“Will he?” I countered. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Mavone was my chief of military intelligence, and it was his job to learn that sort of thing for me.
“Well, I’ll know better in a few weeks, once my spies have returned from missions into the Penumbra,” Mavone admitted. “A cursory look would say that the gurvani are too busy with the recent change in administration to consider mounting an offensive . . . but things can change quickly. I’ll know more soon.”
“So they can,” I sighed. “Until we know what we’re up against, and likely when, let’s start with the premise that they’re going to march against us as soon as the snows melt, and proceed with all due panic. Bows, arrows, arms, armor, militia, infantry, cavalry, fortifications, siege engines – whatever it requires, let’s see it done.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot expect reinforcements or even sympathy, right now,” reasoned Terleman. “Marcadine and Anguin are both trying to order their realms as much as we are, and we will see little help from Castal. We are on our own, gentlemen,” he pronounced.
“We’re better off than we were at Boval,” I observed. “Compared to that, this is almost easy.”
“Agreed,” Mavone sighed. “We are better off, but with more to lose. We had but four thousand to protect, there. Here we have twenty times that number and more. Against a far more insidious foe.”
“We’ll have to meet the challenge the way we always do: with brilliant improvisation, innovation and a classy bit of enchantment. Not to mention meticulous planning and excruciating attention to detail. Before you know it, we’ll be well-defended and disgustingly prosperous.”
“He makes it sound so simple,” Mavone said to Terleman, ignoring me. “As if we can just conjure up an army. And horses. And castles.”
“He has had several near-fatal injuries,” Terleman reasoned. “We don’t like to talk about how addled he is. We just nod and grin and pretend that he’s in charge.”
“If you gentlemen thought that this was such an impossible task, why did you sign on to help?” I demanded. I appreciated a bit of sarcasm as much as anyone, but this was a bit much.
“Because if you do screw it up, we want to be there,” Terleman finally answered, after giving the matter some thought. “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting to tell you ‘I told you so’?”
“There can be no argument that Minalan’s chief concern in the early days of Vanador’s establishment, beyond the dire forces to the west, was the complications arising in the south: Gilmora. Though it bordered his province only slightly, his historical ties to the region brought both solace and turmoil: the former through his good friend Baron Astyral of Losara, and the latter from a number of high nobles loyal to his estranged liege, Prince Tavard. Few expected the exiled Spellmonger to take the threat of feudal war seriously, considering the great distance between the center of the two regions. Even fewer suspected that Count Minalan would find a means of turning this enmity to advantage.”
From the Scrolls of Brother Bryte the Wiser
Chapter Five
Astyral’s Report
I was surprised at how often Astyral tarried in Vanador. He made liberal use of the Ways, in the early days, I think as much as an escape from the responsibilities of running two baronies as it was an effort to get them running again with magical help.
But I soon found out the real reason he lingered around Spellmonger Hall in those early days. It came to light one spring afternoon when he dropped by to chat . . . and Astyral’s “chats” were almost always loaded with gossip, news, and valuable intelligence.
“I bring word from Gilmora,” Astyral informed me once the wine was poured and we were relaxing in my solar. Considering it only received about two hours of sun in the late afternoon, calling it a “solar” seemed to be a misnomer. “There are problems for us, there. Perhaps serious ones.”
“Let me guess: the Gilmoran barons still making noise about their missing villeins,” I suggested, amused. Every few days it seemed another Gilmoran lord or his agent had made the great overland journey to Vanador to attempt to reclaim their bondsmen. Gareth had stalled them until a more senior lord could establish a firm answer. My new policy of granting freedom and a fresh start to all the freedmen of Vanador had angered many Gilmoran emissaries who were desperate for labor to rebuild their cotton empires, I knew.
“Perpetually,” Astyral grinned. But then his smile faded. “Alas, the problem is not merely economic. It’s political. And personal, in a way. Most importantly, it concerns you. In between plotting the reconquest of Farise and the Wenshari situation, His Highness has been re-organizing the defense of Gilmora, through his friends and vassals Count Omard of Almaranda and Count Anvaram of Nion, among others,” he reported.
