High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The fact that I had no idea exactly how I did it only diminished the feeling slightly.

  The important thing about this summons, however, was that they actually wanted to include me in their counsels at all. Only a mutual threat and my sudden wealth had compelled them to relax a reclusion. This was a golden opportunity for me – for all of humanity – to enlist the aid and resources of the wisest and most powerful of beings. I had the chance to propose a wide-ranging alliance, material support, technical advice, perhaps even military forces. The Alka Alon archers are unparalleled in their accuracy, and they were rumored to move like warmagi when fighting.

  And then there was the magic . . . I had to tread carefully, even with a friendly Alkan like Fallawen, when it came to how jealously they guarded their magics.

  “I am gratified to be of service to the Alka Alon, for all you have done for us. When and where will this council be?” I asked, bowing deeply. “As Magelord I have obligations which would make long travel difficult. I am committed to an inspection tour of the Magelands outside of the Penumbra, a royal audience, a wizard’s convocation, and possibly a war to fight in the next few months,” I added. I figured she was probably aware of all of this, but I figured it bore repeating.

  “The council will meet at Carneduin, in the Hall of The Wise,” she informed me. “And it will meet within a few days’ time. All of the lords of the Alka Alon of this realm will be represented. Especially the great houses,” she added, meaningfully. That was as much a warning as anything else, I knew.

  But I was intrigued. “Carneduin?” I asked in surprise. It was a name out of legend, one of the fabled kingdoms of the Tree Folk. It figured prominently in several famous epics, I recalled. “That might be a problem. That’s in the Kulines – at least a month’s journey through the Wilderlands before we even make the mountains.”

  “Fear not, Magelord,” she soothed, anticipating my objection, “we will be happy to transport you and your retinue to the council magically, and return you after. You will be our guest, to come and go as you please.”

  I was really hoping she’d say that, but I didn’t want to presume. Once the Alka Alon kindreds had magical waypoints that allowed instantaneous travel between positions, sometimes over hundreds of miles. But they were difficult to operate, and a secret, besides. The Alka Alon were picky about who knew their songspells. By transporting me through the waypoints they would save me a lot of trouble.

  That settled, I went on to my other questions. “Why is the council meeting now?” I asked, curiously.

  “Because it was the first convenient time in which to do so,” she replied without considering. “Most thought it would take several years to arrange such a meeting, but . . . recent events have compelled our folk to move with more alacrity.”

  “So you’re still losing refuges to the goblins in the Wilderlands,” Dara observed with the voice of a child who has just backed into an adult matter. I tried to hide my wince. Dara specializes in boldness.

  “That is among the matters we wish to discuss, yes,” Fallawen agreed, sadly. “The council usually meets every decade or so, a mere formality most of the time. The lords themselves oversee the affairs of their individual territories, and rarely does the council take action. Yet there are many stirrings at hand which need to be discovered, studied, and considered, it is felt. And then, of course, decisions need to be made.”

  “And just what is supposed to be decided by this council?” I asked, casually filling my pipe from a pouch. “My lifespan, perhaps?”

  There had been hints in the past about how poorly some Alka Alon apparently felt about so much irionite being in humani hands. I had a feeling that some might wish to deal with the problem by dealing with the Spellmonger. And with snowstone now implicitly at stake, it wasn’t an unfair question to ask.

  “Magelord, only the council can give you a satisfactory answer to that,” Lady Fallawen answered demurely. “But if you will, I will collect you and your party tomorrow evening at Lesgaethael ,” she said, using the Alkan name for the spire growing on the summit of Matten’s Helm. “Prepare for a journey of three or four days. You will have no need of food or drink,” she added, “all such things will be provided.”

  “Wait! I haven’t told you if I’m going or not!” I protested.

  She stopped and looked at me, startled. “You refuse the request?” she asked, surprised.

  “Well, no, I’d give my left stone to go, and I’m just as happy that’s not required. But . . . well, I did mention my schedule. It’s possible I’d have something more pressing.”

