High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “It wasn’t my idea, it was my man Banamor’s,” I said. “Eventually I would like to see dozens of relays binding the kingdom together. How goes the prestigious life of the Royal Court Wizard?”

  “It’s worse than running the Censorate,” he decided. “Far more complicated, and I have a master to serve, again. We may be a year behind on processing applications, and six months on registering new magi. But I feel as if we’re getting things right, for a change. His Majesty has also asked for several large projects to be considered, as high magi become available for service.”

  “What kind of projects?” I asked, curiously.

  “Everything from digging canals to laying the foundations to his new palace. Some of the ideas are silly, of course, proposed by a layman who doesn’t understand magic’s limitations. But some of them are actually quite clever.”

  “I thought we were using the high magi to fortify strategic castles in the war zone, and beyond?” I asked, confused.

  “Oh, we are, and we continue to do so. But that isn’t always convenient, or the best use of the mage’s talent. And the king has all the usual requests for a court wizard. It keeps me pretty busy. But enough talk about business – we have the convocation in mere days, plenty of time for such things. Now we should celebrate. Oh, and there’s someone here you may remember,” he said, motioning toward the far corner of the room. “You remember my niece . . . Lady Isily?”

  Time seemed to stop, as it does when, say, the two mothers of your children meet for the first time.

  Isily looked splendid, of course. She had dressed for the occasion in a yellow gown that suited her complexion well. Her face looked a little more tanned and a little wider, perhaps, but her eyes were just as beautiful. She seemed to appear out of nowhere, though I knew it was just the crowd of people that made it appear that way. It was an easy mistake to make. Isily was a shadowmage, and illusion was her stock in trade.

  “Magelord,” she said, bowing gracefully. “Magelady?” she asked, hesitantly, as she was presented to Alya.

  “We haven’t really settled on a title yet,” I said, absently, as my mind whirled with the catastrophic possibilities of my wife meeting a former mistress. My brain scrambled for some protocol to fall back upon in the absence of conscious thought. “May I present Lady Alya of Sevendor, my lady wife. This is Lady Isily, a handmaiden to Her Highness who worked with me on the Timberwatch campaign.”

  “Did you?” Alya asked, politely. “You are a warmage, then?” That wasn’t inconceivable. There were several female warmagi of note. Isily shook her head.

  “My talents were more in the realm of observation and reconnaissance,” she admitted. “When Magelord Minalan was putting together the army, the call went out for magi, any magi at all. Her Highness graciously volunteered my services. Of course, I was grateful to be of use in any way that I could.”

  She delivered the entire speech smoothly and without double entendre. Isily was in fact a trained assassin as well as a shadowmage, and she worked for the Family, the kingdom’s intelligence service. More specifically, she was Princess Rardine’s personal executioner and unofficial court wizard. Granting her a stone had been part of the deal for raising the army at Wilderhall. Sleeping with her while on campaign had been a pleasant escape from the new pressures of leadership. Both had seemed liked good ideas . . . at the time.

  That was before Alya and I were married – albeit just before. My little girl was nearly a year old, now, and even though I did not know her name I knew she was doing well. Isily didn’t know I knew about her. Alya didn’t know about my relationship with Isily. She certainly didn’t know about the baby. Pentandra knew about both, but had conspired to keep the knowledge of the child from me to protect me. She certainly hadn’t told Alya. I had nearly told Alya myself, last year before going into battle, but then she had said something that had made it seem inconsequential, so I hadn’t.

  Now my wife and my former mistress, both mothers to my children, were face-to-face for the first time, and I was undergoing a deep personal crisis about how to handle the whole thing.

  I stuck to the fundamentals. I started by draining my wine goblet and calling for another.

  Hartarian apparently did not know. The court wizard stood there grinning serenely, clearly proud of his niece. There were no surreptitious looks or smirks. Isily was as calm and relaxed as a woman courting high mischief could be, and Alya seemed genuinely interested in getting to know ‘an old war comrade’ who looked as pretty as Isily did. I felt my world starting to crumble a bit, just at the foundations.

