“Yes, Highness, I had that pleasure,” I agreed.
“Yet you were unable to find a way to help him secure a victory, when you seem capable of picking them ripe from the tree,” she pointed out, her eyes narrowing. “How . . . limited magic seems, sometimes.”
“There are many complexities in its function, Highness, requiring great study and intense effort,” I said, loftily. “It cannot, alas, be forced to do what the gods have not ordained.”
“The gods seem strangely silent on such matters, my lord,” she said, continuing to walk slowly. I joined her at the head of her line. “Indeed, they seem to conspire to ruin the plans of mortals.”
“Your Highness has studied religion, I see,” I praised. She looked at me sharply.
“When they propose to arrange a union between poor Rardine, for instance,” she continued, no longer looking at me, “and her oafish cousin. One has to wonder at their humor and wisdom,” she said, philosophically.
“I take it Your Highness does not favor the match,” I offered, hesitantly.
“No, Baron Minalan, I do not!” she said, sharply. “Princess Rardine has a . . . storied past, from what I understand. A maid of rare wit, it is said, and my own interactions with her bear that out. A woman of her abilities should not be consigned to common breeding, when there are so many abbeys in desperate need of intelligent direction.”
“Yet she seeks Trygg’s Blessing of children, as most women do, Highness,” I countered.
“Children she could bear successfully and happily . . . in Vore,” she said, with the slightest sneer. “If any would take her, now. She was captured by pirates, after all,” she observed, cattily. “The gods know what awful, rapacious men they are.”
“Yet greedy enough to recognize the value of a captive of Rardine’s station,” I countered. “No pirate would defile a maiden whose virtue is worth such a price. Nor were the undead she was sold to have designs on that virtue,” I added. “Indeed, when she was examined by Master Icorod, after her imprisonment, and he assures me that she was physically unharmed.”
“What a tragic ordeal for her!” Armandra said, with false concern. “There is no telling what foul magic was used upon her to subvert her mind.”
“There is no evidence of that, fortunately, Highness,” I countered.
“Well, thank Trygg’s grace,” she continued. “Yet for cousins to wed, it is . . . unseemly,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Most of the gods condemn such unions, in scripture,” she reminded me.
“And others permit the practice, Highness. The gods are not known for their consistency any more than they are known for their respect of mortal wishes.”
“Yet my recent spiritual awakening has made me sensitive to such matters,” she continued. “Experiencing a divine manifestation of Mother Trygg has moved me to follow her perfect example. The Book of Trygg is quite explicit about such things, I am informed by our clergy. It is a matter of pure morality not to sully Trygg’s Grace with the scourge of intimacy between close relations.”
“No doubt some of the clergy will agree with you,” I said, cautiously, as I took her meaning. She was intending to block the marriage on the basis of consanguinity. And she had the pull to line up plenty of clergy to back her side. Princess Armandra was a popular figure in Castabriel, double so since she’d given birth to the little prince. “Have you an objection to Duke Anguin, then?”
“Personally? He is a dull and quiet boy,” she dismissed, “and he rules a fragment of a province. His coronet is his greatest asset. And he’s short,” she condemned. “I care not whom he marries in his rustic shack, but wedding Princess Rardine is an affront to our morality,” she insisted.
“It is refreshing to hear your position so clearly stated, Highness,” I nodded, as we drew near the unfinished façade of the Temple of Trygg. “I pray such devotion to morality is justly rewarded,” I added.
“Farewell, Spellmonger,” she dismissed. “I do look forward to seeing you again at the Curia. Perhaps your lady wife will feel well enough by then to join us.”
All courtly pretense dropped from me, when she invoked Alya’s name.
I’m willing to play the courtier when there’s a need, but I am a husband and a man, first. Calling out Alya’s infamous infirmity and rubbing my nose it in wasn’t mere courtly cattiness. It was a deliberate kick to my balls.
