“Let’s just not herald our names or my new rank. It might be . . . awkward.” A good reason to skip the temple, too. Priestesses gossip.
“You are worried about Censors?” she asked, looking worried.
“Among others. But if we’re just Min and Alya, cheese traders from the west, or something, no one will raise an eyebrow. Trygg willing.”
She bit her lip, looked nervous for a moment, then looked at me suddenly. “Let’s go to the market. Min. My husband.”
I took her hand and we went, Palia grinning under her hood behind us.
I was surprised when Alya led me past the fabric stalls, the clothiers and tailors and over to the market’s smithy.
“You aren’t thinking about a . . . a chastity device are you?” I asked, worriedly. I had heard such things were popular for keeping errant spouses in line, back in Vore and Merwyn. I didn’t think Alya had. Perhaps I was mistaken. “I’ll be faithful, I promise!”
“The places your mind goes . . .” she snorted. “No, my lord husband, this is something to make your lady wife sleep better at night, for an entirely different reason.”
“From a smithy?” I asked, skeptically. Then my imagination supplied a couple of fanciful possibilities before I could stop it.
Alya’s right - my mind wanders in dangerous, unclean waters, sometimes.
She snorted again, then approached the strapping young apprentice who was patiently hammering away. He nodded, she rattled her purse, and they disappeared into the shadowed depths of the shop. I looked at Palia quizzically, hoping she could provide some insight into my wife’s behavior. She just smiled serenely.
Alya appeared ten minutes later with an eighteen-inch long dagger, two inches wide at the guard and tapering gently to a sharp point. The hilt was black walnut, and the guard of plain steel. It came with a soft leather sheath, not a proper scabbard, but it was sturdy enough to dangle from a belt. As weapons went, it was nothing special - I wouldn’t have taken it into battle. I might have used it on a farm. In my wife’s hands, however, it was potent. She waved it around like a magical blade.
“Uh . . . Alya?” I asked. “If this is your way of telling me how you want our marriage—”
“Oh, stop it,” she sighed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m waddling around like a pregnant sow, barely able to sit down on my own. Thanks to your son, I cannot run away. Not from any real threat.” She waved the dagger around. “This probably won’t help much, either, but it makes me feel better.”
“But you don’t know how to fight, Alya,” I said, sadly. This was not the direction I wanted my honeymoon to go. “I’m here to protect you.”
“You are at the moment. You won’t always be. And don’t tell me I don’t know how to fight,” she added, warningly. “All Bovali know how to fight, now, after that dreadful siege. I believe I clubbed a goblin in your presence?” She thrust the dagger into the sheath. “This is the kind of dagger the smith sells to bargemen on the docks. A good, solid steel blade. I paid young Iscad there to fashion me a more ladylike scabbard and shine it up a bit. I can wear it under my cloak or my skirts. And I’ll feel a lot less like a helpless burden and a lot more like a pissed-off pregnant sow with a sharp tusk like that at hand.”
I looked at her and swallowed. That wasn’t the kind of life I wanted for her, not after we had been through so much. I wanted to protect her, more than anything. But that was the kind of life we had, and she had apparently accepted it more quickly than I.
And she was right. Being married to me made her a target, and the more capable she was at defending herself, the less vulnerable she would be.
“I’ll properly enchant it,” I promised. “Sharpness, accuracy, the works. It won’t be as good as a real magical blade, but-- say, are you sure you can . . . you know, stab someone?”
She smirked as she handed the weapon back to Iscad the Smith. “My husband, the year before you came to Boval I slaughtered and field-dressed seven of our herd during culling. If I can stab a cow I’ve raised from a calf, I can stab someone who is trying to harm my baby.”
When put like that, I felt a little better about it. She was right. She could do what needed to be done. That’s one reason I loved her, I realized. She had clubbed a goblin to death before our first date, and then had made our cramped quarters in the midst of a siege almost cozy. You just don’t find that kind of versatility in your average girl. If she wanted a dagger, and I wasn’t the intended target, the lady could have her dagger.
