High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Good,” Dara said, catching my eye guiltily.

  “Not necessarily,” said Ithalia.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I had to ask another question before Dara did. “Who else is likely to show up?”

  “Emissaries from all the major strongholds and refuges will be there,” she told us, as we reached the first clearing. Pentandra’s Veil loomed ahead, but Ithalia parted it with a wave of her hand. “But it is likely that Raer Aeratas of Anthatiel will be in attendance. He is rarely away from that beautiful but hidden land. He stays at the magnificent Tower of Vision, in the Lake of Rainbows, except in very special circumstances. But his stronghold lies closest to the domain of the Abomination, so he will wish his opinions known, and the other lords will look closely to his counsel.”

  “I can’t imagine he’d want Shereul as a neighbor,” I observed, as I stumbled gracelessly over a rock in the path.

  “He has no love for humani,” Ithalia said, quietly over her shoulder. “He is known to be unhappy with your settlement of the westernmost lands. He looks down upon the ruined forests from his beautiful city and despairs of your waste and shortsightedness.”

  “Well . . . maybe I can convince him we’re not as bad as the gurvani,” I offered, weakly.

  “Mayhap,” agreed Ithalia, skeptically. “More friendly to your folk is likely to be Raer Micrethiel, mistress of Nandaroriel. Though not a powerful stronghold, she is nonetheless very respected for her deep wisdom. Raer Letharan will be less inclined to be sympathetic to the Duchies. He once admired the humani, but after your ancestors destroyed the Magocracy you fell from his favor. He shut his realm’s gates against your folk ever since. Even worse is Aronin Radas. She never favored your folk’s grant to so much of our realm, and hated the chaos you brought even as she rejoiced in the beauty of your trees.”

  “But she has nothing directly against us?” I asked, pressing for some context to make this information useful. I was playing for all of humanity here, I needed to know to whom I was speaking. “Nothing personal?”

  “I would not know such things,” Ithalia said, reluctantly. “I am only recently come under the eye of such powers. But the Lady of the Grove cannot ignore the threat that the Abomination poses, and that her realm would soon be troubled by it. There are other powers at council as well. Many smaller refuges will send representatives to Master Haruthel’s invitation, but those are the Great Houses. The ones most likely to dominate the council.”

  “This council is to determine how to fight the Abomination, then,” I summarized. Ithalia stopped, and then started walking again.

  “No, Magelord. The council is to examine the appearance of the Abomination, the resulting loss of our refuges to his attacks, and other recent changes in the Duchies. Including your own rise to power.”

  There was something she wasn’t telling me. I could tell. “But that’s not all, is it?”

  “Magelord, perhaps it would be best for you to save your questions for the council? I am but their emissary!”

  I’d irritated an Alka Alon. My day was complete.

  “The lass is grumpy, today,” Master Guri grunted from behind me somewhere. The Karshak Alon stonesinger who had built the spire and who was now building my new castle trudged along wearing some outlandish garb. Including an ornate apron and a ridiculous high-crowned hat. Dara giggled.

  “This is the ceremonial outfit of a stonesinger?” I’d asked him when he’d first shown up at the Great Hall unexpectedly that morning, dressed so flamboyantly. I was intrigued. “And why are you going?”

  “Yes, it is. And because of orders,” he said, gruffly.

  “From the Alka Alon?”

  “From my elders in the lodge. Just technical stuff, but they want a report made to the council, and I got elected. Selected, actually.” He sounded simultaneously proud and disgusted. “Two lifetimes o’ work to do here, and they have me attending bloody banquets!” I certainly didn’t mind the gruff stonesinger’s company on the trip. Guri had become a trusted friend and advisor. I’d allowed his folk free reign of the snowstone mountain, which they were as excited over as the Alka Alon, though for different reasons. My trust had paid off handsomely. It was some kind of mystical place for them, apparently.

