Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  You see, the Handmaiden’s enneagram, through the powers of the Magolith, can examine and correct someone’s enneagram – the arcane representation of their self-awareness. Think of it like a shadow of your soul that no one could see. Well, Ruderal can, because that’s his special Talent, but everyone else couldn’t see one without powerful magic to reveal it. The Handmaiden had been bred to perform just this task on the distant ancestors of the Vundel, the great Celestial Mother. That was the creature inhabiting my snowflake, now.

  Thankfully, all the effort had been successful. Results had been immediate and profound. After only a few weeks she was speaking and walking like a normal person, again. I was extremely hopeful that our return to her native country would assist in that process, but it was clear to me that the treatments would have to continue for a while, before my wife was restored. Giving her a three-week rest between treatments had demonstrated her continued need for them.

  Alya was eager to take the treatment, when I came to our bedchamber. She’d prepared for bed, but wanted the soothing effect of the Handmaiden more than she even wanted to renew our intimae acquaintance. I tried not to take it personally – it was clear that she needed it. Once the Magolith hovered over her forehead and the Handmaiden began her arcane work, Alya’s shoulders sagged as if she was letting go of her own burdens. Her sleep was restful and fit. The next morning, she was smiling and pleasant, engaged and interested in hearing about my journey. She seemed almost normal, at first.

  Almost.

  Things were undeniably awkward between Alya and I, when I first arrived at our new home. Her reaction seemed to be a strange mixture of relief and dread. Her two nurses were carefully watching the night I came to Spellmonger’s Hall, alert to any potential crisis. As Ruderal suggested, she was getting increasingly anxious without it.

  But while the treatments helped her overall condition, in some ways each new one forced her to reassess the world around her anew. It was a confusing and frustrating process, I knew, but her condition improved after each one, albeit marginally. When I first arrived in late Winter, she was still very skittish and hesitant about things.

  Things between us were strained. Sometimes she looked at me like a stranger, or worse, other times she clung to me like a lovesick maiden. Alya still lacked a great deal in picking up social cues and understanding even basic human responsibilities – like feeding the children, for example. She seemed skeptical that the two little ones could not forage for themselves at their ages.

  Mostly the children accepted their strange mother, as it was better than not having a mother at all. Minalyan did better at accepting Alya’s peculiarities and seemed terribly understanding, even if he had little idea what was going on. Almina was more reluctant to embrace Alya’s condition – her mother’s occasional fits scared her, and her sudden disregard of her welfare concerned her.

  I did what I could to console my daughter and explain to her what was happening. This involved perhaps more paternal indulgence than was healthy – Dad always cautioned me about babying daughters, and he had the experience to know. But Almina seemed like such a delicate little flower at the time that I could not resist. We spent a lot of time together walking the dogs around the moss garden behind the hall or going to the market. She delighted in the additional attention, of course, and I think it helped her cope with her slightly mad mother.

  But there was no disguising her feelings when she looked upon other mothers fussing over their children in the park or at market. There was a longing in her eyes, a miserable desire for such common interaction that she desperately missed.

  It’s not that Alya didn’t try. She knew, intellectually, that she had responsibilities to her children. Nor was it a matter of a lack of maternal nature – as soon as she recognized and realized that she was someone’s mother, her maternal feelings reasserted themselves more quickly than perhaps any other aspect of her personality.

  It was as if she’d forgotten what being a good mother entailed even as she was filled with the maternal feelings that drove her motherhood. She was highly protective over the children, but she didn’t really recognize the dangers they were prone to. She did not care at all if the two went to play down by the pond, though drowning was a horrible possibility, at their age. Or if Almina wandered out into the road while a cart was coming down the street, Alya didn’t seem to care that her daughter could be trampled due to carelessness. She just figured the cart would move out of the way.

  Other hazards she was overly sensitive to, particularly fire. She was always suspicious of any fire, and it had taken her weeks to be able to exist in the same room with a flame without causing herself distress. She was simultaneously fascinated and horrified by fire, long after she’d calmed down in its presence.

