The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Spellmonger’s Trial

  The greatest day of the Sevendor Fair was midweek, when the Spellmonger’s Trial was held. The event had drawn the Talented of every stripe to Sevendor in an attempt to compete in the mysterious contest. At least I had taken great pains for it to remain mysterious. I didn’t have a joust to attract people, so I tried to create a magical equivalent. The Spellmonger’s Trial was the result. The winner got a witchstone, with some reservations, and that had attracted plenty of ambitious wizards to my vale.

  Over two hundred magi of various sorts had registered to participate in the unknown contest, and were milling around the mid-morning sunshine on the far, open end of the Sevendor Commons as I prepared to address them. I was almost as excited as they were. Since the Spellmonger’s Trial was the only way for most of them to secure a stone short of fighting goblins, the competition was going to be pretty fierce.

  That’s how I wanted it. A witchstone is not something to get by luck, to be appreciated, I found, it had to be earned. So I had devised a method of sorting out the clever, wise, and Talented from the merely lucky.

  We started that morning on the commons where I addressed everyone after ringing that damned bell again. I explained the rules – only low magi were eligible, you still had to swear my oath, and I would tolerate no taking of each others’ lives. I wanted a healthy completion, not a bloodbath.

  There had been speculation about the specifics of the event since I’d announced it to everyone at the coronation. Rumors had flown like rabid bats, and I’d enjoyed listening to the various possibilities. I’d even gotten some ideas. But today was the day, and now was the time. More than two hundred sets of eyes watched me intently as I finally revealed the object of the trial.

  “A few nights ago I chanced to stroll across the peak of Matten’s Helm,” I said, gesturing to the tall, steep hill in the distance. “I was enjoying the evening, and smoking a pipe with my new Alka friends,” I said, which I figured should impress everyone. “I suppose in my reverie I laid it down on a stone and forgot about it. I would dearly love to have it back, but . . . it is such a long way from here. I have scryed the site, and am sure it is still there . . . but it may be guarded,” I said, mischievously. I watched the crowd, enjoying the suspense. We had spent the last week before the Fair preparing, and now I got to reveal it.

  “Your trial is simple. The mage who lays my pipe in my hands first will win the stone.”

  There was a great stir of excitement in the crowd. Many had figured combat of some sort would figure into the contest. There was a war on, after all, and there were dozens of warmagi competing for the stone.

  But this was merely fetching the Magelord’s pipe. That made a number of warmagi grumble, and a number of footwizards smile. Neither had any idea what challenge they’d face, but the moment I rang the bell over two hundred magi sprinted out of the Commons toward the peak, under the gaze of the cheering of the crowd. That bit of theater done, I retired to my pavilion on the Commons.

  The other High Magi present joined me for this event, curious as to how it would play out. I’d encouraged it, as it allowed me to appeal to them as judges, should there be some dispute in the contest. Since many of them had helped me with different aspects of the trial, they seemed the perfect arbiters.

  We gathered around a trestle under my canopy and enjoyed the hospitality of the Spellwarden, whose servants (Banamor had servants?) brought us food, drink, and smoking herbs as we requested to refresh us during our discussion.

  I was impressed with my Spellwarden; he had not only managed to keep his private business afloat during the siege, he had been well-prepared when the first wagons rolled through the Diketower to the Fair. It was fascinating watching the man who had been footsore and threadbare less than a year ago confidently command a legion of functionaries.

  While he frequently consulted with the aids he had hired, he had yet to look ruffled or uncertain in the face of minor crisis. That kept him out of a lot of the interesting debate that evolved around the day’s event, but as he was one of its officials, the novelty of the occasion had faded. Not so the other High Magi.

  Sarakeem and Planus thought the Trial was great sport. Mavone, who had arrived from Wenshar a few days before on his way to the west, and battle, thought it was boring and frivolous. And Master Cormoran and Pentandra were both intrigued with the concept but generally uninterested in the result. They were more interested in discussing some of the amazing things I’d missed at their lectures, which I really wanted to pay attention to but I hadn’t found the time to attend. That’s the problem with being an administrator: you miss all the good stuff.

