Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  Later, after wine, dessert, wine, a song or two, closing prayers, and more wine, we retired to the roof of the castle to overlook the vale by night. I held back a bit, feigning some trouble with my pipe, and caught Hotfoot by the shoulder, pulling the itinerate deity into an alcove for a chat.

  “Just what in the name of Briga’s better nature were you trying to pull in there?” I demanded, hotly. “I’ve spent the last six months trying to coax the peasant clergy into accepting my enchantments! In the course of one conversation you could have destroyed all of that!”

  “Calm yourself, Spellmonger,” the monk said, wiping his lips. “Just a little friendly debate among theologians,” he dismissed as he took out his own stubby pipe. “Father Miton has already committed to backing your enchantments with the force of his authority . . . which won’t be far, admittedly. But he’s invested in the idea. The point of that conversation was to begin another,” he said, deliberately. He waited for me expectantly to follow his logic.

  I’d had a few cups, but I wasn’t beyond simple reason. “The Avaltines,” I replied, dumbly.

  “Ah, yes! The Aveltine monks, who just happened to take the wrong fork at a road in Remere and learned about Sevendor as a result, two years ago. Who just happened to lose their contract with Sire Gimbal just as they were considering a new project . . . and who just happened to learn about the mysterious Karshak Alon building the Spellmonger’s palace in a third-rate shrine of mine in Fleria. The Avaltines, who just happened to be one of the very few Imperial cults left who have preserved some of the very ancient-most knowledge and lore of humanity, within their most secret vaults. One of the very few cults who managed to escape much scrutiny by the Censors, thanks to their utility to the regime, who managed to maintain chapterhouses throughout the duchies and in places like Farise, Unstara, and outposts even farther away . . . and who just happened to take a job working for you, just outside your doorstep, waiting for you to happen along and ask the precisely the right question concerning the precise bit of obscure ecclesiastic lore from just the right man in the organization to have some knowledge of it,” he sighed, exhaling an impressive cloud of smoke. “The Avaltines,” he concluded, sagaciously.

  I stared at him, trying my best to follow the logic of the drunken god. “And you had to start a religious debate to get there?” I finally demanded.

  “Gods, you’re dim! I’m a monk! Should I have discussed her ladyship’s hooters? Of course it was going to be a theological debate! That’s what monks do! Look,” he said, impatiently, “it got the job done. Through no fault of my own, thanks to the constraints of the nature of human divinity on this world, I am bound from just telling you anything I want, any time I want, but I get the damned job done!”

  ‘Why?” I demanded.

  “I can’t bloody explain it!” he burst out. “It all happened before my time, when I was just another simple priest hoofing it along the Vore, staying one step in front of the magistrates. That’s when the rules, such as they are, were set, just before the Inundation. Among them are the restraints upon how and why and what we can impart to our worshippers and such. In short, I can lead you to the bloody monks, get them drunk enough to tell you their secrets, charm them with my wit and entice them with my theological rigor, but it’s your bloody job to actually ask the sodding question, Spellmonger!” he snorted.

  I blinked. “You know, that would be quite impressive if I still wasn’t reeling from the insight you dropped in my pocket this morning. That the Sea Folk are the real danger to humanity.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, you bloody dim mage, no!” the god fussed, frustrated and exasperated. “The Sea Folk, as you call them, as powerful as they are, are not the real danger. They are but the emissaries of the real masters of Callidore, to whom both we and the various Alon are mere tenants! For countless ages before humanity spat forth from the Void on this thankless rock, Callidore was ruled from the seas, the land an inconvenient afterthought!”

  “But the Alon—”

  “The Alon? Even the highest Alkan prince or aronin has no more right to this world than a villein has to his rented plot!” he insisted, his words speeding together dangerously. “You think you’re doing magic? Even now, the Sea Folk and who they truly represent, as powerful as they are, are the remnants of a race whose mastery of reality and the intricacies of those forces you label as arcane were so vast they shifted the courses of the very stars, so legend says. Under the seas, the lore says, long before any of the Five Races came to Callidore, the great Ostolumak Celestial Mothers of ancient ages sat in their watery kingdoms among subjects from a thousand aquatic species, contemplated the universe, and shifted the courses of suns,” he said, his eyes going wide in wonder and disbelief.