  But that had secured Guri’s invaluable assistance and, it seemed, his loyalty. He’d explored the mountain thoroughly and had recovered prizes beyond mere snowstone for me. I’d even brought a few of them as gifts to the council. Fallawen had instructed me that the Alka Alon do not trade – they give gifts. It was traditional to bring a “gift” to council. If the council was favorable, then they would “gift” me in return, hopefully in irionite. That made negotiations with the Alka Alon a bit frustrating, from our perspective. It’s hard to complain about a gift. But I suppose that was the idea.

  Lady Ithalia led us the rest of the way to the summit in silence, while I tried to keep track of who the principals were in my head.

  The top of Matten’s Helm was now a different world. It was Lesgaethael now, and it was becoming more Lesgaethael every day.

  The spire complex was on the higher side of the truncated hill, to the northeast. There was a nine-story tower of slender Alka Alon design, made entirely of snowstone quarried from my mountain and transported here by Guri’s masons, at Alka Alon request. The graceful spire towered over the small complex below, which acted as a kind of hostelry and meeting place between our two races. Lesgaethael was functionally the Alka Alon embassy, and while I had witnessed its speedy, magically-aided construction by the Karshak Alon, I was still amazed every time I saw it up close.

  It was adorned with trees and plants of all varieties, but clearly favored were those especially loved by the Alka. In the center of the elegant courtyard the single tree they had planted first was thriving, ten feet tall now, producing a kind of mysterious light on its own. Alkan magelights, each one a pale blue teardrop shape, studded the exterior of their spire and provided illumination just a little above full moonlight. Overhead their beacon shown.

  The entire palace was filled with the feeling of magic. The very stones seemed to sing their joy of being privileged to be there.

  We were interrupted by Pentandra and Lady Varen, the third Alka Alon ambassador, who shimmered into existence near their special tree. Lady Varen was her normal self and naked. Pentandra was dressed in Remeran-styled formality, a long gown of red and gold satin with a matching perky headdress. She bore the Staff of the Order, an ornately gaudy stick-of-office I was supposed to carry at official functions. I had left it in a closet in my quarters in Castabriel, but she had thoughtfully remembered the useless thing for me. As well as my equally-awful official funny hat.

  “I thought you might need these,” she said, sweetly, as she pushed them into my hands. “It is your first official appearance before the Alka council as head of the human Arcane Orders, after all. Try to make a good impression.”

  “Please assume places around the perimeter of the circle,” Ithalia said, leading us to the smooth-cut flags that surrounded their special tree. I put my toes on the crack and nodded. Pentandra and Dara, to the left and right of me, did likewise.

  I heard the others grunt their readiness then there was a flash, a twist, a moment of terror . . .

  . . . and I suddenly smelled mountains.

  Chapter Three

  The Council Of Carneduin

  Not ‘mountains’ as in the little hills that passed for such in the Uwarris – but mountains, giant slabs of solid stone rising hundreds and hundreds of feet into the air. The Kulines, I could tell by the sweet, piney aroma. The fresh air was like a sharp slap in the face. We were in the Kuline Range, somewhere, hundreds of miles north of Sevendor. It was cooler. And the sun was at a different angle.

  “Welcome to the Vale of Carneduin,” Ithalia bid us, bowing graciously in welcome. “It has been an age since an embassy from the humani has been here, far too long. Let us show you to your quarters, and then we shall greet the Master of the
Hall, Lord Haruthel, as is fit for visitors. He wishes to see the Spellmonger first.”

  I didn’t look at her. I was too busy trying to look at everything else.

  Carneduin was stunning. It was stately and sublime, beautiful and casual all at the same time.

  We had appeared on the northern side of a river valley that ran east to west for several miles in both directions. Below us the bottom land was not farmed, exactly – not in the human fashion. Instead there were clusters of Tal Alon burrows scattered almost at random across it, punctuated by groves of trees of every variety. Here and there were little pavilions of elegant design, made of timber, stone or living wood. Birds soared majestically past us in the air, and mountain nightstars floated along with the currents the other way, heading back to the treetops after a busy night capturing insects.