  “Then if the Magelord doesn’t find himself besieged or attacked by bandits or conquered by a peasant revolt . . . may we count on his attendance?”

  “Ah, yes,” I answered, after a little squirming. “Of course, I’ll come. And I’ll have my apprentice and a few other advisors on hand, as well, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh!” Dara squealed. “Is Lady Pentandra coming?”

  “She’s at her estate at the capital,” I reminded her. “Not exactly convenient to Lesgaethael.”

  “Nonsense, Magelord,” Fallawen objected, kindly. “We can easily include the lady Pentandra in the council, if you wish. It is a simple enough matter to escort her through a transfer point. There is one nearby her estate. It would be our pleasure.”

  “She would be helpful,” I decided. “I value her counsel. If it’s not too much trouble. She can meet us there?”

  “I shall send Ithalia for her,” agreed Fallawen. “Be ready to depart at the morrow’s twilight.”

  She turned to go, her slender form bewitching the eye of every man in the room. As much as she likes humanity as a concept, Fallawen was the least content of the three ambassadors to spend time rubbing elbows with us humani. I think perhaps that we smelled, to her delicate enchanted nostrils.

  “What a magnificent woman,” Sir Ryff said, shaking his head as he returned to his chair. “A figure like a greyhound, speech as sweet as a birdsong, eyes like . . . like . . .”

  “Like a frozen pond in the depth of winter, blessed amongst gods and men yes we all know she’s beautiful,” complained Dara, “but have you ever stopped and considered what evil may lurk beneath that gown?” She meant it sarcastically – one of Dara’s favorite weapons.

  “I have,” I quipped. “Which is why you’re going with me, Dara. You’ve worked more closely with the Alka Alon than anyone, so I want you there. To keep your eyes peeled and your mind open.” Not only had I roped all three of the Alkan ladies into helping me teach Dara basic magical theory, but they had commenced to work with her on a few special projects.

  “Go to a council with the Tree Folk?” she asked, her eyes wide at the news.

  “Not if your next sound is a squeal,” I warned. “Control yourself. You will be representing me and Sevendor and all of humanity. But go ahead and pack for the journey. Lightly,” I reminded her, “we won’t be gone long, and I’ll have other things for you to carry. But at least one formal gown. You do have a formal gown, don’t you? That fits?” Most of the time I saw her in a simple cotton shift under a tough leather bodice, to keep from getting scratched by that bird of hers. She was a craft apprentice, and dressed accordingly.

  “I think I have something,” she agreed, blushing a little. “I was given a few dresses at Barrowbell. They didn’t fit well at the time, but I’ve . . . grown.”

  “Make sure you pack one, but don’t worry too much about what it looks like. The Alka Alon will all be naked, anyway. We just want to be respectful. Now I’ve got to figure out how to break the news of this sudden trip to my wife.”

  It was almost as bad as I’d anticipated. Alya didn’t want me to go. She never wanted me to go on these journeys, but she was particularly adamant about this one.

  I didn’t see what the problem was. It wasn’t like I was leaving her besieged, again. The vale was at peace. No, it was thriving.

  Sevendor village, once a dingy ring of huts, had become a town
of over three thousand souls, in less than two years. Construction sites outnumbered existing buildings, and the Commons was one large work-camp. In fact, the town had swollen so rapidly that the Commons was quickly being incorporated into it, which would make it unsuitable for grazing. I’d have to find another Commons, soon.

  Banamor was the force behind the town purchasing a charter from me. My Spellwarden had adroitly steered the town’s council of artisans and shopkeepers toward the advantages of trading their traditional feudal dues for a simple cash payment, plus a few negotiable rights. They were still on their second round of discussions over the draft of the document, and in order to sweeten the deal Banamor was doing his best to keep Sevendor Town’s growing pains from being my headache. And hers.