  It didn’t take us long to get around to the meat of the matter, however.

  “It seems like a silly contest, fetching a pipe,” dismissed Mavone.

  “Not at all,” Sarakeem insisted, sipping the sweet wine he preferred. “For Master Minalan has made the course as challenging as he could without being impossible.”

  “And what challenges are these?” he asked, tolerantly.

  I smiled. We’d spent several days thinking through the Trial and casting the necessary enchantments. I’d gotten many of them to help, according to their specialties.

  Sarakeem had not contributed directly, but had been delighted with the scope and nature of the contest, and had been an enthusiastic wagerer on the outcome.

  Banamor had a list of all of the participants, and the Coinbrethren of Ifnia had not hesitated to figure odds and take bets. I wasn’t betting, of course – that would have been a conflict of interest. But Sarakeem was sure his foreknowledge of the course gave him a better handicap than others, and he had wagered accordingly.

  “Before they even arrive at the base of the mount,” he told the Gilmoran warmage, “they must thread their way through one of Master Olmeg’s nurseries he uses to supply the famed Enchanted Forest that caused so much havoc amongst his enemies during the recent difficulties. If that was not hazard enough, the River Folk have been invited to pelt the contestants with stones, rotten vegetables, and ordure, but Master Olmeg is on hand to ensure that they do not hurt the little Rat Folk.

  “Then they must cross the Barrier of Fortitude Master Minalan has laid at the base of the trail,” he said, dramatically.

  “And the nature of the barrier?” asked Planus, curious. He hadn’t been involved in that enchantment.

  “A field of sigils that must be banished or crossed, I said, amused. “If one attempts to enter the trail by simply crossing them, and bearing all of their enchantments, one would likely go mad. Coughing. Vomiting. Headache. Sneezing fits. Hiccups. Vertigo. Agoraphobia. Paranoia. That sort of thing. None of them are lethal, unless some damn fool throws themselves over a cliff on purpose.

  :But there are some nasty ones up there. You would have to be a decent mage to dispel them. Nothing a trained Imperial-style magi would have any problems with, but it keeps the sports and the weak-willed at the foot of the hill.”

  “A mere test of endurance,” Mavone dismissed, unimpressed. “And then?”

  “Then they must face the Trail of Trials,” Sarakeem continued, eagerly, unfazed by Mavone’s attitude. “There are all manner of enchantments along that route: gouts of flame, unbearable noise, noxious vapors, binding spells, narrowing spells, illusions – it was breathtaking,” he said, admirably. Planus had helped with that part, and looked pleased at the praise. “Each element is triggered differently – a young woman might get a spray of water, an old man might receive a lot of noxious gasses, though none should face more than four or five such spells along the way.

  “Then things get interesting: they must face Master Minalan’s apprentice, Sir Rondal, in a test of wits.”

  “I wasn’t aware that apprentices had wits,” quipped Planus. “Mine never do.”

  “Rondal is quite gifted academically, and possesses a keen Talent,” I reported. “Nor did I desire the challenge to be too difficult, lest none would
pass. But the test he devised is intriguing. He asks that the challenger remove the water in a chalice on one side of the meadow to a chalice on the opposite side . . . without touching it in any way. Rondal will not interfere, but he will call the participant out if they violate the terms of the challenge.”

  “That could be done any number of ways,” Mavone observed with a good-natured sneer.

  “Exactly why I like it as a challenge,” I pointed out. “Rondal is there to observe and judge, but he won’t try to stop them in any way unless they violate the rules. I want whoever gets the stone to be clever enough to figure out a way to do it. I don’t much care how they do it, but such an elemental display of their Talent and their aptitude with spellwork will be telling.”

  “A point,” Mavone agreed. “And should they pass this test?”

  “Then they face my Veil,” Pentandra said, darkly. She had been the one I’d originally asked to place a special enchantment half-way up the hill as a way to discourage folks from dropping by the Alka Alon or their Karshak artisans casually.

