Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  I sighed. “How about if I ennoble your father?” I asked.

  “What?” she asked, startled.

  “Kamen has been a stalwart vassal, and runs a model estate. Your brother not only served in the defense of Sevendor against the Warbird, and in Gilmora against the gurvani, he has kept the keep at Caolan’s Pass well-staffed and guarded. He is admired across the vale,” I added, knowing how proud she was of her brother, Kyre, the Wolf of the Westwood. “The patent would see the title pass from father to son. Kyre would become Lord Kyre. And Kamen would be Lord here, as your vassal.”

  “Won’t that make holiday feasts more entertaining!” Dara snorted.

  But I could tell the offer had value for her. She’d seen Sevendor invaded by foreign lords, and saw herself and her kin as some of the last vestige of the old domain. Seeing her father made a peer of the nobility pleased her mightily, no matter what her frowning lips said. Just another push, I figured, and she’d agree.

  “So, what else do you want?” I asked, slyly. Dara was an excellent apprentice, far better than I deserved. She had accepted the fame and fortune that fate, the gods, and myself had forced upon her with a tremendous amount of grace. She hadn’t been raised as a noble, but (with a little help from Sire Cei and Lady Estret) she had risen to the challenge splendidly.

  But that also meant that she’d learned the type of exchange of favors that peppered feudal politics.

  “I want to establish a second Mews, in Alshar,” she proposed, forcefully. “My second wing is patrolling there now, and they want to stay for a while. That would allow me to train a fourth wing, here, when the new hatchlings are ready. Maybe even a fifth,” she said, doing some calculations in her head.

  I sighed. “Granted. But they stay under your command. They are a loan to Anguin, not a gift,” I warned.

  “I do hope Baron Arlastan will find his stay here pleasant,” Dara said, finally.

  “Thank you,” I nodded. “I’ll let you get back to your brooding, now.”

  “Thank you,” she said, without sarcasm, as she turned back to her giant falcon.

  I got the hell out of there. I have five sisters. Moody teenage girls scare me.

  On the way back from the Westwood I rode into town, enjoying the coolness of the day. Merchants and early pilgrims were already starting to fill the place, though it was days before Briga’s Day. Word of the Prince’s visit spread, and there were plenty who wanted to catch a glimpse of the man who ruled them as Duke, and would someday rule as King.

  Poor bastards.

  I was worried that Sire Dasuos would find some other way to challenge me and my domain before the Prince’s party arrived, but thankfully Sire Cei wisely gave him the job of organizing the Tournament of the Everfire, as the joust in Tavard’s honor was called. No honorable knight could resist such a task; Sire Cei used Dasuos’ own Spur Fever against him. He left me alone.

  Lord Ustal, on the other hand, began to seriously question the propriety of the wedding of Sire Ryff and Lady Falawen. He accosted me thrice in the next two days, asking me to reconsider.

  I hoped that actually meeting the Tera Alon would mollify him, so I had Onranion escort him up Matten’s Helm to meet a few. When he returned, instead of being reassured, he was even more adamant.

  “Magelord, you cannot allow this to happen!” he insisted, when he tracked me down – ironically, while I was inspecting the special pavilion we’d erected outside of the Temple of Briga to host the event. It was beautiful – carved wood pillars, painted with orange and red flames, with the Cauldron of Trygg symbol in gilded wood hanging suspended from the roof. “It is an affront to the gods!”

  “Actually, it’s not,” I replied. “Indeed, the clergy has blessed this union since it was announced.” A few of the gods had, too – but I didn’t want to tax the man’s imagination too much.

  “Such a thing is indecent,” he declared. “Why, it’s like marrying a beast—”

  “I think anyone would be hard pressed to compare the Alka Alon to beasts,” I said, warningly. “They are our allies. Why does this disturb you, so, my lord?”

  “Baron, Her Highness Princess Armandra is very sensitive to being disturbed,” Ustal argued. “Since she gave birth to Prince Tavard she is highly excitable. To expose her to . . . to such a . . . a . . .”

