“Oh, that would be magnificent!” Thinradel agreed, happily. “Of course, one would have to find a place to put it . . .”
“What about Brestal Tower, once its rebuilt?” Banamor proposed. “It’s not really good for much else, right now. You have better prison facilities in the mountain, most of the garrison is housed at the Diketower or the Gatehouse, and it’s not really guarding anything. Waste of a facility,” he concluded.
“It would be enough for a start,” Thinradel agreed. “Perhaps next spring we can select a preliminary class. But I’ve seen the site . . . we might want to make some adjustments, before it is rebuilt,” he said, tactfully.
“Of course, of course . . . the entire place will need to be redesigned,” Banamor agreed. “I think we can come up with some funding for that.”
“That will make my tenure here complete,” Thinradel said, happily. “There aren’t too many dream jobs left to add to my body of work. Founding fellow of a magical academy would fit in nicely, though. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?” he asked, as we approached the Alembic. “Perhaps we can discuss potential faculty . . .”
Things were better, in Sevendor, by late autumn. In some ways, they were better than they’d ever been. Between the divine visitation in the spring and the dragon attack in the autumn, the amount of construction and commerce in the domain created more than enough opportunities for the peasants, bereft of harvesting opportunities, to pick up coin to pay their rents, and then some.
Alya and the children were on good terms, although her strange behavior still made them uncomfortable sometime. Thankfully the Tal Alon staff at Spellmonger’s Hall were ecstatic to have their Lady back, and they waited on her diligently. If they noticed any difference to her, they didn’t mention it. Her sister and mine, however, were still concerned about her differences.
“She’s just not Alya,” Ela declared, when they cornered me at the high table in the Great Hall for breakfast, one morning that autumn. “Not really. I mean, she looks and sounds like Alya, and she still remembers a few things, but her personality is different.”
“She’s . . . odd,” Urah agreed. “Not in a scary way, usually, but there’s something off about her, Min. I know you love her,” she said, sympathetically, “but I hope you realize she’s not . . . not really back. I took her down to the Market with the kids yesterday and she had some sort of attack, because of all the people. She’s not back yet,” she repeated.
“Not yet,” I agreed. “But she’s still taking daily treatments with the Handmaiden. And now that she’s using the Snowflake to reintegrate her, the healing is going even faster.”
“I don’t know about all that magic stuff,” Ela said, distastefully, “but she’s still not right.”
“Give it time, my ladies,” I urged. “The fact that she’s alive and speaking at all is a godsdamned miracle. I don’t expect to be able to put her back exactly the way she was. I’ll settle for what I can get. I suggest you do, as well,” I added.
Sister Bemia was more hopeful. She’d agreed to monitor Alya for Lilastien, once the Sorceress taught her how, and report if there was any dramatic change in her condition. That level of attention allowed her a more realistic idea of how she was progressing, and she saw plenty of room for hope.
I was gratified to see that Lady Estret, one of Alya’s closest friends, was always cheerful when she regarded her. She took a little time out of her day each day to sit with Alya in the courtyard of the castle, drink tea or wine, and just converse. It became one of Alya’s favorite parts of the day.
“My lord, I believe the effort was worthwhile,” Sire Cei told me, as we watched them from the top of my tower one afternoon, as Lady Estret struggled to see if Alya’s condition had improved her embroidery at all. From the looks of dismay, it didn’t look like it had. Some things are beyond the realm of even magic to repair.
“Well, it probably helps her develop her hand-eye coordination, but honestly she has no talent for it,” I sighed, enjoying the sight.
“My lord jests,” Sire Cei chuckled. “I meant the raid on Olum Seheri. The descent into darkness, into the very halls of the dead. You contended with the darkest force in the land, and claimed what you needed to restore your heart’s desire. No better story was ever told by a bard.”
“You need to find better bards. It was an act of desperation that got a lot of people killed, upended the political order of the kingdom – again – and was of dubious military value.”
I could feel Sire Cei’s disapproving eyes on the back of my neck, and feel him take a breath to defend me. He was just like that.
