High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

“Also about a third of the great lords,” he acknowledged. “Some will support him beyond death, thanks to their allegiance to his mother’s house. So my claim will rest on the desires of the remaining third. Most do not know me, but have no particular love for my brother. I am cultivating contacts within their courts, reaching out to them with gifts and influence, where I can find it. But I am still not ready to press my suit.”

  “You can have my endorsement, for what it is worth,” I shrugged. “I haven’t met your brother, but he has a poor reputation. You, on the other hand, have very little reputation, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I know,” he shrugged in return. “But I have time to change that. The Northern League meets in a year and a half, where the great nobles of Moros and Remsferar convene at Lintos to discuss the affairs of the realm. It’s usually a merely ceremonial meeting . . . but that’s where I can press a challenge, a legitimate challenge, to my brother’s title. Hopefully by that time I will have made a much bigger name for myself.”

  “And just how do you propose to do that?”

  “Because I want the job as your Court Wizard,” he answered, calmly. “I figure a year of showing the most powerful mage in the kingdom what I can do will be better for my reputation than charging into battle.”

  While I was taken aback by his boldness, I was also impressed by it. I had let it be known I was looking for a new court wizard for Sevendor, and there were several magi here specifically to interview for the position. None of them were seated High Magi. By taking the position, Dranus would be giving up the small fortune he could make with his witchstone on his own time. He was dedicated – I liked that.

  He also had experience as a court wizard, and while some of the other candidates also did, Dranus enjoyed a solid reputation in that position, and not just for his administrative skills. By all accounts Dranus was an adept worthy of the title: intelligent, educated, wise, and resolute. And not just a little politically adept. Unlike Lorcus, he typified the other stereotype about Remerans, the calculating opportunist. I had need of a calculating opportunist.

  “You’re hired,” I decided. “For six months, a trial period. There will be some formalities, you understand, mostly security issues. But it will give me a chance to evaluate you, and if you deserve my endorsement by the time of the meeting of the Northern League, I’ll be glad to give it to you.”

  That meant I had to turn down the next-most-qualified candidate, a woman named Meriline, but Baron Arathanial had been asking for a recommendation for a court wizard. I would send her to him, and give her a witchstone to seal the deal. You never interview for just one job.

  * * *

  The highlight to the Fair was, of course, the Spellmonger’s Trial, wherein any common mage who could pony up the entrance fee could try their magic and their wits in a contest to win the greatest of all arcane prizes, a shard of irionite. This year it was a captured stone, cleansed and ready for use, not one of the better Alka Alon stones. I’d been quietly trading out the old shards for the more robust Alkan stones as I was able to manage. Some of the more prominent magi already had improved their powers that way: Azar and Bendonal the Outlaw, for instance, each bore one of the stones known as Horka’s Seven, and they were laced with Alkan magic. But for a contest like this, a smaller shard of gurvani irionite was sufficient.

  As it was there were close to three hundred magi who wished to try themselves in the challenge. We had changed around the nature of the challenges the contestants would face, inviting other magi to contribute to the cunningly-crafted set of obstacles – this year even the Karshak were involved. Nothing intentionally fatal, but you’d have to be a damned good mage to get to the top of Matten’s Helm and collect my pipe from the courtyard at Lesgaethael. Retrieving my pipe had become the traditional object of the challenge, and I appreciated the bit of tradition.

  The impressive thing about the event wasn’t the contestants, although they were as fierce and determined as I’d ever seen the field. It was how I got the pipe to the summit of the Helm in the first place. I had Dara take it . . . on Frightful’s back.

  Master Andalnam had been working with Dara and the Alkan emissaries once their falconry project had reached maturity. He and his daughters had crafted and enchanted a handsome harness for the bird, in its large form. And Frightful’s large form gave her a forty-foot wingspan. The harness managed to secure a saddle to the bird without restricting its movements. The massive raptor certainly wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but there were apparently spells on the harness to sooth her about that, too.

