Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  I found out later that the sudden disappearance of the mountain betwixt our domains was widely seen as a welcoming invitation from the Spellmonger to Sire Ryff and the rest of Hosendor and Kest. They saw it as a further sign of their lord’s nobility and rising importance in baronial politics.

  I didn’t try to allay the notion – any reasonable explanation about where the missing mountain went, and why, was welcome in the pit of gossip Sevendor had become.

  I feasted Sire Ryff and his kin at the castle, the night he arrived, and invited both vassals and military allies to attend. The groom was calm and confident, the two years of his engagement paring most of his anxiety away. He was also more mature for those two years having passed. While still young and vibrant, his bearing was more confident and assured.

  “So, Sire Ryff, when is the lovely bride due to arrive?” Baron Arathanial asked, as the musicians entertaining us from the gallery finished their first set.

  “She abides in seclusion,” I supplied. “She wishes to experience the full breadth of human marriage customs. So she and her closest friends have taken the Maiden’s Vigil, in a far-away enchanted forest.”

  “How fascinating!” Sire Sigalan chuckled. “Usually such a rite is reserved for a reluctant bride.”

  “My love is thorough,” Sire Ryff said with a tilt of his head. “I can only hope she finds Trygg’s guidance to lead her to the altar.”

  “You doubt she will be faithful to her word?” Arathanial asked.

  “She is an honorable woman,” the Hosendor lord insisted. “But I would not take her to wife unwilling.”

  “Some say that’s the best kind of wife!” young Baron Arlastan chuckled, wickedly. “If she warms to you, after the honeymoon, that is. Otherwise it is the goddess’ own curse.”

  “I would not compel her commitment if her heart is closed,” Sire Ryff said, almost sadly. “I made my request for her hand to her father in haste, on the battlefield. She agreed out of love for him, not for me. If my lady choses to forswear that oath, I will forgive her.”

  “Well spoken, Sire,” Sire Cei murmured. While I was technically host, my Wilderlord castellan was operating more in that capacity than me. He was, after all, the vassal to not one but three of the sitting barons at the table. “Reluctance in a wife can be soothed and tamed, with time and affection. Refusal, on the other hand, is a wall that should not be breached, no matter the oaths sworn.”

  “I do not see why she would refuse,” grunted Sir Olsted, Baron Arathanial’s aging castellan. “You seem a fit enough husband, with a good estate.”

  “The standards of the Alka Alon are different than a human maiden’s,” I countered. “They value other things than land and castles. To such a long-lived race, even the lives of old men are but a quickly-passing thing.

  “But to Sire Ryff’s character I can attest. A faithful vassal and a keen sword hand, as well as a model gentleman.” Ryff nearly preened with pride at the compliment. Sure, it was gratuitous arse-kissing, but then it was about to be his wedding day. He was entitled.

  The feast lasted long into the night, and cost me an entire keg of good Gilmoran wine, but in terms of vassal relations it was worth it. Before we got too drunk I distributed little presents to all, mostly minor enchantments that were either useful or gaudy, depending on the character of the recipient.

  Such gift-giving is a regular and expected part of feudal life. The constant exchange of valuables between the nobility creates an entangling web of gratitude and obligation that helps build personal loyalty between liege and vassal. Usually gifts of rich clothing, flatware, armor, books or jewels were given.

  But nothing makes a country knight more appreciative than receiving an enchanted sharpening stone or a magical lockbox to keep his treasures in. The gifts were designed to be bragged about to their neighbors and peers, which increased both their status and my own. It was part of the advantage to being vassals of the Spellmonger.

  As the night wore on, and the jokes got rougher, the traditional ribbing by the married men of a new member of their club ensued as we gathered by the fire for spirits and fellowship.

  “She’s a fair one, your bride,” sighed Arathanial, wistfully. “Though she’s a hundred years old or more, she doesn’t look a day over nineteen! I envy you your coming honeymoon, Ryff,” he admitted.

  “I just hope the lad can survive the appetites of the Alka Alon lass,” chuckled Sire Roncil, Lord of Northwood. “From what the legends say, they are insatiable!”

