The Spellmonger's Wedding (The Spellmonger Series)

by Terry Mancour

  I was in egregious violation of the Bans, you see, because I had wisely chosen power over death. I was in possession of a witchstone, a piece of irionite that greatly augmented my powers. Those were technically illegal. And in my case I was a flagrant violator.

  Possession of the smallest piece of it is usually a death sentence – and the Censorate’s superjurisdictional position made appeal to civil authorities impossible. Duke Rard was challenging the custom, and planned on using it as a pretext to make a crown for himself, but the politics of the thing weren’t what concerned me. What had me anxious was the fact that I was holding a sphere of the magical green amber almost as wide as my palm, a gift from the grateful Alka Alon for a timely rescue.

  Now, it wasn’t that I was worried that I could not best the best of the Censorate’s warmagi in a contest – my sphere gave me incredible leverage in that regard. The problem was that I was on my way to my wedding, and stopping to get involved in a fight with potentially dynastic implications just wasn’t what I wanted to be doing. I wanted a bag of smoke, a pint of ale, and to be on my way to collect my bride.

  Thankfully I had stowed most of the accoutrements that would identify me as a mage of any sort back on the barge. I didn’t wear a mageblade, carry a staff, or wear my four-pointed hat. My cloak was the travel-worn dark woolen mantle I’d carried through the end of the summer’s campaign season. It was stained with mud, blood, and worse, but it didn’t look otherwise remarkable. Apart from the sphere that lay cool and dormant against my chest, there wasn’t much actual enchantment on my person. Unless he chanced to gaze at me with magesight I might as well be a swineherd.

  It was possible that it was mere happenstance, of course – for all I knew, he was on his way home for his sister’s wedding, or something equally innocuous. But when one is wanted for high crimes against the Bans Of Magic, one is far more aware of such coincidences. Magic is, after all, the science of coincidence.

  I studied the back of the man’s head while trying to appear like another bored and weary traveler. He might have been a warmage, but he was un-armored and bareheaded. A young man – the Censorate likes to recruit young magi while they are still idealistic – but a fighter, I realized, by the way he moved. He may not have been wearing his mageblade on his shoulder, but there was a wand hanging from his belt, I saw when he turned a bit.

  I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation when he approached the doorway of the shed. He paid six pennies to fill up his aleskin, a needle, some thread, and a trencher of vegetables and grilled lamb.

  “Back again so soon, m’lord Witchfinder?” the grungy merchant asked with a cock-eyed grin.

  “Wickedness never sleeps,” the man agreed, as he spelled out his order. “No mere witch or footwizard this time – there’s some real nastiness brewing,” he added, darkly.

  “You don’t say, m’lord?” the merchant asked, curiously. “Sorcery?”

  “The worst sort,” the Censor agreed, gravely. “There’s going to be a whole meeting of them, downriver. I’ve had to summon help to deal with them,” he added.

  “You, Witchfinder?” the merchant asked, surprised.

  “It’s unlikely that they will go quietly,” he pointed out. “And I wish to avoid any unnecessary casualties. But I will not let this coven slip through my fingers. They’ve already killed one of my men and wounded another. If they aren’t stopped, there’s no telling what sorcerous mischief they’ll raise.”

  “You give ‘em a swipe for me!” the merchant declared adamantly as he took the man’s money. “I don’t hold with those unnatural practices!”

  “Just keep it to yourself,” the Censor added. “No one knows what this one really looks like, and just about anyone could be in their dark coven. And there’s no telling what magics they’ve employed to scry us out.” That seemed to terrify the man, as it was designed to.

  That’s one thing I’ve always hated about the Censorate. Most of the Censors aren’t really evil, but there’s something about petty authority that seems to stunt most men who have it inflicted on them. The need to intimidate for no better reason than to be intimidating was something I’ve always found to be bullying.

  The Censor passed by me without a second glance. If he felt the presence of my witchsphere, he made no indication. But my heart did not slow down to a respectable rhythm until I was back on the barge, my pipe in my shaking hands.

  As unlikely as such an encounter was, I wasn’t about to throw away a warning from the gods like that.

  I sat and smoked and studied my new toy while I controlled a water elemental that was pushing our barge along at about twice the speed of the river. My obese sphere of irionite sparkled in the sun.

  It was made from shards of the stuff that had been cleaved away from the massive sphere encasing the head of Shereul, the undead goblin king of the gurvani I had spent the last year fighting. It had been melded into this shape by one of the Tree Folk, the Alka Alon, the diminutive non-humans who were apparently just as welcome for sacrifice at Shereul’s table as humanity was.

  I tried to forget the impending interruption to my wedding and explore the new power I had, explore it without succumb to the urge of using it. Madness was an occupational hazard for magi, and those High Magi, those of us with witchstones, were particularly vulnerable. Now I had four times as much at my disposal as any other mage, and it had been . . . augmented, somehow, by the Alka.

  I spent most of the rest of the afternoon using various thaumaturgical spells to root around the sphere, exploring the spellcraft that had gone into its creation with fascination. To an outside observer, it looked like I was taking a nap.

