Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “What?” she asked, genuinely confused.

  “You’re going to sit for your examinations in a few weeks, Dara. You’re going to pass them easily. And then you will be a journeywoman, free to make whatever decision you choose about your life.” She wouldn’t be able to use her apprenticeship as an excuse, any more, I thought to myself.

  “A . . . journeywoman?” she asked, mostly to herself. “You mean . . . I wouldn’t . . .”

  “You would still be a Lady of Sevendor, indeed, the Hawklady of the Westwood. My vassal. But beyond that, you would be a practicing mage in your own right. Free to make your own decisions about your life . . . without my consideration.”

  “But . . . but even if I did want to, Fes is . . . he’s not . . . oh, Master, why do you make things so complicated?” she snarled, and stomped off.

  Honestly, I thought she’d be happier about the news.

  “Magelord,” Ruderal said, formally, as I was writing in my daybook in the afternoon a few days later, “Count Moran, Prime Minister of the Duchy of Castal, to see you.”

  I sat bolt upright – this was unexpected.

  “Bring him to the study at once,” I commanded, as I stood and whipped off my smock. I had reasonably decent robes on underneath, but I was hardly dressed for visitors of rank. I paused to grab a couple of goblets and a bottle of wine, as well as slap my wizard’s cap on my head. Just in case he’d forgotten.

  Moran entered my study with some hesitation, and he had not taken off his gloves, though he carried his hat. Nor had he given his cloak to Ruderal. That was disturbing.

  “Baron Minalan of Sevendor, called the Spellmonger,” he said, formally giving me a bow, “I bear a message from His Highness, Duke of Castal. Your liege,” he reminded me, unnecessarily.

  I stood – this was not a casual meeting.

  “Yes, Count Moran,” I bowed in return. “How can I be of service to His Highness?”

  “I return from Wilderhall, where Their Highnesses are wintering,” he said, quietly. “After great deliberation, His Highness deigns that you share some portion of responsibility for the destruction of his palace, and the death of his son, the heir. While your station places you beyond simple justice, and Their Majesties have prohibited His Highness from pursuing . . . other options,” he said, swallowing nervously, “His Highness has elected to exercise his ancient right to express his displeasure.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked, confused.

  “Baron Minalan of Sevendor, you are henceforth banished from the Duchy of Castal, exiled for a period of three years,” he pronounced, though it troubled him to do so. “You are to be beyond the frontiers of Castal by Briga’s Day, and not return – save for official court business or your responsibilities to the Arcane Orders – until Briga’s day, three years hence.”

  “He’s . . . taking away my barony?” I asked in disbelief. “My domain?”

  “His Majesty prohibited that,” Count Moran admitted. “You have broken no law to warrant such action. Yet the prerogative of the Castali dukes has always been to use exile and banishment to express their displeasure, when more severe penalties weren’t politically expedient.”

  “He’s . . . he’s sending me away,” I said, trying to understand.

  “You and your family,” Count Moran explained. “For three years, you may reside elsewhere and appoint a steward for your domain. During that time of exile, no appointments you make will be valid, no orders or writs are binding, nor may you increase your military forces. Your designated steward will administer your feudal obligations on your behalf. Your neighbors will be strongly discouraged from testing you. In essence, your rule here will be in abeyance. For three years.”

  “How dare he?”

  “Your Excellency,” Moran sighed, “I am sympathetic – despite our past acrimony, I feel His Highness is acting out of grief and frustration, not wise deliberation. He has grown stern in his melancholy, and Princess Armandra is nearly as distraught. If it weren’t for her pregnancy, I fear she might contemplate some dire end for herself,” he said, gloomily. “He broods, my lord, he broods and he fumes. He is awash in pain yet he refuses to seek any solace. Nay, not even drink,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Yet exile?” I asked, still angry.

  “It was not his first choice,” Moran said. “It was the least damaging punishment his advisors could convince him of. He wished, originally, to strip you of your lands in hopes that you would resist.”

  I snorted. “He does realize that we just killed a dragon, here? Sevendor is not defenseless.”