  After a few minor burns she relearned the lesson even her children had about the dangers of fire. She became incredibly tense if either of them came within a few feet of a fireplace. Likewise, for some reason she was constantly scanning the skies when we took trips beyond the city, as if she expected one of the giant hawks or a dragon to swoop down on us at any time and bear our children away.

  They were little things, subtle things. Most people didn’t even notice them. But they were indicative of just how far from healed Alya yet was.

  ***

  As Brother Bryte predicted, two days after I arrived at this town under a rock, I addressed a gathering of local notables in the cold square on market day.

  It wasn’t a big crowd, unless you were from the Wilderlands. It wasn’t much of a market, either. Apart from the subsidized booths from the Wizard’s Mercantile, a couple of merchants from Vorone, and a half-dozen half-empty stalls from the local farms, there wasn’t much to recommend it. A few hundred interested townsfolk who were otherwise purchasing eggs, beans and roots gifted me with their valuable time. They gathered around when Gareth and a few of his wardens cleared a space near the center and brought a small cart to stand in the middle of the muddy, still-thawing market. That’s where I gave my speech.

  My own staff had shown up to listen to what I had to say, so the magi were well-represented. Ruderal looked nervous as larger figures pushed to get a view of me. Crowds made him anxious. Mavone and Sandoval stood in the front row, no doubt speaking snidely to each other, mind-to-mind, while I spoke. Gareth looked on in hopeful expectation, as if my arrival had removed a substantial burden from his narrow shoulders. Magelord Thinradel, who had taken residence in Vanador to follow me, after he was appointed my court wizard in Sevendor and decided that his loyalty was to me, not my little land, was grinning indulgently through the entire speech. He seemed amused that I had found myself back in the arse-end of the Wilderlands as I had started.

  I noted Rael the Enchantress near the front of the crowd. A Riverlands wizard, eldest daughter of a master enchanter in Sevendor, she’d originally come on the Great March in search of rare herbs, woods, fungi in the Wilderlands, and whatever else enchanters value. She’d stayed to oversee the provisioning of the freed slaves after the Great Emancipation, upon Pentandra’s invitation, plying her hoxter wands and growing network of agents to bring tons of grain, beans and other basic foodstuffs from the farthest ports in the kingdom to this remote land. In the process she’d become a key figure in Banamor’s new Arcane Mercantile Company. Or the Wizard’s Mercantile, as it was more commonly known. Magical smugglers. I was a partner.

  There were plenty of others in attendance, because there is little else to do in a town on market day: a few Kasari, plenty of artisans, goodwives, a few local clergy and merchants. The market was the largest regular gathering of common folk and nobility alike for miles, and as mediocre as Vanador’s market was in late winter and early spring, it was my best opportunity to speak to as many people as possible at one time without prior notice.

  One of Gareth’s men, a near-giant called Po the Imposing, bellowed for attention as I mounted the cart, and that brought yet more onlookers to hear what the new count had to say. I waited for a f
ew moments, gathering my thoughts as the crowd quieted in anticipation. With a thought I cast a spell through the Magolith and insured that my voice would be heard in the market and beyond.

  “By the grace of Anguin II, Duke of Alshar, I, Baron Minalan the Spellmonger of Sevendor, have been named Count Palatine of this region,” I began in calm, confident tones. “While some would say that this is in reward for good service in Duke Anguin’s difficult time, others may – more wisely – consider my appointment no more than necessity in a difficult time.

  “For we face an implacable foe, my friends,” I said, in a far more casual style than the senior-nobility usually speak to their subjects. Why? Because my father was in that crowd, for one thing, and he’d light me up later if he thought I was treating my people with arrogance. “The terrors of the Penumbra are well-understood by us all. Not a face here has been unaffected by the dark horrors from the West. Even now, while the enemy reels from the blow we last struck him in his very home,” I said, pausing for some enthusiastic cheering, “he plots his next move against us, employing ever-more powerful pieces.

