The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “It’s not my safety that concerns me,” she said, troubled. “It’s yours. I know the Censorate has put a price on your head, and you’ve told me that the Ducal courts are full of backstabbing, both literal and figurative, so . . .”

  “I’ve been through two wars and a lot of battles, and I’m not dead yet,” I pointed out, kissing her again. “Trust me, I’ll have Rondal and Tyndal around, as well as every High Warmagi who can be spared from the front. Castabriel is the last place the Censorate would try to capture me. I’ll be plenty protected.”

  “You had just better come back to me alive,” she demanded, kissing me back.

  That conversation haunted me all the way down river, as the “majestic” barge Penny had chartered for us for transport. Alya was not a fainting flower of femininity, she was a hardy country lass. While she was far out of her element and doing the best she could under the circumstances, I had ever confidence that she could handle anything in my absence short of the Dead God showing up with a castle-warming gift. She hated to complain or whine – except to me – and took all that the gods had thrown at her with a tremendous amount of grace. But I couldn’t expect her to have the stoicism of a noblewoman who was used to having her husband gone for months, not just weeks, at a time.

  And the truth was, I was heading into danger, no matter how much I demurred to my wife. If not a war or battle, the intrigues of Court were just as dangerous and potentially deadly as facing down a legion of goblins.

  Penny had been trying to prepare me, explaining the “Ducal Courts” I had attended in the summer palaces of Wilderhall and Vorone were almost informal affairs compared to a full Coronet Council . . . and the first coronation of a sitting monarch in four hundred years.

  I shouldn’t have been nervous about leaving her and Sevendor behind – everything I said was true. While I was robbing her of the knights magi who could help defend my domain, I was leaving her with a far more defensible castle, a barracks full of well-trained militia, at least two or three lances of knighthood, and both Olmeg and Banamor were staying behind. We had an official treaty with our only local enemy, and I was only going to be gone about three weeks . . . what could happen?

  I spent most of the river journey quietly imagining just what could happen, until Taren – who had joined us half-way through our voyage, along with a handful of other High Magi returning from various errands at my direction – pointed out that I was “shooting sparks” – magical slang for a pointless and impotent endeavor. He got me drunk that night and for the next several days I didn’t worry about Alya, Sevendor, or anything but the task at hand: getting a crown on Rard’s head.

  That was essential, for me personally and professionally. Without King Rard to give us political cover, there was no higher authority that the Censorate could be forced to answer to. Failing to crown Rard would put the Censorate at open war with the High Magi, when we already had one war to contend with. As much as it seemed a waste of time and resources when there was invasion immanent in Gilmora, I was taking my entourage to Castabriel to ensure our political survival.

  Penny’s new estate (and the un-official temporary embassy of the Arcane Orders) was half a day’s ride (or three hours worth of floating) upriver from the city, which meant we arrived there before we got to the Capital.

  Fairoaks didn’t have its own riverport, but she had heavily bribed the docksmen of the village nearest to her estate to make certain we were properly greeted, our baggage handled, and we were escorted to the carriages and wains she had arranged to transport us. I saw immediately how she had bribed them, too: a large length of freshly-enchanted stone jutted from the riverbank in such a way as to shield the village from floodwaters, and the dock we tied up to was enchanted to never decompose.

  Penny’s estate was elegant enough to make Sevendor seem rustic. It was a “fortified manor,” not a castle, a large circular structure four stories tall and sprawling wings and out-buildings in every direction. It was very pretty, as she promised, and the entranceway was grand. Some burgher or lord spent a lot of gold to make it that way, I knew.

  “Gods!” whispered Tyndal as our carriage arrived at the archway leading in. “Lady Pentandra sure has a definite sense of style!”

  “She likes pretty things,” I shrugged. “This is the first ‘home’ she’s ever had on her own. It suits her,” I admitted, as the sound of the carriage wheels changed as we drove from dirt to cobble. “I expect both of you to be on your best behavior. Remember, you are my apprentices, my liege-men, and my bodyguards. Don’t screw up and get me killed.”

