“What others have done to the place,” he corrected. “I’ve barely been there. But it is, indeed, transformed, since we led the children on the Great March. Larger, safer, more secure, and far more prosperous, now that the locals treat the Kasari as allies, not enemies.”
“Where’s Penny?” Mavone asked, a slightly drunken lilt to his voice. “I thought Pentandra would surely be here?”
“She attends to matters of state,” Arborn supplied, quietly. “Thanks to my wife and the help of House Furitus, there will be nothing left of the rebel cabal come Yule. Then, perhaps, she can spare some time for the Magelaw. Until then, she sends me as a poor substitute,” he said, with good humor.
“And Anguin?” I asked, without providing further detail. Arborn knew what I wanted to know.
“He and the Duchess are still very much in love, and in truth it appears that His Grace’s calm disposition has tamed her more wild temperament. She’s . . . almost pleasant, most times,” he said, grudgingly. “And young Rondal has become one of the leading gentlemen of the court,” he added. “Anguin has come to depend greatly on his council. And not merely in matters arcane. Sir Rondal has been instrumental in his administration, serving to look for problems and then solve them on His Grace’s behalf. After Yule, the Court will turn its attention toward Farise,” he added. “Rondal has many intriguing ideas about the subject.”
“No doubt he has,” I chuckled. “Especially before Tavard has the opportunity to embarrass himself, again. I’ve kept my distance from both the Royal and Castali courts, but the murmurs I’ve heard demonstrate how earnestly they both desire to reconquer Farise.”
“Speaking of rumors,” Arborn said, even more quietly, “word has reached the south that you seem to have sparked a feud with one Gilmoran count, over the course of the summer. And they’ve spread beyond court gossip and into the larger society,” he added.
“I do recall a few incidents, down in Barrowbell around the Count’s Champion’s Tournament,” I said, purposefully vague. “There may have been some conflict. The details remain hazy in my memory.”
“No doubt,” Arborn chuckled.
The Kasari take a dim view of Narasi politics, in general, and the particularly brutal form practiced in Gilmora was completely against their nature. The Kasari are unreasonably reasonable about such things. Deceit, treachery, vendettas and betrayal were foreign to Kasari tribal governance. But Arborn had been exposed to feudal politics for two years, now, and had held his own as a minister in a Ducal court. While I regretted my brawny friend’s loss of innocence, he had better appreciation of Alshari (and Gilmoran) attitudes on the practice of governing than most Kasari.
“Yet Anguin is . . . concerned,” he continued, not looking at me as he spoke of important matters – a courtier’s trick. “He wonders if you have, perhaps, chosen too great a rival in your present position. The Count of Nion is powerful, commanding great armies of vassals. Should he decide to turn those forces on you, His Grace would have little means to intervene.”
“Nor should he,” I grunted. “I’m a grown up, Arborn. Please assure His Grace that the Spellmonger chooses his enemies with even more care than he selects his friends. Besides,” I snorted, “considering how the Gilmorans performed in the invasion, I am hardly concerned that the good count will be able to rouse himself and his people to such a level. And if Count Anvaram seeks to poison my name in the Castali ducal court, he’ll find that milk long soured.”
“Still, the Count of Nion is one of the three or four greatest territorial nobles in the court,” Arborn reminded me. “Nor is he constrained by the King, the way Tavard is. Should the prince decide to use his friend the count as a foil against you, he could do so with impunity.”
“Arborn, these good gentlemen just defeated an army of more than twenty-five thousand gurvani without me having to do more than sit on my horse and look pretty,” I pointed out. “Come Spring, they could face almost twice as many, and still they do not worry. Nor do I. If we can resist a foe that great, why would we be concerned about some chinless Gilmoran count who can’t keep his own wife from straying? The man irritates me,” I confessed, sincerely.
“What has he done to offend you, so?” Arborn asked, curious. I decided that, of all the courtiers I knew, Arborn was the only one I could entrust my reasoning to. Well, Pentandra, perhaps, but she was too close to the centers of power for me to feel comfortable being candid with.