  “It is not just the gurvani hordes that challenge this new town. Dark magic and necromancy are arrayed against us,” I said, in a thoughtful tone. “If Sheruel was a relentless foe, Korbal the Necromancer is cruel and calculating, patient and punishing. His vassals are just as devious. More, they seek to out-do each other in competition for Korbal’s affections and favor. Now that they command the legions of gurvani that Sheruel spawned, and can raise the dead against us, the foes we face have never been more dangerous.

  “Yet,” I said, holding up a finger to the rapt audience, “we enjoy the favor of the gods and the command of potent magic of our own,” I offered the stricken faces I addressed. “Great magic. Powerful magic. From the bowels of Olum Seheri I plucked mighty forces and compelled them to my will,” I said, dramatically overstating the episode. I summoned the Magolith to float prominently above my head as I continued. “With it I struck a blow to Korbal that may yet slay him. But until it does,” I continued, “we must prepare ourselves.”

  Then I launched into the vision Brother Bryte had overheard, with some minor variations: I spoke of magic in the service of humanity; of an enhanced defense against the terrors of the Penumbra and beyond; of a more just, better-ordered society that used the power of magic to improve the lives and well-being of all.

  It was impressive, if I do say so, myself. The words might have been novel, but I know in my heart I’d rehearsed the passionate plea countless times on the overland trip from Sevendor, and once I’d begun my enthusiasm carried me through.

  “This little town and the villages beyond are the only thing standing between the rest of the kingdom and Korbal’s hordes,” I concluded. “Yet that does not preclude Vanador becoming a place of culture, learning, and prosperity, even in the shadow of war. With magic’s aid, and our combined determination, I foresee Vanador becoming more than the anvil on which the hordes break; I envision a Vanador that forges a lamp that lights all the west in the darkness!” I said, my voice rising.

  Then I shut up and enjoyed the cheers.

  “That went well,” Sandoval offered, after I had been embraced and bowed to by dozens of enthusiastic subjects when I descended the cart. “It was inspiring. I almost forgot how entirely screwed we all are.”

  “It was well-done,” Mavone assured me. “Just the kind of address we need to introduce your authority to the land. Passionately and eloquently delivered. It will incite enthusiasm and drive back despair,” he predicted.

  “It was bloody awful,” Brother Bryte objected. “Luin’s staff, a first-year lexit would have done better! Your presentation was melodramatic and overwrought. You sounded pompous and self-interested. You invoked the loyalty of the people without first presenting them a compelling reason to do so. The lofty ideals weren’t supported by discrete proposals to accomplish them. And your tone more resembled a mummer than a magelord. You may have convinced the ignorant of your intentions with your fancy talk, but . . .”

  “Thankfully, Vanador abounds with ignorance,” Sandy observed. “Most here have only the vaguest idea of the nature of the foe threatening them, nor any conception of when that blow will come. It was a decent speech,” he conceded.

  “It was a fine speech, Master,” Ruderal agreed. “Everyone was worried at the beginning, and everyone was excited at the end,” he dutifully reported. He would know. His special sport Talent manifested as the ability to perceive enneagrams. He could read a man’s intentions, see his falsehoods, and distinguish his intentions by witnessing his enneagram. Not just one man, but a crowd. “They really do like you,” he added, as if it had been in doubt.

  “That . . . speech was an unholy mess of ego and arrogance,” Brother Bryte countered.

  “The Spellmonger has a sufficiency of both,” Mavone observed, as we were joined by other colleagues.

  “You’ll need it, to rule here,” Thinradel said, shaking his head. “I cannot fault your delivery, but I can offer perspective, if you like. I wintered here and managed to take stock of the people. They are good-natured but hard-pressed. They are doing their best in a poor situation, but are hopeful for better circumstances. I would venture that you provided much of that hope in your words.”

  “They are lawless,” Brother Bryte sniffed, gazing around at the people in the market. “Falling back on custom and common manorial law.”

