The Spellmonger's Wedding (The Spellmonger Series)

by Terry Mancour

  “So, Sir Knight, what is your verdict?” he asked, sarcastically.

  “It does, indeed, appear to be in order,” Sir Cei conceded, regretfully. “It is properly signed, properly worded, and properly sealed. There is just one small technicality,” he said, pointing to the parchment.

  The Censor’s eyes crinkled. “Where?”

  “Here,” Sir Cei said – and without reaching for a weapon he punched his big hairy fist so hard into the Censor’s face that it knocked the man off of his feet – and the knife that had been so menacing clattered to the ground.

  Before the other Censor could react, Sir Roncil’s sword was drawn and laying on his neck.

  “Tend to your wisdom,” he muttered sinisterly to the remaining Censor, while his fellow struggled with a broken, bloodied nose. “I need no magic to slay you.”

  I was gratified to see Sir Olve was likewise undeterred by talk of law or duty. He deftly took the knife out of the Censor’s hand, then took the rod from the other, before unceremoniously smashing the thaumaturgic glass against the side of the trestle table with a sneer of disgust on his face. Almost instantly I felt the power of the witchsphere surge back into my mind.

  I didn’t waste any time myself – nor did my colleagues or family. Both men were quickly grabbed, both magically and by the crowd, and brought before me. Tyndal and Rondal searched them at my direction and removed other enchanted items, their purses, and their credentials.

  “Now,” I said, when things had once-again come to order, “we have a few things to discuss, gentlemen.” I took out the Witchsphere, which was gaining potency again by the moment, and their eyes bulged in wonder and terror. “I suppose you could say I’ve got bigger balls than you – at least one of them – so I’m not going to slay you out of hand. But you did threaten my pregnant wife with death on her wedding day. You upset my guests, in violation of the sacred laws of hospitality, and you violated the edict of His Grace, Rard II of Castal.”

  “That matters not!” the larger Censor said, angrily, his arms held behind him tightly by Tyndal’s spell. “The laws of the King supersede the laws of the Duke, and—”

  “The laws of the gods supersede either Duke or King,” the bridesister pointed out angrily. “To violate them so flagrantly, on such a holy occasion, is to invite calamity!”

  “I think they have a gracious plenty of calamity due them,” Pentandra said, her voice icy. She had her own witchstone out, a smooth torus-shaped disk of the green amber that had some unique capabilities. It doesn’t pay to insult that woman.

  “You have no right to deter us in our lawful—” the taller man began to demand angrily, when Sagal punched him almost as hard as Sir Cei had his partner.

  “That man saved my entire family – my entire people,” he said angrily to the Censor’s bloodied face. “He risked his life to do it, when no one else would. You dare raise a hand to him again, and I won’t care if I hang for it, I’ll rip out our entrails from the spot you used to keep your balls!” Sagal is a big man – not as big as Cei, but he had a cowhand’s build. He could be almost as intimidating as a knight in armor, when he was angry.

  “When word of this betrayal reaches the commandary,” began the other man, the font of blood from his nose starting to abate, “this whole village will be burned to the ground!”

  “I don’t think Baron Lithar would like that,” I pointed out. “Nor would these good folk, whose celebration you’ve tried to ruin. But you’re right, if word of this does get back to the commandary . . .”

  “Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Pentandra said, coolly.

  “I cannot allow a murder at a wedding!” the bridesister insisted.

  “I would never dream of offending the gods like that,” Penny agreed. “That would make me as improper as these scum. But I have an idea . . . if you gentlemen will escort them behind that big red breast-shaped thing over there,” she said, indicating one of my dad’s two great ovens, “I think I can find a satisfactory solution.”

  So, kicking and shouting (until Rondal silenced them magically), Sagal and some other volunteers dragged the two Censors away, while my father and mother watched, grimly determined.

  “Son, I don’t want to interfere in what you and your friends need to do, but . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, “Pentandra won’t let anything happen that could come back to harm you.”

  “I trust you,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “But perhaps you should go soothe your bride – she’s still trembling. You’re her husband, now. Her trembling is your problem now.”

  I realized he was right, and I went to try to comfort her. Her husband. I was her husband, now.

  Twenty minutes later we were all still murmuring about the events, and once Ela, Alya’s sister, had escorted her to the privy, someone put a glass of spirits in my hand and I drank them without notice. I realized it was Sir Cei.

  “I owe you a debt,” I said, when I had regained my composure.

  “I’ve watched that girl since she was a child of twelve,” he said, slowly, as he watched my wife waddle off. “I’ve seen so many of her folk suffer and die, and today, for the first time in a year, I saw her happy. And then that churl held a knife to her throat.”