  When you see a god – even a minor god – enrapt in his own sense of insignificance, it’s telling.

  “So what do we have to fear of them?” I asked, my voice tight and quiet.

  “No more than the fleas have to fear the temper of the dog they live upon,” he said, quietly, his voice discouraged. “That’s what you are, Minalan, you, the Alka, the gurvani, all of you: fleas on the back of a dog that could go for a swim at any moment. Make the dog itch . . . and it will scratch. Perwyn made it itch, the bastards,” he said, with an angry sneer. “Almost killed every human in the world with the resulting scratch. Not that the damned Alka Alon didn’t help us out . . . that’s what I’m trying to avoid, Min,” he sighed, wearily. “That’s our job, the gods. You’re all just a bunch of fleas on this dog, and we’re the ones in charge of keeping you from getting scratched off.”

  “Thanks,” I said, weakly. “That’s helpful.”

  “And I’m sure I broke a few rules,” he dismissed. “Not that it will matter, in the long run. Really, who the hells cares about those rules, anyway? You go contemplate that cosmic wisdom I just gave you,” he said, turning back to me, then starting up the stairs. “I’m going to go pee off the tower,” he said, with the force of divine mission in his voice.

  I watched him haul himself up to the platform where our host awaited with his other guests . . . when I realized that I wasn’t alone. I turned, startled that I hadn’t realized someone was listening. My new apprentice, Ruderal, was standing quietly in the shadows, almost a shadow himself.

  “Master, that monk . . . his pattern . . .” he said, struggling with the new words, his eyes shifting uncomfortably under his long black hair. “You know how I can see ‘em? I can see his, but it’s not like yours. Or mine. Or anyone else’s at the table tonight.”

  I sighed. Of course he’d see Herus’ enneagram differently – from what I knew about the subject, divine enneagrams were far, far more complex than a humans, a reflection of all of the prayers and devotion of their worshippers over the years absorbed in the divine . . . matrix? Lacis? Soup? See, I still knew almost nothing about the subject I was supposed to be an expert in.

  “Yes, he is different,” I agreed. “And someday I will explain exactly why. For now, it would be best that you didn’t discuss this observation with anyone but me, Apprentice,” I said, casting my eyes on him to ensure that this directive had force.

  The lad swallowed, then shrugged. “Not a problem, Master. You know, he’s kind of an asshole, too,” he added.

  “Another excellent observation,” I chuckled. “But sometimes spiritual counseling can take strange forms. Let’s go up and look at the stars, now, before someone moves them around on us.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Complications Of Divinity

  Karandal shared a frontier, a ridge, and a forest with Bastidor, and by character and culture the two domains had much in common. The two had been enfiefed around the same time, to the same class of Narasi country knight the Lenselys had employed in the settlement of the Bontal. Karandal was technically larger, and enjoyed longer river frontage, but in essence there wasn’t much difference between the two.

  But Karandal had proved a more lucrative holding, ultimately, due to a lucrative in
vestment in religious patronage somewhere in the past. A lord of Karandal felt he owed a debt to Orvatas the Sky God, and gave a small estate in his rugged domain to a band of monks seeking a living. With his patronage they started raising the mountain sheep the Uwarris were known for, with a few llamas on the side, and built a small abbey. Fistan Abbey, to live in and preach out of.

  For more than a century the humble woolbrothers had expanded both their ministry and their operations until they owned or rented pastures all over Karandal, Hosly and the other hill domains. The abbey quietly purchased wool from individual cotholders and villeins at a decent price, then blended it and treated it until it had become a premium commodity under their seal at market. And Sire Arkid of Karandal got a little piece of every staple of wool bound downriver to Sendaria Port. Enough to fund both a proper square keep castle near the center of the domain, as well as a more modern tower complex in the more troublesome southern estates.