  “Isily was on an errand for Her Highness that found her near the capital,” Hartarian explained, as the women chatted and my blood ran cold. “She was with her in Remere, but she is needed in Alshar, for some reason. The way she keeps her handmaidens hopping it’s a wonder that she’s ever properly attended.”

  “That was a happy coincidence,” I said, my mouth dry. As soon as my goblet was re-filled, I began depleting it again.

  “It was. Her Majesty suggested that we invite her tonight. She has already been presented at Royal court, and now that her nobility has been restored, thanks to you, she’s even contemplating marriage.”

  “Is she?” I asked, dully. My tongue felt thick in my mouth. That was a common misery in my profession, when a female mage from a noble family was forced to look away from her class for a husband, if they elected to marry at all. Plenty didn’t, preferring life as a dowager court wizard or spellmonger to marrying below their station.

  “We’re looking for a good match now,” Hartarian continued. “Princess Rardine is taking a special interest. She’ll even be able to inherit, someday. A far better life than she was looking forward to. And she’s still fair, at her age. Finding her a husband should not prove too difficult. Tell me, Magelord, do you have any ideas for prospects?”

  “Uh . . .” I drawled, eloquently, trying to think of something to say to that. How does one explain that a man’s niece’s prospects might be thinner if it was known she was a deadly assassin who had bore your bastard already? Praise her lusty nature and downplay her mood swings?

  Thankfully, some god or another was listening to my silent, feverish prayers, because before I was compelled to answer the question, Alya was tugging on my sleeve. Fearing the worst – like Isily just happening to mention something intimate – I slowly leaned down.

  “Your name!” she said, harshly.

  “What? What about my name?” I asked, confused.

  “They’re calling it! The herald just called your name, you idiot! Get up there!”

  I stumbled through the crowd in a daze to where the herald was standing, scroll in hand, his official tabard gleaming, and managed a bow toward Their Majesties. Rard was looking attentive, not bored, and Grendine was looking . . . devious and smug. She caught my eye.

  She knew. She knew about Isily, and probably about the baby, and she had purposefully ambushed me with her to demonstrate her power, after our last little chat.

  In a way, that was a relief. If she was threatening me, that meant she did not intend on springing the scandal immediately. Isily was there at her urging, but not to ruin my life . . . yet. Just to show me that the Family could try to ruin my life if I did not cooperate. While that was a bitter lesson, it was also made me relax, a little. Danger was not imminent, just . . . present.

  “Magelord Minalan,” the herald began with the proper ceremony. I was gratified to hear the hall grow quiet. “The crown hereby recognizes and certifies the lordship of Minalan, called the Spellmonger, over the domains of Northwood, Karandal, Bastidor, Hosendor and Hosly, all in the County Lensely, by uncontested right of conquest.”

  Oh, they were just granting me official status over the domains I’d picked up in my scrap with the Warbird – I hadn’t expected that, but I supposed that it was a regular part of court. I felt a faint hint of relief. It was short-lived.

  “In recognition of the Magelord’s exceptional service to the Crown at t
he Battle of Cambrian,” the herald continued to drone, “Their Majesties grant unto you and your house the domains of Laripose and Amel Wood, likewise in the County Lensely.” Before the requisite polite applause could begin, the king himself stood. That was the only time, save for the dubbings, that he had stood in ceremony all evening. That caught everyone’s attention.

  “The Crown has much to thank the Magelord of Sevendor for,” Rard began in a deep, clear voice that hushed every other sound in the room. “Not only did he valiantly blunt the invasion of Alshar, but he oversaw the slaying of the most dire of the enemy’s agents, a dragon. In the coming days we will no doubt have need of his sword and staff again, but for now it is my pleasure to honor him, both with these fair lands,” he said, handing over two scrolls to his herald, “but also by raising him in title. Henceforth let Magelord Minalan called the Spellmonger be known as Baron Minalan of the Barony of Sevendor, inclusive of all of his domains, present and future, and my representative over them as subjects.”

