The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  During one assault down the pass after Railan’s treachery had seen the holding occupied, the road into the vale had been guarded by the western yeomanries while they awaited reinforcements from Southridge. The more timid folk of Caolan’s Pass had fallen back quickly when the Flerians had tried to descend in force, leaving the Westwoodmen pinned in a precarious place, brave Sir Festaran commanding them from a rocky outcropping.

  Sir Cei had been inspecting the area at the time, and had rounded up a dozen armed men and led a counter-attack sufficient to let the Westwoodmen escape through the forest. Kyre of Westwood, who had led his people in battle, felt obliged and grateful to Sir Cei – hence the beautiful bearskin. And it was but one of many magnificent gifts the folk of the vale gave to him personally.

  Sire Cei felt embarrassed about being the focus of so much attention, but both Alya and I insisted he accept them all graciously – not that he would have done it any other way.

  “You’re a hero to the Bovali,” my wife told him, when he expressed discomfort about the largesse, “for obvious reasons and the native Sevendori respect you – and even love you a little – after your triumph in the tournament and your defense of the domain. If you don’t give them a chance to show their respect, it would be insulting to them,” she reasoned.

  “I do not wed my lady in hopes of material gain,” he said, immediately recognizing the irony of the dowry she brought to the marriage. “Nor do I want the common folk to beggar themselves in an effort to gain my favor.”

  “Oh, relax and enjoy the glory you’ve earned. I’ve had to deal with adoration far beyond my worth for months, now,” I kidded the knight as we watched one wagon of tribute after another arrive before the wedding. “It’s time you enjoy some. You did an ideal job at defending the country; give these folk a chance to show their appreciation.”

  “I only did what I swore to do,” he said, uncomfortably.

  “You never swore to lead these folk leagues across the land, into danger and out again, into a new land and against a new foe . . . but you did. The Bovali are grateful. The Sevendori are respectful. And the new territories we just conquered are lining up to kiss your arse, since you will be ministering over them. Enjoy it,” I commanded him.

  Lady Estret, at least, was more comfortable in her role. This was her second wedding, after all, and as enamored of Sir Cei as she clearly was, she was also practical enough to recognize a golden opportunity for good relations with the common people. She helped steer her awkward mountain knight through the process of receiving gratitude graciously, something that did not come naturally to Sir Cei.

  For the wedding ceremony itself, since Sevendor lacked a proper temple as yet and the shrine to Huin was considered both too remote and too small to accommodate the crowd, I had a lovely temporary chapel built of mage-wrought wood in the inner bailey of the castle, on a base of snowstone twenty feet wide, open to the air. It was a place where the priestess could conduct the ceremony, and later could be used for other social purposes.

  I put Rondal and the newest warmage candidate (a pleasant middle-aged veteran named Buselen) on job, and of course Pentandra insisted on overseeing it. She let the magi indulge themselves in decorating it, with her direction. Not only did it end up festooned with flowers by the morning of the wedding, it glowed with tiny magelights and floating sparkles, and bells of glass and silver tinkled in the breeze from its eaves.

  Our noble guests began to arrive the day before the wedding, with Sire Sigalan and his retinue early in the morning, and Baron Arathanial’s smaller (but no less prestigious) company passing the Diketower at twilight, their pavilions already pitched in the inner bailey by servants sent in advance. Lesser nobles had arrived earlier, particularly my new subject vassals. That was by my request, as I’d wanted time to get to know the men who would be swearing fealty to me at a court held after the wedding.

  Sir Cei invited me to stand vigil with him that night, a special honor I could not decline. We spent the time in the chapel in front of the gods discussing the finer points of marriage; although I was new to the art, I had been earnestly collecting lore on the matter for a while, and had some wisdom to impart to Cei on the subject over the best bottle of wine I could procure.

  Whether or not it was helpful or hurtful, I suppose I’ll never know, but he was passing nervous as dawn approached. I left him to his ritual bath after morning prayers by the yawning bridesister and grabbed a much-needed nap in the hammock in my lab. I was awoken by my valet in plenty of time to dress and prepare for the rite.