“At the Curia, he was by far the loudest, most obsequious, and most arrogant of the high nobles,” I explained, quietly. “I watched him from afar, but never spoke to him. He all but dared the king to reprove him as he pushed Tavard’s interests ahead of his peers. He’s the worst sort of opportunistic scavenger, when it comes to the vacant estates and shattered society of Gilmora, and he does nothing to improve his forces, despite their ignoble performance at the Poros. He’s a self-important, festering pimple on the arse of Gilmora, and it would be a fair day for that tortured province if he was to break his neck falling from his horse because some well-endowed stableboy was distracted and forgot to tighten his saddle,” I declared.
It sounded a little more drunk than I’d intended, and perhaps I put a little more emotion into my voice than usual, but of one thing I was not in doubt: virtually every word I’d just said would be heard by Pentandra. And then Duke Anguin. And then others.
“You know your country best, Minalan,” Arborn sighed. “And you scheme like every wizard I’ve ever met. I’m certain you have your reasons. Should you piss him off enough, know that Lotanz is ready to stand for you,” he offered.
“I don’t think it will come to that,” I said, finishing my wine and setting the unreasonably heavy vessel down on the table. “And if it does, know that I won’t hesitate to make an example of the cowardly count. Ah! It appears Gareth is finally able to join us,” I observed, as the Steward of Vanador stumbled toward us, a cup in his right hand and his arm around . . . Nattia?
I blinked to be sure, but the attractive young woman snuggled up against the scrawny wizard’s side was, indeed, the slender Kasari girl with the short ginger hair . . . wearing a perfectly splendid gown of Sevendor green that emphasized her oft-overlooked femininity instead of her usual uniform. Both of them looked both pleased and a little drunk.
“Baron Arborn! Count Minalan!” Gareth gushed, as he poured himself into a chair, with Nattia’s help. “We won!” he said, as if it was news to us.
“So we did,” Arborn agreed.
“And we won in no small part to your efforts,” I reminded him. “Both of you,” I added, including Nattia in my gesture. “The Vanadori Wing performed flawlessly. And thanks to its Lord Steward, Vanador was not merely defended, but well-supplied during the crisis. No riots, no panic, no problems.”
“Oh, there were problems in gracious abundance,” Gareth assured me, solemnly. “But we brave warriors of the Parchment Corps just solved them. One great advantage of building a city from scratch is not having any previous bureaucracy to obstruct you,” he explained. “Back in Sevendor, it would have taken me ages to get anything done – and Sevendor was a well-run domain. But there were still far too many limitations. Here in Vanador, we get results!” he declared, slurring his words a bit.
“My friend has been celebrating enthusiastically,” Nattia explained, as Gareth almost slid off his chair before he caught himself. “Nor should you credit his tale. During the battle, he and his men were patrolling every station in the city, seeking any who lacked the slightest necessity. He ensured that all those we were defending felt protected.”
Gareth’s service had extended to far more than mere comfort, I learned later. He had been prepared for the worst, and had made certain that every man, woman, and child, every Dradrien, Malkas, Tal and Tera Alon knew where they could find shelter, food, and care for their ills – at the town’s expense.
More, he’d encouraged the temples and guild-houses to perform entertainments and social affairs designed to bring the rural
peasantry some appreciation of the rich culture Vanador was developing. He’d organized those taking refuge to prepare every hall and home for siege and a deluge of wounded men. He’d worked tirelessly, more than any man on his staff, to sustain Vanador against a rout or a dragon attack.
So when news came that Terleman had defeated Gaja Katar at the Fords of Asgot, the intensity of the Vanadori’s mood shifted from watchful anxiety . . . to an unrestrained outpouring of relief. Immediately, Gareth shifted the mission of each precinct and hall toward receiving the returning militiamen and the warmagi who had defended them with due honor and gratitude. And he had secured through the Wizard Mercantile a significant quantity of strong ale, wine, and spirits for the celebration.
