Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  That was met with gasps of approval – no one had ever recognized the Ameli’s musical talent in such a way, before, as an actual asset. And the reduction in money payment of their tribute meant the manor could devote far more of its scant revenues to its own maintenance.

  “That was fun,” Alya mused, as the carriage began its descent down the hill. “It was good to get away from home, especially in the winter. Especially with you,” she added, fondly.

  “It was,” I agreed. “And securing the allegiances of six new domains certainly mixed a little business with pleasure. Perhaps we can come back in spring – I hear the temple complex looks magical, when the apple blossoms are in full bloom. They have a minor festival at the time. Wives who want to conceive visit and make their pleas to Trygg for babies.”

  “Was that a hint?” she asked, suspiciously.

  I was startled. “What? No! I mean, I didn’t think that was a problem for you,” I said my mind suddenly awhirl.

  “It isn’t,” she agreed. “Not at all, apparently. I’ve been looking for the right time to tell you this, but . . . you remember that night you finally took me down to the Snowflake? And then you . . . too me, down in front of the Snowflake?”

  “And we got interrupted by Onranion?” I chuckled, recalling the embarrassing moment.

  “We got interrupted by that stupid Alka . . . the second time. The first time was sufficient. I confirme it with the nuns. I’m pregnant again.”

  “What?” my mouth said, as my eyes got wide. “Alya, that’s wonderful news!” I embraced her instantly, as the implications from the declaration sunk into my poor, tiny mind.

  “I was worried you weren’t ready for another one,” she confessed, tearfully, after we finally parted. “You’ve been so distant, lately, that I thought that perhaps you were growing weary of the responsibilities of family life . . . and I didn’t want you to feel compelled to . . . to . . .”

  “Its fine, I’m happy, I promise!” I assured her. “Another child is always a blessing from Trygg.”

  “We’ve just got such a nice little family already, I didn’t want to spoil that with me looking like a melon for the summer,” she confided. “Minalyan is already jealous of Amina’s nursing, the little scamp, and Min, with three of them . . . they’ll outnumber us!” she said, her eyes betraying more terror at the thought than I think she had intended.

  “We’ll hire more servants,” I promised. “We’ll get by.”

  She stared at me, as she wiped her tears away with a kerchief. “Are you really, truly happy about this?” she demanded.

  “I’ve never been happier,” I assured. “Fatherhood agrees with me, and you do make the absolute most adorable babies in the barony. We have a big table, Alya,” I reminded. “We have plenty of room for one more. Or ten more,’ I added.

  She glared at me. “I am not a brood sow,” she said, darkly, her mood shifting like a spell. “With Trygg’s blessing I have had two healthy babies, and I might have more. But ten?”

  “That’s not uncommon,” I pointed out, knowing I’d irritated her . . . and perversely enjoying her discomfort. “I am more than up to the task of siring such a profound dynasty.”

  “My lord husband, my baron . . . have you lost your damned mind?”

  I shut up. Proving that wisdom does occasionally manifest with age and experience.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sevendor Grows

  “This, Minalan, is what I have been working on,” Magelord Olmeg revealed in his deep and sonorous voice as he threw back the cloth covering his creations and revealed them to the magelight that illuminated his dark manor house.

  Lying on the pad of raw wool were six small spheres, each no larger than fifty millimeters, and each a bright green, the color of newly-furled leaves in the spring. “These are the result of my studies this winter. With the help of the baculus, and access to snowclay and the Everfire, I was able to finally complete the construction of these simple enchantments,” he said, proudly.

  “What do they do?” I asked, curious. This was about as close to “unrestrained enthusiasm” the tall, quiet green mage ever displayed.

  “They magically optimize the growth rate of plants in their sphere of influence,” he announced, proudly. He picked one of the bright green spheres and handed it me. It was light – clearly hollow – and hummed.

  “A pleasant hum,” I nodded. “I suppose that means it’s happy about being a sphere.”

  “The hum is a sonic wave at roughly 3000 cycles per second,” he informed me. “It optimizes the growth rate. There’s a number of secondary enchantments to discourage pests. Another regulates soil water retention, magically holding enough water in the soil to optimize uptake. Another magically aerates the soil and ensures sufficient oxygen to root systems to keep them properly respirated. Another regulates beneficial rhybosomes to increase the photosynthetic efficiency,” he said, proudly. “All my skill as a green mage, distilled into this effortless enchantment,” he said, his deep voice awash in wonder.

  “Are they all the same?” I asked, curious.

  “Goodness, no! The smaller ones are designed for vegetables and shrubs, the medium size ones are for grain crops, and the largest ones are designed for arboreal settings. I can customize them even further, if I know the particular crop. I’ve crafted four of them just to succor those redwood seedlings I’ve started – if things go well, they should be leaping up out of the ground by autumn.”

  “Have you tested them?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “Even green magic must await the change of seasons. But I am certain of their powers. I plan on using them all across the domain.”

  “How difficult are they to make?” I asked, curious.

  “Oh, not at all, once you work out the particular combination of enchantments needed actually laying them within one of these spheres is elementary, for an enchanter. They take about an hour each, now that I’ve worked out the groundwork.”