  The afternoon ceremony was lovely. Estret looked beautiful in her white gown, the arms of her little land embroidered on her shawl, her train carried by her adorable little girl who was wearing a matching gown. The harpists I’d hired played a pretty hymn to Trygg as she came from the east side of the chapel, while Sir Cei arrived from the west. The priestesses purified them both, blessed them, asked them the questions about their rights and freedoms and duties and obligations, then prayerfully bound them together in matrimony. Faresa acted as flower girl and temporary assistant acolyte, and she couldn’t have looked happier.

  I’ve never seen Sir Cei look happier, and Lady Estret looked enchanted at her big mountain knight. After the ceremony, proper, was the second part of the affair, where Sir Cei of Sevendor became Sire Cei of Cargwenyn as he took the oath of fealty from Baron Arathanial. That bound our domains closer together, now that we shared a vassal. While that was much less important now than it had been a few months ago, it still did my heart good to hear.

  Then we held what was perhaps the most generous celebration in Sevendori history.

  The feast at the castle was magnificent. The High Table hosted the bride and groom, myself and my lady, and the greater nobles and members of the clergy. Around it were arrayed a circle of trestle tables where important guests, nobles from other domains, knights, yeomen and their families, and prominent merchants from the village were seated.

  Beyond that the tables got less formal and the titles and manners began to decline in rough proportion. The free men and the villeins of the vale alike had been invited, in part to celebrate the harvest and their castellan’s wedding. Out in the bailey, hundreds camped on blankets and cloaks or brought their own trestles to eat upon. Meat and bread were consumed in abundance, and ale and cider flowed freely, and no one was turned away.

  As for Sire Cei and Estret, they both looked like Trygg and Ishi had come down in person and blessed them both with love and happiness. Alya and I couldn’t have looked that sweet at our own wedding. They ate from the same plate, drank from the same cup, and shared a dance and all of the other silly traditions people do to re-affirm love and life and such.

  At twilight we sent off the happy couple in an enclosed carriage that was to take them to a remote holding near the spring in Brestal, deep in the wood there, where a cottage had been prepared for their maidenmoon.

  During the interminable round of drinks, blessings, and bawdy talk that seemed required for such an event, I drunkenly insisted that I didn’t want to see either of them for three days, and that I fully expected to hear their screams of passion across the valley.

  That made Sire Cei look away uncomfortably, Estret blush, and my wife give me holy hell a few moments later when we were alone.

  But it was well worth it. Even Penny thought so.

  As the carriage rolled away, Sire Cei’s new charger trotting behind, the magi attending made a point of filling the air with brilliant effects and colorful fireworks. The colors reflecting on the white castle and white mountain behind it were only outdone by the colors of the autumn sunset. I retired back to the Great Hall with my arm around my drunk, exhausted, and extremely pleased-with-herself wife, and nearly tripped over Banamor on the way in.

  Banamor had been present at the ceremony, of course; as Spellwarden, his position required him to be, just as Master Olmeg had been obliged to attend. But he begrudged every moment spent celebrating as graciously as he could, and r
eturned to the Commons and his headquarters as soon as he could. Already more than two dozen vendors had encamped on the Commons, and more arrived at the Diketower every hour, he told me quietly. The wedding was nice, but he had work to do.

  As weddings go, it was splendid, and impressed the gentry of the Bontal vales immensely. There were even songs written about it. It was far grander than my own, but I didn’t begrudge a penny I’d spent on it. And it was a wonderful way to begin Sevendor’s inaugural Magic Fair.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Sevendor Magic Fair

  As bad as my hangover from Sire Cei’s wedding was, I insisted on ringing the great silver bell that Banamor had borrowed from the bridesister of Ishi to open the Fair. I regretted it instantly, as the vibrations from the bell made my head shudder and my stomach heave. And it reminded me of another bell, long ago, a cheap brass thing no better than an oversized cowbell, that had signaled the beginning of the Goblin War. This was a prettier bell, but the hangover and the sound stirred that memory.

