Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “I still want water,” Alya insisted. “Something more than a ditch or moat.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” Carmella agreed. “Let me think about it.”

  “The children certainly seem to like it,” I pointed out, as they chased their teenaged nurse across the meadow.

  “Is it safe?” she asked, concerned, suddenly scanning the edges of the meadow for predators.

  “Oh, I have the entire area under wards,” Carmella assured her. “I surveyed it myself and persuaded the major predators to leave this region alone. Or had one of my men who’s a beastmaster do it,” she amended. “I don’t do well with animals. But it’s safe.”

  “Then . . . I approve,” Alya decided. “It really is lovely.”

  “Let me take you to the summit to see the view from the hill while the nurse and Carmella sets up the picnic,” I suggested.

  “What picnic?” Alya asked, confused again.

  “Oh,” I said, realizing I’d forgotten something. I quickly activated a hoxter pocket from my staff and produced a bulging hamper of food and bottles. “That picnic. Sorry, I had the cook put it together this morning. There’s a blanket or two in there, and some of the kids’ toys. We’ll be back, shortly.”

  It only took twenty minutes to walk the gentle path up to the summit of the hill. There were plenty of trees to guard the way – most of the land here was heavily wooded – but the path had been there for years, I could tell. Made by Wilderfolk feet in happier times. Atop the crest of the mound was a double rocky outcrop where the granite under the soil peaked out, looking east and west. It provided a reasonably level platform the size of a house from which to overlook the entire vale below.

  The perspective as we looked out over the greening land was gorgeous. The snow still lurked in the shadows of the abundant hills even as every branch burst with new growth and the underbrush greened aggressively. Grasses and herbs were thrusting out of last summer’s dead vegetation and vines were crawling up new saplings. Hundreds of varieties of wildflowers had already emerged from the brush, adding an endless splash of color to mark the seasonal transformation. The air smelled of a mix of melting snow, recent rain, and the rich, earthy aroma of vegetative growth.

  “Min, thank you for this,” Alya said, after a few rapturous minutes of staring at the scenery. “This is such a beautiful place.”

  “It’s as close to your original home as I could find,” I told her, as I wrapped her in my cloak and my arms against the chill. “It’s the kind of place I had planned on settling with you, before the war.”

  “It feels familiar,” she agreed. “This will be nice,” she decided.

  “It’s an afternoon’s ride from town,” I pointed out, even after she gave her approval. “There’s a village just a few miles down the road. There’s room in this domain for three or four good estates. Plenty of woodlands, meadow pastures, and good, wholesome springs. The magical currents are incredible,” I added, though that wouldn’t matter much to Alya. “Strong elemental currents. I can do incredible work here. As good as Sevendor, before the snowstone. Better, probably.”

  “The children will love it, too,” she agreed. “Lots of room to play. And it’s safe,” she asserted. “Carmella said so.”

  “As safe as I can make it. I’ll ward this place up tighter than a dowager’s frown. And we’ll have guards. We’ll have to, I’m afraid. Especially after . . . all that has happened.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, dismissively. “I’ve seen enough to know they’re needed. I just want the children to be safe.”

  “They will be,” I promised.

  “Min,” she said, suddenly, her eyes suddenly awash in anxiety. “Min, is it true that I was pregnant when . . . when I had the accident?”

  That was not a question I was prepared for . . . but I should have been. I’d been so concerned about Alya’s well-being since the Magewar that I’d nearly forgotten the child we’d lost in the aftermath. Suddenly all the feeling I had stuffed away in my obsession returned.

  “Yes, Alya,” I affirmed, my throat suddenly as dry as it had ever been. “We lost a baby.”

  “That makes you sad,” she observed.

  “Of course it makes me sad,” I agreed. “It was a very sad thing. Tragic, even. But you survived,” I offered. “As much as I hate that we lost the baby, I’ll bear that burden gladly, if it means that you’re still with me.”

  “It makes me sad, too,” she admitted. “But I’m glad I’m alive. The nuns at the abbey said they performed a service for her soul,” she added, almost lightly. “I’m not certain how to feel about that.”