  Shit. I was a baron.

  I didn’t even realize it at the time, but that was as bad a political strike at me as siccing Isily on Alya at the table while they did it to me on the dais. Rard pulled a parchment scroll the size of a horse blanket out from behind his throne (I supposed he kept a bundle of them back there) and presented it to me personally, then bade Alya forward – to the gasps of those who had yet to see her magical gown – and had us kneel to swear fealty to him upon our investiture.

  “Rise, Minalan and Alya, Baron and Baroness of the Magelands of Sevendor!” Rard proclaimed, to the cheers of the entire hall. I glanced at Alya, and she looked shocked at the acclaim. At least, that’s what I was hoping she was shocked by. I could not spare a glance at Isily, under the circumstances, so I suppressed my worst fears and soldiered on.

  Baron. Direct representative of the crown. It is axiomatic of court politics that you can be wounded by honors as easily as you can profit from them. Being made a baron was a high honor because it was also a huge responsibility. As a simple lord I was subject to the laws of the King and the Duke, but as a baron I was personally responsible for representing the crown and its wishes to my vassal lords, and enforcing their laws on their behalf.

  Pentandra explained the intricacies of the title later, but in essence Rard had just appointed me his regional deputy. In addition to the thrill of being called “Your Excellency” and being able to ennoble select persons through patent or knighthood, now, I also had the right to grant distillery permits, charter new temples and abbeys, and sit in judgment in capital cases; I also had the responsibility for repairing the king’s roads and bridges within my barony, maintaining a castle of a certain size, and collecting taxes and tribute on the king’s behalf. Not only could the king summon me to court at will, as baron, but the crown now had the right to place certain facilities in my lands and house certain officials within Sevendor – at my expense – at the whim of the crown.

  None of this mattered as I was being invested. I was just terrified about what Isily and Alya discussed at the table in my absence. As we returned to our seats bearing an armful of scrolls through her magical snowfall, she looked at me wide-eyed and mouthed something.

  “Ishi’s tits! I’m a baroness! My sister is going to give birth to a cow on the spot when she hears!”

  That provided a distracting mental image, and assured me that Isily had kept her mouth shut.

  “Surprise!” I whispered, lamely, as we stumbled back into our seats. Hartarian pounded me on the back in congratulations, and Isily kissed us both. She smelled of herbs and wildflowers, I couldn’t help noticing.

  “Mother can be generous,” she whispered into my ear when she was close. She didn’t give me time to respond. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Baroness Alya,” Isily said with a low and respectful bow. “Congratulations on your investiture. No doubt we shall be seeing each other around court, now.”

  And then she was gone, her uncle behind her. The implications were clear: do things the Family’s way, and be rewarded with an ever-increasing bounty of titles and positions that would make you beholden and dependent upon them.

  “I can’t believe it,” Alya whispered. “Baroness Alya . . .”

  “Well, it makes sense,” I agreed, realizing just how close the arrow had come to the chink in my armor. “With six domains, I was running a rump barony anyway. They probably threw in a couple more lands being administered by the Duchy and gave me the coronet to make it official.”

  “Two new lands!” she said, excitedly. I unfurled the scrolls and glanced at their maps. Laripose, it turned out, was northeast of Sevendor, within the lands of East Fleria. It was a prosperous domain with four estates. Amel Wood was to the west, within Sashtalia, and was far smaller – but well-wooded, as the name suggested. Both estates would put me at odds with my neighbors, I saw. That could be a burden or an opportunity, depending upon how I played it. It certainly added to the administrative burden I faced.

  But at the time, I didn’t mind. The title and lands distracted Alya from discovering anything important about Isily, or her daughter. While I didn’t feel especially good about continuing to deceive her, I also did not want to ruin her elation at the promotion. It just wasn’t fair to her, I rationalized.