  Jurlor, the Yeoman whose manor lay to the north of the town, was acting almost as affluent as Banamor. He had profited heavily from Sevendor Town’s growth thanks to the real estate he owned that sat closest to it. He had added significantly to his herds to supply the market. He now had a permanent wooden shop in the nascent market square. He was adding on to his manor house and quietly looking for stray knights or lords to marry his ugly daughters off to.

  Gurisham, now under the leadership of Yeoman Guris, a Bovali farmer-turned-reeve, had seen its fortunes rise more modestly. But the twice-weekly market for the village’s crops and the need for day-labor had made the Gurisham peasants tired but prosperous. Half of the huts in Gurisham had been replaced by sturdy longhouses, and the palisade around the place was being torn down to make more room. Now that the valley itself was more secure, the practical villeins felt that rickety hedge of logs could be of more use as fence posts.

  Southridge Manor had prospered beautifully under my brother-in-law Sagal’s stewardship. He had turned the manor hall into a tidy home, when he had taken over from Guris. Southridge was where most of our cattle and all of our horses were pastured. More importantly, it was where a goodly portion of snowstone (snowdirt, technically) was located, and I wanted every granule of it under the protection of people I could trust, now that I understood how valuable it was. Southridge’s jurisdiction now extended to the castle walls, including the site of the former village of Genly.

  Southridge was also becoming a kind of hostel for the arcane. Sagal had responded to the urgings of my sister-in-law Ela and had paid for a residential structure to be built on the south side of his hall. There were four two-story bays protruding from the forty feet long main hall. The hostel had stone foundations with a half-timbered second story, capped by a tiled roof. When it was completed, the itinerant magi who were able to afford it could stay in relative comfort, without the problems that came with inns or sleeping in my Great Hall.

  Hollyburrow was a bit of an aberration. Originally a tired, gloomy old estate, poorly suited for grain and dismally managed for generations, I had turned it over to Master Olmeg, my Greenwarden, after Sagal had rescued it from oblivion. Master Olmeg had moved a hybrid band of Tal Alon – River Folk, in the vernacular – into the miserable place and made it prosper.

  The human hamlet near the manor had not grown, but the burrow the Tal had quickly built in a shady hollow at the foot of Matten’s Helm had boomed. The Tal outnumbered humans in the district. But their prodigious care and talent for growing vegetables had enriched the district significantly, so there was little of the resentment human peasants often feel for the Tal Alon. As Hollyburrow, as it was called now, was also on the way up to the only path to Lesgaethael, a string of strange visitors of all races drinking the Tal’s delicious brews at their tiny tavern, the Holly Bush.

  In truth Hollyburrow was avoided by most everyone else in the vale, though it sat in the middle of it. The humans were just not used to the strange Tal Alon ways. Tensions were easing, once Tal were employed in the castle doing drudgework and folk began to see how civilized the furry little guys were, but they were still keeping their distance. The Tal didn’t take offense at the distance. The Tal were just happy for the work.

  Boval Town sat adjacent to the gate of Sevendor, a wholly-new settlement built from the ground up. It was a town in its own right, with nearly a thousand Bovali refugees within its limits. They had poured their energies (and a good deal of my money) into their new home, and they took their responsibility to guard the gates seriously. A knot of Wilderland folk in the midst of the Riverlands, the little town square that was evolving was destined to get its own market soon. There was even a temple. They took their responsibility for acting as a militia, reinforcements for the guards at the Gatetower, very seriously.

  Brestal had settled into a quiet prosperity, too. It had become the bastion for the Old Sevendori in the valley, and its village had more than doubled in size as a result. The folk there weren’t exactly happy with how their fortunes had turned, and how some had been relocated forcibly, but then they weren’t exactly unhappy either. Everyone had work, no one was starving, and the fortunes of many had risen in Brestal. It was a far better life than they had ever experienced under their previous lord, so the chances of them actually revolting were low.

  If things beyond the vale were not quiet, they were not volatile, either. My newly-conquered domains were still recovering from the change in administration. There was peasant trouble in the Northwood domain, and some in Hosendor domain, but nothing dramatic enough to disturb their liege. The local lords seemed to have it under control.