  “An hour apiece,” I nodded, “and yet an enchantment that can last for . . . say, how long can it last?”

  “Ah, that is the beauty of it,” Olmeg assured me, his big bearded face split wide with a grin. “One you enchant it and activate it – you bury them, usually, or would mount them in trees – it uses the natural energy of the earth to power its enchantments. They take very little, when you use the snowclay,” he pointed out. “The enchantments involved require very little power to begin with. Their range is about a mile, but they draw natural energy from within that area, too. They are self-sustaining. With these, we can increase the bounty of the land immeasurably . . . forever.”

  If my eyes were bulging, he had the good grace not to mention it. When the wealth of your estates is measured in agricultural output, that has serious ramifications for the economy when you talked about increasing yields. “Just how much would this increase, say, an average wheat field?”

  He replaced the sphere and covered it with the cloth again, moving with great deliberation and grace for all his size. “I would say that it would reduce harvest time by three weeks,” he guessed. “And I could imagine yields increasing by at least half.”

  Coupled with the growing stockpile of plowing rods and other agricultural enchantments I had, this had incredible repercussions for the economy of the region. I had already been gathering priests of Huin, (under the auspices of Landfather Merton, who ran an ecclesiastic estate and temple in the region) to distribute the rods to his brothers. It looked like they would be distributing the spheres next year, as well.

  That had been Sister Bemia’s idea. During our trip to the temple I had imposed on her to explain some of the peculiarities of ecclesiastic estates, and how they provided much-needed services for the community in return for pious support. But each of the sects jealously guarded their rites and prerogatives.

  In particular, the spring plowing services were where Huin’s brothers received most of their offerings. Blessing the plows and the furrows was a major rite for the po
or downtrodden peasantry. Depriving the Temple of Huin of its due through enchantment would, the nun assured me, potentially damage my public image as a pious man.

  I was trying to be sensitive to this. She suggested that instead of challenging the traditional rites of Huin with my magic, I enlist them, instead. In a few weeks as many monks of the Tiller would be coming to Landfather Merton’s temple, before they scattered across the Bontal Vales, just as last year. Only this year they would each receive a humble-looking staff engraved with the Tiller’s sigil and various common blessings. When properly commanded, the rods would – with the priest’s spells – churn the land into neat rows, without need of plow, horse, or sweat.

  Merton had been cautious about seeing our demonstration, but he had to admit the utility of the device. As Huin’s servants constantly preached about the importance of utility and efficiency in the conduct of the Tiller’s sacred rites, and stood up so frequently against abuses of the peasantry by the nobility that they were notorious for starting revolts, it was hard for the abbot to argue against the rods.

  But he was thoughtfully cautious, too, and promised only to distribute the enchantments to monks conducting the rites in baronial lands. At least for now. Persuading his men to also bury a few of these spheres in strategic locations shouldn’t be too much of a burden, I figured. Especially not when they could provide Huin’s Bounty so prodigiously.

  “You might want to check with Planus – he has all of those vineyards in Remere, and I’m guessing he’d be happy to pay your price for these . . . say, just what is your price for these?”

  “Such matters are of little concern to me,” he said with a mighty shrug. “I have a chest of silver now that I have not spent – why do I need more money?”

  “Everyone needs more money, just ask Banamor,” I dismissed with a wave. We both dug our pipes out of pouches as we settled in front of his lopsided fireplace to discuss business. “An hour of time is worth coin, and these . . .?”

  “I call them Phytospheres,” he replied, as he brought his pipe to life.

  “These Phytospheres are too important to make like festival treats for the kiddies. Say, twenty ounces of silver apiece? For the grain and vegetables? Perhaps a little less for the trees – too few lords take forestry seriously, I’m afraid.”

  “A frequent complaint of my colleague Master Minnik,’ he nodded, sagely. “The price seems fair. I can teach the spell to your hired enchanters, and we can make the spheres in batches of ten or more, if you can clear it with the Flamesisters.”

  “They’re likely to be very accommodating,” I agreed. “It would be amazing if we could have these seeded all over our lands by spring. If each Sevendori field produced twice its worth, these would pay for themselves in one season. And perhaps drop the price of grain to something a bit more reasonable.”

  “I wish only the folk have the means to feed themselves,” he said. “I care not for the profit, nor for the glory.”

  “Which is why you are an exceedingly rare mage, and the reason I ennobled you,” I admitted. “What you’ve done with the Tal here is amazing. They’ve more of a village here than most of the hamlets outside our borders – and they’ve taken up our customs very quickly. And our language.”

  “They are eager to be of service, knowing what the alternatives are. A good little people, worthy of our protection.”

  “Agreed – and giving them sanctuary here has benefitted us all, despite the resistance of the native Sevenori. But that could have been disastrous, if not for your wise leadership.”

  “They regard me fondly,” he said, understating the worshipful respect the Tal showed him by a length. “They respond to courtesy and respect, just as any creature does. Their industriousness is admirable. And their dedication to the land.”

