Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  “Fine, fine, as well as can be expected. But if you’re asking as a preamble to get me to speak with my brother about lessening your house arrest, you have made an error. His wife, damn her, doesn’t like me. I’ve barely spoken to him since the wedding, and most of those conversations have not gone well.”

  “That was not my intention,” I promised. “In truth, I don’t mind tending to my lands right now. It allows me time to pursue my studies and secure my estates. While I admit the freedom would be nice, I would not ask you for such a favor, Highness.”

  She looked at me confused. “Then what did you want with me?”

  “Is it so unimaginable that I would merely want to pay a courtesy on my Princess, while I am at the palace?”

  “Without ulterior motive? Why yes, that is incredibly unimaginable. No one comes to see me without wanting something from me.”

  “I assure you, I desire nothing but to see after your continued good health and well-being.”

  She looked at me with even more suspicion. “Now I know you want something, Spellmonger. No one cares about my well-being except Mother. And considering I’ve threatened to kill you . . .”

  “You tried to kill me,” I corrected. “Hamlan, remember?”

  She threw up her hands. “Right! Hamlan! I’d forgotten his name, the incompetent arse! But why would you even consider approaching me after that?”

  “That was a political move during a different time. I don’t hold a grudge, now that the Family and I have hammered out a better understanding. And despite our past opposition, I can appreciate a keen intelligence when I see one.”

  “Were that I was as dumb as my sister-in-law!” she snarled. “Do you know what Mother is grooming me for, after I’m wedded? She wants me to take over Lady Arnet’s position, in Lands & Estates! Me, in that dusty old tomb!”

  “She can’t live forever,” I pointed out. “Though it certainly seems like it.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want to inherit her tomb,” she said, miserably. “Mother wants me to watch over Tavard and his brats and sacrifice my own future for the good of the Kingdom. That’s the last place I want to be. I should be making policy and enforcing it, not chasing parchment!” She sounded a little desperate. “But that still doesn’t explain why you are here, Spellmonger,” she said, accusingly.

  “I am here for no greater purpose to continue our relations,” I said, smoothly. “I do not need your assistance or influence at court . . . but it occurs to me that you might one day need mine.”

  “How so?”

  “In any number of ways. You are a woman who can appreciate the power of a clandestine alliance. Surely the offer of a favor without conditions, at your discretion, has some value to you?”

  “Of course. But there are always conditions.”

  “My only interest is your position regarding Baroness Isily.”

  “Isily? I haven’t seen her since her wedding. I hear she is bearing that bastard’s brat, now.”

  “So you have not set her on a mission concerning me?”

  “No. She’s been semi-retired since . . . since Timberwatch. After such a success she got a few easy missions and then was allowed to leave active service. She still helps with training, from what I understand, but her only job is to make babies, keep Dunselen under control, and keep you under watch.”

  “So you are spying on me.”

  “Of course. Are you not spying on me?” she asked.

  I was taken aback. “Not at the moment. Why? Should I be?”

  “You’re an idiot if you don’t. I’m dangerous, Spellmonger. Don’t you know that? You should be watching us all, if you have a brain under that pointed hat. We set Isily to watch you because she had the best chance to stay close to you. Particularly after your past relationship. But that was all she was supposed to do. Honestly, we haven’t even heard much of a report on that. I think the last one was from a month ago, maybe two. Your little fair?”

  “Yes, she was there, and we did . . . speak,” I said, swallowing. “But she was acting more like an operative than a passive observer. I think she has plans concerning me,” I offered.

  “Oh, she surely does,” she agreed with unpleasant enthusiasm. “She’s obsessed by you, Spellmonger. Your power, your features, your position – she thinks you will be the greatest mage in history, someday. She fully intends on being the one by your side when that happens. Totally obsessed,” she said, nodding thoughtfully.

  That was chilling news. I suppressed a shiver. “I got that impression. So if you and the Family aren’t behind what she’s doing . . .”

  “She’s acting independently,” Rardine nodded. “For her own purposes. I think she sets her sights too low, but then she’s merely a Magelord. There isn’t much selection. Even then she has options in your profession. I mean, why would she consent to marry a dud like Dunselen when there are so many handsome, strapping warmagi running around? Rich ones, too.”

  That . . . was an excellent question. One I didn’t have an answer to, beyond what Isily had told me.

  “If she continues, I may have to take action,” I warned. “I wanted to let you and the Family know why, before I did.”

  “She’s on her own, as far as Mother is concerned. She was paid off and allowed to retire to her reward. The last thing she wants to do right now is ruffle your feathers, not with so much unrest. Mother was quite cross with Tavard for being stern with you over last summer. But he’s an arse and insisted on his ‘ducal privilege’, and she let him get away with it. Sorry,” she added. “I didn’t think you deserved that.”

  “Thanks,” I shrugged. “It was his right. He could have done something worse. I pissed him off. I knew that there would be consequences. I don’t try to avoid them.”

  “Then you have more honor than most lords,” she reflected. “But you have also made a powerful opponent in Tavard. My brother is not the sharpest sword in the armory, but he is not stupid. Nor is he humble. Now that he is the Prince Heir, he is jealous of his position in the way that only the most irritating of courtiers do. Pray do not cross him again, lest he let his temper guide his policies.”