“That seems a prudent thing to do, in light of the recent invasion,” I observed, pouring my own glass full.
“I do not believe that it is the goblins Their Excellencies is preparing against,” Astyral said, a slight scowl flitting around his lips. “Particularly Anvaram. Indeed, he seems determined to seed the new positions and posts with those who have a decidedly negative opinion of magi.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, disturbed by that news.
“Four knights banneret or barons with strong opinions on the matter have been promoted to new military posts and have been granted substantial funds to reinforce key castles in northern Nion,” he explained. “Along with coin to hire new knights.”
“I wouldn’t think there were that many Gilmoran knights left to hire,” I mused.
“You’d be surprised how many had pressing business elsewhere, when the gurvani were ravaging their estates,” he chuckled. “They see more glory and fortune in fighting human foes than scrugs. But now that the invasion has been thrown back and peace is restored, many have suddenly found their courage and returned to their abandoned estates. His Highness’ coin was eagerly sought in a land where there were few peasants. And a nearby magelord.”
“To what end?”
“That’s what I was trying to determine,” Astyral reported. “I’ve been discussing it with Mavone, as he has a head for such things. There are few great lords around that would inspire that kind of preparation. Count Marcadine is invested in his new office and estates, and is busy re-ordering his realm, so he is no threat to Gilmora. Old Count Argolan of the Westlands is fighting against plague and undead, and despairing of his dwindling coffers and decimated populace. The Riverlands counts are unwilling to risk their lucrative trade in a war with Gilmora, and there is no one to the south that dare challenge him.”
“So . . . whom? His father?”
“I would expect preparations in the upper Riverlands if His Highness chose to move on His Majesty. I don’t think he is quite that ambitious, yet,” Astyral conceded. “Which leads me to believe that he is preparing to attack me, perhaps, considering how loudly his appointees dislike magi. Then I considered that Tavard was his patron, and realized that he was actually preparing against a war with . . . you.”
“Me?” I asked, shocked and amazed by the idea. “I’m squatting in a crappy manor house in a remote land, literally living under a rock, surrounded by enemies! How am I a threat?”
“I don’t think you are,” conceded Astyral. “That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want war with you.”
“For Trygg’s sake, why?” I protested. “I know he’s upset about the prince heir but he’s already exiled me. I haven’t done anything to him to merit a war!”
“You haven’t been keeping abreast with the Royal Court, have you?” he asked, staring out the window.
“Not for months,” I admitted. “Not since I was exiled. Why?”
“Because Tavard still holds a deep grudge against you. Not only does he blame you for his son’s death, but Anguin promoting you to Count Palatine after you were exiled from Sevendor was humiliating for Tavard, Min. Especially after he had to hire you to save his men at Maidenpool. There are few ways he can recover his honor, fr
om his perspective. Defeating you on the battlefield would do it,” he commented, innocently.
“Even if I’ve got but a few hundred men, no manors to speak of, and not a real castle to my name?”
“That’s not how the minstrels will tell it, when you are dead and buried,” he chuckled. “You should take some comfort in that. Though he doesn’t have to kill you. Just humiliate you on the field and take a few of your baronies. I think after that he’d be satisfied.”
“I’m not of a mind to lose a battle to Tavard,” I growled. “Not when I have the entire goblin army to fight already.”
“Nor would I recommend that,” he agreed. “He has thousands of lances at his command, and I don’t think he would be very sportsmanlike in victory. Particularly not to you. Tavard, for all his good breeding and education, is a deplorable gentleman. He’s worse, now that his son has perished. Or so my sources say.”
“You have sources at the Castali ducal court?” I asked, surprised. I always thought I was his contact at court.
“Am I not a baron? Am I not a Gilmoran? Of course I have sources at Tavard’s court at Wilderhall. I declined an invitation to attend, at Yule. I was . . . otherwise occupied,” he explained. That was my first hint that there was something up with my comrade. “But I have friends everywhere, and I have heard an earful of whispers from that somber court. Including His Highness’ antipathy toward the Spellmonger. And his orphaned cousin,” he added.