  Dara landed at the appropriate moment in my speech to the contestants. I was warming them up, getting them enthused (and frightened) of the challenge ahead and stirring up the spectators when I called for my pipe . . . and Dara dove Frightful down on to the commons, landing as daintily as a five hundred pound aerial predator could. The crowd scattered and there were screams when the great falcon landed . . . but mostly there were just gape-mouthed awe.

  The massive falcon was beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

  Dara had donned leather trousers and a jerkin, as well as a special short flying cloak for her appearance as the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor, and she looked like a princess as she brought me my pipe from the back of the hawk. I showed it to the awed crowd before handing it back to her . . . and watching her and the bird launch into the air with a mighty beat of Frightful’s wings. In moments the bird was winging its way to the summit in the distance.

  The crowd went wild with amazement over the sight. The interest in the challenge was dwarfed by the intrigue over the giant falcon. After receiving word from Dara that the pipe was ready, I started the contest officially. Then I spent the next two hours answering questions about the giant hawk.

  I gave quite a speech about the clear advantages in battlefield reconnaissance and commando missions. Being able to strike at a foe from the air was a potent capability. Even though Dara had only been flying on Frightful’s enlarged back for a few weeks, she had already mastered the art enough to look graceful. The other magelords were enraptured. The mundane lords watched in dazed awe as Frightful cut through the air with the majesty of a destrier in full gallop.

  Suddenly, they all realized, their castle walls were not high enough.

  Everyone was impressed by the huge raptor. The three Alka Alon emissaries, in their gorgeous humanoid forms, were politely indulgent in explaining the technique, in as close to layman’s terms as they were able to manage. But the result was the same: giant falcons were now on the battlefield.

  “Eventually, as the birds breed true, they’ll be great natural aeries of them throughout the Kulines and elsewhere. Tamed to the jesses, and enchanted by competent brown magi, these birds will be able to aid us in the war. They have forty-foot wingspans, so far, and can carry about two hundred pounds aloft. We’re still fiddling with the details, but we hope to produce a manifestation that will be a furious foe on the field. We’ll augment their talons with steel blades. We’ll arm their riders. They can fly beyond the sight of man or goblin, yet see all below. This, my friends, is one of the wondrous gifts of our Alka Alon allies!” I lead them in a cheer. It helped that there was a lot of strong ale flowing. But the first glorious sight of the giant falcons would be the talk of the Bontal for years to come.

  “Is Lady Dara to be in charge of them, then?”

  “She’s been instrumental in the effort,” I nodded. “It has been her drive and her willingness to risk her own life in this undertaking. Right now the only thing of danger in the skies over the Penumbra are dragons. Now we can meet the enemy on the wing. Magi in the air will be an advantage in the war that the enemy cannot match. In time, I foresee a corps of riders winging over battlefields, bearing messages and gathering intelligence – and striking at the enemy, if need be.”

  I went on to explain that the new hawkmaster, Arcor, was lending his masterful knowledge of falconry to usher the process along in a useful way. Between Armor’s wisdom, the Alkans’
magic, and Dara’s dedication, seeing Frightful a-wing promised to be the first of many times that men looked into the sky with awe at cloud-spanning wings.

  So far five of the things had been subjected to the enchantment, and the second trial was planned soon. It was hoped to encourage them to breed in their giant form soon. Hawks mature far faster than dragons. Dara’s handling of Frightful in the air was very encouraging . . . but finding adequate hawkriders was going to prove a challenge.

  Dara basked in the attention she received upon her return. Normally shy in public, bossy in private, the bold girl seemed to warm to her role for the first time since her return from Barrowbell, a year before. She had learned the fundamentals of magic faster than even Rondal, once she’d mastered the art of reading, and she was progressing through her second year of study effortlessly. She had also matured as a young woman. The responsibility implicit in the program had forced her to learn to apply herself in ways that I think surprised her. I was gratified to see it. It had not been without difficulties, but she had done splendidly. I had high hopes for my Hawkmaiden.

