“Baron,” I said, bowing. “Congratulations. On both your wedding and your investiture.”
“Ah! Master Minalan - Baron Minalan,” he corrected himself. “Thank you very much. Yes, I’m quite pleased with my lovely bride,” he admitted. ”I never thought the comforts of matrimony would be so soothing, but my Isily has such a calming effect on me. It’s hard to believe I ever dismissed the idea. But between the two of us, we should be able to have some truly brilliant progeny. The basis of a real magical dynasty,” he said, earnestly.
I wasn’t certain why the idea revolted me so much, but I hid the feeling from my face. “You plan to have children, then?”
“Why not?” he shrugged. “She is young and fertile, I imagine. And while I am no longer young, I find that I’m as vigorous as I was in my youth. We plan to begin our family any time, now.”
“Then it is a fair for weddings,” I said, doing my best to change the subject. “For if you have not heard, Lady Pentandra has wedded Arborn of the Kasari.”
“Kasari?” Dunselen asked, more curious than scandalized. “He’s Talented, then?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said, surprised by the question. “Why?”
“Then why bother?” he snorted. “We now have a unique opportunity, Minalan, don’t you see? By uniting the strongest of our bloodlines as well as strengthening our institutions, we empower the next generation of magi to be . . . superior,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Why, that’s the entire purpose behind my alliance with Isily, though I admit that it has paid benefits far beyond mere breeding.”
“And does Isily share your views on this . . . consolidation?” I asked trying to keep things technical.
“Oh, she’s the one who suggested it!” he assured me. “Isily insists that she would only mix her blood with the most powerful of magi. She feels her children will be adepts, and wished to find only the very best match for her,” he said, proudly.
Considering where she first “mixed her blood” I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Yet I felt somehow abused by the notion of sharing that right with Dunselen, for some reason. Perhaps because the man was complete tool, and I was worried Isily had a type?
But then Isily was a shadowmage, an adept of that secretive discipline that seeks to bend light, shadow, sound and perception to its will. Isily’s Talent and training had made her a masterful magical assassin . . . a career I had assisted when I had given her a witchstone.
And then slept with her. A few times.
Okay, a lot.
But in my defense she was beautiful, seductive, determined, grateful, and under direct orders to seduce me until she got pregnant. I was at war, leading an army for the first time, and terrified out of my wits. And it was before I married Alya. But after I had pledged my troth. I didn’t have much natural resistance to that combination of events, and magic was no damn help at all.
It’s complicated. And it kept getting more so.
“So are you encouraging other magi to mate with our peers, then?” I asked, amused. “That should make the Conclave receptions more interesting.”
“It is only natural that the most potent bloodlines be conserved - why, the Remeran magi have been doing that since the Magocracy! Hence my disdain for Lady Pentandra’s selection. She should have been more pragmatic. There are plenty of outstanding magi in the world who could have sired a magnificent adept from her loins. Why, I’d have entertained the prospect myself, considering her specialty,” he laughed with a leer.
Dunselen was a remarkable mage, in his way. With a single sentence and without even raising power he had caused me to dislike him that much more intensely. That’s talent.
“But she should have considered more carefully,” he sighed. “Why, I have no idea why she did not have you sire a child with her, Minalan. That would have been an impressive mage! Ah, well. Too often women do not exercise good sense in their choices,” he said, sagely.
I considered Isily and his marriage. “I cannot disagree, Baron. Yet Pentandra married for love, and without considering magic. Arborn is a good man by any estimation. And if it please you to know, the folk of the Alshari Wilderlands spawn more than their share of Talented children, though their gifts are erratic in their appearance. I think it more likely than not that any children of the union will be heir to rajira.”
“One can hope,” he said, as if it were a matter of grave concern. “My lady wife feels strongly about the subject, the Wenshari magi having adopted Remeran practice.”
“And just where is Baroness Isily?” I asked, casually.
“My wife is a practical mage. She dislikes academic discussions, I’m afraid. Matters of thaumaturgy and enchantment tend to bore her. She’s probably shopping at the fairgrounds. A pity - we have an admirable series of lecturers today!”
He was partially right. There were two or three good academic discussions on theoretical enchantment, as well as an interesting historical lecture that referenced the legendary Grain of Pors (which was sitting in my workshop in my castle) among other ancient wonders.
But most of the lectures were delivered by stodgy old hidebound magi from Alar Academy, Inarion, or gentlemen scholars who had managed a quiet retirement. At one point I thought I had been attacked with a sleeping spell, the subject and delivery was so obtuse. I found it annoying that the lecturers seemed far more concerned with relating amusing anecdotes about legendary figures or citing obscure works few had heard of on topics too subtle for most in the audience.
But there was one mage who captured my attention. A middle-aged man who eschewed the robes the academics preferred in favor of a simple tunic and hose.
