“He really thinks he can conquer Enultramar from there?” Lorcus scoffed. “Not my area, but I can read a bloody map. When there’s miles and miles between cities, there’s a reason for that. What’s his plan?”
“He’s going to try to take the next miserable tower north of Maidenspool,” I explained. “He thinks he can grind his way to the Bay, and once there he can start conquering up and down the coast. With less than two-thousand men.”
“Who’s his advisor? A bloody drunken spud?” he said, shaking his head. “That’s the future leader of our fair kingdom?”
“In all of his glory. Which is one reason why the Royal court wants to take the tribute and taxation out of the hands of the dukes, and put it in to the hands of the counts. It removes a lot of political considerations,” I said, politely.
“It decentralizes power,” Lorcus countered, thoughtfully. He was an outstanding warmage, but he understood how systems worked better than most. It was just the way his mind worked. He had to understand them, so that he could find their weakness and take them apart. “It elevates the counts in stature and importance. It also complicates the politics of the kingdom. I foresee a boom in mercenary warmagic opportunities arising,” he predicted. “When is this going to take place?”
“It’s still being discussed, but Anguin has signed off on it, in principle – practically speaking, he’s only got maybe one or two counties under his control, anyway, so it’s not much of a shift. Duke Clofalin has agreed, but only with six pages of finely-printed ‘considerations’ to be negotiated ahead of the final announcement. Tavard’s court is the only one that is dragging its feet. He sees it as a pissing contest between he and his father, and Count Moran sees it as the last bit of leverage the ducal houses have against the Royal house.”
“But Tavard is in the Royal House,” Lorcus said, confused.
“But Moran is not,” I countered. “Though he was as loyal and vocal a proponent of the kingdom as anyone, being relegated to the Ducal court has forced him to reconsider his politics, based on his power base. He resents having his authority overruled in his ‘own’ duchy. He realizes that giving taxation to the counts will reduce the importance of the duchies to mere administrative offices of the Kingdom. He doesn’t like it. But he’ll sign on, eventually, and let the matter be put before the Curia.”
“You don’t think he aspires beyond his position, now, do you?” Lorcus asked, curiously.
“To what? The duchy? As much as Rard loves that new crown of his, he’s not about to turn over his family’s legacy to another house, if he can help it. In truth, I figured he would elevate Tavard somehow and put whomever Rardine married in charge of Castal. It would split the house into a patron and cadet branches, but it would solve the question of succession.”
“Oh, I heard about Rardine’s rescue from Cei, this morning,” Lorcus smiled. “It sounds like you had an eventful springtide . . .”
I spent two hours re-telling the tale of the raid on the Penumbra and Olum Seheri, and the consequences. He was a good audience, able to appreciate both the technical elements of the impressive warmagic employed in the raid as well as the dramatic betrayal of Sheruel by Korbal, and what the implications for that were.
“I’m hoping that consolidating his power over the gurvani, now that he has their god captive, will take some time – enough time for us to re-distribute our defenses accordingly.”
“Let’s hope,” he said, before abruptly changing the conversation. “How’s Alya?” he asked, simply.
I sighed. “Better,” I admitted. “I stopped by the Tower of Refuge on our way back from the council meeting. The Magolith is working on her, but it’s slow. Like gluing a broken pot back together, shard by shard,” I suggested. “She’s a lot more responsive to her environment, now, however. She can feed herself and handle her basic bodily functions. I’m hopeful,” I assured him.
“Then it was worth it,” he nodded, firmly. “A man who will venture into the underworld to rescue his beloved wife . . . I could spin an entire cult out of that. You are one romantic son-of-a-bitch, Minalan,” he said, admiringly.
“It wasn’t romance, it was desperation,” I admitted. Lorcas had become one of my closest confidants in the last few years, for some reason – perhaps it was his accepting nature and his casual style. “I didn’t want the kids to grow up without their mother.”