  “Oh, all wives are insatiable,” Sir Olsted said, with a straight face. “I remember when my dear bride took me to bed after the rite. Ishi’s eternal grace, she would scarce leave me be long enough to run my estate. Every day, twice, thrice . . .”

  “Ah, Trygg’s holy rite does confer the bliss of physical congress, but in truth the demands can grow wearisome, after a few years . . . decades,” agreed Sire Fetalan, shaking his head. “Matrimony is, I’m afraid, an endless indulgence in the carnal pleasures. One must only whisper one’s desire, and your wife will likely leap at the opportunity. It can drain a knight of his vital energies, if you aren’t careful,” he warned.

  Sire Ryff looked startled. “Surely her desires will slake, in time,” he suggested.

  “Slake?” scoffed Sir Olsted. “You should be that fortunate! Why, I can’t keep my ol’ Lanibel off of me, not in thirty years of marriage.”

  “Really?” Sire Ryff asked, looking troubled.

  “Once a maid is a goodwife,” agreed Arathanial, “then Trygg gifts her with an unending bounty of feminine energy that she in turn feels compelled to bestow on her lord husband. His slightest pleasure is her holy ambition.”

  “I . . . I understood there to be more . . . more difficulty,” the poor young knight stammered.

  “Mere peasants’ tales,” dismissed Sir Roncil. “Why, not to shame you, my good brother-in-law, but since I’ve been wed there isn’t a day or night that my good wife does not try to brighten with her affections.”

  “Sarsha always suffered from a lusty manner,” Sire Sigalan admitted, uncomfortably. No one likes to talk about his sister’s sex life.

  “Oh, marriage has put a fine edge on that affliction, I assure you,” Roncil declared. “A more loving and affectionate wife has never been brought to altar.”

  “This is . . . this is a lot different than what I expected,” Sire Ryff admitted. “I’d always thought . . .”

  “What young men think about marriage is mostly rubbish,” I said, adding the benefit of my advice. “Lady Alya has quite the lusty nature herself, as my two children prove. Always a kind word for me, before her affliction, and always eager to cater to my pleasures. Never did I have to persuade her with gifts, favors, or promises.”

  “That . . . that gives me a lot for thought,” the drunken groom said, slowly. “Pardon me, gentlemen, I must find the privy,” he added with a belch, and then stumbled off toward the chamber he needed.

  The rest of us stood around the fireplace, more for ambiance than warmth, and continued sipping our spirits from tiny silver cups. Sire Sigalan alone looked confused.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, slowly, “far be it for me to contend with such wise and worthy minds on the subject, but as the frequent letters from my sister attest, her marriage is not at all like you portray, Sire Roncil,” he said, apologetically. “I defer to your role as her husband, of course, and merely ensure that she does not complain of abuse, as a good brother should. But the tale you tell about your marriage is far removed from her reports,” he said, exercising discretion about the details.

  “Oh, hells, no,” the Wilderlands knight agreed. “After the first few weeks, she dried up on me like an empty wineskin. After that it was a near-constant fight to get a few kind words out of her. Bedding? Only when I plead and call her attention to her vows.”

  “Aye,” sighed Sire Fetalan, “I love my wife with all my heart, but her reluctance to entertain my desires causes me much confusion. I spend a fortune in clo
th and presents,” he admitted, guiltily.

  “It’s the begging and pleading that always got me,” Sir Olsted said, in a philosophical tone. “It can take weeks, sometimes, and best you put your pride away before you take off your hose!”

  “The excuses are what amuse you, after a time, when even the thought of the hunt fades in importance,” Baron Arathanial confided with a chuckle. “Should all the ailments that wives present to escape their duties be real, all of humanity would fail, though every doctor in the world were put on the case.”

  Sigalan looked no less confused – far from it. “Then . . . then why did you just inform the man of the reverse? He’s going to the altar believing that his marriage will be one long, extended Rite of Ishi!”

  All of us married men looked around at each other. Sigalan had not wed, yet, though he was searching the Bontal for a good match that would not bind him politically. So he didn’t know. None of us wanted to say the awful words, I could see, but the question was honest, and deserved the honest answer.