  “Nor is it properly yours, after this spring,” Moran said, handing me the scroll with the decree. “This is the only course he can take that King Rard and Queen Rardine cannot affect. It is a wholly ducal prerogative, enshrined in Castali tradition and custom. King Rard has himself used it several times, when he was duke. Indeed, Princess Armandra came to your defense, to the extent that she persuaded His Highness to give you until Briga’s Day, and not make you and your children travel during the depths of winter. Out of respect for her devotion to Trygg Allmother,” he added.

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along,” I said, absently, as the implications of Tavard’s snit became clear. “What happens if I refuse?”

  “Then His Highness is within his rights to declare you a rebel,” Count Moran said, “and make war upon you. A war that King Rard would be forced to support. Punishing a disobedient vassal is a lawful application of force,” he reminded me. “If one were to ask me, I would suggest that His Highness secretly hopes that you will, indeed, refuse.”

  “I don’t think it’s much of a secret,” I sighed, realizing the bind he put me in. “I take it there’s no method of appeal?”

  “None,” agreed the Prime Minister, grimly. “Banishment is at the sole discretion of the duke. It has been oft used to remove political opponents from court,” he explained. “And I remind my lord that many things can happen in three years.”

  “Yes, three years of Castal without the Spellmonger should be interesting,” I grumbled. “Particularly if there are more dragon attacks. I do hope Prince Tavard does well with those,” I said, darkly.

  “His Highness is aware of the risks,” Moran said, simply. “He is willing to entertain them.”

  “I’m not so certain he does,” I said, mildly. “He understands that this will have political repercussions, as well? His chances of securing assistance from the Arcane Orders in the future may well prove difficult.”

  “That is not a concern of His Highness,” Moran said, miserably. “He sees little benefit or value to magic.”

  “Tell that to his troops who ate from magically-provided rations,” I mused. “Very well, Count Moran: your message is received. Please let His Highness know that my family and I will depart Sevendor by Briga’s day, without resistance.”

  “May I ask where you might go?”

  “Well, there are four other duchies out there,” I pointed out. “I’m sure one of them might like to have the most powerful wizard in the world in residence.”

  “No doubt,” frowned Count Moran. “His Highness sees the magi as a threat to the Royal Family, and a long-term threat to the stability of the kingdom.”

  “Whereas his tenure as duke has been a model of stability and wisdom, and it was magic that allowed his father to build the throne he will inherit,” I snorted, sarcastically. “He’s lucky the gods love irony.”

  “I’m sorry, Baron,” Count Moran sighed. “I tried to talk him out of it. I really did. We all did. But he is convinced that you are the source of much of his pain. He will not entertain any other explanation. And I fear it will impact his ability to rule,” he added, worriedly.

  I stared at him. “You know, that is suddenly not my problem,” I realized. “If His Highness feels the realm is better off without the benefit of the Spellmonger, then he doesn’t need my counsel,” I decided. “But I do wish him good fortune with the challenges ahead of him.”

  �
�Challenges?” Moran asked, curious.

  “Oh, certainly,” I nodded. “But he doesn’t need to hear them from me. Thank you, Count Moran. Your message is delivered. I bid you a safe journey to your next destination.”

  Understanding the force of my dismissal, Moran was wise enough to bow and leave without further word.

  Shit.

  I was being exiled. And the little prick was entirely within his legal right to do so.

  I sat there and fumed about it for an hour, before I discussed it with anyone. Then I spoke with Pentandra, Terleman, and Astyral about it, mind-to-mind, before I finally went out to speak with Sire Cei.

  “I want to appoint you Steward,” I informed him, when we sought quiet for discussion in the chapel and showed him the parchment. “You run this place better than I do, anyway. If you’ll accept,” I added.

  “Minalan, I could not refuse,” he said, frowning fiercely. “But I am powerfully moved by this . . . this injustice! You were in no way at fault for the actions of Korbal! The very idea is a slight against your honor!”