  Sire Gimbal had realized the lucrative nature of the domain and had forced a garrison of soldiers there, before I conquered him. It had lain empty, save for a caretaker and a few servants, for the last two years. As East Fleria had done little, outside of a probing raid in Northwood, I hadn’t staffed the small river fortification, known as Maddarch Tower, because I had been unsure of what to do with it. But there were those who had their eye on it already, and it was time I made some decision.

  “Oh, Fistan Abbey covets the place,” Sir Festaran assured me. As Karandal was a neighbor of his native domain of Hosly, where we would visit next, Sir Festaran was a bit of an authority on the historical gossip about the region. “The monks want the rich pasturelands around it, the river for fish and transport, and the high, dry storage there. They’ve wanted the site since it was built.”

  “And no one gave it to them?” I asked. I remember resolute Woolbrother Teer, the efficient agent of the abbey who had appeared at court on behalf of his estate a few times. “I find that hard to believe. They’re quite persuasive.”

  “Oh, they tried to coax it from Sire Gimbal, after he became Karandal’s overlord and claimed Maddarch outright, but the Warbird was too crafty for that. Or too greedy. Instead he rented them the pastures at high price, for at the time he feared his brother would try to steal his patrimony from him. Instead, to punish the monks, he made the Abbey pay scutage to support the garrison as part of their rents. Since he’s been gone, they’ve been buttering up Sire Arkid and his wife in an attempt to win it from him. But the good knight has reportedly deferred to your decision in the matter.”

  “Wise man,” I snorted. “I don’t want to be the ones to tell the monks ‘no’, and I don’t want to lose a potentially valuable fortification.” I knew little of the man, but Arkid had no heir old enough to hold a second castle, and he did not want to fund the expense of setting up a castellan that I might arbitrarily dismiss. So he sat on the matter, passing it to me to decide.

  “But the property should be occupied by someone,” Sir Festaran urged me. “It is a small estate, but strategically important. And beautiful. I trained there, once,” he said, a dreamy look in his eye. “Hardly proper for a seated lord, perhaps, but a strong tenant lord could make a real go of it.”

  “Are you applying for the job, Sir Festaran?” I teased. The lad looked nearly stricken.

  “Baron, no!” he said, scandalized. “I love my work at Sevendor! Please don’t send me away!”

  I chuckled. “No, I’ve no plans like that for you yet, Fes. And you are already the heir to one domain – I don’t think you need more than that. Not if you’ve a brain under that woolen mop of yours. No, I think I’m going to disappoint both Sire Arkid and the Woolbrothers of Fistan Abbey, and make Maddarch Tower a baronial estate.”

  The young mage knight got a curious look on his face. “Well thought, Baron. May I ask to what end?”

  “I know little enough about Sire Arkid, but I do know he is more suspicious and jealous of his privacy than his fellows. I’ve been concerned that he would see a warmage in my pay so close to his affairs as a threat. By installing him as my regional agent in Maddarch, I allow both abbey and castle to conduct their affairs in peace, while my man looks out for my interests, which include the defense of this place.”

  “Which of them will you appoint?” asked Brother Hotfoot, riding his rouncey in line with ours, as the road widened.

  “Likely Heeth the Butler,” I said, after thinking about it a few moments.

  Heeth was one of the more scholarly warmagi, with a background in thaumaturgy, who I’d hired. I liked Heeth – he was a class ahead of me at Inarion, but had gotten stuck in Farise with the rest of us. He got his nickname because he spent time between warmagic assignments serving as an actual butler for an ancient lord on whose estate he’d been raised, near Castabriel. He dabbled a bit in dioramic magic (Lanse of Bune had recommended him) when he came to Sevendor, looking for opportunities. He’d been in the Battle of Cambrian, but had missed the icy Poros.

  He was also, by reputation, a decent scholar and an adept administrator. Just the kind of man I wanted in charge of a contentious tower on my frontiers.

  “Good choice,” Hotfoot agreed, instantly. “A sage as well as a warrior. And a bit of a diplomat,” he approved.

  “I have high aspirations for Heeth,” I said, confidentially. “All of these warmagi, actually. I’m grooming them each for stones, eventually. But this allows me to test their skills and character without putting them all to the kinds of rigorous trials I did those who took the oath during wartime.”