  “The wedding is going to happen,” I stated, flatly. “And Prince Tavard and his wife shall attend. I shall hear no more word against it.”

  Lord Ustal did leave me alone, after that. But he spent a lot of time trying to appeal to Sire Cei, and then to the priestess of the temple. He even tried to speak with Sister Bemia, but she was attending to Falawen’s Maiden’s Vigil.

  But he didn’t ask about the missing mountain.

  I had other issues to attend to. A wooden bridge was being hastily-built over the gap in the ridge, with crews working day and night to complete at least a single passage across by the holiday. The bottom of the great white trench was already starting to fill up with wide puddles, as the winter rains drained into the huge reservoir. In another few weeks the water would make traversing the trench impossible. Hence the bridge.

  It was temporary, but it required a lot of timber and it needed to be strong enough to hold up until the stone bridge was built next to it. Guri was already drawing up plans for a replacement, something tastefully gaudy that would allow wagons to cross from both directions at once. After that, I had to interview the finalists for the magical entertainments, and then I had to check with my spies.

  That is, the warmagi I had hired to keep an eye on who was attempting to slip into Sevendor. And they had a few prospects to report upon.

  My men were both thorough and subtle. Sevendor attracts top-quality warmagi, and it was considered an honor to take a commission from me . . . and no one wanted to screw up in my service.

  They worked together, too, meeting in twos and threes at the Sword and Staff to exchange information and trade surveillance of their subjects, to keep suspicion low.

  Their efforts had revealed an agent of Baron Vulric of Fleria, the older brother of Sire Gimbal, who had arrived alone, on foot, and had taken a room in Boval Village. A day later, two pack merchants arrived and lodged in Sevendor Town, but their story of traveling from Bocaraton didn’t ring true to my agent. Further inquiry (and some subtle magic) revealed that the two Castali traders were actually from Enultramar. I authorized a truthtell to reveal which power in the rebel province was behind their presence.

  The third agent might have passed undetected, had I not alerted my men to be particularly alert for young women – no matter how charming and flirtatious, kind and wholesome they might seem.

  One of my men encountered a young novice of Briga along the main road, between Boval Village and Gurisham, and nearly passed by, unaware. There were plenty of visiting Brigadine nuns visiting for the holiday, after all.

  But something inspired the man to follow her, stalking her to a small inn on the north side of town, the Key and Wheel. It usually catered to farmers traveling to market, and was correspondingly modest. But as a priestess, a Brigadine nun should have taken quarters in the Temple. As busy as it was, there were plenty of cells she could have stayed at for free . . . if she really was a nun.

  Another warmage asked the High Priestess of the temple about the clerical pilgrims in town, and the nun did not appear on the list she kept. Another inquiry revealed that she’d paid for her room in advance, with new-minted Stags. Scrying her quarters showed a bag filled with poisons and blades, and other instruments of assassination.

  Instead of having a truthtell interrogation arranged, I had the lass shadowed by one of the sneakier warmagi, a fellow named Astar. He specialized in battlefield reconnaissance, but he could work as well in a city. He took a room in the same inn, pretending to be an out-of-work spellmonger looking for a job.

  I was fairly certain our fake nun was an agent of the Family, but that didn’t mean she was necessarily here for me, or anyone else in Seve
ndor. The Family is the intelligence service for the kingdom, which implied a lot of possible operations. If she was here to eliminate a threat to the realm, I didn’t want to interfere.

  On the other hand, if she was planning on sticking a dagger in my back, I wanted to be in a position to take action.

  I could have confronted Grendine, directly, and learned the truth. But that would likely reveal more about my own intelligence operation than I was comfortable with. Besides, I was still pissed at her for abandoning her daughter to the enemy.

  I was relieved at learning about the spies, not concerned. I was getting used to the world of kingdom-level politics, and spies in my domain were now part of that world. Just about every high noble employs some sort of “keeper of secrets”, of course; but when you’re dealing with rebel counts and overprotective queens, the espionage was at an entirely different level.