  “I am no more knight than . . . than I am a baron, at the moment. My honor is not my primary concern. Unless I wish to make war on Tavard, this must be accepted. Do I want to make war on Tavard?” I asked.

  “Without just cause? Nay,” he sighed, disappointed. He actually considered the matter. I was flattered.

  “Then I must go into exile. And you must rule in my stead, as my steward. I thank you for taking on that responsibility.”

  “Minalan, surely there must be something you can do,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Perhaps if you speak with King Rard—”

  “Then I would further alienate my liege,” I pointed out. “Tavard has made his decision. He’s put me in a position where I can either resist, and go to war, or comply, and go into exile. As war is . . . would be . . . a disaster for this domain, not to mention the duchy and the kingdom, then I will comply.

  “The Spellmonger will go into exile.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Count Palatine

  The shock at the news of my exile was like a clap of thunder over the land. After surviving the dragon and getting their Baroness back, the Sevendori were reluctant to see them go.

  Actually, reluctant doesn’t quite cover it. There was an aggressively loud party that was encouraging me to resist and rebel. Folk who had recently withstood a dragon attack and the plague of giant wyverns were not likely to shrink from a few knights and archers. The warmagi in town, particularly, wanted me to challenge the exile.

  When it became clear that I was unwilling to risk all of their lives for the sake of my honor, the angry shouting died to angry murmurs. That at least allowed me to get some packing done and start winding up my affairs.

  “The good news,” Master Guri said, when I’d informed him at the lodge, “is that by the time you get back, your castle will be mostly finished. We should be working on the towers and the deeper portions, by then.”

  “Sire Cei will ensure your pay and your supplies are kept in abundance,” I nodded. “I look forward to seeing what you produce in my absence.”

  “Oh, we’ll have the place looking beautiful for you,” he assured. “Without you around telling me what to do, I can focus on the craft, for a change,” he said. That was a blatant lie – I left Guri and his Karshak alone. “I’m going to miss you Minalan,” he sighed.

  “It’s only a few years,” I pointed out. “I’m sure by then I’ll be ready to retire into my beautiful castle.”

  “Where are you going to go?” he asked, concerned.

  “Well, the only property I own outside of Sevendor – outside of Castal – is an old house in Vorone. I suppose we’ll head there, first. Perhaps I’ll set up shop as a spellmonger, again.”

  “You? Selling spells to the public like a merchant?” he snorted.

  “It’s not a bad life,” I said, defensively. “Vorone is a little urban for my tastes, but it’s not a bad place to raise a family, now. I could be quite comfortable there.”

  “I’m sure you’d be the best merchant on the market square,” he nodded. “Especially with that thing floating over your shoulder all the time. Not professionally intimidating at all,” he assured me, sarcastically.

  Well, he did have a point.

  As romantic as returning to the simple life of a spellmonger sounded, the fact was that my life as The Spellmonger was not simple in the slightest. I could no more be a simple spellmonger, keeping shop and casting cantrips for pennies, than Master Loiko could hire on as a village guardsman.

  But Ishi’s Tits, it sounded more appealing that court politics.

  The news of the exile put a damper on the preparations for Yule, which Sire Cei and Lady Estret had originally planned to be a celebration of Alya’s return. But it also gave me an excellent opportunity to reward the loyal and valiant before I went away. I tried to make the best of the development, but it was painful to consider leaving so many people who wanted me to stay so badly. The least I could do is prepare them for three years without me.

  The fact was, the Sevendori would do fine without me around, attracting the attention of Sea Folk and dragons.

  Lord Mayor Banamor had management of Sevendor Town well in-hand, Sir Festaran handled the castle and domain with skill, and Sire Cei ran the barony beyond our frontiers with dispassionate justice and attention to detail. Master Olmeg took care of the gardens and farms. Dara was watching the skies, and overseeing the Westwood. Master Ulin was running both the bouleuterion and the advanced enchantments in the mountain without me, now that the Handmaiden problem was solved. The Tera Alon were well-established in Hosendor, under the Three Emissaries. And in his spare time, Banamor and his new staff were turning the Arcane Mercantile Company into a quiet commercial force.