  So I responded. I was the host. And I was drunk enough to be candid, without offense. Magelord’s prerogative.

  “Because no one told us the raw truth before we wed our wives,” I informed him, to nods of agreement from around the fire. “What Ishi provides, Trygg confiscates. That’s something every husband must learn on his own, else he’d never wed. No one told us. Why should he be any different?”

  The next morning the tents and canopies were all raised, the gleaming cobbled streets swept clean, the inns and taverns were hung with banners and bunting, and all of Sevendor was ready for the impending visit of the Prince of the realm.

  Two solid weeks of negotiations and preparations were in place. Security was tight. Storerooms were bulging. The finishing touches were being put on a thousand projects as Briga’s Day loomed.

  Like it or not, Prince Tavard and Princess Armandra were coming.

  Chapter Twelve

  Prince Tavard’ Pilgrimage

  Four days before Briga’s Day, the ducal party landed at Sendaria Port. I didn’t want any surprises. I made certain that I knew everything that happened from the moment when Prince Tavard and his party made landfall.

  Thankfully for me, Iyugi was between journeys and was willing to spend a few days shadowing the ducal company on my behalf. Considering some of the rough places Iyugi was used to haunting in his quest for information, living at a mid-level Riverlands inn at my expense and spying on my liege was rich duty.

  He wasn’t my only agent, both human and magical. I received updates on their progress and the composition of their party on an hourly basis, from the moment the small fleet of barges landed at the docks. By the end of the day, Iyugi had the names and ranks of every person who disembarked from the six wide, richly-appointed barges, not to mention a few choice details that only my magical spy could obtain.

  It seemed that His Highness, Prince Tavard, was not having the smoothest of journeys with his bride. Indeed, though the infant Prince Heir was a healthy lad, the baby’s cranky nature and his wife’s anxiety over the boy were causing sleepless nights and dark murmurs for the future king of the realm. More, the Remeran retainers who traveled with Her Highness were not well-disposed to the Prince, and his impatience with either his wife or son.

  I don’t know how Iyugi does his work, nor would I ever consider criticism of a specialist in the midst of his specialty; but whatever natural talent or innate comprehension the half-breed mage possessed was ideal for my service. Before the Prince and Princess and their retinue arrived at Chepstan Castle, I knew more about what happened in their bedroom than was entirely proper.

  Iyugi was also helpful in supplying context for the visit, with some judicious eavesdropping. Tavard was not enjoying the success a future heir to the throne should. In most of the baronies he visited, he’d been forced to either accept a far reduced payment, in return for his patriotic plea, or grant lucrative boons to a variety of lords, burghers, and clerics who were well-aware of Prince Tavard’s ambitions . . . and empty purse.

  That only added to Tavard’s frustration. He’d planned to at least gain commitments for at least twenty thousand ounces of gold by this point in his journey upriver. From what Iyugi reported, he’d managed to get pledges for less than half of that . . . and ceded a lot of valuable rights in return.

  Since each ship in his nascent fleet cost between three hundred and five hundred ounces of gold to hire – merely for the season – Tavard’s efforts had not gained him much. No more than a squadron, in addition to the thirty-odd ships he’d managed to compel to service so far. Not enough to challenge a robust harbor patrol, much less the combined naval power of Enultramar and her allies.

  That didn’t bode well. Iyugi reported that Tavard was being forced to consider using his own – limited – funds to add to the fleet. Or, even worse, take his duchy into debt to pay for it. That was not a prospect that he relished. As his vassal, I could not disagree.

  I watched very carefully as the young Duke and his court contended with my neighbors. Duke Tavard managed to secure a pledge for a full thousand gold Roses from Baron Arathanial at Chepstan Castle, after a hastily-arranged but exciting hunt in Arathanial’s game lands. The baron was feeling extravagant, after his victory over the Warbird and Sashtalia, and the payment secured both his son’s rights to their respective lands.

  From what Iyugi said, another three hundred Roses ensured a favorable endorsement of his assumption of leadership at the next Riverlords League, which was traditionally a scion of House Lensely.