  “I appreciate the warning, Highness,” I said, rising. “And do remember my offer. It was made in all sincerity. I do not wish to see you pushed into the margins. I may not particularly like your style, but I respect your wit and am sympathetic to your plight. In the future, perhaps we can help each other.”

  She frowned. “You don’t like . . . my style?” she asked, accusingly. I thought she was going to get angry, but instead she just looked sad.

  “It’s nothing personal, Highness,” I said, realizing belatedly my mistake. “Considering our introduction, and subsequent events, it has made me wary of you. You are dangerous, after all, Highness. Your style reflects that.”

  She frowned, then drained her wine. “Thank you for coming by, Spellmonger,” she sighed, gloomily. “Believe it or not, you’ve been the nicest caller I’ve had since I returned from Remere.”

  *

  *

  I reflected on my conversations with Lady Arnet and Princess Rardine as we walked back across the bailey toward the Court Wizard’s tower. If the Family was not behind Isily’s machinations, and she was, as suggested by those who knew her best, obsessed with me, then I had a problem. And not one that would wait indefinitely for my attention. I was acutely aware of how far along Isily was in her pregnancy. She would give birth sometime this summer, Trygg willing. And whatever she was after would likely happen directly after that.

  I was limited in the things I could do about it. I really needed more information.

  “Master, is all wizard business this boring?” Ruderal asked. “All we’ve done is walk around and talk to people.”

  “This isn’t strictly wizard business, this is Magelord business,” I chuckled. “But as you are apprenticed to a Magelord, it is best you see the boring bits as much as the exciting bits.”

  “I suppose you are right,” he said, a little sulk
ily. “Who was that woman you spoke to?”

  “She was the Princess of Castalshar. I needed to pay my respects.”

  “That’s not all you were doing, was it?” he asked.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because your pattern tells me that you wanted her to answer questions, and she did. You wanted her to be friends with you, and now she is.”

  I stopped abruptly. “You can see such things casually?”

  “Oh, it isn’t hard,” he shrugged. “I just do it.”

  I regarded him carefully. “You, my lad, have the makings of a very, very powerful wizard. And perhaps a very dangerous man.”

  “I don’t want to be dangerous,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Really? Most boys want to be dangerous.”

  “I’ve seen dangerous boys. They usually end up dead.”

  “You make a compelling point. So what do you want to be, Rudenal?”

  He squished up his face and shrugged. “I don’t know. Until a few months ago I just wanted to eat and keep my mother safe. Then I just wanted to stay alive. Now . . . I still enjoy eating,” he said, in all seriousness, “but I’m starting to really like magic. The exciting parts, like riding on hawks or going through the Ways. Not the boring walking-around-talking-to-princesses parts.”

  “So what do you think you’d like to do when you grow up? Assuming you master magic, like you’re supposed to.”

  “Doesn’t that mean I’m going to me a mage?”

  “Well, there are magi, and then there are magi,” I pointed out. “The Talent we’re given and the training we receive to make it useful make us magi, but what we do with those gifts is up to us. Ideally, we use them to the best of our ability to make the lives of our fellow men better. That’s what I do. Conversely, we can exploit them to make money and gather power.”

  “Don’t you do that, too?” he pointed out.

  “Actually, yes,” I affirmed with a smile. “The two are not mutually exclusive. But you can be just about any kind of mage, from a beastmaster to a spellmonger to a scholar to a footwizard. It all depends on your talent and your desire.”

  “I like doing things and making things,” he shrugged. “I liked fishing. There were seamagi back home. The ships employed them on long voyages, and they cast spells on them to help them steer and get home safe.”

  “Would you like to be a seamage?”

  “I . . . not really,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not a sailor. Oh, I can use a boat, just like anyone. But that was for fishing, for food. I enjoyed the mountains more. I really like Sevendor,” he said, enthusiastically.

  “Well, good. It is your home now. And for as long as you like. It’s good that you like making things, because that is what I’m focused on, right now. That’s why I wanted you to find the best possible pattern in the Grain of Pors. I’m building things, Rudenal, I’m building things that have never been built before. With your help, we can make some might wonders in this world. Does that sound appealing?”

  “Beats fishing,” he agreed.

  “No doubt it does. Are you ready to get back home?” He nodded enthusiastically. It was nearly supper time. And he still liked to eat.

  I dropped him off by Waypoint at the Diketower and watched him walk back to Boval Hall before indulging in another jaunt directly back to my own tower. Master Ulin, Onranion and Azhguri were there, drinking my wine again.

  “Minalan!” Onranion said, his voice barely betraying how many bottles he’d worked through. “So glad you joined us! I think we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough.”

  “What kind of breakthrough? Pour me one, will you? I’ve been playing politics all day.”

  “A foul and distasteful art,” the Alkan agreed, gracefully snagging one of my empty cups and filling it. “But back to more pure designs. We think we’ve come up with a way to do something interesting with this fascinating rock collection you have.”

