The dirt path we trod soon gave way to paving stones made from relocated debris, and as we crested the next ridge and looked down upon the valley, I saw that Itharia’s idea of “a few servants” was a matter of perspective.
The tower itself was perched on a small but respectable hilltop, with the ruins of walls extending a few dozen feet from two sides, the north and east. Between those walls had been built an almost human-style dormitory or hall, outside of which was a grove of various trees of both natavista and importasta. Near the entrance, and against the base of the hill was as neat and tidy a Tal Alon burrow as I’d ever seen. Dozens of tiny figures seemed hard at work in the extensive gardens that surrounded it. Even in winter there was plenty to do to keep the fields working.
On the other side of the tower there was a cluster of huts, and my spine froze: the figures coming and going there had black fur, not brown. My hand immediately began to move towards Twilight’s hilt. I felt a small hand on my arm.
“Master Minalan,” Ithalia said, gently, “the gurvani below are servants, only. Their ancestors came to serve Elre voluntarily, long before the troubles between your two peoples. They are not belligerent – indeed, they are serving as they were intended to, and they are well-treated by my grandmother. They have not heard of the Abomination, much less follow him. I pray that you take care in how you treat them.”
I swallowed and nodded, trying not to let the fact that I had slaughtered thousands of goblins in battle overcome good sense. We were guests here, after all, and summarily executing the janitorial staff would break the rules of hospitality. I glanced at Alya, whose eyes were wide. She swallowed and nodded in silent assent.
“Sorry,” I said, hoarsely. “Force of habit. We’ll be good, I promise.”
“Not all the mountain folk are evil,” Alya agreed, though her voice was unsteady. “My father used to trade with them at Hawk’s Reach, sometimes, when they had iron or copper and wanted meat and cheese. Long before the invasion.”
We continued to walk down the hill into the little vale, and as we did the settlement became clearer. It seemed nearly a proper manor, save the lack of human peasants . . . and then I saw a few of those, too.
“Human servants?” Alya asked, before I could.
“A few families,” agreed Ithalia. “Some of their ancestors came here seeking refuge, or assistance from the Sorceress, and agreed to stay on.” The men were well if simply dressed, tending to a few beasts in pens near the outskirts of the settlement. One looked up and waved at Ithalia.
“It seems to be a model of interspecies harmony,” I observed as we passed a kind of gateway.
“Only because my grandmother wills it so. None here would dare challenge her authority. Ah, ahead is her emissary, Cuinthora. A cousin,” she added, with a smile.
Another naked Alkan was, indeed, awaiting us near a large well, standing serenely as if he – no, she, I saw – had nothing better to do but wait for us to arrive. She bowed her head almost imperceptibly in greeting.
“Ithalia,” she said in a delightful little voice. “I see that you have brought visitors. Seek they refuge?”
“Nay, Cuinthora. Elre knows of their coming, I believe. I sent word ahead by . . . the usual channels. May I present Lord Minalan the Spellmonger, and Lady Alya, his bride. He is the one who rescued us from the trolls and gurvani shamans. Among other feats.”
“One who has given such great service to our sister is always welcome at the Tower of Refuge,” she said, bowing slightly more. “Come, let us go within and I will find you some refreshment.”
We followed the two Alka through the neatly laid-out village, and the sounds around us were near enough to those of a humani manor that I almost relaxed. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of gurvani laughter, as two goblins – no, mountain folk, I corrected myself – shared a joke while hauling a cart full of manure away from a byre. I tensed, the forced myself to relax. The Alka choose not to notice. Alya, on the other hand, was almost shaking.
The door to the tower was almost as big as a hall itself, and now that we were close to the base I could appreciate both the magnificence of the structure and how far it had fallen from its prime. An elegantly arched doorway stood without cover and doorless. We went in without challenge. Magelights – Alka Alon teardrop-shaped things of a strange hue – lit our way.
The hall within was almost like a humani great hall, too, with a firepit in the center and tables and trestles clustered around. I could see places built for the Alka Alon, and much tinier seats for the Tal Alon (who were busy cleaning the place with great industry) and then there were sections designed for humans and for gurvani. Cuinthora led us to the human table closest the fire. While it was not cold in here, the cheer and heat was welcome after our long cold walk.
“Be at peace,” Cuinthora urged us. “I shall inform the mistress of your arrival. Food and drink for our guests,” she commanded to no one in particular, and then walked gracefully away.
Before she was gone three River Folk, their fur brushed to gleaming, came to our table bearing full plates of soup, bread, and cheese, as well as a clay pot of excellent ale. It had been awhile since breakfast, so we ate well – Alya with the ferocity only a very pregnant woman can display. The bread was excellent, finely grained and perfectly baked. It had a nutty taste to it, but the effect made it sweet, not bitter.
“It makes me glad that we all arrived safely,” Ithalia said, sipping from a long clear glass one of the Tal brought her unbidden. “I can only hope we did so without alerting any of our adversaries.”
“Why would they care if your grandmother saw another couple of humans?” I asked between bites.