  And while the Karshak would not have my new castle finished for years, Sevendor Castle was stout and well-manned, both magically and mundanely. I had enemies, but then I had a lot of friends watching out for me, too. So I didn’t see the point of Alya’s objections.

  “This council wasn’t my idea,” I said, defensively, after I’d listed to her the reasons why I should go in our private chambers that evening, after breaking the news at dinner. “The Alka Alon want me to testify about the Dead God. I’ve been summoned, and considering all they’ve done for us, I don’t feel right refusing.”

  “I just . . . You know I just don’t like you going away like this. Especially to . . . to them,” she said, guiltily. She looked around, as if there were Alka hiding under the bed. “I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling . . .”

  “The place I’m going is Carneduin,” I said, soothingly. “It’s one of the wonders of the ancient world. It’s been around since before the Magocracy. A sanctuary of lore and learning, even among the Alka Alon. Only a handful of humans have ever seen it, and no one knows where it is – not really. It’s somewhere in the Kulines, supposedly. Some beautiful, gorgeous, perfect little valley that you can only get to by magic.”

  “It sounds lovely,” she said, unconvinced.

  “It sounds perfectly safe,” I pointed out. “No hidden minions of the Dead God, no assassins from the Censorate, no feuding vassals or vengeful enemies. Just inquisitive Alka Alon lords – or whatever they use – asking me polite questions about Boval Vale.”

  “There are more dangers than the blade of a knife,” she reminded me. “Just . . . be careful,” she pleaded. I grasped her hands in mine.

  “Pentandra will be there. Master Guri will be there. Dara will be there. Don’t worry – I’ll be very well protected. And no power in the land, sea, or sky could keep me from coming back to you,” I promised her, kissing her on her forehead. “Certainly not a bunch of short, naked Tree Folk.”

  That seemed to mollify her. I should have known. Some arguments don’t need to be made logically, but emotionally. Particularly to your wife. I was learning.

  * * *

  “We are ready for you now, Magelord,” came the sweet bell-like invitation from Lady Ithalia, at twilight the next morning as we arrived at the base of Matten’s Helm. An Alkan magelight glowed overhead, at the summit of the spire on the summit of the summit. Lesgaethael, they called it. It was breathtaking. It was also a long, steep walk to the top. Lady Ithalia did not seem troubled at the prospect.

  She had re-transformed from the startlingly beautiful human-like woman we’d
grown used to for months into her original form. Still pretty, and still female, but three feet shorter and no breasts. Or clothes. When the Alka ambassadors favored us with their humanoid forms, they wore clothes to humor us and because they enjoyed the novelty, but they went naked when they were shortened. It took a little getting used to. Even the Tal Alon servants we employed were wearing clothes, now.

  “So who exactly are we meeting?” I asked. “And where precisely are we going?”

  “The Halls of Carneduin,” Ithalia answered, as she led us up the path. “The retreat of sages and songmasters. Many councils of old were held there. Even some of your folk were involved,” she said, a little patronizingly. Dara shot me a quizzical look, and I gave her a grave nod in return. She smirked, but didn’t say anything. She was learning.

  “I feel all the more honored to have been invited,” I responded by rote. “Who rules Carneduin, and who else have they invited?”

  “The master of Carneduin is Raer Haruthel, a songmaster of great renown and mighty lord among my people. He often facilitates councils for matters affecting this realm. He is wise and impartial to a fault when it comes to his dealings with the other great lords,” she explained.

  “I thought they weren’t really lords?” Dara asked, before I could stop her. She was huffing and puffing, carrying our baggage. I’d hoped that would be burden enough to keep her quiet. Once again I’d underestimated the loquaciousness of a fourteen year old girl.

  “Let us use the term for convenience,” agreed Ithalia. “In humani terms, Haruthel would be considered such rank as a Duke, or a grandmaster of his craft. More importantly, he runs the sanctuary of Carneduin. He built Carneduin, as it is, and is responsible for its safety and security. A fair Alkan,” she decided.