  I nodded, but couldn’t help but ask. “But wasn’t the legal and proper thing to do cooperating with the Censors?”

  “It may have been the legal thing to do,” he conceded, “but it was far from proper. I would not have a brother knight’s nuptials defiled,” he stated authoritatively. “It was an unworthy and unchivlarous tactic, attacking a man at his own wedding. And holding a pregnant woman hostage is . . . cowardly,” he said, his lip curling into a sneer.

  “I still owe you a debt,” I pointed out. “How would you like to be my new Castellan?”

  That really took the knight by surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “I just took title to a domain, a reward for my service to the Coronet,” I explained. “It was part of the enoblement. I got to choose my own fief. So I did – only it’s not going to be easy. The land is marginal, the place is depopulated, and there hasn’t been a resident lord there in at least two generations. I have it on the highest authority,” I said, remembering my conversations with Lady Arnet, “that the ability of a noble to hold his lands properly is often dependent on his choice of Castellan.”

  “Surely, Sir Minalan, there are other men you trust better,” he said, after pausing. “I am not certain I am the best choice for you.” I could tell he was being diplomatic. Sir Cei and I had rarely gotten along, back when he was working for Sire Koucey, and was in charge of imprisoning Pentandra, among other things.

  “Why, do you have another engagement?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” he admitted. “But I . . . well, there is the matter of the Bovali folk, still encamped in the south. I was considering joining one of the Free Companies, once they are settled, or perhaps taking service somewhere in the Riverlands or northern Wilderlands.”

  “Why look for a job when there’s one right here?” I asked. “Look, despite our differences I know you are an outstanding Castellan. Boval Vale was among the best-run domains I’ve ever seen, and I know that wasn’t because of Sire Koucey’s witty rhetoric. You don’t go out of your way to be liked, but you don’t cheat. People know what they get with you. And you know how to get things done.”

  “Aye,” he conceded. “But then that would involve abandoning the Bovali to the whims of fate,” he concluded. “Right now they are encamped and living on the charity of the Duchy, such as it is. Some families are drifting away to find work, but most are just . . . waiting. It would be ignoble of me to abandon them now.”

  “That’s the other thing,” I nodded. I got to my feet, took another swig of spirits for courage, then climbed on to the rickety trestle table to address the crowd.

  “Thank you all for coming!” I announced. “I want to thank you all for your patience while we got this unpleasantness sorted out,” I began
, “and I want to thank you all for your kindhearted and generous gifts. You have truly made this day memorable . . . for a lot of reasons.” That brought some laughter and a few nervous cheers.

  “But while we celebrate, my wife’s people sit in a draughty old Ducal castle in the Coastlands, surrounded by strangers and with no land or purpose. Today, in gratitude of what these gallant knights did by breaking with thoughtless tradition and displaying their chivalrous natures, I want to invite the Bovali – all of the Bovali – to join me in my new domain.” There was a gasp and sudden surge of chatter, particularly among the Bovali delegation. And, I was moved to note, not a few tears.

  “It won’t be easy,” I continued. “It won’t be . . . inexpensive,” I sighed. I dug out my recent gift. “But I am going to give this draft on the Ducal treasury to Sir Cei, who has agreed to join me as my new Castellan, for the purpose of transporting everyone upriver to our new home. Everyone. A thousand ounces of gold should be enough to pay the passage and feed every refugee,” I explained. “And once they arrive, together we will rebuild our lives in safer, if less-familiar, surroundings. Now everyone drink to the health of my wife!” I said, as the liquor started affecting me.

  There were more cheers at that, and when I got down from the table I ceremoniously handed Sir Cei the valuable slip of parchment.

  “But Sir Minalan,” he protested. “I have not given you my answer!”

  “So think about it,” I coaxed. “But you’d have your old post back. Probably more pay, too. You are already familiar with the Bovali, they trust you, even if they aren’t thrilled with your personality some times.”

  “I . . . I will consider it, Sir Minalan,” he agreed, his thoughts swirling.

  Pentandra came back a few moments after that, looking very pleased with herself. The two Censors were now following her around docilely, not a trace of defiance (or even much intelligence) evident on their faces.

  “What did you do to them?” I asked, my heart leaping in my chest. “You didn’t . . . ?” I began, about to ask if she had permanently burned out their brains, or at least the parts that control magic.

  “No, no,” she chuckled. “They’ll snap out of it . . . eventually. I didn’t burn out their brains. Or even destroy their capacity to manifest Talent. I just . . . messed with their minds a bit. They don’t remember who they are, now. Just a harmless little Blue Magic spell, Ytrinara’s Enchantment of Forgetfulness.”