  “Religion is a slippery thing,” I agreed. “But it gave some acknowledgment to the life that could have been, and expressed our grief, I supposed. In some official capacity. I don’t know, Alya,” I sighed. “I did have a new apple grove planted at Holy Hill in her honor,” I added. “If nothing else, there will be more apples because of her. But does that make it better, somehow?”

  “I like apples. Death is a slippery thing,” Alya replied, quietly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve been dead, and now I’m living a life I don’t really know. That I somewhat remember, like a dream, but that I’m seeing with new eyes. Death might be like that, I think. Or it might be something entirely different,” she conceded. “All I know is that I once had a life inside me, and now I don’t. I should be sad about that.”

  “Should be?” I asked, curious.

  “I . . . I don’t know, Min!” she confessed. “I mean, I do know what I should be feeling, but . . . what I actually feel is . . . confused.”

  “I think that’s natural,” I suggested. “All religion does is give us a means to understand that confusion, if we’re looking for one. It’s supposed to bring you comfort and make you feel better. Or worse, in some sects,” I conceded.

  “Losing a baby means I failed,” she said, firmly. “I was supposed to protect her. I didn’t.”

  “Alya, you almost died!” I gasped, shocked at her leap of logic. “Hells, I almost died! You can’t blame yourself for that! If anything, it was my fault!”

  “I think it was Isily’s fault,” she said, sharply, her eyes narrowing. “She killed our baby.”

  “Isily’s dead,” I informed her. “Or near-enough. She’s less responsive than you were, at your worst moments.”

  “I know,” Alya said, quietly. “But she’s the one at fault. Not us. But I will do better,” she promised.

  “What?” I asked, even more confused.

  “I said I will do better. I must do better. I will not lose another baby,” she declared. “I will not fail again.”

  “Alya, we have two beautiful, healthy children,” I said, gently.

  “Which proves I can do it,” she replied. “I’ve done it twice before. I can do it again.”

  “Alya . . . I’m not certain if . . . if that is entirely wise,” I said, my mind racing. Hells, I didn’t even know if Alya could still bear children, as a consequence of her injuries. I needed to ask Lilastien about that.

  The truth was, I was terrified of the idea, after all she’d been through.

  “Perhaps not,” she conceded. “Not right now. I’m not ready, yet. I’m still getting my bearings. But I do know I want more children, Minalan,” she said. “They’re fascinating.”

  That wasn’t the word I would have chosen to describe my two little demons. Not the first word, at least.

  “There might be a lot of risk in that,” I pointed out, quietly. I didn’t want to tell her it might be physically impossible. Part of me hoped it was, as it was psychologically challenging for her, at best. I didn’t even think about what a pregnancy would do to my mind, at the time. My concern was for Alya. “I don’t want to lose you to childbirth after I’ve fought so hard to get you back from the brink of death!” I finally admitted.

  “Nor do I wish to die,” she agreed, evenly, “but I do know that I want to try to have another baby. I . . . need to,” she insisted, her voice filled
with desperate anguish.

  “If . . . if you need to, then we will see to it,” I finally answered, after a long, painful pause. There was a maelstrom of emotion in my heart about the idea. I needed some time to think about it. Risking a fatal pregnancy after I’d come so close to losing her seemed like madness. But she was my wife. My mad wife.

  But still, my wife.

  “If it is possible, and we can mitigate the risks by magic . . . then I will do my best to see it happen,” I finally said, barely above a whisper.

  “You will, Minalan?” she asked, a tear forming at the corner of her eye. “It means far more to me than a castle. I know you have doubts about me, I know you do. But I . . . I need to try.”

  “I am your husband, Alya,” I sighed. “If you need to try, then I need to support you. But . . . it will be frightening,” I told her. “I’m terrified of the idea. Of losing you. But if you need to try, I’ll try with you. And take the risk of losing you.”

  “I would not ask if—”

  “Don’t explain,” I insisted. “It is enough that you need to try. There is no explanation other than that I need to hear.”