  But inside my head . . . inside my head while it was inside the sphere, things were marvelous. I recognized a sophisticated array of spell elements, useful components which could be accessed and assembled with a thought. The sigils, runes, and symbolic magic of the Imperial school of magic were all easily identifiable – those I knew. It was like sitting down before a massive organ keyboard in a big city temple, or being the captain of a magical ship or – well, there isn’t any easy way to describe it, not unless you understand the language.

  And even then the sphere was vastly more sophisticated. There were hundreds of representations within its circumference I had no idea of what they meant or did. And I’m considered a talented thaumaturge. I could only conclude that they were of Alka origin and design, perhaps elements to Imperial magic lost to us over the years.

  Then I realized, as I studied the arcane spaces within, that the sophisticated array of tools at my disposal was purposefully reduced in complexity from the Alkan underpinnings that had given the sphere actual arcane architecture. They were giving us the kind of help you’d give a child, in other words, who couldn’t understand Grown Up Talk. Let me attempt to explain.

  A regular witchstone – a phrase I never thought I’d utter – is a nearly limitless wellspring of power, available at will to the mage who is attuned to it. That much hadn’t changed. Indeed, the volumes of power I could draw now dwarfed what I could do with my stone’s previous incarnation.

  But the sphere was different. It wasn’t just a wellspring, it was a library, of sorts. Or a storehouse. Or stewpot. Pick your metaphor, it had structure and form inside. It was a sphere of infinite potential and possibility, waiting to respond to my slightest wish.

  As I realized the depths of the sphere’s complexity and its utility, I also got very, very scared.

  No one should have that kind of power. Not even me. Perhaps especially not me.

  But the allure of the sphere’s potential was irresistible. I couldn’t stop admiring its subtleties, and for hours I did nothing but study it as I sat on the barge between two sacks of corn. When I finally, reluctantly stepped away from it, I was exhausted and it was night. And I was no closer to figuring out how to keep the Censorate from crashing my wedding.

  * * *

  One the thing the sphere was adept at was contacting other people with witchs
tones. Specifically members of my order, whatever that was, who I had given the stones to. Including my . . . well, I’m not certain of our relationship, at the moment, so let’s just call her an old school chum, Pentandra.

  Penny was one of the best thaumaturges I knew, and she had greeted the knowledge of my sphere with cautious excitement. Calling to her magically and speaking to her, mind-to-mind, over great distance was child’s play.

  Penny, I began, when she had accepted the contact, how do I get the Censorate’s attention?

  Why would you want to do that? she asked. I could hear the shock and surprise in her “voice”.

  Because they’re trying to arrest me. Not immanently, but I have it on highest authority that the Censors are gathering with the intention of crashing my wedding and leading me away in chains. Or better yet, burying me.

  You’re paranoid, she commented. Who was this source?

  The Censorate.

  Oh. Well, then, I suppose you had better take it seriously. Where are you?

  On a boat on the Burine at the moment. I’m on my way to Talry.

  Of course you are. I will be too, shortly. But why would you want to attract the Censorate’s attention? It seems to me that avoiding their attention would be a wiser course of action.

  Only if I wanted to avoid them, I pointed out. I’ve decided I want to attract them . . . to any place but Talry. Mama has already solidified the guest list, and she’ll be vexed if there are extras. What I want is a distraction. Something big. Something big enough to keep them busy while I get wed, I stressed.

  You peasants are so invested in the whole concept of marriage, she complained. Among the higher orders, it’s just not that serious of an issue. A way to conserve property, seal alliances and promote heirs. It’s a legal contract

  Tell that to my pregnant girlfriend. And remember that I’m a noble now . . . as are you. Recently, I reminded her.

  I know, I know, oh magelord. My point is, you are investing an awful lot in a ceremony. And . . . look, I like Alya, she’s good for you. But marriage? You do realize that in a couple of years you may be one of the most powerful men in the Duchies? Tying up a valuable resource like that isn’t very wise. I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would be perfectly content to be your concubine, if you wanted. That way we could—

  Pentandra, I said quietly, I want to get married.

  Why? she demanded. I’ve never understood the attraction.

  It’s not so bad, if you do it right. When was the last time you saw your parents? Together?

  Oh, a few years ago, at the reception they threw when I got my license. They barely spoke to each other the whole time. If I hadn’t been so drunk I would have been mortified. You’re using them as an example? That’s a poor debate tactic.

  I’m pointing out that people who genuinely don’t like each other probably ought not to get married, I offered. Alya and I do like each other. Love each other.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, love makes it right, she complained. But that doesn’t mean marriage. Hells, some of the best romances in history have been unsullied by marriage.

  My parents managed, I said, carefully. You’ll see, when you arrive in Talry.

  I look forward to it. Last time I was only there for a few hours, and your folks were otherwise occupied. But that reminds me, Tyndal and Rondal are both there. Well, Tyndal is, and Rondal will be there before you will. I spoke with Rondal this morning. He checked on the Bovali refugees in Limwell, and some want to express their appreciation. They’re sending a delegation.