After that our mood lightened. We stood in a light drizzle and examined every stall and shop in the market. The dagger wasn’t the only thing she bought, but the rest were trinkets, gifts for friends, or exotic luxuries she had never tried before.
For my part I found a reputable scribe and purchased ten rolls of parchment, almost a hundred leaves, with four bottles of ink and a sheaf of quills. I had a lot of notes to make, a few letters to write, and some magical observations I wanted to write down, after my conversations with Ithalia. Alka Alon may not need to write things down to remember, but I did. The parchment was good quality, fresh from the marsh but expertly dried. I knew the information Lady Ithalia was giving me was valuable, and I didn’t want to miss any important detail. It is rare that anyone can have a candid conversation with an Alka Alon.
“My lord does not plan on spending his honeymoon . . . writing, does he?” asked Palia, when I left the shop and handed her my purchases.
“A good mage always keeps a record of his travels,” I told her. “So have you found a good place for us to have lunch?”
“There is an inn of decent quality up the high street, my lord. Three days to market, so it is lightly attended. Shall I go ahead and prepare a table for you?”
“Uh . . . yes,” I decided. I wasn’t used to servants either, I guess. Of course, the last one I had tried to kill me, which may have colored my perspective. “I’m more concerned with quality than price.”
“Leave it to me, my lord,” she said, grinning and bowing.
And I did. When Alya came out of the last shop in the square, a new wimple on her head, I escorted her down the high street until we came to the inn -- the sign of the Fish and Plow -- where Palia had found us a private table, mediocre wine, and as good a peasant’s feast as I could have asked for. Bowls of bean-and-mutton stew and crispy-crusted bread almost as good as my father’s to start, an eel pie as an entree, which I had never had before but liked instantly, and a pudding with honey, flosins and fresh apples baked inside as a fruit course. Palia waited on us the entire time, and even tipped a lad to play a fiddle quietly nearby.
Alya wasn’t as intrigued by the music or atmosphere as much as she was enchanted by the food. She ate like a woman possessed, and was continuing to eat long after I had settled into the comfy pipe-and-cup stage of the meal. She skipped the dessert, but other than that she was insatiable.
“Trygg’s curse,” she explained, when she had ordered Palia to fetch a third course of bread. “I was warned about this part of my pregnancy. I can’t seem to eat enough.”
“It’s impressive to watch,” I agreed. I knew, intellectually, that a woman’s late-term pregnancy involved the baby in her womb doubling in size, and that required a lot of food to accomplish. Actually seeing it in action was another thing entirely.
“This . . . this is so good,” she sighed, when Palia had delivered a second bowl of baked apples and pudding. “I loved the way your mother cooks, Min. I thought I would get as fat as a barn there, but . . . your son seems to welcome every bite and ask for more.”
“Don’t spare yourself,” I said, amused. “It is quite good.”
“You don’t understand,” she moaned, dreamily. “Food tastes so good right now . . .”
I finally pried her away from the inn when she admitted she could take on no more, and then helped steer her back through the market, where her dagger had been polished and fitted with a more-serviceable waxed leather scabbard. She hung it from her belt behind her bac
k, under her cloak.
“Thank you for indulging me, my husband,” she said, guiltily.
“I’m just sorry you feel the need. I don’t blame you. It’s a sensible precaution, just not one I’m thrilled about. It’s . . . well, I guess that’s just the price of being my wife.”
The rain began in earnest as we arrived back at the barge. Alya insisted on a nap before resuming her wifely duties, and I enjoyed a glass of mead out under the canopy where I watched the rain fall over the docks. I guess I was dozing, lulled to sleep by the sound of rain on canvas . . . but as the sun started to fade, I felt the presence of Lady Ithalia again.
There you are, I said with a sigh. I thought you could only speak to me at dawn?