  I had good people in place. I had little to fear as long as they were left unmolested.

  I was in an interesting feudal position in that my neighbors were almost as distraught about my exile as my subjects. Sire Sigalan and Baron Arathanial and his sons all urged me to protest to the king, and offered to appeal to the Prince themselves. I counselled them not to waste their capital on such a hopeless case – there was no need to share my taint in the Prince’s eyes.

  Tavard wanted me gone. His son was dead and he blamed me. It was unfair, but it was understandable. If anything happened to Minalyan, for instance, I don’t think there would be a safe place for the criminal to hide. Anywhere.

  If that meant that I had to suffer for that perception, then spending three years in the beautiful Wilderlands where Alya would feel even more at home was not too great a burden to bear. I could help watch over the Penumbra, help Pentandra with her city, now that she was tied up in the south with court affairs. I could be useful, I knew.

  And I wasn’t above finding lost cows and curing various poxes in exchange for a few chickens. I like chickens.

  Alya and I attended the Yule Royal Court by invitation. Among other business, it was to be the official consecration and acceptance of the dowry I’d negotiated on Rardine’s behalf, in preparation for a lavish Spring wedding in Falas. It would ratify the transfer of the tribute burden to the counts in the coming year. It was also an opportunity for every count in the kingdom – including a dozen southern Alshari counts who accompanied Anguin to the capital by magic, in a show of Alshari strength – to exercise their newfound prominence in the Kingdom’s affairs.

  Such a display might not have been seen favorably, had Anguin not also brought two years’ worth of back-tribute (collected, Rondal informed me, from confiscated estates of the many traitors who supported the Five Counts) from the entire duchy. No one in the court was willing to disparage the presence of so many counts from Enultramar, after that presentation.

  Prince Tavard and his bride were absent, still sulking in Wilderhall, so the court feast was actually somewhat merry, despite the absence of Count Kindine and other regular fixtures. Rard and Grendine made a gracious show of support for ea
ch oath of fealty the counts swore to him directly, and when the Alshari began their oaths, last, he made a special point of praising them – including his soon-to-be son-in-law, the Count of Falas and Rouen, His Grace Anguin, the Duke of Alshar.

  “Now that the realm has at last been unified,” Rard said, after he took the emotional oath from Anguin, “we can anticipate a more joyous spring than the laments of autumn we hear now. For a united realm can face the foes that challenge it, be they in the Mindens, in Farise, or in the east,” he said, glancing at the ambassador of the Duke of Merwyn. “While we mourn our losses, we look forward to the blessings the gods may bestow upon us in coming days.

  “You, gentlemen, are the counts of the kingdom,” Rard continued, standing and spreading his arms. “To you our defense is entrusted. Some of you took up arms directly, in this very palace, when that kingdom was threatened. In the coming days as we face a dark and relentless enemy, you may well draw them again and again in our defense. Such is the honor that we bear for our ancestors.”

  There was some cheerful applause. “Yet strength of arms, alone, is not enough to ensure the security of our kingdom, alas. The foe we face is devious and cowardly. To defeat him and avenge our honored dead, we must not merely be strong, we must be organized. We must be prepared.

  “To this end, with counsel among the three ducal courts,” he continued, “it is my desire that the disposition of the kingdom’s defenses be re-organized and consolidated. As you gentlemen contribute your tribute to the royal coffers, you will also be entrusted with ensuring the defense of your folk is adequately provided for.

  “With the consultation and blessing of the Duke of Remere, I therefore establish the lands of Wenshar as a County Palatine, with Count Mesdaron to be Count Palatine, under the nominal vassalage of Remere. This recognizes the distinctive culture and political history of Wenshar, a stalwart of our realm.

  “With the consultation and blessing of the Duke of Castal,” he continued, “the three coastal Viscounties will be combined with Old Castal, and be established as the Castali Seahold, a County Palatine, with the venerable Count Erabikor as Count Palatine. With Farise once more in enemy hands, this will facilitate the production and maintenance of a true Royal Navy.”