Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “I am no human maiden!” she said, proudly. “I am a noble of the House of Aeratas, of the Versaroti kindred! My line extends ten thousand years, back to our coming to Callidore!”

  “A line whose leadership you would have inherited, had you not convinced me to leave Anthatiel to fight another day,” her father reminded her. “This was the price of the sacrifice of my honor. It was you who begged me to reconsider an alliance with the humani. It was you who encouraged me to mount an opposition to the Abomination. Yet now you drag your feet when the day comes to fulfill your honorable pledge?” he chided.

  “I . . . I am not dragging my feet,” Falawen said, sighing heavily. “I . . . I am merely concerned that Sire Ryff and I will not be . . . compatible,” she admitted. “That my tenure as his wife will be something to endure . . .”

  Lilastien snorted, and rolled her eyes. “There is no woman on Callidore who does not have doubts before they come to the altar, Falawen. You tremble with anxiety, just as all brides do.

  “But let me assure you, humani and Alka Alon can enjoy a robust and blissful union together, in these forms,” she said, gesturing to herself. “I’ve done so myself, dozens of times, back on Perwyn.”

  “What?” Falawen asked, scandalized.

  “Oh, don’t be such a prude!” dismissed the old Alkan with a wave. “Do you honestly think that you’re the first Alkan woman to be curious? Perwyn was a very sophisticated place, back during the Colonization, and that curiosity was shared by plenty of adventurous humani. And you have no idea how boring it can be in Residency.”

  “Lady Lilastien!” Falawen’s face was blushing darkly.

  “I assure you, the experience was both novel and rewarding for all parties,” the old Alkan lady snickered, fondly. “There are spots in these bodies that—”

  “Did you have a point, Elre?” Lord Aeratas demanded, uncomfortably. I could sympathize. No father wants to hear about his daughter’s marriage bed.

  “My point is that this is nothing more but a failure of your own ego,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You advocate an alliance with the humani, and openly admire their race. Your fascination with them is well-known, even to me in my prison. You volunteered to be among the first to undertake the transgenic enchantment to give you your Tera Alon form. You’ve adopted humani fashions and behaviors with stylish abandon.

  “But now you have to face your fascination,” Lilastien said, with a wicked gleam in her eye. “You have come face to face with the reflection of yourself not as an Alkan maiden, but as a Tera Alon about to cross the frontier of interspecies relations in the most intimate of all possible ways. You have to . . . to evolve,” she said, searching for a Narasi term. Technically, it was an Imperial root with a Narasi style, but close enough.

  “You have to make the decision to commit not just to a humani man who has declared his undying and deeply abiding love and infatuation with you, but to your own sense of self: are you an Alkan maid with a scandalously perverse fascination with an alien species, or are you the bridge to something different, something new in Callidore: a merging of humani and Alkan at the most primal level possible?”

  The accusation made Falawen blanche uncomfortably. Lord Aeratas folded his hands on the table, as his daughter struggled with her sense of identity. His position was clear.

  I cleared my throat. “Perhaps it would be helpful to exercise another Narasi rite: the Maiden’s Vigil.”

  “The . . . I’m sorry, I’m not terribly familiar with that one,” confessed Lilastien. “When I got locked in here, your folk were still waging their terror campaign devouring the sophisticated civilization of the Magocracy.”

  I ignored the jab. “Under the Laws of Trygg regarding such matters, if the bride is reluctant or has misgivings, she may retire to a place of seclusion with her closest confidants and a priestess of Trygg for a period of reflection, self-criticism, and self-examination, before she comes to Temple. The Vigil can last anywhere from three days to . . . well, to just before the wedding. But the usual result is either appearance at the altar or the taking of holy orders,” I added, apologetically.

  “Married, or submit to some insane priesthood?” Falawen asked, her eyes wide. “What kind of barbarian savages are you?”

  “There are enough extenuating circumstances in this case that I’m certain a reasonable third option could be found,” I said, slowly, wondering how persuading a bride with cold feet to actually make it to the wedding had become part of my duties.

  “I . . . I . . . I want to exercise the Maiden’s Vigil!” Falawen declared, in a near panic.