“Well, I’m sure Anguin wouldn’t want to feel left out of his dear cousin’s thoughts,” I chuckled, wryly. “As he will soon be his brother-in-law, as well, I’m certain he bears as much affection for him as his cousin does in return.”
“That would not be far off the mark. But Tavard sees Anguin as your puppet,” Astyral advised. “He feels that the best way for him to retaliate against his future brother-in-law is through his favorite vassal.”
“So I have to worry about Tavard sniping at me from my rear while I face Nemovorti and Enshadowed from the Penumbra,” I griped. “Has the man no sense of decency?”
“He’s lost his son, Minalan,” Astyral reminded me, gently. “Consider how you would react if your boy was taken from you.”
“I understand his rage,” I conceded. “I just don’t think it should be directed at me.”
“Yet it is. What shall we do about it?”
“That depends. In such a contest, where would your loyalties lie?” I asked, fixing him with an expectant stare. He took my point.
“Oh, I do so love you Wilderlords and your directness!” Astyral grinned as he finished his cup. “A Gilmoran might have taken a couple of days and given me a half-dozen gifts before he asked me that question!”
“Sorry I was so shortsighted. And I’m a Magelord, not a Wilderlord. Yet I still request an answer.”
“Minalan, do you actually think I’d side with Tavard over you?” Astyral asked, feigning being insulted. “Not a chance. He might have impeccable breeding and education, but he lacks the character I require as the price for my personal loyalty. The institutional variety is, of course, still for sale at the going rate,” he added.
“So you would be inclined to pay lip service to Tavard, in the event of a war?”
“Lip service?” Astyral asked, with mocked offense. “Why, I am the most loyal of the Gilmoran barons, Minalan! I would provide whatever my liege required of me. However,” he added, continuing to sip to punctuate his discourse, “that cooperation would not, perhaps, necessarily forward the policies of my liege in their execution,” he added.
“Meaning you would do everything you legally could to obstruct Tavard,” I smiled.
“Indeed,” Astyral admitted. “I enjoy my barony, Min, and the other lands with which I’ve been entrusted. Not for the money, although that is nice, or the classic architecture, but for the responsibility – and, yes, for the status.
“I languished for years on the margins of society as a poor, un-ennobled cousin, pitied for my rajira. And – let’s be candid – it is nice to be in command of real warriors, not militia,” he added, a little embarrassedly. “The Gilmoran knights are not the best, but they understand their business and keep good discipline. Even after an invasion, they are far superior in organization and military custom than Tudry. I love my brave Tudryman,” he sighed, “but in truth they brought as much headache in the field as they did valor to my command.”
“They miss you, as well,” I informed him. At the risk of inflating his head, I let slip their attempt at honoring their former governor. “They have named their artisan association Astyral Hall.”
“They are very dear,” the Gilmoran mage smiled, fondly. “But they were a pain in my arse, from a military perspective. With a few notable exceptions, I prefer my current vassals and burghers. They know their place, they respect mine. You saw how grand my manor was, and that isn’t even the best part of my lands. I’d like to keep them. But . . . I’m not terribly particular about which banner I keep them under,” he added, knowingly.
Astyral and Mavone were both Gilmorans whose ancestors had fought against Castali hegemony, back in the days of the Black Duke. Though it was two generations ago, they still strongly supported returning Gilmora to Alshari control. Considering my patronage by the Orphan Duke, it seemed wise to support that effort.
“Then keep me informed about any further preparations,” I requested. “I don’t want a war with Tavard, even by proxy. But neither do I want to lose one.”
“As I figured,” Astyral agreed, graciously. Then he paused, as if deciding whether or not to share something. Then he committed. “There is something else . . .”
“And what would that be?” I asked. I’d suspected that all the talk of politics and military affairs was obscuring his real reasons for seeking my counsel. Like most Gilmorans, he couldn’t just come out and say it. He had to sneak up on it.