  Trestendor was good for two hundred in gold and pledges for three hundred more, in return for His Grace’s permission to found a grand abbey within the domain and confirmation of Trestendor and its current domains as his, as Knight Banneret. That helped protect my friend and ally from the ambitions of my other friend and ally, Arathanial, which would hopefully buy peace in the Bontal Vales for a few years. Gold well spent.

  Beyond that, the Duke did not deign to bargain with nobles below a certain rank . . . though his shadowy Prime Minister, Count Moran, entertained proposals from any and all along the way. Another three hundred gold and change, Iyugi reported, from various temples, petty burghers, country knights, and even my vassals added to his coffers at the expense of his interests.

  Still, it was disappointing to him. From what Iyugi told me of his minister’s deepest conversations, Tavard was in a tizzy over the slow influx of funds . . . and he was increasingly looking at his stop in Sevendor to make up the difference.

  That put me in an interesting position. I was already accounted one of the wealthier lords in the Bontal Vales, and after the Sea Folk bought my second-best mountain I was now rich enough to bribe the boy to do whatever I wanted.

  Only, I didn’t want him to know how much gold I had. I didn’t even know how much gold I had. But that kind of wealth would be an unbearable temptation for the ambitious young Duke. More, he was raising funds to attack the rebellious realm of my friend and ally, Duke Anguin of Alshar. Directly contributing toward that end rubbed me the wrong way, no matter how doomed I thought the prospect would be.

  Still, I had certain feudal obligations to fulfil. And I had a – pardon the pun – golden opportunity to increase Sevendor’s fortunes and security. I couldn’t ignore that, either. If Tavard was hungry enough, he might be willing to grant some valuable concessions to me. Concessions that could be politically and financially important, down the river.

  With that in mind I began considering a wish-list of things that Sevendor might need in the future, and had a fanciful hour’s discussion with some of my smartest friends to come to some decisions.

  Tavard arrived at Sevendor’s frontier with Bastidor at noon, on Briga’s Eve, among his armed gentlemen and thirty mounted sergeants in the vanguard of the column. Her Highness Armandra, Iyugi reported, was quite content to ride with her ladies in a grand carriage in the rear, though it was a dustier position.

  Tavard was richly garbed in
yellow and blue, and wore a pilgrim’s mantle on his shoulders . . . the most richly-embroidered pilgrim’s mantle I’d ever seen. The arrogance of the boy was palpable as he was met by Sire Cei and a company of Sevendori knights and warmagi.

  I wish I’d been there to witness it, but I would meet the Prince at the market square, near the temple, for a private showing of the Everfire, as planned. From all accounts Tavard tried to rush through formalities, anxious to complete his journey . . . and perhaps irritated that Sire Cei insisted.

  The Dragonslayer not only insisted, but deigned to lecture the Prince on the finer points of chivalry in front of his gentlemen. Not in a patronizing way, but by citing from the Laws of Duin and the great Chivalric Lays of our ancestors, who forged the bright blade of chivalry from the barbarity of common war. It was a powerful and elegant speech, one that won the patient praise of Count Moran and greatly added to the Dragonslayer’s reputation in the court.

  Along the route into town Sire Cei stopped briefly at Boval Village, and told the tale of the refugees from a tiny Wilderlands domain. Then he proceeded around Matten’s Helm, informing the gentlemen of the Three Emissaries from the Alka Alon who’d built the spire of Lesgaethael out of snowstone. That seemed to irritate the Prince, for some reason.

  By the time he entered Sevendor, the Prince’s mood had changed. As soon as he saw the bounty of the land, and its prosperity, he took notice. When it was pointed out to him that the villeins of the hamlet of Gurisham now had homes as rich as any freemen, and that Sevendori freemen lived as burghers, he was particularly interested.

  Then he hit the city gates, where hundreds lined the streets with flutes and drums, waving Sevendor’s banners and singing a welcome to the Prince and Princess. Banamor outdid himself in splendor, as magi cast brilliant display spells in the sky overhead, and showers of arcane snowflake-shaped sparks rained down to within six feet of the ground, and then disappeared.