“Just wait until Yule,” he continued, with unexpected confidence. “I know we have another army or two to face in the spring, but from what I understand the casualties were so light that all the somber crap I had prepared for the potential of grieving widows and mass funerals at Yule is unnecessary, now. Indeed, I’m thinking of a celebration so grand that the minstrels will sing of it.”
“Why would they do that?” Nattia asked, giggling.
“Because I will pay them to do so,” Gareth insisted. “Out of my own purse,” he added, hurriedly, as he realized that his boss’ husband was sitting next to me. “It’s hard to expense a bribe to a minstrel,” he admitted.
“Captain Nattia, it will be my pleasure to send word to His Grace how well the Vanadori Sky Riders performed against Gaja Katar,” Arborn told the girl. “Likewise, I shall also confer with the Bransei Council about seeing some recognition of your deeds. What rank are you, my lady?”
“I have had the honor of hanging my star, Captain Arborn,” she said, solemnly, coming to attention prettily. “I would have pursued the life oath, had I not taken up falconry.”
“Yet your service merits consideration,” he said . . . and then continued speaking in the Kasari language, of which I know almost nothing.
Gareth and I patiently waited while Arborn and Nattia chatted back and forth . . . although it was clear that, whatever the subject, the nature of the conversation was solemn. Nattia responded to Arborn’s queries with an undeniably formal tone. Then the captain of rangers embarked on a long speech in their language while Gareth and I looked on.
In the end, Nattia blushed and saluted, Arborn returned her salute, and she all but collapsed on the chair next to Gareth, her eyes sparkling.
“Your brother will be proud,” Arborn finished, in Narasi.
“What, she has a brother?” Gareth asked, confused.
“Proud of what?” I added. “Not that there isn’t plenty to be proud of.”
“It is . . . a Kasari matter,” Arborn said, giving Nattia a reassuring look. “As to her brother, Nattia’s younger brother is . . . well, he’s Talented,” Arborn said, looking a little embarrassed. “He is in seclusion, learning to contend with his abilities, but I will send word of her to him. He will be gratified. And proud of her.”
“Wait, he’s Talented?” Gareth gasped.
“I know little of such things,” Arborn said, skirting the Kasari vow of truthfulness – he was Pentandra’s husband, after all. He likely knew more about magic than any living Kasari, just being in her bed. “But yes, he has rajira in abundance. And a . . . sport Talent, at that. But it is not something we discuss, very often.”
“Arborn, with all the creepy undead lurking around, trying to steal away the bodies of magi to make more creepy undead, all Talented folk need to be warned and protected!” Gareth insisted.
“A conversation for another time,” I soothed. I could see Sandoval and his girl, Lady Andra, stumbling through the crowd toward us. “Besides, it appears that we’re about to be—”
“Minalan! Arborn! Gareth!” he called, as he approached, leading his lady by the hand, “Guess what? We got married! Can you believe it?” he asked, drunkenly.
“Oh, of course they can believe it!” his new bride said, playfully patting his face. “I’ve been sharing your bed for a year and doing your laundry – why would they not believe it?” she chided. “My husband,” she added, with a shy grin.
The happy couple was soon overwhelmed with congratulations from friends and well-wishers who wanted to hear the tale of their sudden nuptials. It seemed that Sandy had been so relieved at defending Vanador from Gaja Katar that he’d spontaneously proposed to her the moment he returned from Spellgate . . . and dragged her directly before a priestess for the vows the very next moment. They’d been celebrating ever since.
I toasted them both, of course, and promised lavish gifts due to his service, our friendship, and my desire to retain a valuable officer, but before I could think of any suitable gift, I was interrupted once again . . . this time by Ruderal.
“Master!” he called, softly, tugging on my sleeve. “I hesitate to disturb you in your revelries, but I have come from Spellmonger’s Hall . . . where a visitor awaits.” I didn’t catch the serious tone or the look in his eye, when he informed me.
“The Gilmorans again?” I asked, wincing. “How did they get up the road? And past the battle?”
“Nay, Master,” Ruderal sighed, looking troubled. “It’s . . . it’s my father. The Seamage, Moudrost. He has returned, and says he bears news from the Sea Folk!”