“That being said,” I continued, “laying aside the completely selfish desire to restore my wife’s mind, the rest of the endeavor had merit. We got Rardine back. A better Rardine,” I added. “Come next spring, they’ll be wed, and Alshar will have a viable dynasty again. That’s a good thing,” I said, hesitantly.
“Though I am suspect of the Princess’ character, I agree that His Grace seems pleased with the match,” he sighed. “If she proves loyal, she could be a valuable asset to the realm. Speaking of which,” he said, remembering something, “this arrived for you this morning by Mirror Array,” he said, removing a scroll from his belt. “I thought I’d bring it to you directly.”
It was an invitation to a celebration of Rardine and Anguin’s impending nuptials, for a date two weeks hence. It was hosted by House Furtius – specifically Lady Gatina the Kitten – as a fete by the Alshari nobility in support of the union. It was to be a small affair in a surprise location, she wrote, with magi available to transport the invitees to the formal event.
“A bridal shower? From the magi?” I asked, skeptically.
“She is a lady of the Alshari court,” Sire Cei reminded me. “Her father is counted as one of Anguin’s most influential un-official advisors, now, after whatever he managed to do to convince King Rard to permit the union. And Sir Atopol is one of His Grace’s friends, as well.”
“I suppose they’re entitled,” I sighed. “Though what quaint little grotto in Vorone she found for it, I don’t know. Girls seem to love their secrets. And their parties. Please let her know that Alya and I will be thrilled to attend,” I said, handing the scroll back to him. That should give me some time to enchant some suitable gifts, too,” I considered. What do you get a ruthless lord of assassins marrying an ambitious duke?
“I would not expect His Highness to be in attendance,” Sire Cei suggested, somberly. “Rumor is that he is ill-disposed to his cousin and his sister, after the loss of the Heir.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to be,” I agreed. “But I’m sure he’ll send some suitably insulting gift. So far, he hasn’t shown much sign of taking revenge on me for whatever it was I was supposed to have done. I’m hoping his father’s wiser head prevails.”
“There is little he can do, legally,” Sire Cei pointed out, encouragingly. “You were acting as a member of the Royal Court, not the ducal court. You were not acting in your capacity as Tavard’s vassal. I defy any court of justice to find fault with your actions, my lord,” he assured.
“This is about politics, not the law. Politics and resentment. He still hasn’t found a way to rescue his expeditionary force from Maidenspool, and he’s trying to deal with a grieving, pregnant wife. That has to be a lot of pressure. But I don’t think he’s going to give up on his enmity for me. He’s placed me under house arrest before. He could do so again with a single order.”
“This is not so bad a place to be internally exiled to,” he pointed out, as Estret laughed good-naturedly at some mistake of Alya’s. “It’s no Tower of Despair.”
It wasn’t. It was Sevendor Castle, my home. It felt like a home again, with Alya back. In whatever fashion.
I thought of Lord Aeratas and his wife, locked eternally in a cavern with each other. I was almost envious. I would give up all my titles and even magic, itself, to spend such a time with my wife.
At least, that’s what I thought in that mome
nt.
Ten days later, a second message came through the Mirror Array that night, sent from Ylunabar, on the Old Castali coast. The old port city was one of the latest in the network of Mirror sites, largely at Banamor’s urging. He liked to compare the commodity prices at the dock there and compare them to his Remeran reports.
The message was from Moudrost the Seamage, which got my attention at once.
My masters were pleased with the result of our last bargain, and seek to secure this substance in greater abundance. Be advised to expect me in the Spring, to negotiate a more permanent agreement.
That was it. Nor was there any way to contact him. Seamagi seem to thrive on such cryptic ways.
That made me concerned, for a number of reasons. The “introductory” sale had made me the wealthiest man in the world, so wealthy that Banamor assured me I could not spend it all without wiping out the economy of all Five Duchies. I had no more need for gold.
Nor did I have too many more mountains of snowstone just laying around. It was a finite commodity, and while I was pleased that the Vundel found favor with it, too much of Sevendor was sitting on top of it to make it easily salable.