  But the grin on Banamor’s face was worth the pain – the former footwizard had done an excellent job on the Magic Fair, and this was the culmination of his efforts. He had been as invested in its success as Alya had been in the success of the wedding. Perhaps more so, since the Fair was a paying concern, not an expense.

  I felt compelled to say a few words, after Coinfather Ridard of Sendaria Port gave the benediction and administered the Fair Oath to all those assembled. I was about to yell when I remembered that I was a mage, and that there were spells for that. I quickly cast one that allowed my voice to be heard by everyone without me shouting.

  “By the ringing of this bell I now open the Sevendor Magic Fair,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. It was just a year ago that I rode through the pass where the Dike now stands, through a devastated and neglected countryside and a dispirited and beaten people. I brought with me the strength of the survivors of Boval Vale, and the idea that magic, when used in service of the people, enriches us all.

  “When I rode in, I was a new magelord in an old Duchy. Now I find I’m an old magelord – as old as they can be, for I am the first – in a new Kingdom.” There were cheers for the King and dutiful prayers of praise and pleas to the gods for his continued health from the clergy. I hoped someone from the Family was listening so they knew I was doing my part. “When I rode in, Sevendor was a sliver of its old glory. Now my domain extends to Hosly, Northwood, and beyond. When I rode into Sevendor, it was led – if it can be called that – by a drunken wastrel who saw it as his slave. Now it is free, prosperous, and happy!” More cheers. That did nothing good for my hangover.

  “This Fair is the culmination of my ideal: magic has served the people of Sevendor handsomely, in peacetime and in war. It defends our frontiers and enriches our crops. You can see the bounty we take from the fields today, thanks to my Greenwarden, Master Olmeg!” More applause. The pristine and abundant state of Sevendor’s harvest had been the talk of the travelers arriving for the Fair, and I’d done everything I could to ensure Olmeg got the credit for it. “The decrepit village I rode through on the way to the castle has been replaced with a vibrant, lively little town ten times the size of its former self. The streets are paved, there are inns and taverns and artisans, and much of that effort can be tracked to Banamor, the Spellwarden who registered you as magi when you arrived.”

  Slightly less applause, which stung a bit. Banamor had been working tirelessly to organize the Fair in addition to his responsibilities as head of the Village council. But their reluctance was understandable. Magical fairs like this had been prohibited under the Bans, and every non-chartered mage who arrived was nervous about signing his name (or giving it – many were illiterate) to anyone for any reason.

  “For the next week, I invite you to buy, sell, trade, and discuss the affairs of the magical world and how they have changed of late. For any with questions, Lady Pentandra, Steward of . . . well, pretty much everything right now, will be throwing several receptions to discuss the matter, and I encourage you to participate.

  “That will be just one of many scholarly events hosted by the various Orders. The Order of Horka is recruiting warmagi and interested parties at the red pavilion near the river,” I said, demonstrating with a flashy display. “The Order of Hesia is likewise recruiting at the green pavilion on the other side. Both are worthy orders doing important work, and they welcome both chartered and unchartered magi,” I said. “And the pay isn’t too bad,” I added.

  “There will also be several scholarly talks by members of the Order of Tarkarine, including former Court Wizard to Duke Rard of Castal, Master Dunselen.” The magelord had eagerly accepted my invitation to come to the Fair, and he was not the only one. According to Banamor’s registry, there were over thirty High Magi present in Sevendor, not counting the ones who lived here. Not many Horkans, I’d noticed – the fight to preserve Barrowbell was pressing. But Master Icorad and Lanse of Bune and Master Cormoran had all arrived with their apprentices, as well as Taren, Mavone, and a few others. Many were eager to share or re-open lost avenues of magic, or merely demonstrate obscure spells or systems.