“I am,” he began in a properly sonorous voice, “Master Ulin of Setria, in Merwyn. I’ve made an academic study of enchantment reaching back to the Magocracy. Learned masters, I am here to tell you that we sit within the scraps and rubble of a magical culture and civilization far greater than we can imagine. When we speak of enchantment, we refer to mere tricks and essays in the art.
“But why did we lose so much of our sophistication in enchantment and thaumaturgy?” he asked, “Sage opinion holds that the Conquest swept away the last great magi of the Magocracy. Yet we also know that by the time of the Conquest the art of enchantment had already been diminished. The loss of irionite, after the confiscations, is also blamed, for our craft’s poor estate, but there is compelling evidence to suggest that even that great loss was not the cause.”
Master Ulin continued to explain how his researches had revealed that the loss was due to purposeful administrative sanction and economic pressure, not a loss of technique. His theory was that the sudden shift from the urban civilization of the Early Magocracy to the agrarian culture of the Middle Magocracy and the resulting power struggle, forced the political repression of many forms of enchantment that challenged that evolving power structure and the economics that supported it. He listed several compelling examples lifted from the surviving records.
It was a fascinating notion, and one I paid close attention to. The economics of magic has always been a shaky thing. Seeing how our ancestors dealt with it - or didn’t - was instructive. It was clear from Master Ulin’s report that the attempts to control the impact of the effects of enchantment administratively by decree were largely unsuccessful and frequently spawned new and unforeseen problems. Sometimes the authorities tried using incentives to encourage policy on enchantment. More often, particularly later in history, the Archmagi and their ministers had resorted to outright suppression, occasionally leading to rebellion.
Ulin gave several more examples from the Later Magocracy, and then finished up with a brief overview of the Censorate’s brutal approach, with which we were more familiar. A few insightful questions led to a lively discussion on the role of administrative enforcement, and my presence as the current agent of that enforcement was clearly apparent. Before I knew it, the lecture had become a discussion on just what plans I had to curtail enchantments.
Tha
t wasn’t really what I was expecting, and it put me in an awkward spot. I finally had to intervene and establish some sort of policy on the subject.
“I think Master Ulin’s lecture demonstrates the difficulty with blanket prescription of research,” I finally announced. “With the end of the Censorate, the return of irionite, and the introduction of snowstone into the equation, we are clearly at the beginning of a new era in the art. I see no specific reason to restrict it, unnecessarily. I plan to consider abuses on a case-by-case basis and judge them on their merits. If there isn’t a damn good reason to prescribe a class of enchantment, I see no need to do so.”
It was a bold and openhanded position. Of course it immediately sparked a storm of questions from the enchanters gathered.
“What about necromancy?” demanded one mage. “Or malicious psychomancy? Or sex magic?”
“Warmagic enchantments should be strictly controlled!” came another shrill voice. “We’re at the brink of another mage war!”
“What about prophecy?” demanded a woman in the back of the room.
“That’s not enchantment!” someone else, one of the Wenshari magi argued, disdainfully. ”Should not these enchantments be registered, somehow?” he added.
The arguments went back and forth for a long time, and I actually enjoyed hearing them. While nothing was settled beyond that, policy-wise, everyone came away from the seminar with a much better understanding about what they could do, now . . . and an unleashed enthusiasm to make magical wonders.
I was able to escape at the end of the reception without encountering Dunselen again, and as a bonus I was able to grab Master Ulin’s elbow before he left. The attendees had gotten so involved with the policy discussion that his insightful lecture had largely been forgotten - except by me.
“I was very intrigued by your topic,” I explained to him. “As you can imagine, it’s one that’s been heavy on my mind of late.”
“Yet I am gratified that you have not yet resorted to prescription, instead of allowing research to take its natural course.”
“I was trained as a thaumaturge,” I shrugged. “The study of magic should not be unnecessarily curtailed.”
“But enchantment reaches beyond mere thaumaturgic theory and into the realm of the practical,” he reminded me, as we crossed the street. “When thaumaturgy becomes reality, then it has very real effects.”
I glanced up at the white mountain looming to the south. “Believe me, I know,” I sighed. “And with all the irionite suddenly around . . . well, let’s say that it has made enchantment in particular an increasing interest of mine. As I’m certain you’ve guessed, Sevendor is starting to influence how other domains function, now. Say, what position do you hold at the moment?” I asked, suddenly having an idea.
“I am currently between assignments, Magelord,” he said, as if it didn’t bother him.
“Then if it doesn’t inconvenience you,” I decided, “please make arrangements to stay as my guest after the fair; it would be a shame to have all of this enchantment talent in my domain at one time and not make use of it. See my Court Wizard, Dranus – he’s the Remearan with the shaved head in the corner with the Wenshari lady – and tell him I said to find you accommodations. But I’d like the benefit of your counsel on some matters, for a few days – among other magi who have come.”