“The comings and goings of this place are watched closely, by some. While many of the great among us would have little concern, there are those who have always opposed my grandmother’s politics, and who devoutly hate your people. Such purists would take any opportunity to discredit her, or worse. Her exile here was a compromise, you see. Many wanted to see her sent to another domain, where she would never have the opportunity to study your folk again. Others . . . others would be happy to see her dead.”
“Everyone has enemies,” Alya agreed, slurping soup. “But could they get through that barrier?”
“Some would try. Only the wardings your gods put in place keep them from coming and going as they please.” She went on lecturing us about the history of the settlement. Most of the names and titles she used were foreign to me, but the gist seemed to be that this place was both prison and refuge, fortress and place of exile. “Grandmother’s alliance with your gods was an affront to even her allies, in some quarters. They are seen every bit as much an abomination as . . . the other,” she said, not wishing to speak Sharuel’s name.
Before we were done with our second cup of ale, Cuinthora returned and nodded. “Mistress Lilastien will receive you now.”
We followed her up the most elegant, narrow flight of stairs I’d ever seen, a stone construction that looked as if it had been built of spiderwebs. Three stories of these stairs brought us to a small chamber that must have taken up most of the floor. We entered another doorless doorway to find another Alkan standing and gazing out of the window. Surrounding her were tables and stands on which were set various strange minerals and magical devices. The room virtually pulsed with magic.
“May I present Lilastien, called Elre, mistress of the Tower of Refuge . . . and the Sorceress of Sartha Wood. Mistress, this is Lord Minalan the Spellmonger and his bride, Lady Alya, of the humani.”
“Thank you, Cuinthora, you are dismissed,” the old Alkan said, staring at us with those big, dark eyes. The steward bowed deeply and left.
“Granddaughter, who have you brought to me today?” she asked, smiling sweetly at Ithalia.
Determining the age of a nearly-immortal being is hard, and my lack of familiarity with her people could have made me mistake the grandmother for the granddaughter . . . until she spoke. Her voice was lower, deeper, yet more melodiou
s than Ithalia’s. She was slightly smaller, her mane was slightly longer, and there was a deep and abiding intelligence in her eyes – wisdom, I suppose – that Ithalia lacked. She walked over to us and peered up at us with something akin to excitement.
“These are the humani I spoke of, grandmother,” Ithalia said respectfully. “Master Minalan has been possessed of some irionite for most of a year, and the female – Lady Alya, excuse me – has been in close proximity . . . and is with child. I felt it prudent to have them examined, to determine if there were any ill-effects we should be concerned with.” She was holding something back, I could tell, but I let it go.
“A Lord and Lady of the humani! We have not been blessed with such in a few of your generations!” she said, gaily. “Yet I have heard tales of you, my dear,” she said, smiling up at me. “You saved my granddaughter and my nephew, as well as others I hold dear. For that, Master Minalan, this house will always stand to welcome you, for as long as you like. And your mate is with child . . . what treasures you bring me, Ithalia!” she said, almost beaming.
“A pleasure to meet you . . . my lady,” Alya said, bowing. As well as she could managed, having misplaced her waist a few months ago.
“Oh, you may both call me Lilastien. No title is necessary. But do tell me, how far along are you?”
“Seven months? Eight?” Alya tried to figure. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Well into your third trimester, then,” she said, smiling satisfactorily. “And no difficulties?”
“Well, I haven’t been able to sleep well in months,” my bride admitted. “But I haven’t had the morning sickness in a good long time. Thank Trygg,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward.
“I’ve been scrying her womb every chance I get,” I promised her solemnly. “So far, she has had a fairly normal and uneventful pregnancy.”
“Except for the invasion, the refugee camp, and living with your mother,” Alya corrected, ticking the items off on her fingers. “But no untoward bleeding or pains.”
“Well that is good!” the old Alka Alon lady cooed. “I remember all seven of my pregnancies, even though they were so long ago. I hope you understand that this is just a precaution, dear,” she said, sounding so much like a human grandmother I had to stifle a giggle. “When magic is involved, you cannot be too careful!”
“So I’ve learned,” Alya said, nodding thoughtfully. She said it in such a way that made me think she wasn’t entirely comfortable with my profession, or her relationship to it.
“Well, now,” she said, taking both of our hands in her cool, tiny little ones, “I have arranged a small feast for you this evening, before we get started. I even had one of my retainers slaughter a goat,” she added, with special emphasis. “They do so tire of a vegetarian diet.”
“My— Lilastien,” I began, cautiously, “I wouldn’t presume to hurry you, but would it not be better to begin the examination at once?”
“My dear boy, there are some sorts of magic that are best practiced by the light of the sun . . . and others which are better after nightfall. This is one of the latter. You must trust me on this.”
“But we have—”
“Traveled a great distance, by the way your folk reckon things,” she agreed, nodding her head in human fashion. “I understand, Master Minalan, I do. But there are compelling reasons for waiting. Refreshing your bride, for one. This will be more difficult if she is ill-rested,” she assured me. “There is ample time before supper, however . . . if you would like to avail yourselves of the baths.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. It was common (if rarely spoken of) knowledge that the Alka Alon in general did not care for human body odors. I had worked up quite a sweat fighting three trolls to a standstill, and my last bath had been when I was a single man. But Lilastien did not seem to be employing tact, here, I decided. Likely Ithalia had already informed her of Alya’s eagerness, and she was just being polite. But we probably did stink.