But could I really refuse, knowing what I knew, now? The Vundel were the supreme rulers on Callidore. They could scrape us off like so much manure from their metaphorical shoe. Telling them “no”, however politely, when they had expressed interest in our race for the first time since our settlement, didn’t seem terribly wise.
It was a dilemma. The only real solution to selling Sevendor (or being removed from Sevendor) was to figure out how Snowstone was made in the first place, and repeat the feat. Dunselen had been doing research in that area, I knew, though I was loath to explore the notes his dark mind left behind.
But the simple message from a Seamage served to radically alter my priorities. Finding out that he was returning this Spring for more – and was unlikely to take no for an answer – vaulted the matter to the top of my list.
I was still musing on it the next morning when I got the emergency summons to court . . . the Royal Court. In my capacity as Head of the Arcane Orders. Master Loiko made the request mind-to-mind, right after breakfast, and brought me through the Ways an hour later.
It turned out to be an emergency council, called by Lord Argas, the acting Prime Minister, on Rard’s behalf. Rard was present, looking highly irritated. Loiko Vaneran was there, looking more comfortable in his robes of office than I would have anticipated.
The new Minister of War, Count Mendeku of Aurrera, was there, as well, and a few Sea Lords in their court gear. Count Mendeku was from the southeastern region of Castal, just north of Relan Cor, and had a powerful reputation as a war leader. He was an older gentleman with a strong military bearing. I’d heard both Count Salgo and Master Loiko speak highly of him. His selection was a tangible sign that Rard was taking the war with Korbal seriously.
But there was little to indicate that this council concerned the west. I was the only mage present, save for Loiko, the new Court Wizard, for one thing. Neither Terleman or Mavone, who was in the region, were present. I was confused until Lord Argas announced the subject of the meeting.
“This morning these gentlemen brought word from the west,” he said with a resigned sigh, as he nodded toward the Sea Lords. “The southwest, not Olum Seheri,” he explained.
“The Alshari armada is headed back to Enultramar after a very fruitful season of piracy and slaving. But while they were gone,” he continued, irritated, “apparently a small fleet of those who returned early from the season was hired by the remaining Censors living in the Tower of Sorcery, in Falas. Nine ships, four of them an organized fleet hired as auxiliaries. Yesterday, at dusk, they sailed into the unguarded harbor of Farise. With the aid of some local mercenaries . . . they took the entire city.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, my jaw agape. “We just lost Farise? Duin’s hairy sack!”
“To the remnants of the Censorate,” Loiko agreed, grimly. “That is why you were summoned. Details are still sketchy and brief, but it appears that they had an advanced plan to subvert the city, and did so by stealth. When Prince Tavard stripped the native defenses away, it was a golden opportunity to act . . . just as their welcome in Alshar was wearing thin. They announced the change of rule this morning from the Doge’s old palace. They raised the checkered banner over it,” he said, darkly. “Another flies from the Mad Mage’s palace. Under the banner of House Pratt.”
The thought of either sinister banner hanging anywhere made any honest wizard’s skin crawl.
“But why would they do something like that?” Rard asked, in angry disbelief.
“Perhaps because they could, my liege,” the Minister of War pointed out, dryly. “Without their harbor defenses, there was little Farise could do to repel the invaders before they landed. And once they did, they had magic and allies to aid them. Witchstones, taken from the Censorate’s vaults.”
The Censorate had been confiscating stray bits of irionite for four centuries. We’d liberated a cache from the citadel in Wenshar, after the expulsion. While they were generally poorer in quality than the stones we’d acquired since, they were still irionite. They still granted the power of the High Magi, against which even trained warmagi were powerless. Reports said they had at least five and perhaps as much as nine shards. That would be more than sufficient to do it, I reasoned.
“Farise is remote from the Five Duchies, and Castalshar in particular,” I agreed. “With Korbal seeking to enslave anyone with Talent, and plenty of agents in Enultramar, they probably felt endangered, there.”
