Enchanter (Book 7) (34 page)

“That was . . . kind of mean,” I observed, without judgement.  “But entertaining.”

My lady wife smirked.  “I owed Gareth a favor.  This place has certainly changed since the last time you were up here,” she said, glancing at the growing wall.

“The view has, too,” I said, nodding back toward our home.  The castle glowed prettily in the distance, the stubby mass of the new gatehouse starting to loom behind it, both dwarfed by the raw, rocky expanse of snowstone that was Rundeval.

To the left, plumes of smoke from the many hearths of Sevendor Town floated in the cold wet air over the sprawling municipality.  The town now filled the old Commons and every scrap of land of the old village – there was nary a trace of it left - and was spilling over into what had once been marginal farmland at its limits, within the hedgewall the town had erected. 

The gleaming dome of the Temple of Briga shimmered with the heat of the Everfire escaping its open roof, and the spire to the new Temple of Huin was growing under a wooden scaffolding nearby.  You could just see the towers of Mage’s Row, where the Arcane Orders chapterhouse, the Secret Tower, and the Enchanters Guild boldly defined the horizon, with the comparatively squat Rat Trap just visible.

It was a pretty town, particularly when it was decked with snow.  I saw Alya shiver a bit, and moved behind her to enwrap her in my cloak . . . and my arms.  She sagged into me, and we enjoyed a moment of quiet contemplation of all that we had built together.

“Not bad, Spellmonger,” she whispered.  “It’s nice to step back and see it all at once,” she said, nodding with satisfaction.

“We’re just getting started,” I assured her.  “By the time he’s old enough to care, Minalyan will have quite the legacy.”

“They all will,” she nodded.  “Now, let’s see if we can keep you out of any more wars for a while so that you can watch them enjoy it.”

“I really don’t want to get involved in Sendaria’s expansion,” I agreed.  “I’ve already told Arathanial no to a direct alliance, privately, and so has Trestendor.  But we’re both allowing him to hire mercenaries here, if any want to march under their banner.  That and a little behind-the-screen intelligence should be more than enough to pacify him.”

“He’s not going to like this acquisition of yours, if we can execute it,” she warned.  “He sees all of this as Lensely territory, properly.  If we go buying it up, he can’t re-conquer it himself.”

“It’s a handful of mountain domains,” I reasoned.  “He’s after the big, fertile valley between Sashtalia and Rolone.  He’s a Riverlord, he thinks in terms of arable land.  He won’t mind losing a few marginal estates held by hill lords of dubious loyalty.  They’re more trouble to conquer than they are rewarding to rule.”

“I do hope Arathanial sees it that way,” she said, sounding doubtful.

The journey down the other side of the pass and into Sashtalia was relatively uneventful.  At this time of year not even the mountain bandits strayed far from their hideouts, and the peasantry and freeholders were content to stay close to their hearths. 

Alya and I had a lot of time to talk on the way.  Too much time. 

I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping things light for the first few hours, but after that we’d exhausted the topics of business and children, political speculation and castle gossip, and things were getting dangerously close to discussing our relationship when we stopped for lunch.  Dara’s antics in regards to Sir Festaran were the topic for a while that afternoon, as the girl couldn’t make up her mind to be insulted or flattered at the idea the young knight might want to get her alone, and we took the usual perverse delight in dissecting her young love in the light of our mature experience. 

But that light-hearted conversation soon turned to our own first trials at the game of love.  I admitted my string of affairs with the village girls back at Talry, and how I had plied my journey to the magical academy into a wave of attraction.  She told me about some innocent fumblings at Boval’s late summer festival with a lad from Wynakur she had never seen again.  Both recollections brought back warm memories and guilty smiles.

But that’s when her expression changed.  “Min, what happened at the Magic Fair?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, at first genuinely confused.

“You’ve been different, since then,” she said, her voice heavy with concern.  “Distant, even.”

“I’ve been working—”

“I know you have been working,” she said, holding up her hand.  “And yes, the Snowflake is pretty, but you’re rarely down there.  You’ve worked before, and not been this way.  You come to bed late, or sometimes not at all, and when you do, we . . . well, you haven’t been touching me as much,” she said, guiltily.

“Alya, I—”

“Let me finish,” she said, and I held my peace.  “I’m sure you have a lot going through your mind these days, with Pentandra getting married and the Alka Alon all but disappearing on us.  This war certainly isn’t helping.  And then there’s that big snowflake thing you’ve been sneaking off to.  I know your profession is a demanding one,” she said, forestalling another interruption before I could make it, “but a wife knows when there is something troubling her husband.  You know in his touch.  In his kiss,” she said, with a slight hiss.

I just stared at her.  I desperately wanted to confess all of it to her, to tell her the bare truth and spare her nothing, if only to unburden my conscience.  But to do so would be to inflict pain on her most cruelly, I knew.  Not to mention the fall in esteem I would suffer in her eyes.