  “Lastly, as many have already surmised by rumor,” I said, grinning, “at midweek there will be a competition amongst the low magi. The winner of the competition, should he or she accept the oath, shall be given custody of a witchstone.” A gasp and murmur of excitement rushed through the crowd. That was a little better than giving away a mere fief and a wife. “The exact nature of the contest will be a secret until I reveal it. It will be open and free to any mage, chartered or unchartered, who desires to participate. There will be more announcements, but those are all I had. Have a good fair!” I said, and rang the bell a final time. Everyone cheered and I staggered away.

  The Fair was technically held on the Sevendor Village commons, but even before Cei’s wedding there had been footwizards and hedgewitches, resident adepts and spellmongers from all over the Riverlands and beyond making their way through the Dike for the event. Both the Lakeside Inn and the Sevendor Inn were packed to capacity, and there were tents strung out across the commons and on some recently-harvested fields nearby. That had certainly helped attendance at Cei’s wedding (there was a wagon load of gifts from strangers for he and his new bride, people who just wanted to kiss his arse as a means of getting to my own). It also helped with the special Fair Tax Banamor had imposed on guests at the inns.

  I couldn’t argue with the way he had organized it. Banamor had the north half of the Commons organized in lots chalked on the ground in ten foot squares. For a reasonable weekly fee, a merchant could erect a booth or pitch a tent on the (hopefully) busy concourse. Those lots were already mostly full, with tents and temporary awnings crowding under the dam.

  Or a merchant could pay a much lower fee for a spot at the far end of the Commons, just large enough to stand or sit on a blanket and sell. There were plenty interested in doing just that, as many had few items or small wares that did not need the investment of a market booth. Many a penniless footwizard brought a few cherished components gathered on their travels and wished to trade or sell. Many others were just too poor to afford a booth, and sold to passers-by from cramped blankets.

  There were plenty of buyers and sellers, I noted as I toured the site with Banamor, touting everything from falohaudi stones (that was one of Banamor’s men – the Spellwarden had hired a few of his former footsore colleagues to assist him in sales and the stones were rare enough to attract attention) to yellow and brown knot coral to various wandwoods to bushels of magical herbs.

  Some local spellmongers from Sendaria Port and elsewhere had set up shop, temporarily, hawking their enchantments, spells and scrolls of lore to other magi, and letting everyone know what their specialties were.

  A Remeran firm from just south of Wenshar had a smart little booth where they advertised spells useful to merchants of all sorts, for example. Or the former court wizard of the Baron of Ellisad, now a kirs
ieth addict, offering to cast mighty

  sorceries at bargain prices. Several enchanters of various sorts were doing brisk business with finished enchantments, from the simple to the sublime.

  That was to become the bread-and-butter of the Fair, it turned out. As much trade as was done between magi (or quasi-magi), a much larger amount was done as magi sold spells and enchanted items to the public.

  Some of the items had been prohibited or rare for so long under the Censorate that demand was high. And some of the best-selling spells were the least complicated. A pair of footwizards who had learned their trade haphazardly could do little general magic, but between the two of them they could do quite a passable heatstone.

  A heatstone is essentially a very, very hot rock that doesn’t cool down until the spell fails. It takes a lot of energy to initiate, and almost as much to sustain it. A good spellmonger can usually enchant one that will work for several days or even weeks, if given good materials and enough time.

  What this pair of magi did with their wild magic was more impressive. One would set the enchantment of heat upon the stone, while the other would focus on commanding and controlling the heat. The result was a stone that could heat up water to near boiling, when commanded with a simple phrase.

  Peasants loved heatstones. Firewood is dear in the winter, and a good heatstone would keep the chill off a hut when the snow made gleaning firewood unlikely. Or put it in the bottom of a kettle or bathtub and it would raise the temperature until you commanded it to stop. They sold out of the score of stones they brought the first day.

  Another booth selling Banamor’s modest cedar wands that would produce a small magelight on command. There were merchants with magical toys, tools, and weapons. There were hedgewitches selling sorrywood from Twyn, and footwizards hawking marsh boar bones. There were water witches selling their services, warmagi and trackers advertising theirs, and enchanters taking commissions left and right.