Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  I was just finishing up a quick meeting with the head of the Arcane Orders about the repairs the headquarters needed after the attack when Lilastien summoned me.

  Alya is awake, again, she informed me. She’s talking. She’s talking well, she admitted. And she’s famished. I’ve sent to the castle for food, but we’re still in the Snowflake Chamber.

  It’s been three days. No doubt she’s starving. Any significant change?

  Yes, Lilastien said, definitively but without elaboration.

  When I arrived back at the Chamber, I could see why she didn’t try to explain it. I’m not certain she could have.

  Alya was awake again, and she was more alert and responsive than ever. But there was something a little off to her, too – not merely the result of her catastrophic injury, but something else.

  “Her enneagram is looking a lot better,” Ruderal observed, after I’d made sure she was all right and watched her eat a bowl of stew. “It’s still messed up, but it’s more . . . regular, now. Especially in the center.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I was sure he did.

  “Her vitals are fine, except for low blood sugar,” Lilastien confirmed, as Alya devoured a pigeon pie and a half-wheel of cheese. “She’s correcting that quickly. I did a short cognitive assessment. I’d say she’s improved a couple of percentage points. Her memory came back a little, too. She mentioned someplace called Hawk’s Reach?”

  “Her father’s dairy, in Boval,” I nodded.

  “She misses the cows and the cheese,” Ruderal nodded.

  “It’s a long-term memory, and that’s fantastic. That might explain why she seems a little different. And it might lead to more. She nearly remembered her children, I think. But I think that whatever the Handmaiden did, we should pretend it was an extended treatment. I don’t think there was a danger.”

  “I feel fine!” Alya insisted. “I’m sitting right here, you realize. I can hear everything that you say.”

  “But can you understand it?”

  “Not always,” she conceded. “But did I always understand it . . . before?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I am glad you are okay. The danger has passed.”

  “Has it?” she asked, curious.

  “The immediate danger has passed,” I corrected. “There are still ugly things in the world who want to hurt us.”

  “That doesn’t seem entirely fair,” Alya said, philosophically, as she pushed the last spoonful of stew in her mouth. “Minalan, were those my . . . my children?”

  “From a few days ago? Yes. Minalyan and Almina. They miss you dearly.”

  “I . . . I liked them,” she decided, resolutely. “I think I will keep them. They are cute.”

  “That’s good to know,” I agreed, seriously.

  I studied the Magolith in its socket on the Snowflake while Alya ate more than any time since she was pregnant. I summoned Insight to take a closer look. The irionite and the crystalline structure of the Snowflake seemed to be ignoring each other on an atomic level. I had no idea how I was going to get it out again.

  “Here, girl!” I said, jokingly, as I beckoned it with a whistle. It worked my dogs, after all.

  While I doubt the whistle had anything to do with it, apparently the Handmaiden sensed my summons. In a moment, the Magolith separated from the Snowflake a lot easier than it had the first time. The sphere floated back to its accustomed place, just above eye level, behind my right shoulder, acting like nothing had happened.

  “Are you about ready to take her back to the Tower of Refuge?” I asked Lilastien, as I frowned at my magical implement.

  “I want to stay,” Alya decided, before the Sorceress could answer. “I want to stay here in Sevendor. I like it here. It’s fun.”

  “You think dragon attacks are fun?” asked Ruderal, scornfully. Alya shrugged.

  “I have no objections,” Lilastien said. “Physically, she’s fine. Perfectly healthy. Keep up the treatments every day, and I can’t think of any reason she should not come home. As long as she’s ready,” she added, looking at Alya.

  “I’m ready,” she agreed, confidently. “I think. I want to see more. I want to see everything! I’m ready!” she stressed.

  “I suppose I am, too,” I said, cautiously.

  It seemed insane to bring Alya back here to stay, after a dragon attack. But then she hadn’t been hurt, and hopefully Korbal would reconsider before wasting another dragon on Sevendor. I realized I was just being an anxious husband.