“Serves the bastards right,” muttered Loiko. “This is more dangerous than you suspect, Your Majesty,” he continued. “The libraries and resources of Farise are massive. The Mad Mage and the other Farisi magi enjoyed relative freedom to practice their art without the Censorate for centuries. They amassed a considerable volume of pre-Conquest lore. If they succeed in establishing themselves, they could make it quite difficult to dislodge them. It was hard enough to do so with the Mad Mage, and he had but one shard of irionite. The Censors have half a dozen. Perhaps more.”
“And we have scores,” I pointed out. “This is a set-back, but not insurmountable.”
“I leave the place alone for a year, and it goes to six hells,” sighed Loiko, rolling his eyes.
“This is disturbing news,” Rard agreed, his brow furrowed. “I had hopes to launch a rescue mission from Farise to Maidenspool and deliver those poor men, before they were captured and enslaved. Now that’s going to be impossible.”
“It’s more than disturbing, it’s near disastrous,” fumed Grendine, entering the room with a sheaf of parchment in hand. “The conquest of Farise was the cornerstone for the effort to found the kingdom. It was Kindine’s signature policy initiative that prepared the way to establish the crown. Three years he negotiated to bring about that invasion. I thank the gods he perished before he saw it brought to naught.”
“How did they manage to get a fleet?” asked the Prime Minister, Argas. “I thought the armada had brought all the Alshari ships out to raid?”
“Some of the raiders came back early, loaded with slaves and plunder,” Loiko replied. “One of them was more eager for what the Censorate offered than more raiding: a witchstone. The nephew of Orril Pratt. He used his fleet of four ships to make the raid in exchange for a moderately-sized shard of irionite from their stores, restoration of his uncle’s palace . . . and promise of a position in the new regime. Likely a prominent one, considering his relation to the Mad Mage. He still enjoys a certain pride and respect among the natives.”
“I recall,” I nodded. He was a fallen hero among the resistance, during the occupation. And from what Tyndal and Rondal had told me, Pratt the Younger was as twisted as his uncle, with a penchant for piracy for good measure. “So, what are we going to do?”
“There’s no guarantee they will be successful in holding the city, my lords,” counselled one of the Sea Lords. “Ther
e are still three thousand Royal troops garrisoned there, and not all of them have been captured. There are also plenty of loyalists among the population, particularly the mercantile class. It is likely that the people will not be happy about having the Censorate in charge,” he predicted.
“Why is no one holding His Highness to account about this loss?” one of the Sea Lords asked. “Begging your pardon, my liege, but he used your name to snake the harbor defenses away. Aye, and most of the garrison. If one was to lay blame for this loss . . .”
“I will hold my son accountable for this,” Rard promised. “He and I are . . . negotiating on an appropriate recompense. I imagine this alters that negotiation.”
“What do the Alshari rebels think of the development?” asked the Minister of War, changing the subject quickly.
“I doubt they’ve even heard of it, yet,” the Sea Lord replied. “Those who aren’t out to sea are seeing to the last of the harvest. There won’t be a convention of until this autumn, when the fleet returns and the harvest is in.”
“As to their position on the matter,” the other, older mariner suggested, “I would imagine that seeing Farise out of Castalshari hands is a boon, regardless of who took it away from us. It’s possible that they will extend aid and recognition to them. They’ve been lurking about in Falas for years, sucking up to the Five Counts. They likely are allies. Even if they did not provide direct aid, they might blockade the city against us, just out of spite.”
“That’s cheery news,” Loiko said, gloomily.
“Actually, it is,” I pointed out. “The Censorate provided the rebels with a mask of legitimacy, as well as expert advice in arcane matters. Most of the other magi in Enultramar are against the council, or at most ambivalent about it. They’ve lost their pet magi.”
“What about magic?” Grendine asked. “Can you not send troops there that way?”
“There are no natural Waypoints in the city, from what I understand,” Loiko admitted.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t act,” I pointed out. “We have our ways.”
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 114