  The winner of the challenge was a young mage from Remere named Daro of Quins. Unlike most Remeran magi, he hadn’t come from an old Imperial house that traced its lineage back centuries. He was a fisherman’s son who had apprenticed to a seamage, then taken his journeyman’s papers inland and . . . journeyed. He’d been successful enough as an itinerate magi to ride to Sevendor on his own horse, and he would ride away again with a witchstone in his pocket.

  He’d bested his competition by keeping his wits, moving fast, and casting the right spell at the right time. At the banquet that night in his honor he kept the crowd breathless as he described his challenges. He was a handsome and engaging kid who made me miss Rondal and Tyndal, who were off chasing goblins in Gilmora.

  He also had an eye for the ladies. When the time came for dancing, he passed over several eligible young women for his signature dance to ask Dara, who could not have been more shocked. My apprentice had grown by more than wisdom’s measure, however. She was just not yet fully aware at how much of an attractive young woman she was, and the attention turned her into a blithering idiot for the rest of the night.

  The remainder of the Fair was filled with parties. First the Order of the Secret Tower hosted an elite reception for all High Magi in the luxurious mansion Pentandra had built north of town. It was a lavish affair featuring the finest delicacies from all over the Kingdom and beyond, but especially Remere. I chose that evening to announce the appointment of Dranus as my Court Mage, to the pleased astonishment of the crowd.

  It didn’t take long for people to realize the tacit endorsement that gave him for pursuing the County of Moros in a year or so. That earned both of us some pleased and enthusiastic congratulations. The High Magi supported one of their own becoming a Magelord at that rank, second only to Dukes below the King. That was real, secular power, the kind of power that magi had not wielded since the Magocracy. It helped his cause that Dranus was personable and very popular. Not a warmage, he nonetheless mingled with our profession’s martial wing comfortably. Not a scholar, per se, he had several friends who were respected scholars. And as there were only a handful of seated magelords, he helped set the style in a group too small for generalities.

  The following night was the fete that had become known as the Footwizard’s Ball, a rowdy counterpart to the High Magi’s reception. It was held in the Enchanter’s Guild, which had become a delightfully shabby neighbor to Penny’s mansion. The hall was large but haphazardly put together, the product of a committee short of funds and quick to adapt their plans to available materials.

  But it was a hell of a party. I’d contributed two full barrels of wine to the festivities, and there were plenty of other donations. Nearly every mage was invited, no matter how low of stature or power. The festivity was promoted as a masque, and all manner of grotesque and sublime masks were employed to conceal the identities of the participants . . . and keep their sins clandestine.

  Lorcus, of all people, seemed to be at the center of the party. Though he was now a High Mage and a warmage of some repute, he had cultivated a network of footwizards and spellmongers over the years who looked to him for inspiration. Unlike the usually conservative stereotype of the Imperial Remeran, he typified the other extreme of the culture: the Mad Remeran.

  He drank and danced and kissed and even fought, once, when he overheard a rudeness and decided to intervene. He was the perfect combination of scoundrel and gentleman, and he charmed every woman there – Alya included.

  The next night there was a far more staid celebration thrown by the Arcane Orders, open to all but with strict rules of decorum in place. The hall that the Order had constructed was now the home to Sevendor’s Mirror – the official Mirror. There were several unofficial Mirrors that fed into and out of the domain, now. But the service had proven popular, not the least because it was a paying job for magi between assignments.

  That was the other import of the event: the Arcane Orders Ball had become the event at which to announce taking on apprentices, opening new practices, forming new partnerships, and awarding apprentices their journeyman’s papers. I capped the evening with the surprise granting a stone to Master Andalnam’s eldest daughter, who had also received her journeyman’s papers that night. The public oath-taking was particularly good showmanship, and I followed it with a little speech about how ethics were at the root of the responsible use of magic.

  That didn’t stop plenty of people grousing that the award had been pure favoritism, as there were dozens of more worthy candidates for becoming High Magi than she . . . but I had grown used to that kind of grousing by then. It really didn’t matter who I gave a stone to, if it wasn’t you, you bitched about it. That was human nature.