  “Didn’t Anguin send a lawbrother to act as his provost?” Sandy asked, confused.

  “A single jurist does not constitute a legal system,” countered the monk, authoritatively. “There must be civil enforcement under color of sovereign authority in order for the law to have purposeful meaning. Oh, you could get by for a few years without it, but eventually it will catch up with this town,” he warned.

  “Don’t get him started,” I warned with a sigh. “Else you’re like to catch a stunning lecture on the importance of civil oversight of markets, or the essential nature of tribute being devoted to roads and bridges, or some such and spend the day in wearying contemplation.”

  “I’d rather not,” Mavone agreed, quickly. “Now that you are here, Min, we have much work to do in preparing for the coming war.”

  “There’s a war coming?” Brother Bryte asked, uneasily. “I thought that was mere speculation.”

  “There’s always a war coming, in the Wilderlands. And now in the Magelaw,” Sandy said, correcting himself. “Just a few years ago this place was awash in goblins.”

  Bryte shuddered at the thought, though he’d yet to see a gurvan. “I’d heard. But I mean, is there a war coming . . . imminently?” he demanded.

  “Within the next year,” Mavone conceded. “Perhaps two. And right now, we’re hiding under a rock with nary a castle in sight. Surrounded by artisans and freedmen who barely made it through the winter on their subsidized bread. We’re in a poor state, Min.”

  “Which is all the more reason to start preparations now,” Sandoval insisted. “We need to recruit an army. Train an army. Arm an army. Build castles. Buy horses. Whatever we have to do.”

  “We don’t know nearly enough about our enemy’s intentions or their positions,” Mavone said, shaking his head. “Until we do, all the preparation we can manage won’t be enough, if our forces are arrayed in ignorance.”

  “Both valid points,” I said, nodding my head as I gazed around at the beginnings of the town. “Nor can an army be recruited, armed and trained without the support of a robust population. We need security in order to establish the prosperity we require to support that security. So, I will use one of the most ancient of all arcane techniques to solve this, gentlemen: the mystical power of delegation.

  “Mavone, find out where the enemy is, what they are doing, and what they are planning. Sandoval, built me an army strong enough to defend this place, and the entire Magelaw. Thinradel, if you’re going to lurk about, make yourself useful: we need a functioning bouleuterion here, including laboratories a
nd workshops. You’ve been in Sevendor’s shops enough to know what we need.”

  The wizard chuckled wryly. “Here I was, enjoying a rustic semi-retirement, and again I find myself thrust into government service,” he said, with mock reluctance.

  “You object?” I asked. “You don’t have to run the thing, just get it set up and find a competent enchanter to run it.”

  “Oh, I have no objections. This is, by far, the most interesting thing happening in the kingdom right now . . . and with the Nemovorti kidnapping wizards on the streets of Enultramar, I think I’m safer here in the wood, with the Spellmonger, than I would be back in Falas. As always, I am at your service.”

  Thinradel had, indeed, been loyal to my efforts since I’d first bribed him with a witchstone when he was the Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar. Unlike his Castali colleague at the time, Dunselen, he’d remained one of my most stalwart supporters. As he was widely respected among the professional magi, it was a loyalty I valued . . . and would not hesitate to take advantage of.

  “Good,” I nodded, “and thank you. Because after that, you’re going to help establish a college of theoretical thaumaturgy, here in Vanador.”

  “Thaumaturgy?” Thinradel scoffed. “Here, in the wood? I could see the point of the bouleuterion for the war effort,” he conceded. “It’s practical. But theoretical fluff like thaumaturgy? I knew you were eccentric, Min, but . . .” he trailed off, doubtfully.

  “Trust me,” I promised, “it will be practical. But that’s a summer project. For now, just get me a basic bouleuterion. Then Carmella can be in charge of defensive fortifications, Rael can take the contract for supply and fodder, Gareth can build and run the town, and, when the time comes, Terleman can command us all in the defense. It really shouldn’t be that hard,” I encouraged.