  “I will have Sister Bemia make the arrangements,” I nodded, slowly. “I trust she is an acceptable officiant? You know her, after all,” I pointed out. “And you can name your own confidants to accompany you and advise you.”

  “Varen and . . . and Ithalia. Damn it! Somehow I know Ithalia is behind this!”

  “Behind what?” asked her father. “Your own reluctance? Perhaps the promise you made me was rashly done, my daughter, but I take you on your honor. Do what you must to convince yourself, but the vow was freely made. Do not invoke your pride in your line and your kindred if you are so quick to dishonor it by your deeds.”

  To that, Falawen had no answer. She lowered her eyes and sighed.

  “It will only be for a few decades, dear,” Lilastien comforted her. “I think you will find it far more enjoyable than you anticipate.”

  “What if I cannot fulfil my duties to produce . . . to have babies?” she asked, her face now draining.

  “Oh, there should be no issue with that,” Lilastien assured her. “When we designed these forms, we used only the finest physical specimens of humani to base them upon . . . and then we made certain improvements, to make them more compatible with our Alkan enneagramatic architecture.

  “The only differences between your current form’s physiology and a human maid’s are in your limbic and neurological systems. Your reproductive organs are as healthy and ripe as any young humani woman’s. There should be no impediment to having children.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Falawen said, unconvincingly.

  “I am happy to offer Arth Noafa for the Vigil,” Lilastien continued. “There are dozens of hectares of forest within the bounds. And plenty of scenic, inspirational sites which may help your mind find balance.”

  “Thank you, Elre,” Lord Aeratas nodded. “As to the wedding itself . . . you mentioned a warrior prince would be in attendance? Prince Tavard of Castal?” He was as ignorant of human politics as I was Alkan, but he was starting to learn.

  “Indeed. Somewhat of a surprise, but His Grace sees fit to grace us with his presence on Briga’s Day, on a pilgrimage to the Everfire. Such an auspicious witness to the union between our two peoples would bode well for future relations.”

  “Yet we cannot have a humani of higher rank in attendance,” Aeratas said, troubled. “Damn! That means we have to trot out Almasarvala again!”

  Lilastien groaned.

  “That’s the fellow who was at Rard’s coronation, wasn’t he?” I recalled.

  “Yes, he’s technically a member of the Council, but in truth Prince Almasarvala, of the House of Felarsamas, is a vapid figurehead, a remnant of a once-important political dynasty that, for reasons no one can properly explain, still lingers as titular monarch over this realm.”

  I could tell Aeratas held a certain animosity for the Alkan. “He’s an idiot, powerless, and pretentious. Worse, he’s a horrible boor with none of the redeeming virtues of his sires. Most of them were at least aware of the current political situation, even if they didn’t participate. Almasarvala sits in his ancient palace in his idyllic glade, suffering the delusion he commands any but his immediate servants.”

  “It was his ancestors who built Castabriel – the original Alkan city, not the humani shantytown that sits there, now. And they who bungled their rule so badly that they were forced to turn all actual decisions over to the Council, about three tho
usand years ago. Since then they have been a royal pain in the council’s arse,” Lilastien supplied. She so enjoyed gossip, I was noticing.

  “The closest he comes to power is whatever he can wheedle out of his niece, Micrethiel . . . who doesn’t hold him in as high esteem as I,” Aeratas sniffed, wryly. “She doesn’t forgive him or his father for their original support of the human settlement. Yet he will do as he is bid,” he added, sternly. “If the Council requests his presence in Sevendor, he shall be there.”

  “Thank you,” I nodded, although inside I started to panic about adding yet-another unstable element to an already chaotic and potentially disastrous occasion. “I’m certain His Grace will appreciate the honor of the Prince’s attendance.”

  “It is a small price to pay,” the Alkan lord insisted, “to gather the strength to strike back against the Abominations.”

  “Then I bear good news,” I smiled. “I’m planning a little raid, soon, against the forces of the Enemy. And no mere strike against an outpost. I want to raid the cursed fortress of Olum Seheri.”