“That would be lovely, my lady,” Alya agreed.
“Just don’t linger overlong,” she confided, “too much would be bad for the child . . . and you wouldn’t want to miss your supper.”
The Baths were more than a mere hot spring. Located a quarter-mile north of the tower, under a rocky outcropping, a natural spring and a streamlet had collided in a tiny little cataract. The result was a shallow pond about a quarter-acre in size, surrounded by boulders. The hot water from the spring was almost too hot, near its source under the outcropping, but the further you waded away from it, the more it mixed with the wintery stream and cooled.
It really was lovely. You could adjust the temperature by just moving a few inches where the spring and the stream combined. Too hot, you moved streamward. Too cool, you moved springward. And there seemed to end of smooth rocks upon which to perch, nor pools between them in which to soak. The sun was going down behind the trees to the west, and there were a few winter butterflies attracted to the warmth. And other creatures – I swore I saw a family of vrints dive into a hole when Ithalia escorted us to the place, and a very cranky beaver chattered, annoyed, when his fishing was interrupted.
The water steamed, near the rock, and after helping Alya disrobe (in utter disregard to the sensibilities of the Alka Alon – who saw our clothing as an amusing affectation) and into one of the warmer sections of the place, I stripped off my muddy, sweaty clothes and let them soak a bit downstream from us, secured by a rock. Then I explored the bounds of the pool looking for sharp rocks and enjoying the relentless heat on my sore muscles.
“This,” pronounced Alya with a beatific sigh, “is what the palaces of the gods must be like. You said Ishi, herself, once bathed here?”
“Repeatedly, if what Grandmother says is to be believed,” the Alka maiden agreed. “Does that imbue it with special power?”
“Maybe,” I shrugged, up to my chest in warm, warm water. “I suppose that depends on her mood, and whether she found it favorable.”
“Perhaps it will make me more beautiful then,” Alya teased.
“Impossible,” I said, shaking my head. “You could not be more beautiful.”
“Don’t make me vomit before our hostess’ meal,” chided Alya.
“It might also get you pregnant,” I reminded, ignoring her jibe as I submerged myself up to my neck. “Fertility goddess, remember?”
“I believe I’ve proven my fertility,” she said wryly, her belly floating to the surface of her pool. “This feels wonderful on my sore tired arse, though. I wonder what made her want a bath? I never knew the gods needed to bathe.”
“They are, in their way, quite human in their passions,” Ithalia said, after a moment’s thought.
“You’ve . . . met . . . Ishi?” I asked.
“No, not her. But a few of your other deities, when they came to call here. I met Herus, once,” she said, as an example. “And Durthon. Not a likable divinity,” she observed. “He came bearing a message from one of the others, but while he was here he slaughtered half the herds.”
Durthon is one of the Old Imperial gods of the fields – sheep, goats, and pigs were his domain, but he had a martial side as well. Durthon’s magical bow Yadgicor was known to have slain thousands of my ancestors when he appeared to defend the Empire, at the request and command of the Last Archmage of those years. Durthon had a hagiological reputation for being dour, like the eastern shepherds who worshipped him, but I suppose if Ishi took comfort in the baths here, he felt entitled to do likewise, bad temper and all. And after hanging around livestock all day, I’m sure he needed the bath.
“How was Herus?” I asked, as I splashed delightfully hot water on my face. I needed to see a barber soon, I realized.
“Jolly, like many of his priests,” she smiled. “But hard to talk to. Everything is a joke with him. Lady Alya, perhaps you should consider finishing your bath. Any longer and it might be stressful to your child.”
“Not even here yet and he’s already disturbing my peace,” she grumbled, goo
d naturedly as she dipped her long honey-colored hair a final time. “Can you give me a hand, Min?”
Dinner that night was fascinating. Unlike a human hall, there were no tables to speak of. We ate Alka Alon fashion, in a ring of concentric circles with the more important sitting toward the center. I was gratified to be in the innermost group, along with Ithalia and our hostess and the other Alka Alon. Behind us were a mix of humans and Tal Alon, with more Tal (with less status) and gurvani making up the outer ring. Tal and gurvani served us, overseen by a portly human woman who knew her business. My cup was never empty and my trencher never bare.
The goat was decently prepared, but the vegetable dishes surpassed anything I’ve had anywhere. Many were laced with nuts or cheese, and all were well-seasoned with herbs and spices. Even the bread was good, every bit as good as my father’s, though it all had a vaguely nutty, wholesome flavor I couldn’t identify. One of Lilastien’s fellow Alka provided entertainment by singing and playing a harp-like instrument. It was music of surpassing beauty – not magical, really, but wondrous nonetheless.
The Spellmonger's Honeymoon: A Spellmonger Novella (The Spellmonger Series) Page 13