  And the music . . . not only were there Alka Alon singing a hauntingly beautiful nameless tune, but deep, rich sounds rang out from below with every gust of breeze. Not voices but . . . something else. Wind harps. I’d heard of them – read of them, actually, in the epics of the Tree Folk. Giant structures of wood and glass and steel, enchanted to respond to the mood and temper of every gentle breeze. I gazed at them through magesight. Each erupted in a fountain of brightly colored magic.

  “Oh . . . my . . .” Pentandra finally managed to say. Dara held both hands over her mouth. Master Guri was staring, wide-eyed, and shaking his big shaggy head in disbelief.

  “We are in luck,” Lady Varen said, softly. “The sun has just risen. We will be able to hear the day’s lauds as we walk.”

  “Lauds?” asked Dara, swallowing. “Like in a temple?”

  “Something like that,” agreed Lady Varen, after considering.

  It was nothing like that.

  As the first rays of the sun smote the tallest peaks on the northern side of the valley, the song began. Every voice, every Alka Alon – and there had to be thousands – stopped what they were doing and sang the lauds. Like a whisper in a dream, it was almost imperceptible, at first. One voice answered another, then duos and trios began contending for prominence, and then whole choruses erupted around us, echoing against the great cliffs and rolling across the water like fine mist.

  Every song a spell, every spell a song. That was the lore about the magic of the Alka Alon. The magical effects of the hymn were intense. Powerful tensions were released in the magosphere around us. I could feel my irionite sphere vibrate. From within the song came a powerful feeling of refreshment and renewal, the promise of dawn and new beginnings.

  It was majestic, as well as magical. I had a feeling that sort of thing happened here all the time.

  I was still marveling over the melodious exuberance when some tiny part of my brain caught on to something.

  It was as we were passing a small group of Tree Folk, who were tending or cleaning or worshipping a small grove of nearly white-leaved trees, when I watched them sing their part of the lauds before instantly returning to work. The smoothness of the transition was preternatural. I had noticed a similar thing with how the Karshak Alon worked together. With them I had suspected it was a matter of discipline, but now I was not so sure.

  It was a matter of magical coordination, I realized. I’d witnessed a similar effect among the Karshak Alon, during the construction of Lesgaethael, and had written it off as a talent or discipline inherent to the miners and masons. Now I was not so sure, as I watched the Alka Alon at work.

  There was no arguing or discussion before beginning work, there was no encouragement or exhortation, each Alkan simply knew what his or her part was and when to do it. It was the exact same effect as the Karshak had demonstrated when they were building something. I’d watched them toss around planks and blocks, tools and sacks with not just impressive dexterity, but with absolute perfect coordination. The Alka Alon who were tending the grove moved with similar alacrity.

  I think I must have halted there on the walkway, because Dara almost ran into me. I resumed walking at once, and contacted Pentandra mind-to-mind.

  Penny, ever notice how the Karshak and the Alka work together almost flawlessly? Without any of the traditional human shouting and arguing?

  I’d never watched the Karshak, she admitted, but now that you mention it, the Alka Alon seem . . . really good at digging and planting and pruning. Like it’s all been pre-choreographed.

  Let’s look into that, I proposed. Quietly, of course. But that’s . . . interesting.

  Ithalia and Varen led us to a snug hostel near the tower that seemed to be fashioned with taller visitors in mind, and presented each of us with a tidy little bedroom chamber off of a common hall. The accommodations were simple, elegant, and gorgeous, like everything else in that incredible place. We took a few moments to refresh ourselves before Ithalia and Varen patiently escorted us to a nearby hall. A few dozen Alka Alon mingled and served themselves fruits and drink from a low table at the center of the hall while they waited for their opportunity to speak at counsel.

  “This is the Hall of the Wise. We can relax here and await our summons,” Ithalia said, a little anxiously. “The council meets in a chamber across the corridor.

  “I pictured more guards and such,” I mused as I consigned myself to waiting. “With that many important Alka Alon leaders in one place . . .”