  “I’m not familiar with that one,” I admitted, taking another drink.

  “It’s an old family recipe,” she dismissed, casually . . . her code words for ‘secret spell hidden in the Order of the Secret Tower’s private library of clandestine magic’. “I have only used it a few times, but it works. For at least the next three weeks these gentlemen will only answer to the names of ‘Pud’ and ‘Dud’; further, they won’t be able to speak more than the simplest phrases, they will be put into service aboard my new barge, and when I return downriver to a certain . . . disreputable merchant I know, they will soon be learning new tricks for the sailors, when the fleets come into port. By the time their proper memories return, there’s no telling what condition they’ll be in.”

  I made a mental note never to seriously piss off Penny.

  Sir Cei continued to be astonished by my offer. “Sir Minalan, I feel honored at the invitation and the trust you have bestowed in me . . . but to then hand me a fortune and trust me to carry out your assignment? Surely no man is that trustful of another,” he said, cradling the draught like it was made of spiderwebs. “This is a thousand ounces of gold. You could buy a comfortable estate with this. Yet you trust me to take it and not mis-use it?”

  “More than anyone but my wife,” I agreed, as Alya and her sister returned from the privy. “Perhaps more – you don’t seem the type to spend it on pretty dresses. Have a drink. Relax. If it makes you feel better, I’m sending both of my apprentices to help. I figure if we break them down into small groups, we can bring them up in convoys, keep them all together, those who wish to come. But you only have a week or so to prepare – just long enough for my honeymoon. Then I want you, Sagal, and an advanced party that you pick to re-join me here. From there we’ll head for the Bontal Riverlands, where my new fief is.”

  “Sir Minalan, this is generosity beyond all bounds,” he said, solemnly. “I not only take the position, I swear I shall serve you as faithfully as I did Sire Koucey.”

  “If I had any doubt about that, I wouldn’t have asked you,” I assured him. “We might butt heads from time to time, but I have a hell of a lot of respect for you, Sir Cei. And I’m going to need that hard head, when it comes to whipping my new domain into shape.”

  We were interrupted when Alya –sorry, Lady Alya – finally made it back to my table. Apparently the gossip about my announcement had reached her before she had reached me. She nearly leapt at me, weeping, when she finally found me.

  “Is it true?” she asked. “Did you really just invite . . . well, pretty much everyone I know to come and settle your new domain?”

  “Our new domain,” I corrected. “And yes, yes I did. We’re going to need the help, they need the work and the home, and maybe together we can show the world what magic in the service of the people can do for a land. I don’t think—”

  I wasn’t able to continue explaining, because Lady Alya’s kisses were keeping me nearly from breathing, much less from speaking. She looked so grateful and so beautiful that the rest of the world just kind of stopped for a while.

  “So,” she said, when she finally broke the kiss. “If I’m Lady Alya, now, shouldn’t I be Lady Alya of . . . . somewhere?”

  “Sevendor,” I supplied. “The name of our new home is Sevendor. It’s a small domain in the northeast, up the Bontal and to the right. Near the Remeran border, in the northern foothills of the Uwarri range.”

  “I have no idea where that is,” she confessed. “It sounds wonderful!”

  “It will be,” I sighed, “now that you’re going to be there.”

  “We’re going to be there,” she corrected me, kissing me again while she put her hand on her big belly. “All of us. Our whole family.”

  “Sir Cei,” I said, “as your first official act as my Castellan, could you persuade the musicians to play ‘A Heart Made For Glory’ please? I feel like dancing badly with my bride.”

  “Do you not mean ‘I badly feel like dancing with my wife’?” Sir Cei asked.

  Pentandra snorted. “Have you seen him dance? He chose his words wisely.”

  “My pleasure, Sir Minalan,” the knight said, a smug look on his face as he started to rise. Then he stopped. “Pardon. I mean, ‘My pleasure, Magelord.’”

  Lady Alya grinned. “You know, I like the sound of that!” and kissed me more.

  You know, I kind of did, too.

  Dedicated to my wife Laurin,

  who was at the real Spellmonger’s Wedding,

  on the occasion of our 22nd anniversary.

  I wish we could do it all over again.

  ALSO IN THE SPELLMONGER SERIES

  NOVELS

  Spellmonger

  Warmage

  Magelord

  STORIES

  “Victory Soup”

  “The River Mists of Talry”

  Other Books By The Author:

  STAR TREK

  Spartacus (ST:NG #20)

  SPACE VIKING SEQUELS

  Prince of Tanith

  Princess Valerie’s War

  You may email the author at tmancour@gmail.com

  Thanks for reading!

 

 

 
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