  A delegation? I asked. All the way up to the Burine? Won’t that be expensive?

  They took up a collection, she explained. Rondal will tell you about it. But they felt so grateful that they didn’t want to go unrepresented. And of course Alya’s sister and her husband will be coming. Astryal cannot make it, unfortunately, nor can most of the High Magi, thanks to your victory. They’re scurrying off to follow your orders. I’m sure they’ll send gifts, she pointed out.

  That’s fine, the less High Magi together in one place . . . actually, I just . . . wait . . . if I . . .

  I can hear your thoughts, remember, she reminded me patiently. It’s kind of amusing.

  Bide a moment. I did some fast thinking. Pen, if they can’t be here in person, do you think the High Magi might be persuaded to help out an old war buddy?

  * * *

  I actually got off the river north of Talry, at a little village called Gunder famous for its sausages. I had never heard of the place, or its sausages, but the locals all assured me that the Gunder sausage was, indeed, the preferred and superior sausage up and down the Burine. I tried one – it was good. But not legendary.

  That’s not just a bit of travel trivia, that’s actually quite instructional. The quality of one’s sausage doesn’t matter nearly as much as what other people knew – or thought they knew – about it. And how many people knew. Or which people in particular knew. “Famous for its sausages” is very useful, for a community dedicated to sausage-stuffing, but only if people outside of your hamlet knew about it.

  But it was good. I was willing to pass that on, if the subject came up.

  The point, I decided as I rode Traveler south overland, was that appearances were often far more important than performance. After hanging around Ducal court, I should have figured that out by now.

  I had gone ashore at Gunder for a couple of reasons, and none of them were sausage-related. I wanted to give Traveler a chance to stretch his legs, for one thing. He dislikes water travel, and he can get positively nasty if he doesn’t feel land under him regularly. I didn’t want to arrive with a pissed-off steed.

  The other reason was that I felt in need of a bath and a shave and a bit of rest before I arrived for my wedding, which I still had a few days to get to. I’d not tidied up much since Wilderhall, and my beard and hair were getting annoying. A proper indulgent hot bath, perhaps with a pretty attendant or two, sounded like a splendid way to prepare for my wedding.

  The third reason was that I didn’t want to show up at Talry, step off the barge, and into a pre-nuptial duel with the Censorate. The precautions I’d taken were impressive, but they weren’t exhaustive. At most they would lessen the chance of a general bloodbath. If I was very lucky, no one at all would show, and I could begin my marriage in peace.

  I was very philosophical as I rode. I had a little more time before the wedding day, thanks to my speedy trip downriver. I enjoyed the scenery and smoked and got slightly tipsy, checking in with my colleagues mind-to-mind as I needed to. I thought of the folio of parchments that represented my new life, I thought about Alya as Goodwife Alya – sorry, Lady Alya, now, wouldn’t that be a surprise. I thought about the son I had yet to meet.

  It was a blissful ride. The peasants were busy with the last of the harvest, untroubled by war or its rumors. The merchants and peddlers and artisans went about their business without the fear of the Dead God. The priests and priestesses, monks and nuns were dutifully at their devotions and ministries, unconcerned yet for a storm from which they had yet to hear the thunder.

  I did my best to engrave that beatific ride into my soul while I rode, and tried to make it a part of my being. The peaceful order of life, the routine of daily living. As much as the war in the west frightened and worried me, I needed to be able to maintain that rhythm in the hearts of my new people, whomever they were, that would inspire growth and hope, not fear and defeat.

  By the time I made it to Loxly, the crossroads farm village just outside of Talry, I was in a good mood. I was going to get married, in front of the gods and with my entire family, and I’d be damned if I was going to let the Censorate ruin that.

  I paid for a few days at the inn in Loxly, a creepy-but-homey place Tyndal, of all people, had recommended called the Four Stags. The beer was good, the fare was fair, and the innkeeper’s daughter was comely, so I can’t fault his advice.

  I tarried for a shave and a haircut at the barber across the road, then paid
for the big copper bathtub in the back of the inn to be filled with water. It was four pennies to fill it with cold water, ten to fill it with hot. I paid for cold, and then raised it to the perfect temperature by magic. It’s the little things like that that make being a mage tolerable.

  The innkeeper’s daughter brought me wine and dinner while I soaked and scrubbed, and for two pennies more I got her help with certain hard-to-reach parts. By the time I got out the water had become both murky and cold, and my flesh was wrinkled like a prune. I changed into my cleaner pair of travel clothes and had the innkeeper’s daughter wash the rest, while I took up a spot by the fire in the common hall.

  Wrapped in my mantle and smoking my pipe, I could have been anyone, of nearly any class, from baron to beggar. The Four Stags was a busy place, and as a crossroads near to the river there was a lot of commerce it availed itself of. And a lot of gossip. I was looking for particular pieces of information, and sometimes you could get that passively more effectively than going around asking attention-getting questions.