  “Master, we would never take that pleasure away from you,” Rondal said, saucily. I made a face. They were excited, and it was hard to blame them. They were a couple of boisterous boys, but my apprentices knew enough to keep their mouths shut when we weren’t alone.

  “I’m serious, this is going to be as dangerous as a war. There are plenty of people who would like to see me dead who don’t wear checkered cloaks. I won’t be able to look everywhere at once, so I’ll need you two to watch my back constantly. Mageblades at all times, at least two warwands in your belt. Understand?”

  “Understood,” they said in unison. They knew how important this was. I had lectured them on it virtually the whole voyage, when I wasn’t imagining all the horrible things that could happen to my domain, my wife, and my son in my absence. I just hoped a couple of up-jumped backwoods apprentice spellmongers from the Wilderlands would not embarrass our Order at the first Royal Court in living memory.

  When the carriage stopped, a liveried footman opened the door and presented us with a little stool to descend upon. I was startled when a trumpet fanfare blared when my foot touched it.

  “ANNOUNCING SIRE MINALAN THE SPELLMONGER! MAGELORD OF SEVENDOR!” bellowed someone who was obviously paid for his ability to bellow.

  “What the hells?” I asked, looking around confusedly. There was a whole party of liveried servants in formation, including some foreboding-looking guards in full armor and two warmagi whose names I forgot standing by, dressed in the tabards of their respective Orders, ceremonial staves in hand. Horkan and Hesian, I saw.

  “Just thought I’d get you used to being properly announced,” Penny said, separating herself from the crowd and kissing me lightly on the cheek. Wrapped in a gown of red, pink, and gold, she looked every bit the Remeran lady of leisure enjoying her country estate. She spared a glance at Rondal and a longer one at Tyndal.

  “Come, I have refreshments waiting. There is a lot to discuss, and we don’t have much time. You two,” she said, indicating my boys, “you help see your master’s baggage is properly stowed. Miji, here, will show you to his quarters. Yours are the room next to it,” she added. “We’re pretty full, but I saved one of the better guest rooms for you, Min,” she smiled.

  “What do you mean, we don’t have much time? I’m two days early, and the Council doesn’t start for four days.”

  “And that means we have very little time,” she agreed. “We have to go over the final version of our charters, review the war situation, examine which political players are our enemies, our friends, or both, all that sort of thing. Oh, and I have a special present for you, Min. Something you specifically asked for, if you recall.” She snapped her fingers, and a young woman stood forward with a long box made of a light, pretty-looking wood. Pentandra opened it and stood back to watch my expression.

  It was a hat.

  Not just a hat, but a wizard’s hat, the traditional four-pointed cap associated with my profession since antiquity. Usually the central peak is surrounded by the other three smaller points, in an equilateral triangle, and sewn or buttoned or pinned to the main cone. I had a couple of these myself, one from my graduation from Inrion and one from my spellmongering days.

  But this one . . . this one was special.

  It was at least eighteen inches tall, from brim to peak. The main cone was a deep blue color, while the additional flaps (they were purely decorative, not true points
in their own right) were yellow, green, and red. Various mystical symbols and arcane formulae were embroidered into the blue in golden thread, and the brim was actually a metal circlet more suited to a war-helm than a mage’s hat. A small gold tassel was suspended from every point.

  It was the silliest godsdamned hat I’d ever seen.

  “Oh, Goddess,” I whispered.

  “You do recall insisting on wearing a ‘funny hat.’ This was as funny as I could make it without impugning your dignity.”

  “I’m not sure you were successful,” I remarked, quietly.

  “Luckily, you don’t have a lot of dignity,” she continued with a straight face. “The design is based loosely on the late Magocracy’s official headgear for the Archmage.”

  “I’m not an Archmage,” I pointed out.

  “Which is why this is just loosely based on it,” she continued. “The eastern duchies get touchy about that sort of thing. If I copied it exactly, they would see it as a slight or a declaration of political purpose. As it is, I blended elements of the Archmagi’s hat and the traditional spellmonger’s cap in a way that some folks would see as scandalous.”