  “Thank you, Minalan,” she whispered, as she melted into my arms.

  Damn you, Minalan! I screamed at myself in my head.

  Suddenly my enthusiasm with Spellgarden waned. My life just got far more complicated.

  Intermission

  Ithalia was waiting for me, quite unexpectedly, when I returned from Spellgarden.

  She looked haggard, which is a subtle thing in a transformed Alka Alon. Ordinarily, their human-like forms seem tireless, always alert and interested. But my long experience with the Tera Alon (all of three or four years) told me that the Emissary from the Avalanti had nearly exhausted her capacities, of late, and it showed in her face.

  “What brings you to my cozy new home, under a rock, Lady Emissary?” I asked, cheerfully, once Ruderal brought wine to my solar and left us in peace.

  “You are the head of the Beryen Council,” she pointed out, after taking a healthy sip of wine. “I’m a member. I have . . .” she paused, trailing off. That was a definite sign of an exhausted Tera Alon, I realized.

  “News?” I supplied. “Comments? Concerns? Rude remarks?”

  “A bit of each, actually,” she agreed with a heavy sigh. “Where to begin?”

  “I assume the beginning is too banal to consider,” I suggested, with a chuckle. “But I might be able to help. What’s bothering you the most?” I prodded. My uneventful journey to Vanador with my father had given me some insights on his approach to troubled young people . . . and Ithalia was still of tender years, though she’d been born before my great grandsires. Age is relative.

  “Honestly? I’m contending with a few thousand eager Tera Alon who want to engage the gurvani and their Enshadowed masters at once, and they aren’t equipped to do so,” she revealed.

  “We can get them arms,” I promised. “We’re working with the Dradrien now to get the mines open and weapons forged. And armor,” I assured her.

  “That’s not what I meant, Minalan,” she said, shaking her head in a most human fashion. “It’s not their panoply that’s at issue – it’s their expectations.”

  “You think they have an unrealistic perspective on warfare?” I asked, surprised.

  “Most of them are young, and haven’t experienced real war,” she complained. “Our sires had a dim view of the practice, and discouraged its study. Those who have enlisted with the Tera Alon are . . . unprepared. Mentally. Emotionally. Culturally. Half of them believe that a stern talking-to will be sufficient to bring the gurvani to heel. The other half are looking to punish them for the temerity of challenging immortals. Neither realize what their actions actually entail.”

  “You have my sympathies,” I sighed. “You have a difficult task ahead, Ithalia.”

  “I’ve spent the last months travelling between a half-dozen encampments where the Tera Alon have gathered and are being transformed,” she reported, glumly. “That part, at least, is going well. But once changed, they . . . well, they spend so much time getting adjusted that they are reluctant to study the very things that will serve their desires. Nor do they seem willing to come to a consensus on what to do, next. I need some . . . I need a wizard, Minalan,” she confessed, guiltily.

  “You just need to bring them all together,” I suggested, after a moment’s thought. “Bring them here, to Vanador, those who are willing and you deem ready. Once they have a chance to wallow in their shared experience and observe we humani in our natural habitat, perhaps some of the mystique will fade.”

  “You think it is that simple?” she challenged, skeptically.

  I sighed, and tried to keep in mind the Emissary’s relative youth and inexperience. “Ithalia, you’re facing the same situation every young, idealistic leader does when they raise their banner. In your case, those most interested in joining you are among the most extreme and radical in your society. Those most open to experiencing life as a human. Sort of,” I conceded. “They are enthusiastic. But they’re also untried, untested, and untrained. Bring some of them here, and we’ll help.”

  “I appreciate your assistance, Minalan,” she said, gratefully. “I am . . . I am overwhelmed. And I find I have a difficulty admitting it. I had hoped that the Beryen Council would take some of the pressure off, but in truth the opportunity afforded by the order has enflamed the imagination of the Tera Alon even more . . . and I do not need more imagination, at the moment. I need reasonable, responsible leadership . . . and I need these idiots to follow it!” she fumed.