  It I had imposed upon her to make the enchantment permanent, too. Unless one had one of a dozen snowflake-shaped pieces of snowstone she’d prepared, then any would-be interloper would have to contend with her Veil. It was my way of making sure the Alka were not bothered by curious peasants.

  “It’s a deeply psychological enchantment that forces the victim – so sorry, the ‘participant’ to face their darkest fear,” she explained. “Or one of them. Or something damn scary dredged from their deepest nightmare. If they can manage to tame their own fear, then the Veil falls, and they may pass.”

  “That’s sadistic,” Mavone nodded, pleased. “But a good challenge. And next?”

  “Beyond Pentandra’s Veil lies the second landing, where Sir Tyndal awaits.”

  “And what is his challenge?”

  “Simple. They have to get past Sir Tyndal,” I said. “He’s been instructed not to allow anyone to pass.”

  “You think your apprentice can stop them?” Planus asked, curious.

  “He’s not a bad warmage,” Pentandra said, quickly, “and he’s quite adept with spur-of-the-moment spells. He did some impressive work in Talry before Rondal and I picked him up. He took on two Royal Censors by himself.” She seemed as proud of him as if she were his mother, for some reason.

  “He’s been instructed not to use lethal force,” I reminded them. “Soft attacks only. I don’t want any funerals. It’s good practice for him, and a chance for the contestants to prove their skills.

  “If they manage to get by him, the last leg is relatively uneventful. But then they come to the summit, and there they will see the pipe sitting on a conveniently located rock . . . and the banewarding spell I have surrounding it. If they can dispel that enchantment, then they get the pipe.” I smiled to myself. “It will not be an easy enchantment to dispel,” I added.

  A banewarding is actually a class of spell, designed to ward or protect something from casually walking off. Like a lock, or even a spellbinding, a banewarding can be simple or sophisticated, depending on the power of the mage and the amount of time and energy poured into building the spell.

  We used them all the time at the Academy, since our books and prized possessions had an almost-magical way of walking off on their own in the presence of some of my classmates. At the lower end a banewarding could merely inhibit the desire to pick something up; but the more layers and levels of focus you added, the greater the difficulty in breaking the enchantment . . . and the penalty invoked for doing so.

  This particular banewarding had three levels of sophistication, and was mired in thaumaturgical misdirection. Dispelling it would require understanding of at least three elemental disciplines and the dynamics of arcane force. The spells were targeted at the higher functions of the human mind, the ability to reason and make sound judgments. The retributory feedback was severe, but not (I hoped) lethal. I had to be mindful not to make it too hard, to keep it fair, but whomever won the stone will have earned it.

  I was proud of that spell. It was the biggest piece of original magic I’d attempted in a while. And it was artful, a truly classy piece of spellcraft, not dependent upon the massive amount of energy I had access to through the sphere but on thaumaturgical finesse. I had put a lot of careful work into hanging that spell. It had been months since I’d done anything creative or original, magically-speaking, and I’d welcomed the opportunity to weave a really powerful banewarding.

  “Still, it seems a frivolous exercise,” Mavone said, shaking his head. “To what purpose do you do this, Magelord?” As one of my officers, he was privy to the same daily mind-to-mind general dispatches from the field that I was. He had been languishing in Wenshar, cataloging the Censorate’s holdings there almost as long as I had been in Sevendor. But the crisis in his homeland had compelled him to return to active service, and Terleman had recalled him to the front. He was anxious to return to battle. Despite his fastidious nature, Mavone was a warmage at heart.

  I thought about it. “A fair question. The stone I’m offering is of but moderate power. I felt it important to diversify how the stones are dispensed, perhaps to establish a precedent. If a stone can be earned through a trial such as this, then there lies a hope for a mage to be risen to one through his skills, not who he knows or what his lineage is.”

  Mavone looked at me thoughtfully . . . no, diplomatically. An important difference. “Of course you must use your discretion in how the stones are deployed,” he said, finally.