  “All right, I’ll have a room made up in Spellmonger’s Hall. You can stay there tonight. We’ll . . . we’ll see about continuing the arrangement as events warrant.”

  “That would be wise,” Lilastien agreed. “You might want to wait awhile until you resume full marital relations. What?” she asked, when she saw me blush unexpectedly. “Don’t worry, she’s perfectly capable, physically. Just be sure she’s capable emotionally. It might be a delicate matter, for a while.”

  “We don’t need to rush into anything,” I assured her. “I think I just need to get to know Alya again. And reintroduce her to her home.”

  “That’s probably the best medicine you can give her,” Lilastien agreed, smiling, as Alya went to the next dish on her tray, a cobbler.

  “What’s this? Hot fruit? Ewww!”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  News From Farise

  Despite the loss and the damage and destruction in Sevendor and Castabriel, having Alya around again made it hard for me to get depressed. She wasn’t the same, of course, especially around the children. But they were adjusting to her new state, as she was adjusting to the idea that she was, in some vague way, responsible and related to them.

  She had to get used to the idea, for instance, that her name was “Alya” to everyone else and “Mommy” to the children.

  Minalyan was the more suspect of the two. He was old enough to have firm memories of his mother, and while this woman looked, sounded, and smelled like Alya, she wasn’t acting like his Mommy. That didn’t stop him from clinging to her or playing with her – in many ways, this Mommy was far more fun and playful than the old one.

  Almina was more accepting. She couldn’t get enough of the attention Alya paid her, and if it differed from the kind of love she expected from her mother, she didn’t complain.

  Apart from me, the person most happy to see her return was her own sister. Alya spent two days at Southridge with Ela and Sagal, and the time was productive. Apparently, she had many memories of her, and as fretful as Ela was she was so grateful to have her sister back that she was more than willing to excuse the strangeness that still affected her.

  I was glad of the time, myself. As enthralled as I was by having my wife back, in some capacity, time spent with her could be exhausting, too. There was still much she did not understand – not just about social niceties and customs, but about basic matters. Watching Alya was in some ways more exhausting than looking after a toddler.

  I needed the time, too. The aftermath of the battles of Sevendor and Castabriel were sending ripples through the Kingdom, and I needed to address them, once I managed the cleanup and recovery of my own lands. Many regions were hastily appointing or electing new counts to replace those who fell at the palace. Others were bracing for war. The destruction of the ducal capital forced the remains of the court to return to Wilderhall for the winter, where the infrastructure of administration remained.

  That included the Prince and Princess, who shunned the site of their baby’s death. I could not blame them. They certainly blamed me.

  The first official notice of my actions on the day of the Curia was a letter from Tavard, as Duke of Castal, instructing me to submit a detailed account of my actions that day. I was happy to oblige, and was as forthright as I could be in the seven pages of parchment I sent back.

  I heard nothing for weeks.

  In the meantime, Rard was in a quandary and sent for me for counsel on two separate occasions: the first to advise him on what to d
o with Tavard’s 2,000 men in Maidenspool who were stranded there, until some rescue could be devised. As they were at risk for capture and enslavement, that was a pressing issue.

  The second time was concerning new candidates for both Prime Minister and Court Wizard. While Hartarian survived his encounter with the draugen, his wounds were harsh, and he begged leave to retire to his estates in Wenshar. Rard couldn’t very well deny the man – he had a permanent wheeze, now, from how his crushed ribs had healed, and he insisted he was too emotionally exhausted to perform his duties, anymore.

  Rard offered the job to me, of course – but living at the Royal Palace was the last thing I wanted to do. It also established conflicts-of-interest, bureaucratically speaking . . . but the biggest reason was that I didn’t want to be in Tavard’s proximity and remind him of what he’d lost. As a father, I knew that would be too much to bear.

  As it was, after I submitted my account to him all of further interactions were done through the Prime Minister. I didn’t push the matter.