Part Five
A Reflective Yule
“Minalan’s mood changed sharply, after the victory. Some whispered that he was jealous of Terleman’s acclaim, or merely agitated by the prospect of two more such contests in the future. But I watched his manner shift, after the celebration, and knowing the man as I did, it was not mere vanity or anxiety that concerned him. When the Spellmonger took on a certain aspect, one could infer that matters cosmic were plaguing his mind.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser
Chapter Forty-Two
A Seamage’s Discovery
The Seamage Moudrost was waiting for me in the main hall of Spellmonger’s Hall, when I returned from the celebration. He was warming his hands in front of the fire, and Alya was entertaining him. Awkwardly. I think if it had been anyone else, the awkwardness would have been mutual. But Moudrost the Dryspeaker was uncomfortable with nearly all landsmen’s customs, so he naturally overlooked it.
The seamage looked even more out of place here in the winter. His raiment had not changed, save he wore a thicker mantle against the cold. His mariner’s garb and leather wizard’s hat was distinctive compared to the woolen garments favored in the Magelaw in the middle of winter. But he had pledged to return before the end of year, and Yule was fast approaching.
“Your lady tells me that congratulations are in order,” Moudrost began, after we greeted each other and I joined them in a cup of wine. “You are victorious over the Alon.”
“Well, the gurvani,” I countered. “Not quite the Alon, proper. My foes made many mistakes, not the least of which was to attack during the winter season. It’s not uncommon for such raids to occur, if the gurvani have laid insufficient rations.”
I purposefully downplayed the war with Korbal’s minions to the seamage. The less the Vundel knew about the squabbles among the short-lived denizens of the Dry lands, the better.
“I was under the impression that it was more than a mere raid,” he said, an eyebrow raised skeptically.
“My lord husband is too modest,” Alya said, unhelpfully. “There was a significant horde, outside of our gate. Yet despite their ire, they fell upon Minalan’s defenses and broke like the waves at the shore,” she said, proudly.
“I have a tendency to irritate my neighbors,” I dismissed. “Just ask the prince who exiled me. I take it you bear word from the waves, Master Moudrost?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“I do,” the seamage agreed. “After consultation with my pod, and with permission of the Leviathan, you are granted three years to research the spell that granted you the bounty of snowstone. But, in turn, we require at least one more shipment, comparable t
o the first. You may select the area,” he assured, “and we will arrange an appropriate time to make the transfer. So that you may remove any . . . remarkable artefacts beforehand,” he said, diplomatically, as he glanced at the Magolith hovering over my shoulder.
“There is a section of the lode behind my mountain,” I considered. “It is about as large as the ridge you took, last time. If I had a little time to clear it, and warn my folk of the . . . delivery, then that would be helpful. Perhaps by next autumn? That would be far less disruptive.”
“I assume that payment similar to the last will be sufficient?” Moudrost asked.
“Actually,” I countered, “while the precious metals and arcane coral was lovely, gold and silver just do not hold the same appeal as before. I was wondering if a quantity of the . . . what do the Alon call it? Ainakurkas, I believe. If there was a means of securing more of that, and perhaps more corals, that would be agreeable. I find them useful in thaumaturgical research,” I added, casually.
“I shall relate your desires,” Moudrost nodded. It seemed as if he had no concern at all about the proposed price. “Once we have a concord, I will return and we can discuss the specifics of the exchange.”
“I cannot help but wonder how you manage to travel over such a long distance in such a short time . . . do you use the Alka Alon Ways?” I inquired.
The seamage chuckled. “No, we Sea Brethren have our own means of transport. We accrue our power from the Leviathan, through the pods. A far more advanced and potent magic than the Imperial system,” he said. It was a statement, not a boast. “The Dryland magic is . . . well, dry,” he said, grasping for the right term. “It is static and simple, easily cast and easily broken. While we mere humans are only exposed to a tithe of the Vundel’s power, the Brethren have developed an array of spells that far surpass Imperial Magic in most ways. Or the Alka Alon,” he added. That was a boast.
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