“Well, that Moudrost’s pod is one of six belonging to his Leviathan,” he ticked off. “His Leviathan is the fourth weakest of the five in the Shallow Sea, and that there is some element of competition between the local groups. Don’t ask me to explain further,” he added, “it took me an hour to figure out that much. But the snowstone gave his pod and its mates some sort of competitive advantage, and the big fish are all a-twitter about it. You, my lord, have quite some leverage over them. At least the local ones. And I can’t help thinking that Moudrost’s lot wants to keep this to themselves. At least for a few centuries.”
“Well, when your best hen always lays double, you don’t let on to your neighbors,” I reasoned. “I appreciate the way you used that to establish a more reasonable discussion on the exchange. I feared that was going to be an awkward conversation, and one whose conclusion I would not like. As it is, it appears that I have to redouble my efforts in thaumaturgy, now. Time to get busy actually assembling the greatest minds in thaumaturgy, and devoting an incredible amount of energy to the subject. But your intervention accomplished that more quickly than I anticipated,” I praised.
“That’s what we lawbrothers do,” he nodded. “Protect the interests of our clients. Of course, usually when we act as an agent or advisor during a transaction, we charge a small, modest percentage,” he added, lightly. “You know . . . it’s traditional.”
I gave him one of my best stares. He ignored it.
“I thought pursuing the law for the purpose of enriching yourself was unethical?” I pointed out. “As it taints the purity of the pursuit, and obscures the intent and bias of the agent?”
“Conversely, a wealthy agent rarely has a need to cheat his client,” Brother Bryte argued.
“But doesn’t excess wealth undermine the integrity of society by inducing inherent unfairness into the system? I’ve heard you say yourself that ‘a rich man has no thirst for justice; indeed, he fears it.’”
“I say a lot of things,” he demurred, guiltily. “I drink a lot.”
“And doesn’t the temptation to acquire wealth incline a man toward seeking unfair advantage over his neighbors?” I added, recalling a lengthy discussion on the topic, on our way to Vanador. “By your own admission, a lawbrother could not be both wealthy and just.”
“You know, I believe that is a theory that should be thoroughly tested, before a conclusion is drawn,” he suggested, gently.
“I look forward to your conclusions,” I said, dryly.
“As do I. All in the name of research. But that does beg an important question.”
“And that is?” I asked, knowing it would be a good one.
“Just how much is ten percent of ‘uncomfortably wealthy’”’ he asked. “It’s for my notes.”
Part Three
Thaumaturgical Autumn
“Minalan only took a token role in the Arcane Orders during his exile, allowing his subordinates to run the organization Baroness Pentandra had painstakingly created. Yet he attended every Convocation he could faithfully and played his part as the ceremonial head of the institution. The first such visit during his exile was some solace for missing his beloved Magical Fair in Sevendor. But there can be no doubt that returning to the city he’d seen nearly destroyed by a dragon was a particularly somber occasion for the Spellmonger. In many ways, the recovering city mirrored his own broken relationship with Castal.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser
.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Quiet Convocation
The Arcane Orders’ annual convocation was the first time I had returned to Castabriel since my exile. It was a bittersweet but eventful return to the Castali capital. Originally scheduled for Midsummer, it had been postponed to closer to the equinox, due to the ongoing repair and recovery efforts in the city. The usual warm, moist scent you could occasionally detect over the urban stench was instead a cool, damp breeze that promised a wet, robust autumn.
I found that the city I had defended from dragon and undead had recovered, somewhat, from the horrors of that fateful day. Most of the burned-out buildings and scorched rooftops had been removed and were either in the midst of repair or had already been repaired. There were still a few lots where the gutted walls of a building stood like gravestones to bear testament to the terror that had slain thousands, but for the most part the City of Lights had buried its dead, repaired its damage, and continued on with life.
But without the dominating feature of Donrard’s Spire hulking over the eastern end of the city, something just didn’t seem right about the place. The palace complex was teeming with work crews still hauling away debris, while other gangs prepared to begin construction of the new palace. Scaffolding was being erected everywhere. After experiencing the full power and efficiency of thaumaturgically-enhanced construction, it was almost comical to see how slowly the duke’s men worked. Anguin had rebuilt his palace at Vorone in two years, with magic’s aid. Without it, it would take a decade for Duke Tavard to finish his.
It was a relief to be back in Castabriel without violating my exile. Under its terms, I was allowed back into the duchy for official business involving the Royal Court or the Arcane Orders only, and this visit clearly fell into the latter category. When I appeared at the designated Waystone point at the former temple now used as our headquarters, I didn’t have the same uneasiness I had endured on my earlier errand to Barrowbell. I stayed at the Order’s motherhouse a week with my apprentice and a few retainers, and saw many old friends I realized I missed terribly.
The Order’s regular business didn’t actually take up my time, anymore. The current administrative head was adept at his job, so most of my contribution as official head revolved around hearing his annual report, approving a number of appointments and policies he’d largely already instituted, and presiding over the various parties, receptions and meetings of the subsidiary orders. We handled most of the mundane business the first day, allowing me to devote most of the rest of my trip to my real mission: thaumaturgy.