  “How do they feel about some of their fellows going aloft?” I asked, curious. Two of Dara’s best Skyriders were Tal.

  “Lan and Pio?” he asked, amused. “They’re quite the celebrities, in Hollyburrow. I never thought Dara could convince any of my little friends to try to ride a steed more inclined to eat them than obey them, but she persevered, and the two are quite popular now. The Skyriders of the Tal Alon,” he chuckled. “Who could have foreseen that?”

  “Dara, apparently,” I nodded. “Between the both of you, you manage to keep the rest of us in wonderment.”

  “We live in a land of wonders,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I cannot help but be concerned over what those wonders might attract.”

  “I have warmagi, for that,” I pointed out.

  “You misunderstand me, Magelord,” the big mage said, shaking his shaggy head. “You have been rightly concerned with those in the kingdom who covet your position, your riches, and your growing power . . . but what of those things naturally attracted to Sevendor because of the snowstone? Many creatures use magic in their lifecycle. I have noticed a change in the type and manner of wildlife that frequents these hills . . . and I am not talking about giant hawks.”

  “What are you talking about, then?”

  “There are plants growing wild within the snow zone that were never seen here, until now,” he offered. “A few natavia parasitic vines, for instance, and a number of ditomelion flowers – they seek areas of low etheric density, because they need the nightweb to pollinate, and it uses magic to propel itself in the night sky. The local patterns are changing,” he stated, puffing a billow of smoke as he made his observations.

  “Anything I should be concerned with?” I asked, startled.

  “Nothing yet,” he admitted. “But perhaps soon. It was inevitable, of course, that such a powerful arcane phenomenon would start affecting the natural world around it. But I fear that it will attract magical predators, or worse plagues on our folk.”

  “That sounds disturbing.”

  “It should. But we must be vigilant . . . and when the day comes when your bounty attracts the worst of this world, we shall have to face it.”

  I didn’t ask him what he meant. In truth, I didn’t want to know.

  *

  *

  A week after our return from Amel Wood, we had received messages from each of the six lords, separately, agreeing to take Sevendor’s colors.

  There were still a few details to work out. I assigned one of the tenant lords over to my estates in East Fleria (the other troublesome property Rard had gifted me with) to put him beyond the easy reach of his former master. The tenant lord of Uwarridor agreed to maintain the holding in return for title to the smallest of the three estates on the domain. I didn’t balk at the price – if the man was willing to stand and fight for me, I thought it better if he had a good reason to.

  For the others, I completed the transactions along with the documents transferring their allegiance officially to the Barony of Sevendor and a specially-made Snowflake banner, and sent them along by trusted messenger in secret to each estate.

  A week before Duin’s Day, all of the parchmentwork was done, their new status was registered with the Ministry of Lands and Estates in Wilderhall, and I was ready to send the parties I’d promised to assist the estates with the transition.

  In some cases this meant a party of Sevendori soldiers led by one of my knights, to lend support to the new lords if their old liege, Trefalan of Sashtalia, took exception to their betrayal. In others it was the mere establishing of a warmage in the domain to begin preparing their defenses. In others it meant wagons of supplies or workmen being deployed.

  But a week before Duin’s Day, six new Snowflake Banners flew over the Bontal Vales . . . and more than forty lances would no longer be defending the Sashtali heartland from the region this summer. Not to mention the shifting frontiers would have an impact on both sides’ strategies in the coming war.

  It didn’t take long to get a response from my western neighbor. Lord Cullien of Rolone himself found his way to my doorstep just days before the Destroyer’s feast day. He was accompanied by only six men-at-arms, and ridden the entire way himself.


  “Spellmonger, what in the name of all of the gods do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded, when I had him attend me in my tower study.

  “I made the gentlemen of the Uwarri hills an offer of protection,” I explained reasonably, as I led him to a comfortable chair. “One they were eager to adopt, considering the harsh tribute they have been expected to pay to the former confederation.”

  “Those were loyal knights of Sashtalia!” he exclaimed.

  “Not so loyal, actually, when one gives them a reasonable alternative. Most had deep grievances with Trefalan. Now, it is not my place to criticize how a man treats his vassals—”

  “Indeed it is not!” he agreed, fervently.

  “But at the same time, one’s relationships have consequences. Your lord looked upon them as minor annoyances and spearfodder. He did not value them. Just a bunch of ignorant country knights who should feel privileged to fight and die for so noble and splendid a lord as Trefelan of Sashtalia.

  “Only those knights felt less loyalty to those who had treated them so poorly for so long. So when I came along and offered them generous terms to take my banner, it was Trefelan’s fault for not cultivating real loyalty from them.”

  “And what can Sevendor offer them that Sashtalia cannot?” he asked, arrogantly.

  “Respect, among other considerations,” I pointed out. “Those men will guard my frontiers, and be treated with the respect such vigilance earns. They will see their fortunes improve, as I reduce their tribute to reasonable levels. And they will avoid dying for a lord who finds them irritating in a war they did not want against a foe they have no grievance with. That, Lord Cullien, is what Sevendor can offer them. Oh, and magic and enchantment, too. But respect and gold serves just as well.”