  Rard ended up selecting Lord Argas, Kindine’s long-time deputy, to act as temporary Prime Minister, and on my recommendation, took on Master Loiko as the new Royal Court Wizard with my hearty recommendation.

  As loathe as I was to lose him as my own, I knew the well-respected Wenshari warmage was the right man to lead the Kingdom’s magical policies. It meant I was out a baronial court wizard, but even I had to admit that Loiko’s talents were wasted in that position.

  I hired Master Thinradel, former Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar, as a temporary appointment, a few days later. Thinradel had been jumping from Vorone to Remere, where he had some allies, doing odd jobs with his witchstone, drinking, and enjoying life. With his native land in the hands of rebels, he didn’t have much else to do – he had little interest in his estates in the Wilderlands, nor was he a warmage. He had a studious bent and a wry sense of humor, and I think he was looking for something to do.

  There was another good reason: he was heavily invested in the Arcane Mercantile Company, and found proximity to Sevendor Town’s unique market a good way to keep his eye on his investment. As he had a lot of contacts in southern Alshar and Merwyn, Banamor was eager for the new blood. He’d already exhausted Loiko’s limited number of contacts in Farise and Wenshar. He wanted to expand.

  Once the new court appointments were settled, in late autumn, things got back to a certain equilibrium. The harvest was in full swing, the damage was being repaired, and most folk were content to grieve their dead quietly . . . once the visible signs of the battle were removed.

  In Sevendor, the dragon carcass was removed to the clearing near the Enchanted Forest, where Taren sent a crew to butcher it for parts. I actually got to watch, for a change, a process that had been developing since the first dead dragon at Castle Cambrian.

  The hide was worth a fortune in armor, for one thing, and Taren had uses for nearly every organ and bone, now. Greenflower had an entire warehouse of dead dragon parts. He showed up himself when his crew cracked the abdominal skin and entered the cavity inside. There was something in particular that Taren wanted.

  “The stomach acid,” he revealed, sheepishly. “It’s incredibly powerful, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It takes enchanted glass to contain it. But it has some unique properties. Ormar and the other alchemists I’ve consulted are mad for the stuff. With a dragon this size, we can expect forty or fifty gallons,” he said, eagerly.

  That wasn’t all that the talented thaumaturge found, as his men sliced through the incredibly dense tissue with magically-sharpened blades. As the organs were brought out, one by one, weighed and cataloged, a surprise emerged.

  “This one is female!” Taren said, in surprise. “The two we’ve had before were male.”

  “Does that make a difference?” I asked, confused.

  “It’s intriguing. A new avenue of study. Particularly since she was pregnant, and about to lay. There are two eggs in her oviduct. I’m no dragon expert—”

  “Yes, actually, you are,” I countered. “Unless you know someone else who knows more about them.”

  “No one mortal,” he grinned. “This one was about to lay. I’ve dealt with enough undead chickens to know when that’s happening. Whoever forced this old girl to fly and fight did her no service,” he said, shaking his head. “It was cruel. Those things are huge, about to be laid,” he said, as a couple of his men brought the first one out. “Two of them, too.”

  That caught me off-guard. “Are they viable?”

  Taren shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “How should I know? This is the first female I’ve ever examined, post-mortem. They were somewhat protected from the ice – the oviduct is pretty remote from the lungs. They were still warm,” he admitted. “I don’t know, ask the Sorceress. This seems to be her sort of thing,” he said, wearily, smearing dragon slime on his leather apron.

  “Well, the Alka Alon did originally use dragons, during their Warring States period,” I agreed. “Maybe there is some lore there on their husbandry.”

  It was Taren’s turn to be off-guard. “You want to raise dragons?” he asked, startled.

  “I have two dragon eggs,” I shrugged. “I suppose I could make an omelet. But I’m curious.”

  “You’re insane,” he affirmed. “Min, this dragon is only a couple of years old, and it weighs fifty tons! Consider how much protein it must require just to keep it alive. Think of how many helpless prisoners were thrown to it when it was just a baby!”