  “And having them guard your frontiers, in the meantime, puts them to good use,” Festaran agreed. “Which do you propose for Hosly?”

  “Kedaran the Black,” I said, nodding back to where the shave-pated warmage was riding behind us. “He has a fell reputation, perhaps even dark, but he is a determined man. And skilled at his trade. He specializes in non-lethal charms that debilitate, rather than kill. I hope that your father can keep an eye on him for me as much as Kedaran keeps his eye on Hosly,” I admitted. “For Northwood I am sending Dail the Destroyer – despite his name he’s actually a pretty reasonable fellow – who will assist Sir Roncil in keeping the Northwoodmen at peace. For little Hosendor, Amrace the Elfman, for his familiarity with the Alka Alon. Sire Fyk will be wedding one of their noble ladies any day . . . year, now.”

  “And isn’t that match the subject of much tittering in some quarters,” Brother Hotfoot said, knowingly.

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, Brother,” assured Sir Festaran, confidently, “I have known Lady Falwallon for three years, now, and despite what folk say about her fey beauty, she is a lady of noble virtue, as well as bearing. No dishonor will come to Sire Fyk from any of the Sevendori, I swear!”

  Brother Hotfoot chuckled. Those were not the quarters he was referring to.

  “You know,” he said that night, in my canopy as we camped beside the road in the wood, “those weren’t the quarters I was referring to.”

  Sir Fes, the other knights, and the warmagi were seeing to setting their own meager camp, without the benefit of magical pockets and enchanted tents to aid them, so it was safe to speak in more specific terms. “I know, Herus. I suppose you might have heard something about that, on the road?”

  “As chance would have it, I have,” he said, smugly, as he drank my wine. “The tales of the road are—”

  “It’s been a long day,” I pointed out. “We’re in private. Can you spare the divine embellishments?”

  “The Alka Alon are in a tizzy, lad,” he chuckled. “Oh, my, not since Perwyn sank have they been this concussed. Losing the City of Rainbows so audaciously, nearly losing a second great lord, and being forced – forced! – to wed with the base humani in perverse transgenic form, all on top of letting the Abomination lose on the world . . .”

  “Well, I know all of that,” I pointed out. “Do you have any news? The only Alkan I’ve seen in months is Onranion, and he’s hardly helpful that way. He said he was thrown
out of council.”

  “I’m shocked they let him in to begin with,” mused the deity. “But among the great lords of the Alka Alon, times have been too busy for even those worthies to indulge in counsel overlong. News? Aye, I have news. Much of the refugee population has been resettled, temporarily, in refuges hastily built in the Kulines, and elsewhere. Though at great cost, the Alkan lords have saved a great multitude of their folk . . . particularly since the new darkness in the West,” he said, suspensefully. “And I’m not talking about the gurvani. Korbal has arisen, Spellmonger, and he has the Alkan lords terrified.”

  “Korbal?” I said, suddenly interested. “The Demon God of the Mindens? I knew that Sheruel’s minions were searching the scarred lands for his tomb – or whatever – but I hadn’t realized they had succeeded in raising him.”

  “He’s less ‘demon god’ than he is ‘nasty Alka Alon bugger’ – one of the few of their lot to go undead. He managed to do with Alkan magic what you use the stones to do, make his enneagram permanent . . . or at least sustainable. Sort of. I don’t know all the details, but from what I understand he’s a little miffed at being imprisoned in a tomb for a few centuries, and the Alka are scared shitless he and Sheruel are going to be close friends.”

  That was interesting news. “How scared?”

  “Scared enough so that an entirely new faction has arisen, vowing to defeat Korbal. A faction that sees even the stain of transgenics as a necessary perversion to defeat the rising abominations. Old Versaroti families whose lines go back millennia, a few conservative Avalanti, from back in the deep woods, and even a few Farastamari fanatics. They’re gathering at a retreat not far from Kasar, actually. And your old friend Lord Aeratas is urging them on with renewed vigor. Word on the road is that he sees it as an opportunity to rally support to retake lost Anthatiel. And he is openly calling for the pardon and release of certain rebels who have traditionally been very friendly toward the humani.”