  The day before word came of the Prince’s arrival at port, my men informed me that the truthtell on the agents from Enultramar revealed that they were sent by the Count of Rhemes, and were most interested in discovering what assistance I was providing for Duke Anguin in his bid to return to the south and claim his lands.

  Apparently, it had become known in some quarters that I was supporting the Orphan Duke, behind the scenes, and they were trying to establish the extant of that support. Was I merely trying to keep him solvent in Vorone, or was I trying to bring him back to the greater part of his realm?

  I had my agents fill their ears with information, but the kind I wanted them to hear. Appearing as a disgruntled castle servant, one of the warmagi pretended to be drunk enough to spill all sorts of unlikely secrets about the Spellmonger, including his desire to keep Anguin in the Wilderlands.

  He added some embellishments of his own about my personal habits and predilections, but I didn’t mind. Some of the wilder ones were intriguing enough to help us track the course of the intelligence, once they returned to rebel territory.

  Baron Vulric’s man was much simpler: the baron merely wanted to know what transpired at the Prince’s visit, nothing more. I ordered him to be left alone. Vulric hadn’t done me any ill, not even when his brother begged him to raise an army against me. He had more sense than the Warbird, it was clear. If he wanted unvarnished intelligence on what was happening in Sevendor, then I’d let him have it.

  But the fake nun I felt I had to confront, myself. I dressed in a plain brown artisan’s tunic and added a traveler’s cap before I walked down to the Key and Wheel around supper time. I found the young novice in the common room, eating a passable lamb stew and waiting for . . . something.

  She didn’t see me come in, but then I was using an unnoticeability spell that discouraged anyone from noticing me. I let it fall as I slid into the chair across from hers.

  “Shouldn’t you be at matins, Flamesister?” I asked. “Usually the Brigadines don’t eat their dinner until after their evening service.”

  My sudden appearance and direct challenge of her guise startled her, but to her credit the young assassin recovered quickly.

  “Is that not between my goddess and me?” she asked in return.

  “That depends on which goddess . . . the one whose habit you wear, or the one in Castabriel who gave you your orders. How is Mother, these days?”

  Realizing that she was revealed, she in turn revealed me. Her pretty eyes narrowed under her habit. “You’re him. The Spellmonger.”

  “Baron Minalan, or just Magelord, if you’d prefer,” I shrugged. “But yes, that’s me. So, what business brings one of my sisters-in-law to my domain?”

  She looked uncomfortable, but she did not shrink. “My mission is my own,” she replied, quietly.

  “When it involves Sevendor, it becomes my business,” I pointed out. “Now, you can tell me truthfully what you are doing here, or I can employ all sorts of invasive methods to learn the truth. Which would you prefer?”

  The young nun seemed to find my threat amusing. “You think you can torture me? My sisters and I can resist any amount of physical pain.”

  “Why do you think I’d limit myself to mere torture? I have some of the most advanced magi in the world in this town,” I bragged. “I can have you confessing your darkest secrets in an hour, and thank me for the opportunity afterward.”

  She looked disgusted. “Magic!”

  “Yes, magic,” I nodded. “You come to a magelord’s home, you can expect magic to be at play. But that won’t be needed, if you just tell me why you’re here.”

  She sighed, looking around us. I cast a quick spell to make listening to our conversation incredibly difficult, then nodded to her.

  “All right,” she said, with another sigh. “Mother deployed me here to watch the Prince’s party, when it arrives,” she reported. “In particular, I am to watch one minister for signs of treason or rebellion.”

  “Which one?”

  “Count Moran, the Prime Minister,” she supplied, reluctantly. “He has been watched since he took the office. And he has had conversations with people that have disturbed Mother.”

  “Which people?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she confessed. “If I find proof of his treachery, then I am to report back to Mother and wait for instructions.” I had a pretty good idea of what those instructions would be.

  “And you think that Moran will meet his contact here, in Sevendor?”

  “That is the intelligence that we have received,” she nodded. “I have no idea who it might be, or who they might represent. But we’re certain that there is to be a meeting. The day after Briga’s Day.”