  “People get that worked up about a hat?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You haven’t read much ancient history, have you? There have been at least two wars started over hats. No, I’m serious. But this one should be grand enough for court, and we can giggle about it later. Oh, and I took the liberty of adding a few special enchantments myself. We’ll cover them later . . .”

  I had to try it on . . . and the reflective surface I conjured allowed me to see just how silly I looked in the multicolored monstrosity. I saw several servants suppress giggles. Tyndal uttered a guffaw when he returned from stowing the baggage. I was tempted myself. It looked damn silly.

  Penny took me on a whirlwind tour of her busy estate, showing off her parlor, her magnificent dining hall, her well-paneled Great Hall (now hung with beautiful Remerean tapestries) and her lab. I was especially interested in the last, as Penny is one of the best thaumaturges I knew. It was impressive, but mostly un-used, she explained, because she had been so busy with everything else that was now her responsibility. Politics.

  Over lunch on her west patio, the spires of the capital just barely visible over the trees, she filled me in on who had arrived and who we were still waiting upon.

  “Most of the Hesian Order is here already,” she explained. “In fact, they set up a half-dozen pavilions on my commons out back to house the overflow. The Horkans are mostly still en route, those who weren’t stuck at the front. Terleman will be here late, of course, and he’ll leave early, but he’ll stay for long enough to see the coronation and swear his oath. The Medical and Thaumaturgical orders will be well-represented, too. All told we should have almost fifty High Magi here. Maybe more.” She paused and considered. “You know, that’s probably the biggest and most powerful gathering of magi since the Empire fell?”

  “If not long before,” I pointed out. “Probably the most since Perwyn sank. Still, every shard of irionite we have put together wouldn’t put us in the same class as Sheruel.”

  “It’s not his arcane powers that are worrying people here,” she reported. “It’s the legions he has invading Gilmora. It’s one thing when a goblin invasion is happening way off in the Alshari Wilderlands – once it gets to the Castali Riverlands, every lord in Gilmora has been screaming at Rard for help.”

  “And we’re that help?”

  “Part of it. Terleman has been a very visible sign of support in Gilmora, organizing local defenses and deploying warmagi to shore up castles and bridges. He’s kept a good order on our people, and compared to the mercenaries who have signed on, the Arcane Orders have been some of Duke Rard’s best public relations. Enough that I don’t see much resistance coming from Gilmora. And from Terleman has told me, the goblins there now are more skirmishers than heavy troops. They’re raiding villages, not besieging castles.”

  “I know,” I sighed. I got better reports than she did. “The shamans have been decidedly country bumpkin witchdoctors. The urgulnosti priests are probably with the main invasion force. And they’re barreling down the Lumber Road. That’s when things are going to get hairy,” I said, grimly.

  “Let’s forget about the Big Ugly Goblin for a while, shall we?” she asked, sweetly. “We have more pressing dangers. For example, the Duke of Merwin, it is rumored, holds us responsible for both the death of his brother-duke Lenguin and the goblin threat. Not that he was remotely close to Lenguin. But he apparently sees the best chance for us is to go back to the old way, suppress magic, and deal with the goblins in purely military terms.”

  “Well, sure he does!” I exploded. “He’s got three duchies between him and the Dead God’s hordes!”

  “Well, all of the anti-Hartarian Censors are cozying up to him, looking to him for support. He brought several in his entourage, checkered cloaks and all, as part of his embassy. It is rumored that the senior surviving members are electing a new Censor General, and moving his command to Merwin.”

  “Let them,” I dismissed. “As long as they stay on that side of the frontier, we won’t have any problems.”

  “Oh, but we do,” she corrected. “The Merwini and Vorean commanders have secretly authorized specific loyal warmagi to be issued their own witchstones from inventory. To be used against us,” she added, pointedly. “And I don’t like the sound of that at all.”

  “It was inevitable,” I dismissed. “There have to be some witchstones they’ve confiscated over the years left in their vaults, and after the way I out-classed five of their best at the fair, they’re unlikely to proceed against me again without one.”