  The last night of the fair featured a fete sponsored by what would afterward be known as the Sevendor Town Council. It was a mixture of local lords, local magi, and townsfolk who were eager to celebrate the end of the fair and begin counting their money. Banamor sponsored it, of course, using his cavernous warehouse to do so. Once it was cleaned out a little, there was plenty of space for a casual get-together.

  I used the occasion to formally sign and present the completed charter to the town, which brought everyone some cheer. Sevendor was a free town, more or less, able to chart its own course to prosperity with only minimal guidance from me. Banamor made a speech, a couple of the other members of the council made speeches, and everyone was very merry afterwards.

  I wandered outside after a few hours to get some fresh air, then spoiled the endeavor by filling and lighting my pipe. I was joined a few moments later by Baron Arathanial and his son who had the same idea.

  “Lovely little fair, here,” the baron grunted as he unfastened his trousers. “Nothing like Chepstan, of course, but exotic. Those giant falcons of yours will be the talk of the Bontal, Minalan!” He grunted in satisfaction as an evening’s worth of wine left his care and ran out into the road.

  “I think it’s remarkable, how quickly you’ve taken this holding from poverty to prosperity,” admired his son, who lit his own pipe.

  “All it took was a divine level of magic and an embarrassing amount of coin,” I admitted. “I have a lot invested in the place. I’d like to see it flower.”

  “So would we all,” agreed Arathanial. “Sevendor has proven a mighty and unexpected friend. And you’ve ruled with more wisdom and maturity than I would have given you credit for, Luin knows,” the old baron admitted. “You are not just a worthy war-leader, which are common enough, but you are also a passable manager of estates.”

  “I know how to hire good people,” I shrugged, “Something you taught me.”

  “As strong of a friend as Sevendor is,” he continued, quietly, “even good friends look twice when they see something like that on the horizon,” he said, nodding toward the scaffolded side of the mountain, visible in the moonlight. “You’ve not just built a fortress on a mountain, you’ve m
ade a mountain into a fortress.”

  “We were speculating about its size, earlier this week,” the baron’s heir agreed. “It’s enormous. How many men will it be capable of supporting? Fighting men?”

  I took a deep breath. I had been expecting this sort of question.

  “About two thousand,” I answered, earning meaningful looks from both of them. “Most of the barracks chambers will be within the mountain itself. The exterior halls will be focused on military fortifications. The intention is to withstand a siege for over a year.”

  “Huin’s axe!” swore Arathanial’s son. “There isn’t a castle in the Bontals that could withstand that kind of siege!”

  “The likely foe isn’t Fleria,” I chuckled. “Eventually, I anticipate the Dead God’s reach to extend even here. It is that enemy I keep in mind while I fortify.”

  “Yet a castle that can stand against the Dead God would shake off Fleria like a flea!” Arathanial observed. “Or any other force I can imagine!”

  “Even the King,” his son said, very quietly.

  “I would hope never to be in such a position,” I said, calmly, “but I suspect that if I held it, that the new Sevendor Castle could withstand even Royal might. For a while.”

  “You will be a powerful friend to have then, Minalan,” Arathanial said, the repercussions of such a conflict playing out in the old knight’s mind. “Remind me ever to stay on your benevolent side!”

  “I have few ambitions in the local region,” I pointed out, trying to sound reasonable. “I have none on my neighbor’s lands. Nor are my heirs likely to – we have larger priorities than mere conquest. I could have taken Posendor on a pretext, had I wanted war. Or Posendor. I didn’t.”

  “True enough,” Arathanial said, relaxing after he tucked away the family jewels. “I do not fault you for your precautions, my friend. They’re sensible. But I would not be doing my duty to my people if I did not investigate.”

  “No offense taken,” I assured him. “If I had a powerful new neighbor, I’d be curious as to his ambitions as well. But I have to do something with that mountain, and my current castle is too small and inadequate for my needs, so this was my best solution. I would much rather support the stability of the current regimes than impose my own,” I added.