  “Very well,” I said, rising. “As long as you do no violence in Sevendor, you may proceed with your mission. But you are marked,” I informed her. “Magically marked. Wherever you go in the domain, my Spellwarden can track you. And please let Mother know that I find it disturbing to discover spies in my town from someone who professes their admiration of me.

  “In the future, a brief word in advance would be appreciated. Unless they’re coming to slay me,” I added. “In which case I understand it would be a breach of professional standards to expect a warning.”

  “How did you discover who I was?” she demanded, her face blushing slightly.

  “I’m the Spellmonger,” I said, letting my brow furrow. “This is my country. I know everything that transpires here,” I lied, convincingly. “We knew who you were the moment you crossed our frontier, and have been watching you for days.” I waved at my clandestine warmage, who waved back, bowed to the novice, and left the inn.

  “Him?” she asked in disbelief. “He’s a drunk! And handsy, too!” she said, annoyed.

  “He had to be convincing, and he was successful in his mission,” I countered. “Just one of many of my talented fellows. They always have their eyes open, particularly in my own lands.”

  “I shall relay your message to Mother,” she finally conceded. “But I ask that you do not disrupt my mission,” she added, intently.

  “If it’s a threat to the realm, then I have no desire to be anything but cooperative,” I assured her. “But don’t mistake my hospitality for weakness. If I wanted you dead, you’d be gone three days ago and no one would be the wiser. And be sure to try the bread with your stew tonight,” I added, as I left. “The innkeeper gets it from my brother-in-law’s bakery. It’s outstanding.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sire Ryff of Hosendor

  As the day of the important fire festival approached, long lines of travelers formed at the gates of Sevendor. One important party after another arrived in anticipation of the Prince’s pilgrimage, and I was honor-bound to greet many of them in person.

  That included my local peers: Baron Arathanial of Sendaria, and his son, the new Baron of Taravanal, who came by different routes. By courtesy it also included Sire Sigalan, my friend and ally from Trestendor.

  But it also included a lot of other important folk, from a delegation of burghers from Sendaria Port to a battalion of
clergy: the Abbot of Stapeldor, the high priestess of Holy Hill abbey, the assistant-abbot of Fistan Abbey, Brother Mison, the Huinite priest whose stature had risen since he helped negotiate the failed truce between me and the Warbird, before I ultimately defeated him.

  It also included my vassals. It was politically important that I include them in this prestigious event, and I greeted them each in turn as they arrived with their delegations. Of particular note was Sire Fetalan of Hosly, father of Sir Festaran, my assistant castellan, who brought a wain loaded with gifts. Sire Stancil of Northwood and his bride, Sire Sigalan’s sister Sarsha, arrived with a small contingent, and didn’t seem to be fighting for a change.

  But the most important vassal was Sire Ryff of Hosendor. The Prince’s visit, the sacred nature of the occasion, the tournaments and entertainments were all meaningless to the man who had waited two long years for his bride to come to the altar.

  I gave him the honor of being the first traveler across the hastily-constructed new bridge that spanned my new moat, just two days before Briga’s Day. Now that there wasn’t a ridge in the way, Hosendor Castle was only six miles away from Sevendor Castle.

  Sire Ryff rode across the bridge on a splendid chestnut charger, his bright mail covered with a surcoat bearing his device, a simple blue badger on a white field. He bore both lance and shield, though he slung his helmet at his saddlebow and rode with his lance rested.

  Behind him trailed nine knights of his household, then a squadron of mounted sergeants, three well-loaded wains, and nearly a hundred of his folk afoot, many bearing banners with Hosendor’s device. They were a proud folk who had struggled for a generation under the Warbird’s yoke. They saw their fortunes changing, under the Spellmonger’s leadership, and they wanted to represent themselves to their new lady in the best possible way.

  The tale of Sire Ryff’s rescue of an Alkan Alon prince, and his subsequent engagement to his daughter, had swelled the pride of the Hosendori tremendously. They loved their young lord, it was clear, and they eagerly anticipated the fey Lady Falawen as their new lady. For a poor mountain fief like Hosendor, such attention was a decided honor.