Though Thinradel had done a masterful job building, equipping and staffing the new Vanador bouleuterion, there were still several important positions for enchanters he needed to fill before he could count his work done. In the meantime, Carmella had ensured the construction of a hall for a separate institution devoted to the pure science of magic, Thaumaturgy, was nearly complete by Midsummer.
There were enough spare residences in the brand-new town to house the staff, now, and despite the rumblings of war in the west I was eager to commence the work I knew had to be done on the snowstone project. If we were going to figure out how I blundered into the wondrous material in the first place, we were going to have to lay the theoretical groundwork before we had any chance of repeating the spell.
My mission at the Convocation was to recruit as many of the smartest thaumaturges as I could to come to Vanador . . . and as luck would have it, there were several. The Order of Tarkarine, devoted to the academic study of magic, had a bumper-crop of thaumaturges attending this year. Most of them were looking for practical work in enchantment, as Sevendor’s bouleuterion had made so many enchanters wealthy men in the last few years. While I hired quite a few to come to Vanador, I also encountered at least a half-dozen pure theorists I was able to lure to my remote land . . . once I paid them a stipend in advance.
The financial support helped my effort, but everyone seemed to want to work with the Spellmonger and have a chance to catch my eye and win a witchstone. The new head of the order, Master Hamanol of Aubry, was far more pleasant to work with than Master Dunselen. Nor did he seem to have any aspirations of marrying any of my ex-girlfriends, which was a bonus in my mind.
When it became known that I was looking for theorists, not just practical adepts, they seemed to emerge from the woodwork. Every party and reception I attended saw me dragged to a corner and besieged by enthusiastic thaumaturges who wanted to expound on their personal theories of just about everything.
Th
ankfully, I had a means of sorting through the dross and finding the best, for my purposes: Taren.
The man had grown visibly older since his tenure as the Order’s caretaker lord for Baron Dunselen’s confiscated possessions. His association with Greenflower and Castle Saleisus had worn on him, as a daily walk through the land of the dead might do. But he had kept his charge faithfully for nearly three years, now, and had developed a certain measure of fortitude about the dead that allowed him to maintain his sanity.
The duty had taken a toll on him. He’d started out tall and skinny. He’d only grown more gaunt over the years, and there were shadows under his eyes that weren’t there when I’d first met him. It was more than the fading of youth; Taren had seen things few wizards could imagine at the tower that was, effectively, half in our world and half in the Otherworld.
I met with him the second day of the Convocation, alone in my apartments. He began the discussion by sliding a small carved rock over the table to me.
“What’s that?”
“That’s all of Dunselen’s records, in a hoxter pocket,” he reported, a faint note of triumph in his voice. “All of his notes of his trials trying to replicate the snowstone spell. There are even lengthy records of his conversations with you, complete with commentary,” he added with a small chuckle. “Apparently he hung on your every word while despising you for your arrogance and success.”
“Thanks, that will come in handy,” I agreed, placing the stone in my pouch. “I was going to ask you to come up with a summary, at least, but this is far more helpful.”
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands,” he shrugged. “It seemed to be a good use of it. I also included notes on the properties of bluestone, and its various derivatives,” he added. “That’s mostly my work. I’ve discovered some more of its attributes, including some intriguing possibilities of its use in hoxter pockets.”
“Why would you use bluestone for hoxter pockets?” I asked, confused.
“Because I happened to have the world’s entire supply at my disposal, and I was bored,” Taren answered. “The common sort doesn’t do much but allow a far easier introduction to the Otherworld. But there were other materials in the wake of the spell that display much different properties. I . . . I might be on to a way to use it to preserve a living enneagram through a hoxter.”
That was stunning news. “Tell me!” I urged.
“It’s still mostly theoretical,” he confided. “But there were a few materials that seemed to offer some protection for enneagrammatic energies in our world. I’m still playing around with the practical side, but I’ve managed to get at least one chicken through a hoxter without killing it,” he revealed.
“Taren, that’s brilliant!”
“Not really – it came back . . . damaged. Chickens aren’t particularly smart to begin with, but this one came back so addled it couldn’t feed itself. It died of starvation a few days later. But it did come through the hoxter alive.”
“That’s amazing news – maybe something we can build upon,” I reasoned.
“I thought you’d like that,” he agreed. “Hopefully it will put you in a good enough mood to hear what I have to say next: I quit.”
“What?” I exclaimed, shocked.
“I need to . . . I have to get away from Greenflower, Min,” he said, guiltily. “I’ve been there for a couple of years, and the place is mad. Not the outer territories, for the most part, but Castle Saleisus itself is . . . it’s not a wholesome place, Min,” he explained, darkly.
“I know,” I sighed. “I can see the toll it’s taken on you. All right, I can’t fault you for not trying. You’ve done incredible work there. I haven’t heard a single complaint since the Magewar.”
“That’s because I reversed most of the damage that Dunselen did to the locals,” he agreed, “and bribed plenty of the more vocal of them into complacency. It’s only a few of the domains that have problems, now, and they’re mostly deserted. Particularly Castle Saleisus. The peasants found it hard to weed their fields when their long-dead grandsires can appear at any time to tell them how they’re doing everything wrong.”