“Desperation is oft the font of romance,” he declared, philosophically. “If I wasn’t a lazy man, I’d consider some, myself. Dranus mentioned finding me a wife, when we were talking about rewards. But I’d rather head back home to my tower and roll around naked in the small fortune Dranus paid me, while my peasants bring me liquor and laud my profound masculinity in revered tones to the tune of a merry viol. It just seems simpler,” he concluded.
“Best you delay marriage awhile, then,” I suggested.
After Lorcus left to enjoy Sevendor’s many taverns, I spent the day clearing up some lingering Baronial business with Sire Cei, and then working with Ruderal on his mastery of intermediary thaumaturgical theory.
The lad was thoughtful and studious, and genuinely appreciated the time I devoted to him and his studies. He’d been taking most of his lessons from Master Loiko, who had been doing a very good job of drilling the fundamentals into his twelve-year-old head. But he preferred working with me, as I was far more willing to entertain diversions in the lesson to explain things than Loiko was.
“Master,” he said, when we finished covering the thaumaturgical laws underlying causality in both the mundane and arcane worlds, “what are we going to do about Korbal?” he asked, unexpectedly.
“What? What do you mean? We’re going to keep fighting him.”
The answer didn’t seem to please him the way I thought it would. “But he’s immortal,” he said, in a low voice. “How do you fight an immortal?”
“I kind of . . . fixed that, for now,” I promised. “The Handmaiden fused his enneagram to his present body . . . which is in very poor shape. I’m hopeful he gets a punishing bout of necromantic diarrhea and just wastes away.”
“That’s . . . your plan?” he asked, skeptically.
“No, not really,” I admitted, amused that he’d take it seriously. “I honestly don’t know how we’ll kill him, yet. With Sheruel at his command, not just as an ally, he’s gotten incredibly more powerful. Even unconscious, with Sire Cei beating on Sheruel with all his might, he resisted.”
“We have to find a way to kill him,” Ruderal urged. I looked at the lad closely.
“You aren’t still blaming yourself for raising him, are you?”
“If it hadn’t been for me, he’d still be in that tomb,” Ruderal said, matter-of-factly.
“You can’t think like that, Ruderal,” I corrected, gently. “You—”
“He’s my responsibility,” the boy insisted, folding his arms over his chest.
“That’s far too simplistic a way to look at the matter, lad,” I said, realizing I was on some shaky ice, here. “You are no more at fault for Korbal than I am for Sheruel. In each case we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But, Master, you aren’t responsible for Sheruel!” he protested.
“Aren’t I? Until very recently, I felt as responsible for Sheruel as you do for Korbal. I learned that the idea was implanted in my mind, or at least enflamed, until it nearly consumed me. Much good came out of that – I helped bring together many good people and changed a number of foolish things. Enough to stop Sheruel – and, aye, Korbal – from getting away with their plans unchallenged.
“But such things are not so simple. I felt . . . used, when I learned of my manipulation. You always do, when someone puts a spell on you that you are unaware of. I’ve come to understand that fate has a way of using us in just that way, whether we like it or not. Even the gods are the slaves of fate in such matters. Which presents some admittedly disturbing theological issues,” I admitted, “but then I’m having all sorts of fundamental beliefs
shaken, lately.”
“So . . .” he prompted, helpfully, when he failed to see my point.
“So . . . relax,” I urged. “There are far wiser and more powerful minds working on the problem. Immortal minds. Goddess forbid that he should still be around when your old enough, but if Korbal does, somehow, persist, then you may get an opportunity yourself to face him someday. Not today,” I emphasized. “This raid taught me a lot of things about how Korbal operates, and I’m starting to discern what kind of response we might expect.
“But you bear no more responsibility for his return than the ones who entombed him in the first place. Far less. You were merely one small piece on a very large, very complex board,” I offered.
“That doesn’t really change how I feel,” he said, honestly,
“I didn’t really expect that it would,” I chuckled. “I’m just cautioning you against letting that passion burn up your soul. We’re already in a profession with a lot of strain and psychological stress . . . you don’t need to add more to your load.”