  Then I poured myself more wine.

  Chapter Nine

  The Business Of The Order

  The Royal Court left me alone after my investiture (apart from one small reception that Master Hartarian hosted in his offices to celebrate me becoming a “mage baron”) and allowed me to focus on the real reason I had come to Castabriel: the Second Annual Convocation Of The Arcane Orders.

  I wasn’t certain that it was the best idea to continue organizing when parts of the kingdom were still finding out that they were even part of a kingdom, much less no longer under the Bans of Magic. But Pentandra insisted, and she had good points. If we did not stay in command of how magic was used, things would very quickly get out of hand. Indeed, they were constantly in danger of doing so. Many of the temporary fixes we had established at the founding of the Orders were coming undone and needed our attention. And there were already disputes and disagreements that were beginning to make themselves known.

  The temple complex we had taken over was huge, but it already seemed crowded. Perhaps it was the severed dragon’s head that lay in the center of the main hall, now (we had to put it somewhere, after removing it at Cambrian) that attracted a steady stream of onlookers at a half-penny a look, or perhaps it was the large number of magi who had taken to haunting the Orders in pursuit of work, research, or advice, but when you walked past the guards at the gate you started to feel a little claustrophobic.

  The traffic wasn’t just because of the immanent Convocation, either. The tower of the Arcane Orders had become a destination for itinerate magi, footwizards, and hedgewitches from all over the Duchies. A local inn had favored the traffic and had even changed its name from the Cup And Bowl to the sign of the Staff And Sword to lure wizards in. It had become a local haunt for warmagi between assignments and wizards visiting the Order’s growing library.

  The Order was actually several smaller magical orders administered simultaneously under one roof. And the convocation would include High Magi, Low Magi, and everyone in between. The leading magi of the kingdom would come together for four days to discuss items of import to our class. Not everyone would be there, of course, but anyone who had business to be brought before the Order had made the journey.

  That turned out to be quite a few magi.

  Pentandra had pared my role down to giving speeches and making policy, for which I was grateful. There was now a full application process in place, if a mage wanted to apply to be granted a witchstone . . . with the understanding that it was highly unlikely to begin with and that warmagi were favored. But over five hundred magi had taken advantage of the procedure to put their name into the four-pointed hat, as it were, and apply to be raised.

  The Order was slowly as
suming the role of administering the qualifying exams for Imperial magical training from the office of the Court Wizard, and we’d apparently hired two score masters of examinations around the kingdom. And there were petitions for assistance from everywhere, requests for spells or magical help from mundane folks. Few of the requests were even plausible, much less doable, but I hadn’t discouraged the practice. It gave a fine look into the innards of our kingdom’s folk.

  I hadn’t discouraged them, but I hadn’t done anything with them, either.

  There was a petition from a small group of High Magi to restrict the numbers of new high magi given witchstones, lest it upset the delicate balance of their nascent power. Oh, they had plenty of good rationalizations, but they were mostly barely-disguised attempts at making their club exclusive. Dunselen’s name was on the list, I saw.

  There were several petitions from registered magi who were upset at what they saw as “unfair” competition from the High Magi and “unworthy” competition from the Low Magi.

  These were village spellmongers and resident adepts who had suddenly discovered their valued charters now merely meant that they were professionally trained, not entitled to all the magical business. Low magi – hedgewitches, footwizards, and other clandestine magi – were no longer either illegal or prosecuted. If a wandering footwizard was willing to cast an anti-pest spell for half what the village spellmonger would, what was I to do about it?

  And of course there were numerous petitions from Low Magi begging more opportunities, more training, and more resources. And witchstones. There was a whole contingent who believed that Imperial-style magic was inherently flawed, and that Imperial training should in no way be a factor in determining who got witchstones and who didn’t. Several letters suggested random drawings.