I delivered one in turn. “And I do hope our Prince fares better in his adventures in the future. The gods themselves know how devastated we would be if anything untoward happened to him. Why, it would plunge the kingdom into violent, bloody civil war,” I predicted. “Hidden factions would emerge, assassins, insurrections and uprisings, rebellions . . . I shudder to think of the dangers his untimely demise would produce. It would be a disaster to us all,” I concluded. “Please pray for his welfare to our Holy Mother on my behalf,” I said, as I prepared the Ways home. “Or maybe I’ll mention him to her myself, next time I see her.”
And I was gone.
I monitored the situation in the Westlands remotely from Sevendor, for a few days. Terleman’s expedition to the region gave us a better understanding of the damage, and what it would take to repair it. It also confirmed that no further attacks were taking place. Whatever Korbal was planning, he was doing it quietly.
Elsewhere, however, events proceed at a startling pace. Astyral reported a sudden series of attacks launched from the Penumbra . . . at the Penumbra. It took a few days for the Iron Band and Astyral’s own agents to bring back intelligence on the fighting, but it was soon revealed that all was not well behind enemy lines. Indeed, there was a civil war going on in the western Wilderlands.
Rumor had it that Korbal’s minions had taken direct control of the armies and legions formerly commanded by Sheruel, sparking a general mutiny by the gurvani. The gurvani “royal court” had been driven from the old Wilderlands castle that served him as palace. About a third of the gurvani supported him, and not the urgulnosti who’d taken up the cause of Korbal.
The new regent of the ‘kingdom’ is a Nemovort called Zolim, Astyral reported to me, a few days after I’d returned to Castabriel. Three Nemovorti are now in charge of the molopor and the installations of Boval Vale. Combined, their range of influence extends a few dozen miles beyond their loyal encampments. That means most of the south, around Preshan, all the way up to about where Autumnly used to be. Beyond that, it’s tribal government, most of whom seemed to have taken the Goblin King’s side. It’s suspected he and his gobliny court have taken refuge among them, with the units who stayed loyal to him and Sheruel. Old Sheruel.
Well, that’s good news, I pointed out.
Good and bad, he replied. While it weakens their forces in terms of numbers, most of the better-trained units are now under Nemovorti control. One of the things keeping them from attacking us in force was the internal divisions they suffered. With the loyalists driven out, the Nemovorti have a far more disciplined army to command, even if it’s smaller.
You think they’ll move on us, then?
That’s what I would do, he agreed. I was discussing this with Azar and Terleman last night. We hold the east bank in force, but have largely removed support from our forward positions. Now would be an ideal time to strike against them.
Another point to consider, I added. Now that the Goblin King has been driven into exile, that ‘treaty’ with him doesn’t hold, does it?
Did it ever, really? he asked, rhetorically.
Hey, that was one of Tavard’s greatest victories, remember? Where do you think they’ll strike?
Here, Vorone, Preshan, Fort Destiny, maybe as far as Lorvay, he proposed. Any of them or all of them.
I heard about your plan to quietly abandon Tudry, I mentioned.
It seems for the best, he sighed. It costs too much to defend the place, and there’s really not much reason to, apart from keeping a presence here. Megelin is close enough and better defended, he reminded me. And with that glorified refugee camp Pen
tandra is building at the Anvil, the burghers and artisans at least have an opportunity to rebuild. We sent out another caravan at dawn, he added. Coopers and potters went today, seven big wains full. We should have harnessers and saddlemakers ready to depart in a week.
I thought about it, as I considered the chaos within the Penumbra, and Korbal’s sense of drama.
Accelerate the program, I ordered.
You think they’ll move sooner, rather than later?
Things started to click in my mind.
There are only a few weeks before the weather starts to get cold, and a month after that when the snows start falling up there. That gives Korbal a narrow window in which to take serious action. I’d rather be safe than sorry. Start moving as many people out as you can, save the garrison. People and property. I was just at Vanador, and they have very little there. Take everything that isn’t nailed down with you. And if you can pry it up, it isn’t really nailed down.