  “This is a safe place, Magelord,” Ithalia objected. “And one could argue that the Alka Alon . . . lords within are a far more potent force than any guards who could be stationed outside.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. The Alka Alon tended to promote their most powerful spellsingers to their most powerful positions of secular authority, from what I understood. Being able to master songspells was essential to governing, it was felt, or something like that. But I had never heard of an Alka Alon leader – prince, lord, demi-god, or however you wanted to translate their native terms – who wasn’t also extremely powerful, personally. The one time I had seen an Alka Alon lord in battle, I lacked even the context to tell how good he was. But he had stared down Shereul’s lifeless eyes and didn’t flinch, so that said something.

  “I still would have posted guards,” grunted Master Guri, quietly. “Classes up the place. I feel like I’m waiting to see a physicker, not a raer.”

  “Why do I have to carry all of the heavy stuff?” complained Dara in a similar whisper, with a lot more whine.

  “You’re the apprentice,” I reminded her. “That’s your job.” She shifted the bag uncomfortably from one shoulder to another. I figured I might as well give her instruction. “When I summon you, hand the parcel to Master Guri,” I ordered, catching her eye to make sure she understood.

  “You brought them, then?” Master Guri smiled, knowingly.

  “Just a sample,” I said conspiratorially. “Five of the little ones.”

  “Ah, that will get them astir!” he grinned. “I wouldn’t even mention the big ones, yet.”

  “To what do you refer, Magelord?” asked Lady Varen.

  “Just a small token of our esteem,” I promised. She looked at me curiously, but did not ask any further questions. Ithalia just looked at me nervously.

  Soon enough, I was called in. I’ll say this for the Alka Alon: they didn’t keep me waiting nearly as long the Duke of Castal had, the first time I met Rard. They got essentially the same story he had, that first time I met with him a few years ago in Wilderhall.

  I was escorted into the room to face five singular Alka Alon, seated on cushions in a circle around an empty space. The one open space was clearly meant for me. Perhaps it was felt by someone insightful that being in a circle made us all feel more equal, but that wasn’t how I was feeling. I’ve rarely been under that kind of careful scrutiny before.

  Five small pairs of sharp, dark, piercing little eyes looked at me intently. It was disconcerting. One would have thought I was addressing a gang of children, except for those alien eyes. They peered at me and I knew that they had seen ancient things in ages past, and I was but a mere ephemeral
gnat in their minds. If anyone was the child in that room, it was me, and I knew it. They were humoring me, allowing me this moment to inform them the way you would patiently allow a child to recount a tale to learn something of value. I was not fearful, I was merely inadequate. Not even my witchsphere was impressive to these sages.

  One of them, a male with a face longer than the others and a slightly shaggier mane, stood. He bore a short, plain staff in his hand.

  “We bid you welcome to our council, Master Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor,” he said. I suppose the tone was friendly enough, but the voice was decidedly brassy, like a longhorn, which was also disconcerting. “I am Raer Haruthel, Master of Carneduin,” he said with a bow, “and I am the leader of this council, today. As well as your host. Please let me know if there is anything that you require. Among you are Lords Aeratas, Letharan and the Ladies Micrethiel and Ladas. We represent the interests of the Alka Alon in this realm.” Each of them nodded when their name was called. None of them moved otherwise.

  Deep breath. Time to turn on the charm.

  “I am honored to be among such wise and powerful lords today,” I said, bowing slowly from the waist to the group. “I hope my testimony will help bring light to a good many things. How may I be of assistance to this worthy council?”

  “It would be helpful if you told us how you first came across irionite, Master Minalan,” Haruthel invited, taking his seat. “Tell us simply, in your own words.”

  So I did. It took a while.

  I told them how I had retired from a life as a mercenary warmagi to become a simple village spellmonger in the furthest reaches of the Five Duchies, back among the vales of the Minden range. I explained how after six months of blissfully boring practice as such, I was awoken one night and forced to defend my village against the vanguard of the goblin invasion; how I had dueled a gurvani shaman and procured a shard of precious irionite. How the powerful substance had intrigued me enough to seek out the Aronin of Angriel, a nearby Tree Folk refuge. How I had subsequently hired a small army in the mistaken belief that we could defend the castle against the invasion, and how I had summoned yet more warmagi to aid us when it became clear we couldn’t.