  “Meaning you disagree with how I do it,” I sighed. “As I expected.”

  “With the threat in the west—” he began. I stopped him. Being the head of the arcane orders has its prerogatives. The other magi at the table grew tense.

  “I am well aware of the growing urgency of the Gilmoran invasion,” I said, quietly. “Indeed, it becomes more pressing on my mind with each passing day. Since I have been invested in Sevendor, I have taken the oaths of twenty-six warmagi I have tested and found worthy. Five of those stones I issued more than once as their wielders fell in battle. I am very aware of the dire need for yet more warmagi.”

  “Then why this frivolity?” Mavone asked, intently, pointing toward the receding crowd of contestants headed for the mountain. His frustration was clear. Pentandra started to try to defend me, but I stopped her.

  “This isn’t frivolity,” I explained. “If witchstones are found only in the hands of warmagi that sets a dangerous precedent. As powerful in battle as they would be, the folk behind them would suffer from the lack of magic used in their service, and then the war effort would falter before it has begun. Magic, if it is to work in our favor during this war, will turn the tide . . . and that means it must be seen as a positive force throughout the Duchies. Kingdom,” I amended.

  “Understood, Magelord,” Mavone continued, respectfully, as he sipped his wine, “but what use are happy peasants if the gurvani are at their door, ready to eat their children and put them to the knife for the Dead God’s blessing?” He sounded contemptuous. Part of that was his nature – Mavone is an aristocrat, and he sneers with every other word. But part of this was genuine anger.

  “What use is victory in the field when all behind you lies in ruin?” asked Planus.

  “Is that the perspective of most Practical Adepts?” the warmage asked, sternly. He was a Narasi warmage, down to the blondish beard and trousers and mageblade on his back. Planus, on the other hand, looked every inch an eastern Practical Adept down to his silken robes and slippers,, his thin goatee, and his plethora of rings and necklaces. He looked like a commercial mage used to the sophisticated life of prosperous affluence.

  Planus shrugged, un-intimidated by the Gilmoran. “The people must eat too, if they are to feed the army. The roads must be maintained if the army is to be supplied. The smithies need iron from the mines to forge weapons, the army needs wood for wagons and horses from farms. Every step a soldier marches is on the backs of a hundred artisans and l
aborers. Deny them the power of magic and reserve it only for the warriors, and resentment grows.”

  “Worse, what happens when the war is over?” Banamor asked, between messengers.

  “Do the opinions of footwizards now have bearing on the counsels of the wise?” Mavone asked, his scorn only nominally disguised. He was unfamiliar with Banamor, and his growing importance to my domain, and he clearly resented a half-trained, unlicensed commoner having access to a witchstone.

  But Banamor didn’t take offense - he had been scorned as a footwizard his entire professional life. He didn’t take it personally.

  “It’s a fair question,” my Spellwarden insisted. “As a commoner and a footwizard, I can admit that my Talent is not adequate to merit a witchstone. If it wasn’t for the grace of the gods, the Spellmonger and snowstone, I’d be as meager a mage as any wandering conjurer.

  “But while I will not question my good fortune, I will speak for my class: I don’t care if there are magelords or not, whether there is a war or not. But I do not want the only ones armed with irionite to be those who know only how to destroy. That’s what happened in the Magocracy, especially in the early period of the Late Magocracy,” he said. I was surprised. Banamor had found time to devote to studying history. He must not be busy enough.

  “The balance of power within the arcane orders must not be absolute,” Pentandra agreed. “As it is, almost two-thirds of the stones in our control lie with the militant orders, the Horkan Order most of all. But if the balance of that sum is not held by civilian magi, then the future of magic in the Kingdom will lie along military lines. Regardless of the outcome of the war, the result will be the domination of the orders by the militant orders, and perhaps eventual domination of the Kingdom itself.”

  “I share many of your concerns, my friend,” Master Cormoran said, gently placing a hand on the Gilmoran’s arm. “I was at Tudry and Timberwatch. I know the urgency of the need, as well as the scope of the problem.