  I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, which earned me a pointed look from my friend. “I bid you welcome to my eternal plight, Ithalia,” I said, apologetically. “You’ve concisely identified the central issue with all leadership and command: getting your subordinates to do something productive without losing their enthusiasm.”

  “How do you manage?” she demanded. “Minalan, I thought it would be easy to bring so many of my like-minded kin to join me in this endeavor, but everyone I speak to insists that they, alone, have a clear vision of what needs to happen. It’s . . . it’s disheartening. How do you humani warrior princes contend with such a difficult situation?” she asked.

  “Usually a few summary executions, and . . . wait, I’m joking!” I assured her, as her face turned pale. “Really, it just takes a little time. Get them here, in Vanador,” I urged. “We will teach them how to be what they wish to become.”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad, if some of them didn’t hold some appalling opinions and misconceptions about the humani,” she said, a trace of guilt in her voice. “Really, Minalan, their ideas about how your folk conduct themselves border on the scandalous!”

  “By human standards, or Alkan?” I challenged. “Ithalia, you and your sisters are doing something unique in my experience, and in the annals of history: you are attempting to formulate a new society, a new people, based on a few thousands’ affectation and admiration of a foreign culture. They are earnest in their desire to learn the ‘secrets’ of human culture. I fear they will ultimately be disappointed. From my experience and observations, humanity and the Alka Alon are so similar in nature that they differ only in the scale in which the universe has forced them to endure.”

  “You really aren’t helping, Minalan,” Ithalia said, sipping yet more wine.

  “I actually am,” I countered. “It’s rare that a wizard’s advice on a situation is agreeable and pleasant. That doesn’t make it wrong. The situation you are facing is wrought with many problems . . . but much opportunity,” I proposed. “The Tera Alon will never be fully accepted by the Alka Alon. Nor by the humani, although we’re less discriminating about our company,” I pointed out, wryly. “That said, the Tera Alon will, alas, be forced to choose between being among the least of the Alka Alon or among the greatest of the humani. That’s something I don’t think even most of the Tera Alon have considered.”

  “Among a great many oth
er things,” Ithalia said, coolly. “Yet I must use the tools which the universe has provided me to accomplish what clearly needs to be done,” she said, resolutely. “Korbal and his followers must be defeated and destroyed,” she declared.

  “And Sheruel,” I reminded her. “I have a grudge against that particular evil dark lord.”

  “Of course,” she conceded. “Yet he is but a tool. A tool that can be destroyed. An Abomination,” she pronounced. “Many of my new folk have an antipathy toward the Dead God.”

  “All of humanity does,” I pointed out, gravely. “But even that is secondary to the matter of our mutual survival. We need to convince the Vundel that we aren’t merely a blot on the Dry lands. That we are an advantage for Callidore, not a liability. Defeating Korbal and Sheruel will go a long way toward that.”

  “Agreed,” the young Tera Alon nodded. “That is easy enough to say aloud, Spellmonger, but it does little to address the real considerations of such a struggle. What strategy do you propose?” she challenged.

  “Would you follow the counsel of an ephemeral humani warrior prince, rather than the staid and well-considered advice of the Alka Alon council?” I countered.

  “Like my grandmother, I’ve spent most of my life going against the council’s considered advice,” she pointed out. “You humans are ephemeral, but that just means you must be inspired to do anything worthwhile in such a short life.”

  “Establish your folk here. Carmella already has a precinct set aside for them, near to the Kasari. Then take command of them, yourself. No one knows the humani better than you,” I praised. “No one is better suited to lead the Tera Alon into the future. Given your example, and exposure to Vanador, I think that your enthusiastic idiots could become decisive in the struggle. And of much use to the Beryen Council. We still need to find our errant Ameras,” I reminded her. “That’s a task for which your folk are well-suited.”

  “That still doesn’t answer the challenge of the Vundel,” she countered. “How are a handful of transgenically enchanted Alka Alon going to convince them not to destroy us all?”