  “I’m still enjoying my collection,” I said, warily, as I took a sip. “What do you want to do with it?”

  “Not all of it, just a few of the most valuable parts. We want to . . . well, aggregate them.”

  “To what purpose?” I asked, curious.

  “To see what would happen,” Onranion shrugged. “I have a few theories I want to test.”

  “I’d like to hear them, before handing over my most powerful items to you,” I said.

  “Oh, of course, of course, my boy. The idea is really yours – or at least the experiments you did suggested it, and good Master Ulin here, who is quite knowledgeable about such things for a mortal, asked us our opinion on the subject, and one thing led to another, and we decided to make some sketches.”

  “I thought you were working on the medical baculus project?”

  “I was, Excellency,” the enchanter assured me, excitedly. “I was tempering the lenses in the Everfire, as you so kindly arranged, and during my test runs I noticed something interesting. Reviewing your notes on the ceramic essays you did, I had a leap of inspiration—”

  “You were in the middle of Briga’s temple, in front of the Everfire,” I pointed out. “That’s kind of her stock-in-trade.”

  “Well, the goddess came through. I tried a new mixture, at a new temperature, adding some reagents I suspected might prove useful.” He went on to describe the results of the experiment, going into highly technical detail over his arcane reasoning. I had to admit, while some of it was pretty subtle and obscure, even in light of my recent study on enchantment, I realized what he was proposing. And the implications.

  “That would be . . . amazing, if you could pull it off,” I said, stroking my beard. “That could change everything.”

  “It’s never been done, in the lore of the Alon, to my knowledge. And I have a lot of knowledge.”

  “Perhaps the Sea Folk have attempted such a thing, though it would seem outside their nature. They do not pride themselves in such creations, preferring to rely on the great leviathans for their magic. This power, if it manifests as we believe, could rival even theirs. That, lad, is a lot of power,” Azhguri said, reverently.

  “In truth, I’m not certain your mortal mind could handle it,” Onranion suggested. “Not without augmenting and protecting it, first. And the skill to perform such a work on a humani is rare. I can think of only one or two Alkan masters who would even consider it. And there’s no telling what it would do to your mind. It could drive you mad. Indeed, you’d be mad to make the attempt, if you value your reason.”

  “That is open to question. But the result . . .”

  “Only if you manage to secure an enneagram sufficiently complex enough to act as a paraclete,” reminded Azhguri, doubt and reservation in his voice. “Otherwise this entire enterprise is completely theoretical.”

  “Oh, I think I have that,” I said, casually. All three of them sat bolt upright, startled.

  “You what? When?” Onranion asked, his eyes wide.

  “Actually, it’s’who’: my new apprentice, Rudenal,” I explained. “He has a knack for such things. He delved into the Grain and found what we needed, I believe. I still have to confirm it, and then make preparations for transfer, but if what he says is true, we’ve located an enneagram with sufficient complexity and familiarity with magic to be an ideal interface.”

  “You mean . . . we could actually do this?” Ulin asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

  “It appears we have the constituent components, theoretically,” admitted Azhguri, after thinking about it. “But there is still a lot of calculation to be done. If you try this – really try this – you’re only going to be able to do it once. There is little room for error.”

  “The whole idea is amazingly novel – only a humani mind could conceive of it,” Onranion agreed. “The amount of preparation we’ll need to do is enormous. And if my people found out about this, they would all die of scandal on the spot,” he added, delighted at the prospect.

  “The question is, will it be enough to challenge the Dea
d God?” I asked. “That is the great question hovering over this entire enterprise.”

  “It would,” Onranion considered. “If what you’ve told me about the Abomination’s capacities is correct. But much would depend upon how such a contest came about. There is no predicting how he has improved his powers with his study of the molopor.”

  “Is not the Snowflake a sufficient challenge to that?” I countered.

  “That is yet to be seen,” Onranion shrugged. “We’re dealing with unknowns within unknowables, wrapped in conjecture and speculation. Just my sort of party,” he grinned.

  “This is my brain we’re talking about,” I objected. “This is not a party. If the Alka Alon cannot challenge Sheruel, and the gods themselves fear the attempt, then it falls to me to find a way. If you think this is a way, then I am willing to risk it. But you had better be damned certain your calculations are correct.”

  “Oh, we’ll give it our absolute best attempt,” assured Azhguri. “We wouldn’t want Alya upset with us.”

  “Oh, no,” agreed Onranion, solemnly. “She would not approve of shoddy work.”

  “My lords, you make a very astute argument,” nodded Ulin.

  “My wife?” I demanded. “You’re speaking of me risking madness—”

  “Or death,” interrupted Onranion. “Did we not mention that part?”

  I ignored him. Honestly, I thought death was implied. “To forge a weapon that could defeat our greatest foe and usher in a new age of magic, and the only thing you’re really worried about is offending my wife?”

  “Well, lad,” Azhguri said, stroking his beard nervously. “If this goes sour, then you’ll be a corpse or have the mind of a potato, so there’s really no concern about your reaction. But the Lady of Sevendor? None wish to invite her displeasure. So we’ll give the calculations our very best attention.”

  *

  *