“As you wish, Master,” he said, unconvinced, after giving me a searching glance.
The problem with an apprentice who can see your enneagram is that he knows when you’re giving him, essentially, bullshit.
The news from Enultramar wasn’t good.
While Tavard’s army had been able to conquer two more villages within half a day’s walk from Maidenspool, his efforts to move up the road into the interior were being harried – not by stalwart defenders of the duchy, but by a few bands of bandits who ranged the region.
Indeed, not even the next largest castle bothered to attempt to attack the expedition. Without adequate siege engines at his disposal (they were now in possession of the Alshari armada, captured with the greater portion of his fleet) all the defenders had to do was close their castles and draw up their drawbridges.
It was frustrating, and the clandestine reports I was getting via Farise told a tale of brackish water, diminishing supplies, and sickness in Maidenspool. Tavard was demanding reinforcements from Castal and not getting them – word of the Alshari naval force in the western Shattered Sea was keeping even the bravest captains roving eastward. There was, indeed, a force gathering in the southern ports, but getting them to Tavard was problematic.
His men were unlikely to starve right away. The fishing villages there could sustain them, though they might not like the diet forever. They were reluctant to chance the hills to the north in small companies because of the bandits, but they were unlikely to face any greater foe unless the Count of Arangalan decided to mount an attack . . . and he showed no such inclination. Tavard’s army just wasn’t enough of a threat to make the effort.
While most of the Royal Court was laughing behind His Highness’ back, the Castali Ducal court was in crisis. The Princess was throwing tantrums daily, at the old palace in Castabriel, and sending pleas to the royal palace as often as she could. Count Moran and his fellow ministers were struggling to raise the funds to continue to fund the expedition, but as Tavard had taken Farise’s coastal defense fleet, Remere and the merchant houses were demanding that Castal replace them, quickly.
None of which affected me in the slightest.
It was lovely, watching someone else’s political crisis for a change. I’d served my time at war, this summer, and I wasn’t about to get involved in something as petty and stupid as Tavard’s folly.
I had other things to do – baron stuff. Magelord stuff. And I was now getting daily reports from Lilastien about Alya’s progress.
She was walking the grounds without guidance, now, I learned. She was able to recognize faces. She still wasn’t trying to speak, but she was making her needs known, more and more.
I struggled over whether or not to visit, but Lilastien discouraged it. Alya’s consciousness was just coalescing under a carefully managed program of exercises Lilastien provided her. Me lurking around anxiously in the background wasn’t going to speed things, and it might well impede them, she told me.
It was frustrating, but I tried to keep myself busy.
Coming up with a fiendish new creation for the Spellmonger’s Trial took a few days, and that was something I always enjoyed. Starting on a new battle-staff was another project I began, spending days down in the Enchanter’s Quarter, looking over potential staves and discussing the matter with Master Olmeg and Master Ulin, before I made a selection and began the lengthy process.
And I played with my kids. I took Minalyan down to the pond to fish, every few evenings, with a trip to the bathhouse after. I lingered around the bakery with Almina and helped my sister Urah and my niece make pie crust, though ‘Mina wasn’t too much help. And I made a point to take dinner with Sagal and Ela, my brother-and-sister-in-law, the lords of Southridge estate. We all missed Alya, and they were anxious to see her again.
I also avoided Dara. Particularly after Teedrasday.
Sir Festaran chose the feast-day of the minor goddess of foresight and planning to embark on his career in errantry. He took leave of the castle at dawn, that morning, after taking services in the chapel with Sister Bemia, who stood in for a Teedrine priestess (the goddess had few clergy, which I found dreadfully short-sighted of her) without speaking a word to anyone until evening, as was the custom and rite. I guess it’s supposed to encourage the thoughtful contemplation the goddess is known for in Castal, but I don’t know. She wasn’t a particularly popular goddess in my village.