  “I’m just thinking about it,” I said, enjoying his reaction. “But lay them aside and make certain they’re protected. They might be the most valuable thing in this carcass.”

  “What do you want me to do with the head?” he asked, nodding toward where a crew surrounded the dead dragon’s head and neck. “After I remove the brain and such?”

  I considered. “Take it to the tavern, out on the old commons,” I decided. The stone building and the tree that had been the first taphouse in Sevendor had gotten destroyed in the attack, but within two days the proprietor had started serving again in the ruins. People liked to drink. “I want the teeth pulled. It looks like Ruderal earned one.”

  “And so did you,” he pointed out. “You won it fairly.”

  As it turned out, the skull became a famous point of interest and secured patronage for the place. The valuable teeth were removed and the largest were cleaned up for presentation (Taren claimed the rest for research) and replaced by shining replicas.

  The mighty skull was hoisted into the rafters when the tavern was rebuilt around it, festooned with magelights, and the eyes were replaced by hand-blown snowglass crystal from the Genly Pit glassworks. Not only did they glow at night, but they produced other intriguing but harmless effects for the amusement of the patrons.

  The tavern was renamed the Drowned Dragon, and featured a wonderfully goofy statue carved of snowstone, of a winged worm with its arse in the air and its head under an everflowing fountain contrived to look like a keg of ale. It became, with the Alembic and the Sword and Staff, one of Sevendor’s signature drinking establishments.

  “You know, we’ll make almost enough from selling dragonhide to pay for the damage to the town,” Banamor informed me one bright autumn afternoon, as we passed by the corpse on our way to inspect the repairs to the bouleuterion’s hall. Banamor had taken the opportunity of the reconstruction to add another story to expand the operation, and he wanted the builder to know that the Spellmonger was paying attention to what was happening. “Planus has already sent me an order for nine square feet of wing material, and six of belly. Those scales go for two Roses a piece,” he added, his eyes gleaming.

  “I would have rather avoided it. And a pity it interrupted the Magic Fair.”

  “We’ll recover,” he dismissed. “If anything, it brought the arcane community closer together. Nothing makes a bird-chested enchanter feel better about his craft than seeing a staff he built in the hands of a warmage, saving his ass. And it was enterta
ining,” he added. “A real dragon attack. Not many other fairs can boast of such amusements,” he said, with black humor.

  “The question will be how will you top it, next year?”

  “I’m working on it,” he sighed. “With gods and dragons, giant hawks and giant wyverns to compare to, it’s going to require some thought. Not to diminish the tragedy of the situation,” he added, seriously. “I lost good people in the attack. Three fairwardens, and two lawbrothers I’ll miss more than Gareth. But a wise wizard turns tragedy into opportunity,” he decided. “Now I get to expand the millpond. Better water supply for the town, and I can dredge some of that silt out.”

  “What about the water elemental?”

  He chuckled. “Splashy? That’s what the kids call him. Ruderal is transferring him to the Gap, while we’re working. He’s become quite the celebrity, since the slaying. He’ll go back in as soon as we refill the pond. The kids love him.”

  We were just leaving the construction site at the bouleuterion when we ran into Master Thinradel, who was settling into his new role and familiarizing himself with Sevendor Town. The dapper Alshari mage was delighted at having a post here, and praised the amenities of the town to no end.

  “I know Vorone is larger, and Falas more cosmopolitan, but there is just something quaint and magical about Sevendor,” he decided. “Tell me, have you considered some sort of formal apprenticeship program? I’ve stumbled across potboys with rajira who are hanging around, just waiting for the chance to get apprenticed.”

  “Usually we do a presentation for that sort of thing at the Fair, but it was interrupted by dragon attack,” Banamor admitted.

  “Actually,” I remembered, “I cut a deal with Count Moran. I have the right to start three new magical academies. One of them should be here.”