Chapter Sixty-Five
A Visit From Ishi
“Princess Armandra is really, really pissed at you,” I began.
Anguin and Rardine agreed to meet with me alone, at Anguin’s grand “hunting lodge” which was serving as his executive seat at the moment. It was a pretty estate, the result of generations of avid hunters bestowing gifts in gratitude for hunting the famous preserve. Thankfully that had required Anguin’s forebears to see several additional halls built, for when the entire Ducal Party retired to the place for a few days’ hunting. Those rustic, taxidermy-stuffed halls were now the most important seats of his government.
The Duke and his intended bride met with me in the library of the manor, which was woefully misnamed. One meager shelf of books on game and hunting lore was all the place offered, in terms of scholarly reading. Otherwise it had been furnished as a place for casual conversation and merry-making. Anguin used it as a kind of private office, now, a place where he could entertain and debrief his closest associates.
“Wasn’t she angry before?” Anguin asked, as he poured us wine.
“Before, she was just vaguely threatened by you,” I explained. “Even after you reclaimed Vorone, she was only irritated. But now she is a firm ally of Grendine, and she considers this a direct attack on the Queen. She’s manipulated Princess Armandra as her tool to block it.”
“Which tells me that this is precisely the right decision,” Rardine said, nodding with slitted eyes. “She wouldn’t invest herself in that brainless cunt unless she had reason. She fears me!” she said, triumphantly.
“That is not why I pursue this,” Anguin said, more seriously. “Though I admit her spite makes this union all the sweeter. But I agree with Rardine: her reaction instructs me better than her silence. She’s eager to push the consanguinity matter, and use it to break the engagement.”
“And she’ll soon use it as proof that I need to spend some time in thoughtful contemplation in an abbey, somewhere,” Rardine said, her jaw setting. “For thirty years or so.”
“That would be a waste,” Anguin said, looking upon Rardine with open admiration. While I appreciated the sincerity of his tone, I still wanted to vomit a little bit.
“Beyond that, did you discover any organized opposition to the wedding in the court? Or just daddy’s usual dithering?” Rardine asked, unconcerned.
“They are quite aware of the implications,” I frowned. “They are also confident in their ability to sway the opinions of the clergy concerning your familial relationship. I’d say their confidence is well-placed.”
“We shall deal with that when we come to it,” Anguin dismissed. “If that is the move they want to play, we’ll play it until conclusion,” he decided, firmly. He was acting with a lot of confidence now. To the point of cockiness.
“Your Grace, while I understand you can likely arrange for local clergy to bless the union, I doubt that will be acceptable to the Coronet Council. And decidedly not to the Royal Court,” I warned.
“Leave that to me, Minalan,” he instructed. “I know Uncle Rard sent you to see how serious we were in this endeavor, and that, alone, tells me he is concerned about the potency of our union. Please also assure him that it is based not merely on political expediency, but on a great deal of affection and no small love – made more remarkable by our circumstance. I am determined in my path to wed Rardine, whether he grants his blessing or no . . . but I am going to assume that he will.
“And under that assumption, I am going to myself beg a favor of our friend the Spellmonger. As you are a neutral party and a member of the Royal Court, I empower you to engage in negotiations on my behalf for a dowry suitable to Rardine’s rank and station,” he said, officiously.
I blinked. That wasn’t a job I wanted.
“Your Grace,” I began, beseechingly, “I am not really the best—”
“He’s right, Minalan,” Rardine said softly, as she sipped her tea. She looked very pleased with herself. “You are in the best position to negotiate. Someone directly from Anguin’s court would be snubbed or subject to manipulation. By designating you, we establish our serious intent. And I want a lot,” she said, fervently. “Considering how many bodies I put in the ground on behalf of that murderous bitch, I deserve it!”
While the irony of that would amuse me, later, at the time I was all but stammering.
“My friends, that assumes an awful lot,” I warned. “The consanguinity issue is not minor. Without support of the clergy and the blessing of her father, there can be no legal dowry!”