But Festaran was long gone, with no word (literally) of where he was going. I made it all the way to the afternoon, when I was inspecting the foundations of the outer castle façade with Master Guri when she tracked me down.
Guri was anxious to get me to approve this portion of the job so that he could proceed with the construction of the all-important first level of the fortress, the one that would take the brunt of any attack. The first line of massive white blocks had been cut into place into the snowstone bedrock that the Karshak cleared for the site. He was justifiably proud of them.
“Each one is twelve tons, protrudes fifteen feet into a shaped socket in the bedrock, and will be sung into place to ensure that no force on Callidore can move them,” he said, with satisfaction. “They’ll be the main support of the rear wall and the front wall, which will be back-filled with rubble and reinforced throughout the line. The outer wall will be twenty-five feet thick at its heaviest point.”
“That should take a lot of abuse,” I nodded, visualizing the massive wall.
“More than enough to keep those siege beasts out,” he nodded, smiling. “Even a dragon will have a hard time getting through that . . . and that’s before we add the defensive spells and hardening.”
“And most of the stone will come from the interior?”
“The lower levels,” he agreed. “By the third level we’ll start quarrying from the moat trench, and take that down a good forty feet.”
“How does the new lake affect that?”
“In a hundred problematic ways,” Guri said, shaking his head as he filled his elaborate Karshak-style pipe. “We’re going to have to cut an entirely new drainage system, now, and perhaps install pumps,” he admitted. “The south end of the moat is going to have to be lowered an additional fifteen feet to accommodate that. But when we’re done, they’ll both be in an interconnected system.”
“When will the interior be inhabitable?” I asked, peering at the gaping hole that was to eventually be the transition from the exterior, more-traditional castle to the interior, carved from the heart of the mountain.
“The upper halls could be inhabited now, if they weren’t being used for construction. The Wizard’s Wing has a few apartments, all ready. But until I get at least two, three levels built out here, I wouldn’t want to try to have any number of people live inside.”
We continued discussing the fortification-side of the mountain castle until a shadow passed overhead – a really big shadow.
Frightful landed in all of her frightful glory, and Dara was
sliding out of her harness and striding across the white rock of the site with an angry look on her face.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“Who?” I asked, as Guri’s pipe fell out of his mouth in surprise. Dara rarely got this rankled by anything, but she looked like she could spit fire.
“Fes!” she burst out. “He’s gone! I hear he left this morning, and didn’t say a word to anyone!”
“Well, he did secure a leave of absence from me, recently,” I admitted. “I wasn’t certain when he would depart, but—”
“So you knew!” she accused, her chin quivering and her giant hawk staring at me uncomfortably. “You knew he was trying to leave! And you didn’t tell me?”
“It was not my news to tell,” I answered, gently. “Sir Festaran had business. Errantry, he said. He—”
“What bloody errantry has he?” she demanded. “Where the hell did he need to go?”
“Well, he is a member of an order of errant knights,” I pointed out. “Errantry is implied. Why the tears? He’s gone on deployments and missions, before.”
“He’s never emptied out his bloody room in the castle before, has he?” she spat. “Everything is gone! Some new knight is living there, now!”
“That’s Sir Eran of—”
“I don’t bloody care who he is!” Dara exploded. “He’s not Fes, is he? Fes is gone! Just like Gareth! And . . . and . . . they both talked to you before they went!” she accused.
I took a deep breath. “Well, indeed they did,” I agreed. “I’m a wizard. I’m frequently consulted by young errants, before they undertake a quest. It’s what we do.”
“Don’t act innocent with me!” she snapped. “Don’t you think I noticed that . . . that they both spoke with you, and then they left? I can’t find any trace of Gareth, save that he’s been here or there, and now Festaran leaves without saying a word? To anyone?”
“Dara, they’re young men,” I pointed out. “They have their fortunes to seek in the world. Sir Festaran is a knight errant, and he has a duty to fulfill. And as for Gareth . . .”
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 86