At twilight, I said, she corrected. But I have little time this evening. Tell me, Master Minalin, where precisely on the Burine are you?
“. . . a bottle next for wealth,”
“You want to do what?” Turic asked, puzzled, “my lord?” he added.
“I want to change course and sail up the Teelvar.”
He didn’t look happy about it . . . if that face could ever manage a happy expression. “That would be a lot of polling,” he said, doubtfully. Bargemen disliked going upriver, which is why their rates in that direction were always higher.
“It won’t be as problematic as you think,” I promised. “Now that this boat belongs to Lady Pentandra, you should start getting used to doing things a little differently. You know I am a mage . . . I will conjure a water elemental or two to propel us against the current. You will not have to use the poles, just steer.”
He looked skeptical, but agreed that we’d leave after breakfast the next morning. “May I ask, my lord, what lies up the Teelvar that has your interest? I’ve sailed the rivers my whole life, and past Gilasfar there ain’t much worth anyone’s time. Just oats, and more oats.”
“There are some spectacular Alka Alon ruins near there, I understand, elaborate structures left over from the ancient times.”
“You wanna . . . you wanna go a hundred miles upriver to see . . . to see a building that’s not there anymore?” he asked in disbelief.
“I hear it’s lovely this time of year,” I said, truthfully. “It’s on a hill in the middle of a forest. The leaves have yet to fall there. I’ll have a more complete itinerary tomorrow.”
“As my lord wishes,” he grumbled. “I’ll make preparations.”
I rose before dawn the next morning, careful not to awaken Alya after a busy night of marital bliss. I wrapped my mantle around me, gathered my accoutrements as quietly as I could, and made my way up to the pavilion. The mate had closed the sides after we had retired, so the interior was dark enough to warrant a tiny magelight while I got comfortable.
I could hear the river port start to come alive around me as fishermen launched into the current and barges and boats passed by. The town, too, was starting to come awake. I tried to ignore it all. Just like I tried to ignore the cold as I settled in. When my teeth started chattering in the damp, I cursed silently and started slinging magic around.
A spell to keep the outside noises at bay. A spell to make the crew resist disturbing me. A spell to call the tiny brass brazier to life, igniting the charcoal until the glowing coals began to take the bite out of the morning chill. For good measure I poured a mild, sweet Remerean wine out of the hamper and heated it, using a similar spell to the one I’d used on our desserts the night before. What’s the use of being a mage if you have to suffer?
By the time I felt Lady Ithalia’s mental call, the pavilion was warm enough that I could no longer see my breath, my fingers had begun to warm, and I was enjoying my first pipe of the day.
Master Minalan, how fares your holiday?
Fair enough, I admitted, even with the rain. But my wife is somewhat curious about our sudden change of course. As am I. Ruins might be pretty, but they aren’t that pretty. You asked me to trust you, and I did. I asked her to trust me, and she did. But I would love to know why.
Of course, the Alkan said, her tiny body shimmering into existence, translucent but attentive. You know I am concerned about you using the Alka Alon spells within your sphere.
And I agreed not to, not until I understand them better.
The problem is not merely one of trusting a mortal with such magic, she explained. There is a question of whether your body and mind has the capacity for its use . . . and what using them may do to you. Alka Alon have known and used irionite for millennia. It is . . . of our world, she said, as if trying to put some high concept into simple, easy-to-understand terms. In the past, some humans have reacted poorly to its continued use.
And some have gone their lives using it and demonstrated no ill effects, I countered.
True enough, she agreed. But even if you maintain your sanity under the thrall of that much power, you may not survive using Alka Alon magic.
I’m fighting Sharuel, I pointed out. My chances of dying in bed in my dotage are fairly slim, I’d imagine.
Yours is not the only life at stake, she said. You have a child coming. What you now hold he will be heir to. Perhaps.
I understand, I sighed. But what can I do? Throw away this pretty toy because it might be bad for me? I asked, as I played with my sphere. Yes, I played with my sphere when no one else was around, sometimes. Do not be so bold as to judge me. It was pretty.