“We understand, Minalan,” Rardine said, firmly. “We’ll handle it. You negotiate a fat dowry for me, I’ll deal with that.” She said it with such passion and vitriol that I suppressed a shudder. I didn’t want to imagine what she had in mind.
“It will be fine, Minalan,” Anguin assured me. “We are prepared for that issue. Now, about the dragon attacks in the Westlands . . . Terleman reports that all the castles attacked were on the Castali side of the border, were they not?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I agreed, faintly. I was still trying hard not to imagine Rardine’s bloody schemes to get her way, and failing. “Five Westlands castles. More than fifteen thousand dead, burned alive. I’d imagine that the reason no Alshari castles were attacked is that there are damn few Alshari castles in that region. Midlands, perhaps, and three or four smaller keeps.” The Alshari Waste, immediately north of their great gate, was a wide, dry apron with pockets of caustic soils and barren landscapes. The only real industry the land had was people seeking to pass through it as quickly as possible, largely from southern Alshar to the Wilderlands or Gilmora.
“True,” he said, thoughtfully, “but it concerns me that we have no military presence in the region. My friend Lord Hance thinks sending a larger garrison to the province will help support my eventual claim to the rest of Alshar, someday.”
“Indeed, it might help,” I conceded. “It is my understanding that the lords of those desolate vales were tepid in their support of your reign,” I pointed out.
“Then perhaps a few dozen lances encamped in their yards will improve their perspectives,” Rardine suggested. “My sweet lord assures me he can spare a half-company of Alshari Commandos for the task, now that the refugees are safely on the eastern bank. Count Salgo was complaining just yesterday of his reluctance to face another winter in Vorone. Perhaps he could take command, and winter outside the gates of the rebels. Would the magi not approve of a listening force in the area?”
“It would actually fill a hole in our intelligence,” I agreed, reluctantly. “The Kasari maintain some secret posts in the Land of Scars, but we have little word from there – and it is an area worth watching, for many reasons. Have Terleman include a few warmagi from his corps, if he can spare them.”
“Good, I’m glad you approve,” Anguin nodded. “There is another matter which I would appreciate your counsel, Baron,” he continued, searching for a parchment on his desk.
“Ah! We’re re-structuring the military and noble order in the Wilder
lands,” he continued. “Making it reflect the current reality, not its historic reality.”
“Rondal mentioned something about that,” I nodded.
“Considering the severe damage done to the great houses of the Wilderlords, we have few realistic options . . . but we are seriously considering consolidating much of the present Wilderlands into a single county, with Count Marcadine in supreme charge with its defense.”
“A wise choice, Your Grace,” I agreed. Marcadine was the most prominent professional soldier and great noble left in the Wilderlands. He was a good war-leader and a proven administrator, enjoying a strong reputation among his vassals and neighbors alike. Even Sire Cei looked to him for guidance. “He would devote himself to the project like no other, and has knowledge of the local customs and people a foreigner would lack. Though if the Curia is successful, it will also make him as much tax collector as warlord.”
“The duchy will be happy to assist in his payments to the Royal Court,” Anguin assured. “He is a good and noble man. As his seat at Preshar is threatened, I feel obligated to offer the man a replacement, in case of its loss. Which is probably inevitable,” he sighed. “His men keep the gurvani at bay daily, now. They are valiant and well-provisioned, and Marcadine has taken in many dispossessed Wilderlords who have taken up his banner. Even local tribes fearful of goblins,” he added.
“He is suitable for a number of political reasons,” Rardine agreed. “He has the respect of both the people and the nobility, he is a war hero, and he was among the first to call for the duke to defend against the gurvani,” she reminded me. “Over the last year he has proven a loyal and devoted counselor to my sweet lord.”
“If Preshar becomes untenable,” Anguin explained, “then we would install him at Castle Mitholiand, in western Areasad. It is an old keep, but large, and with the help of the magi it could be made quite resilient, I am informed. It also has historical significance,” he added.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 98