  The mention of his former home’s dark new name was more than enough to capture Lord Aeratas’ interest.

  “You have my attention, Spellmonger,” the Alkan lord said, leaning closer. “Tell me more . . .”

  I wasn’t trying to hurry the long-overdue meeting between me and Lord Aeratas, but once we established the problem and Falawen committed to a course of action, the rest of the evening was mere pleasantries. Pleasantries I grew impatient with.

  But even ancient Alkan lords get tired, and eventually Aeratas excused himself and his daughter, informing us he planned to enjoy the stars from the rise near the center of the compound. I was thankful to see him go. Not because I disliked the man, but because I had important matters to discuss with Lilastien.

  “We had a bit of an issue with our plan to secure a gemstone of sufficient complexity to carry the Handmaiden,” I told her, as she led me upstairs to a quiet part of the Tower. “Apparently, the Snowflake doesn’t like it when you try to stuff it into a hoxter pocket. I thought the whole mountain would collapse, for a minute.”

  “Now why would you want to do something like that?” she demanded, as she led me to Alya’s quarters.

  “To convince the Snowflake not to act quite so much as a molopor,” I answered. “At least, that was the theory. If we could remove it from this reality, even for a moment, then perhaps we could strike the centerpoint from it before it noticed. Only . . . it noticed.”

  She grunted. “You’re lucky you weren’t all killed! Molopors are nothing to approach lightly. You are as arrogant and incautious as your sires!” she chided.

  “Is that so terrible?” I asked, not expecting an answer. “We only have a few score decades on this world, at best. Caution and humility are for the long-lived.”

  She stopped, her human form turning on her slippered feet. “Not at all. It’s one of your species’ more endearing qualities. It allows you to progress far faster than my own race ever did. It also tends to start wars, blow things up, and sink perfectly good islands, if you aren’t careful.”

  “So noted,” I shrugged.

  “Why would you have to put the thing inside a hoxter pocket in the first place?” she added, continuing down the corridor. “That seems rash. It seems to me that if you merely want to separate the centerpoint, you just need to affect that section accordingly, using some thaumaturgical medium to alter its inherent vibration enough to create an imbalance in the field. If the imbalance is great enough,” she reasoned, “then the Snowflake, itself, will push the centerpoint away . . . given enough encouragement.”

  It was my turn to stop. “You know,” I said, slowly, considering the implications of her suggestions. “That just might work. Or at least be a solid enough premise on which to base a more thorough approach. Let me think on it.”

  “You do that,” she said, as she brought me to the door of Alya’s chamber.

  She was sleeping, inside, one of the two nuns who I paid to attend her sitting in a chair near her bedside. She looked peaceful, almost childlike, under the blankets. The nun realized who I was and stood up immediately.

  “Shhh!” I said, putting my finger to my lip. “I just wanted to check on her, while I was here,” I explained in a whisper. “How does she fare?”

  “She eats most heartily, Magelord,” the young novice assured me with a continuous nod. “She seems in good spirits, but she’s easily confused and can get frightened.”

  “But her health is good? Her physical health?”

  “Oh, aye, Magelord,” she nodded. “The Elves take wondrous care of her. Of all of us.”

  I nodded absently and stroked Alya’s face gently. I couldn’t help it. Here, asleep, she looked almost the same as my wife did before I took her to Greenflower. I allowed myself a few tortured, aching moments of quiet self-pity and regret before I dried my eyes and left her to sleep in peace.

  “Was that really healthy?” Lilastien accused.

  “I needed it,” I admitted. “I needed to remind myself why I was going through all of this. For whom I was going through all of this.”

  “Your children aren’t your inspiration?” she asked, curious.

  “It would likely be best for my children if I took the counsel of locking her away in an abbey somewhere, having my marriage annulled, and finding them a fresh mother. They are young enough so that they would recover, it is said.

  “But I’m not here for them,” I declared, as we headed back to the main hall. “I am here for her. She sacrificed her mind, her life for me, to avenge a crime done to me. Out of love, alone. I cannot rest until I have done everything I can to restore her.”