There are many magics in the world, Minalan, and your people have not always been the ignorant rustics they are now. Ouch. How far we must have fallen to have merited that. Once your folk were great enough to challenge any power on Callidore.
The Magocracy was a high point, I admitted, but--
It was not the Magocracy that I speak of, Minalan. As powerful as the magi of that age were, they were not the danger my kindred fears of your folk.
Certainly you aren’t worried about our military power, I observed. It was hard to be scared of an army that couldn’t even find your magically-concealed tree cities. And for all of their diminutive size, compared to us, the Alka Alon were adept and graceful fighters.
The strength of the humani lies not with its magi, but with its gods. This scholar . . . she was among the first of my people to witness one of the humani gods manifesting, and recognize the phenomenon for what it was.
As much as I was curious about my ancestors, Alka Alon politics, and concerned about being magically ‘examined’, that last part got my attention.
About that, I said, interrupting, you said that the Alka Alon don’t have gods . . . but I’ve been blessed by Alka in the name of the gods before. The Aronin did it. You’ve done it. And there are gods in your own epics. So the Alka Alon are . . . godless? I asked, struggling for the right word.
We do not worship as you do the humani gods, she explained, yet we do not deny the truth of their existence. We do not have such gods ourselves. Our understanding of the universe, and the way our minds work, remove the necessity for such entities.
But the Alka Alon deities . . .
The ones you translate as ‘gods’ in our epics are more akin to culture heroes, or distantly-remembered histories. Sometimes they are used to personify an abstract concept for artistic or magical purposes. But they do not manifest the way humani gods do. I supposed because we don’t need them the way that you do.
I wouldn’t say we need the gods-- I began, philosophically. Ithalia interrupted.
Your people do need your gods, Master Minalan, she said, apologetically. At least, that is my kindred’s understanding, and we know you better than any. Many times they have intervened -some would say interfered - in the welfare of the humani. Protected you, sometimes from dangers of which you are yet ignorant. If it hadn’t been for your gods, humanity would have been extinct on Callidore long ago.
I swallowed, unconsciously. If that was true, I realized, I needed to start paying better attention to holy services. So what . . are the gods?
As best my kindred can understand, when the humani’s collective desires or exper
iences entwine and entrain in the Otherworld, they can create a powerful force. Undirected, you understand how destructive that could be. The Alka Alon would never allow such metaphysical debris clutter up our trees. Untidy, she said, distastefully. When some form or order is imposed on that force, then much like the elemental spells you know, the force itself becomes personified.
So who or what imposes the order and form on the gods?
It seems to happen spontaneously, from what I understand. Although there are also records of certain archmagi purposefully attempting to create divinities by using their own personification spells. The results were . . . less than successful.
I can’t even imagine, I said truthfully.
The gods usually arise from the form the human subconscious gives it. If a million humani minds all know that Herus only wore sandals, for instance, then the god would naturally only wear sandals when he manifested. Belief defines desire, and desire molds reality.
It seems . . . untidy, somehow, I pointed out. I expected there to be a more dramatic method. Something a little more . . . celestial.
It is untidy, she agreed. But it is also one of your race’s greatest powers. It was a new magic, when it arose, and it caused quite a stir among my people. Because of its untidiness. My kindred has seen the great wonders such a phenomenon can create. This scholar witnessed such, and became enamored of your race. But that also means my kindred knows the destruction your deities are capable of. She didn’t sound enthusiastic about them, I realized. Therefore, some of the humani’s greatest detractors also lie within my kindred.
Uh, like what kind of destruction?
It . . . it was long ago. And it is complex. At one time, events conspired to put our peoples at odds. Enough so that some Alka interfered in your civilization. The gods manifested and interfered themselves.
Interfered? How?
The Spellmonger's Honeymoon: A Spellmonger Novella (The Spellmonger Series) Page 4