“That sort of thing actually happens?” I asked, startled.
“Not every day. But often enough to scare the peasants away. In a year it will be a dead domain,” he predicted. “The only people there now are those affected by the original spell. The blue-eyed ones,” he named them.
All of those who’d been within a half-mile of Dunselen and Isily’s mad attempt to re-create the snowstone spell had suffered when every bit of calcium in their bodies had adopted a pronounced bluish tint, including the whites of their eyes and their teeth. It was a shocking effect that was made even more horrible by the fact that they existed now in a perpetual dreamlike state, where they could see and sense the dead and the other terrors that lurked in the invisible Overworld.
“I will find a replacement for you,” I promised. “Probably Khedron – he’s got a fascination for necromancy, and I think he’d be eager to study the place. He’s done well as my spellwarden in Sevendor and probably deserves the promotion.”
“I wouldn’t call it a promotion,” Taren said, shaking his head gravely. “But I cannot contend with it, any longer. I will be submitting my formal resignation by the end of the Convocation, but I wanted to discuss it with you, first.”
“I appreciate that. That gives me time to extend the invitation to Khedron.”
“There’s something else,” he continued. “I think you need to move your children out of Greenflower. They are in danger, there.”
“How? Greenflower is under the Order’s protection. I thought they had adequate defenses . . .” I insisted.
When Isily had conceived a daughter with me, back during the Timberwatch Campaign, she’d hidden the lass in the far Castali Wilderlands. A few years later she raped me in the Chamber of the Snowflake, beginning a conflict that was to become the Greenflower Magewar, which had ended with her living death and my wife’s enfeeblement. The baby born from that union had been the one that had sparked the bluestone spell. Though he was unaffected by the bluish taint, Taren had been seeing to the child’s support, along with my daughter’s, for the last two years.
“I’m not worried about the neighbors – they won’t attack Greenflower. But there have been spies in the barony from less-savory sources. I believe they are watching your kids, Min, not me. I don’t like it, and I would feel better about leaving if they did, too.”
I considered the matter. The two children were mine by blood, but I didn’t know them. The little boy would someday inherit Greenflower as Dunselen’s ostensible son, but the girl didn’t even exist, officially. I had vowed to support her, and I intended to, but I had so much else happening with Vanador that I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to contend with that for years.
“I see your point,” I sighed. “Khedron isn’t much of a father-figure, either. This is a difficult time for me to spare them attention,” I said, warily, more to myself than Taran.
“If they are captured by Korbal, to what purpose do you think he would put them?” my friend asked, carefully and deliberately.
That got my attention. And placed the matter in its proper perspective. “You’re right. Make preparations to bring them to Vanador. I suppose . . . I suppose we can take them in, now.”
“Thank you,” he sighed. “The girl, Ismina, is actually quite clever, for one so young. She’s got your eyes, too,” he added. I winced at that, but he didn’t catch it. “I try to spend a few hours with her every day, just talking. To be honest, she’s a relief for me, after I’ve spent too long at the Castle.”
“I’m sure she’ll do fine in Vanador,” I grunted . . . realizing that I would have to explain to Alya why we suddenly had two more children in the household. I was not looking forward to that conversation. “Why don’t you join us?” I asked, suddenly. “I need good thaumaturges, and you’re the best. The children are used to you. And the fresh air and wholesome setting might be
good for you,” I added, though that was my primary concern. He looked terrible.
“I . . . I’ll consider it,” he agreed. “I just don’t want to be in charge,” Taren confessed. “I’m not terrible at it, but it gets in the way of research.”
“Master Hamanol has already recommended someone to lead the effort,” I assured him. “Master Theronial, of Inarion Academy,” I announced.
“Master Theronial?” he asked, impressed. “How will you lure him away from his comfortable position?”
“Bribes,” I shrugged. “He’ll get a witchstone out of it, as well as use of the bouleuterion workshops. And the opportunity to oversee the most comprehensive study of thaumaturgy since the Early Magocracy. I’ll even use money, if I have to. But Hamanol said that either Theronial or the Wenshari thaumaturge, Master Lugiran, would be the only two he could foresee finding the answer. Theronial is closer and I know him already.”
“Lugiran would work, but he’s an asshole,” Taren assured me. “Weylan introduced me to him, once, when I was out there. A brilliant man, but insufferable. He practically begged me for a witchstone, and then got indignant when I told them only your hand could grant them. He’s from an old Wenshari family that dates itself back to Perwyn. He’s not impressed by western wizards.”
“I’m not impressed by Imperial pedigrees,” I pointed out. “His reputation also convinced me to ask Master Theronial. He’s almost as brilliant, it’s said, and he’s a lot better dining companion.”
Much of the rest of the Convocation I spent mingling, seeing old friends, and generally catching up on gossip and news. Forondal of Robinwing got married and was expecting a baby, for instance, and Mistress Argastina had been made a baroness by her friend, the queen. The regular fetes with the Order of the Secret Tower, the Order of Enchanters, and the three colleges were predictably filled with chatter amongst the merrymaking, and I dutifully attended every one.
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