  “Exactly. So watch your back. The Coronet Truce will hold for the Duke of Merwin’s actual party, but the old guard Censors don’t feel bound by a mere Ducal decree. And they don’t want to see a King on a throne, either.”

  “It’s not the King they should be concerned with. It’s his wife.”

  “Oh, I know all about ‘Mother’,” she snickered. “I’ve already had a few encounters with her. In my professional opinion, she’s a first-class cunt—”

  I inadvertently choked and sprayed wine – really good wine – all over her lovely white tablecloth. I hadn’t expected that particular word to fall out of her mouth, but I couldn’t honestly disagree.

  “—but that doesn’t mean we can’t work with her, at least for now,” Penny said smoothly, dabbing the wine away with her napkin. “We don’t have to like her. Her intelligence assets are impressive, though,” she admitted. “But she’s not the only player in town. We have already been subtly approached by both the Brotherhood and the Iris.” The Brotherhood of the Rat was a criminal organization centered on the docks and ports of Remere, Castal and Alshar. The Iris was similar, only they were much older, much bigger, and far more spread out.

  “So what did you tell them?”

  “That we’d consider an alliance, once things settle down. That’s all they were looking for, really, was to see if we could be of use to them. Or they to us. The Brotherhood was a little more threatening and a little more accommodating, while the Iris was more distant and formal, but less eager for an entanglement.”

  “The Rats are still pissed over getting blamed for the Duchess’ assassination,” I pointed out. “If they think we’re on the outs with the Family, they might see us as a natural ally. What did you tell them?”

  “Essentially that we’d be willing to listen . . . but only after a successful coronation. I gathered that neither party was thrilled with the prospect, but I managed to point out several advantages of a change in politics, and neither seems hells-bent on stopping it.”

  “That’s good to know. Anything else?”

  “Why yes, Master,” she said with a straight face. “I have also been approached by Sire Relvanion of Teretine.”

  “And I should be familiar with the gentleman . . . why?”

  “He’s the un-official representative of a
group of barons who are decidedly against the establishment of a kingdom, and who see treachery in how the last Duke of Alshar died.”

  “Well, I can’t deny the treachery, but you can’t bring Lenguin back to life, either. He wasn’t much use when he was alive, if they recall.”

  “That’s what they’re afraid of: that a kingdom would attempt to usurp their powers in their own domains. Most of them are coastal lords, or southern Riverlords, and they’ve been ruling their domains virtually independent of Ducal authority for a century now. Ironic that they invoke the Duke they cursed for an ineffective fool last year as a martyr for their rebellion this year,” she chuckled.

  “As I get used to this whole ‘nobility’ act, I’m starting to see how such things happen,” I admitted. “What exactly do they hope to accomplish?”

  “Absent the rhetoric about ‘usurpation of sovereignty’ and ‘illegal impingement on traditional rights,’ they don’t want to be subject to the new kingdom-wide tax and tribute scheme. They think they can successfully break away, and they’re considering it. There’s a charismatic count in the coastlands who is preparing a full-fledged rebellion.”

  “Is there even going to be a new kingdom-wide tax and tribute scheme?” I asked, confused. Penny looked at me like I was the village dummy, and then used that same level of condescending patience to lecture me.

  “Of course there’s going to be a new tax and tribute scheme – the new Kingdom needs a new administrative infrastructure, and someone has to pay for that. The war effort needs funding in a permanent way. There are plenty of excellent reasons why the Kingdom will need new taxes and a new tribute scheme. Believe me, I’ve spoken with the poor bastards who are trying to come up with it, and it isn’t going to be pleasant, particularly on the great lords. Come Spring, everyone with the rank of baron and above is going to be swearing bitterly to the gods.”

  “They’ll swear more under the sacrificial knife,” I warned. Such bickering made me angry. I haven’t mentioned the nearly-constant reports of goblins marching long strings of captured human prisoners back into the Umbra, never to be seen again because, honestly, it was just too depressing.