  “You poor, pathetic, ephemeral creatures!” Lilastien sighed, sounding amused. “You live so briefly, yet love so intently. No wonder you breed so prolifically,” she added. “But such desperate lives lead to such amazing accomplishments. And such profound commitments.”

  “If I had to give up everything I’ve gotten since I met her to be with her – the real her – again,” I answered, after some thought, “I would not hesitate. Nor ever regret the cost.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she said, a small smile on her face. “Nor do I doubt that you will find a way. You are damned determined, once you have committed yourself.”

  “How do you feel Aeratas took the news of the impending raid?” I asked, as we left the Tower and entered the cool late winter night. Spring was just around the corner, no more than a few more weeks away. The snow here had already faded to frozen banks in the shadowed lee of ruins and hills. It crunched under my boot as we walked.

  “He was eager,” Lilastien said, her manner changing. “Passing eager. I’ll be honest: seeing him there at the table tonight, in his larger form . . . he reminded me of the great warriors of old. Oh, not that I remember them,” she demurred. “I’m old, I’m not ancient. But Aeratas has a regal bearing and a single-mindedness that harkens back to our own ancient warrior princes.”

  “He’s going to need that kind of fortitude, to assail Olum Seheri,” I observed. “Hopefully rage and revenge will be enough to carry him through. And I’m counting on his folk’s knowledge of the geography of the place to help get us in and out. That’s going to be essential.”

  “Aeratas is a proud Alkan, and stubborn. But he will do whatever it takes to reconquer his stolen city. He’s helpful in another way, too,” she added. “He’s one of the few who had access to the Ghost Rock, under the city. He has plumbed the depths within hundreds of times. No one knows the intricacies of the technique better.”

  “I was wondering how I was going to handle that,” I sighed. “Once we get in, assuming we get all the way down to the Ghost Rock, we’re not going to have a lot of time before Korbal responds in force. Not the ideal time for necromantic experimentation.”

  “The technique itself is not complicated. But Aeratas built an elaborate security system around its access to restrict the foolish from dabbling with those po
tent forces. He’s one of the few who can penetrate it.”

  “Then I’ll need his assistance transferring the enneagram to the stone . . . assuming I can secure that.” I yawned, unexpectedly.

  “You’re tired,” Lilastien noted. “Go home and get some rest. I think we’ve convinced our reluctant maiden to consider her commitment, and Aeratas is pleased with that. You even got him to get our slothful prince off his regal butt and make an appearance. You’ve done a good night’s work, here, Minalan.”

  “I do wonder how an actual marriage between the two will work. Can she put aside her preconceptions and prejudices enough to appreciate Ryff? And can he go beyond his romantic notions of the Alka Alon to understand Falawen’s more-sophisticated perspective? It shall be interesting to watch.”

  “Oh, she’ll overcome her misgivings,” Lilastien assured me. “There weren’t very many actual marriages between species, back in Perwyn. Just a lot of curious naughtiness. But the few that did occur weren’t any more or less tumultuous than either Alkan or human marriages. Apart from the scandal in Alkan circles, they weren’t even particularly remarkable.”

  “My people didn’t object?” I asked, surprised.

  “Your ancestors were quite open-minded. Refreshingly so. There was never any serious objection to such unions on Perwyn. All part of the great colonial experiment. You didn’t get pig-headed and barbaric until after you sank the place.

  “By then, interspecies mating was a rarity. My people withdrew from yours and let you sink into ignorant squalor. And ignorant squalor just isn’t particularly attractive. I think that is as much a factor in her reluctance as anything else.”

  “It should be an interesting experiment,” I agreed. Then I yawned again. “I must get some sleep. The Prince will be there in a week, and I have a lot of ignorant squalor yet to contend with.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Missing Mountain

  The morning after visiting the Tower of Refuge, I steeled myself for the inevitable meeting with the Ducal Envoy as I plowed my way through a potato and ham casserole at the High Table in the Great Hall. I’d risen late – magelord’s prerogative – and most of the hall was empty at the end of breakfast, so I didn’t see many people before my page approached me, a look of fear and wonder in his eyes.