less) young masons were building the foundations.
It looked like everyone was feeling the heat of high summer.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks
“I really d
on’t want you to go,” Alya sighed in resignation. “I seem to be saying that an awful lot, lately.”
“I don’t particularly want to go,” I agreed as I packed. “But I really don’t have much choice.”
“I know. I thought I was marrying a spellmonger, now I’m a Lady of the Domain, and I have to run this place while you’re gone.. Responsibilities,” she agreed, quietly. “At least I can stay in touch with the mirror,” she added. She had been delighted when Banamor demonstrated how the device worked to her a week ago, contacting the captain of the guards at the Diketower to prove its efficacy. “That’s some consolation. You know, I envy all those magi who can speak to you with a thought.”
I figured it would be impolitic to point out that a man whose wife can reach him with a thought might soon contemplate suicide and kissed her instead. “Don’t. The conversations we have are usually about politics or war. Not the sorts of things I want to discuss with my wife. This shouldn’t be a hard time, I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks – and you’ll have plenty to occupy yourself. It’s almost harvest time. We need to prepare for winter. And there’s an awful lot of work to be done. The castle. The domain. The magical fair. The time will pass before you know it,” I soothed.
“I know,” she sighed. “I just wish you wouldn’t leave me. Or that I was going.”
“I’d rather have you in Sevendor where I know you’re safe. Sir Cei is here, as are Sir Forondo, Sir Roncil, and the other knights. Even Sir Fes,” I pointed out. Sir Festaran had become a favorite at Sevendor castle, and got along famously with Lady Estret. It turned out they have a few cousins in common, through House Lensely’s long legacy in the region. They brought a sense of Riverlands propriety to the castle, amidst the rough manners and casual attitude of most of my Bovali.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 63