“Any way that I can be of service, Magelord,” he nodded. I could tell he was relieved and gratified at the notice. I found out later that Ulin had sold nearly everything he owned and quit his job as a court wizard for a prosperous knight in Wenshar to journey all the way to Sevendor for the fair. Expressly, it turned out, to get my attention, since I seemed to be the mage who was doing the moving and shaking in the profession at the moment.
I continued to work the room after the seminar, enjoying a few good discussions and avoiding a few bad ones. I did my best to keep Dunselen on the opposite side of the room from me, but sometimes the gods just don’t listen.
“Ah, Baron Minalan, what did you think of the seminar?” Dunselen asked, another mage in tow.
“Just the sort of thing I envisioned when I began the Magic Fair,” I said, truthfully. “Getting some good discussions going outside of the hidebound halls of the academic world is just the sort of thing our profession needs.”
I could tell that took him aback. He was, after all, head of the academic order I had started. The hidebound halls of academia were precisely what Dunselen wanted to advance.
“Yet one cannot deny the importance of solid academic study,” he countered, diplomatically. “These brief seminars provide a useful overview, but the true glory goes to those who toil in the dusty leaves of our libraries.”
“And just what wonders have you unearthed from there, Master Dunselen?” Terleman asked, joining us with a goblet in his hand. My old wartime friend looked far more like a prosperous merchant than one of the best warmagi in the world at the moment – I’d heard he’d spent the last several months getting the estates he’d been given as a reward for service into proper order.
He also had low opinion of academic magi.
“You’d be surprised,” Dunselen said, startled by the intrusion.
“I imagine I would,” Terleman chuckled. “So tell me.”
“I, uh, that is . . . well, Mistress Robian of Alar Academy has determined that Ablard’s Constant varies with the time of day—”
“That was established before the Conquest!” sneered Terleman.
“Not to ten digits of variability,” the mage behind Dunselen sniffed. He looked like an academic mage, if you can believe it. Squint-eyed, stooped shouldered, inkstained hands from reading. “That gives the thaumaturge unprecedented control over calculating the necessary energy consumption over a given period of time!”
“It’s a shadow of a fart in terms of usefulness,” Terleman shot back. “Come off it, Dun – there hasn’t been a significant discovery or advancement out of the academies in generations! A waste of time and resources, if you ask me. Who the hell cares about Ablard’s Constant? Who casts spells that need that kind of control? If it’s going to be a long-term spell, you just charge the hell out of it and calculate the daily average. If it isn’t, who cares what the constant is to ten digits? With a witchstone, such trivia becomes immaterial.”
“Yet few academics have access to such potent resources,” the other mage said, aggressively. “They are wasted on the military.”
Terleman sipped his wine in silence for a moment. “Goodman, I do not believe we have been introduced.”
Dunselen caught the cue, after a moment. “Yes, this is Master Belemo, a fellow at Alar Academy. An advanced student of thaumaturgy and enchantment theory. Master Belemo, this is Magelord Terleman, Lord Commander of the Royal Magical Corps.”
The monkish little academic was not impressed by Terl’s title. In fact, he seemed emboldened at the opportunity to confront an example of what he saw as wasted resources. He launched into a diatribe about the folly of granting such power to a magical warrior class when it was clearly the study of magic that demanded the use of irionite. He castigated the warmagi as thuggish brutes who were using forces they did not understand, and equated them dangerously to the less-flattering characteristics of the hated Censorate.
I could tell by the way Dunselen watched his performance that the old coot had been, if not the author, then certainly an enthusiastic supporter of Master Belemo’s position.
“So you’re saying that Min should hand out witchstones on the basis of . . . what, publishing credits?” he snorted, derisively.
“Witchstones!” Belemo snorted in return. “A droll name for one of the most potent and mysterious of wonders. And yes, irionite should be reserved for those best able to study it. For those who have devoted their lives to studying thaumaturgy,” he said, passionately – almost pleadingly. “The Academies already have the structure in place to handle the proper distribution of materials. It’s criminal that they were not dealt with so when they were
discovered.”
“I think ‘criminal’ might be overstating it,” I said, trying to avoid an argument. “There was a war on. There still is, if you’re paying attention,” I reminded him. “Irionite was apportioned as a matter of necessity, to those best able to defend humanity. Including the academics of Alar and Inarion.”
“But the war is over, now,” Dunselen said, dismissively. “Even if it is merely temporarily abated, then what better time to re-issue irionite to academics who can unlock its secrets?”
“You want to take away glass from wizards like me and give them to wizards like him?” Terleman asked, incredulously.
“As if you need them, now,” Belemo sneered. “When I think of all the vital research that languishes for the lack of irionite, and I see all of the wretchedly decadent use of such great power for such incidental things, it angers me! Why do you need a stone? You already know how to kill things!”
Terleman eyed the man evenly. “I got really good at it, too,” he said quietly. “I can do it in all sorts of painful and creative ways. And I’ve dug holes bigger than you for fun,” he added.
Enchanter (Book 7) Page 5