“I seem to have an embarrassment of Talent in Losara,” he confessed, still avoiding the subject by discussing context, first. It was one of those things you just had to get used to. “When I was invested with one barony and made steward of another, I took care to identify everyone with Talent I could. Then I quietly invited them to relocate near my castle, and subsidized it, if needed. Usually the promise of working with a High Mage was enough. But in just a few short months I’ve gotten a little cenacle of magi, or potential magi, collected.”
“I applaud your foresight, but your goal escapes me,” I admitted.
“Min, if the Nemovorti are looking for new bodies for them and their pet draugen, then we must take pains to prevent that,” he pointed out. “It’s not an ideal situation. Some of those spellmongers and hedgewitches have thriving businesses they’re neglecting. But if each one is a potential foe, it behooves me to take some defensive measures.”
“Can you protect them?” I asked, realizing that he was correct.
“I think so,” he said, more anxious than I’d ever seen him. “Gods, I hope so, Min. They’re good folk, proper Gilmorans who weathered the invasion and survived. The common magi of Gilmora really pitched in, both in the invasion and during the recovery. Now that the Censorate is gone, some of them were profoundly improving their economic prospects. I’d hate to see them consumed by Korbal before they’ve had a chance to enjoy the fruits of their Talents.”
I looked at him carefully. I’d known Astyral for years, and while there were other High Magi I knew better, I was familiar enough with his mannerisms to realize there was something else behind his concern. Something that was novel in my experience. Perhaps Ishi or Briga guided my thoughts, but I suddenly realized what the source of his discomfort was.
“What’s her name?” I prodded.
He looked at me and then looked at me more intently, before looking away. He didn’t deny it.
“Maithieran,” he said, almost defiantly. “Lady Maithieran of Benfrandine. She was just finishing her advanced studies at Alar when some bloody spellmonger in the distant west upset her plans,” he related. “So
she took a paying position in Tantonel at an abbey hospital, just in time for the invasion. Then she served in a field hospital. She’s a medical mage,” he explained, with open admiration in his voice. “Well-studied and possessed of a superior Talent. Order of Murvos, of course. Very distinguished.” It was as if he were relating her qualifications for a job.
I laughed out loud, despite myself. “Astyral, you don’t have to rationalize your attraction to me. If you like her, I can only conclude that she’s wonderful. Of nearly everyone I know, your standards are impeccable.”
“I am gratified you feel so,” he said, hoisting his cup toward me in a silent toast. “In truth, I’m smitten. Oh, I’ve dallied with maids across the western lands,” he said, half-bragging. “I’ve enjoyed the company of high-born maidens and horny sluts who were more enamored of my form than my prospects. But Maithieran is . . . different.” The airy tone in his voice told me all I needed to know.
“The right ones always are,” I agreed with a smile. “Just ask Pentandra. Did you ever feel that she would fall?”
“For anything less than a god? No, but I don’t think I’m disappointed by her decision. Arborn is a noble fellow, worthy of our sister-in-craft. But Maithieran is as sweetly quenching to my peculiar temperament as Arborn is to Pentandra’s, I’d wager,” he said, sounding increasingly enamored of this mystery woman. “She is—”
“I’m going to stop you, before you start quoting romantic poetry and make me regret choosing this overly sweet vintage,” I interrupted. “I concede that she’s Ishi and Trygg’s divine gift to masculinity, beautiful, charming and wise. You like the girl. I understand.”
“I appreciate your sense of grace, as always,” Astyral sighed. “She is of noble blood, so that is an advantage. Her father is a baron in the east of Gilmora, and she was fostered in Karinboll at the castle of a kinsman, preparing for a good marriage — until her rajira arose. Then she was accepted to Alar. She’s very highly regarded amongst her professional peers, particular in the realm of surgery. But the moment I set eyes on her, Min, I understood what you saw in that dairy maid you married,” he sighed, clearly enjoying his own infatuation.
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