A lesser man would have used it as an excuse to rebuke his wife, and quiet her questions with anger – but my father had not taught me that way. 

“Alya, I do have a lot on my mind,” I agreed.  “Some of it I cannot share with you, right now. That’s to protect you and the children,” I promised.  “Not to keep you from knowing.  There have been threats,” I offered.  “I am dealing with them.  Some are kind of insubstantial, at the moment, but I am taking steps to counter them.”

“Who?  The Censorate? Or whatever they’ve turned into?”

“They’re the Arcane Knights of Nablus, I think we can quit worrying about them, for now,” I assured her.  “They’re just trying to survive.  This is more of a political problem.  Kingdom-level politics.”

“Aren’t I already involved, as your wife?” she countered.

“This is more Order-related than feudal,” I decided.  It couldn’t hurt to give her a peg to hang my worry upon, even if it wasn’t quite on the mark.  “Dunselen.  His marriage has caused waves.  So has Pentandra’s resignation,” I added, which was true.  “With me confined to my lands, it’s allowed a lot of smaller players to start exercising their power.  It’s just complicated,” I sighed.  “Not that you couldn’t understand it, but it’s banal to the point of frustration.”

“Dunselen wants to be head of the Order,” she proposed.

“The power-broker, at least.  For now.  His new wife has a nasty reputation as a political infighter, too – she cut her teeth on it at the Ducal court, and she was instrumental in helping establish the monarchy.”

“And
Dunselen
was her reward?” Alya snorted.  “It sounds more like she screwed up!”

“There’s a lot more to it than that, and other players at work.  But yes, it has troubled me.  Worried me.  The two of them are decidedly up to something.  For all of their smiles, it makes me anxious that there are people in the world who would want to hurt you and the children to get at me,” I said, which was as truthful and sincere as possible.

“Just remember that I’m not some fainting flower of the Riverlands,” she reminded me, arching an eyebrow.  “I am a tough Wilderlands woman who isn’t going to run shrieking to my chamber if there’s danger.” 

“I know,” I said.  “I just don’t want that to even be a possibility.  We’ve worked too hard.”

“We’ve worked too hard to allow something like that to interfere with our happiness, too,” she reminded me.  “I’m your wife.  Together we can face anything.”

As grateful as I was for the validation it gave me, part of my heart cringed with guilt over lying to her – or at least not being entirely honest with her.  That pained me more than the actual infidelity.  I reached out and brought her hand to my mouth for a kiss.

“Not even Ishi herself could tempt me away from you,” I said.  And it was the utter truth.

*

*

The Holy Mount Abbey had been founded by two sisters of Trygg two hundred years earlier, during the rise of the Lensely family.  Originally it had been a simple shrine to the Mother Goddess, associated with a local legend of some divine birth or other, set among a hilltop orchard of apples.  The hill was encroached by larger hills all around, and generally unsuitable for tilling, but there were near thirty acres of apples and meadows within the estate.  I hear they made a smashing cider.

The Birthsisters of Trygg were granted the estate and given an endowment to build a temple by a grateful Lensely lord of nearby Fistalia, and ever since Holy Mount Abbey had been the center of training for midwives and medical issues of a feminine nature, as well as a place of worship.

There were fifteen priestesses in residence, now, including several who had sought retirement from the demands of midwifery here.  There were thrice that number of initiates and novices, and there were also a few crones of noble houses who had taken to the abbey to live out their remaining years. 

The abbey itself was a cluster of buildings in a circle around the Temple, a sturdy three-story rustic structure of painted wood, featuring symbols of the Mother Goddess everywhere.

We were somewhat late in arriving, as most of the local lords had already shown up to pay their respects.  Sister Bemia was kind enough to introduce us to the sitting abbess, a wizened but plump old woman named Birthmother Salia. 

“So you’re the Spellmonger everyone’s been gossiping about,” she said, peering at me cautiously over rosy cheeks. 
Too
rosy, I realized.  Mother Salia was drunk.  “Birthsister Bemia writes of your generosity often.  It is . . . uncommon for a lord, particularly a baron, to choose a chaplain from our order; usually they prefer Luin’s lawbrothers, or even a priest of Huin.”

“I am properly grateful of my children,” I agreed.  “It would be impious of me not to show my gratitude by honoring the priestesses of the All Mother.”

“
Well
spoken, young man!” she said, and I caught a whiff of the fumes on her breath.  Spirits – but then, it
was
a funeral.  “Trygg’s blessings on your marriage and your children,” she said, raising her hand in benediction.  “Were that there were more
properly
devout lords in the Bontal, these days!”

The funeral was a morose affair.  One visiting local dignitary after another got up and eulogized the old crone – Mother Rathela – recounting one sharp-tongued encounter after another.  Six lords she had brought into the world laid her to rest within the crypt beneath the temple.  Dozens of visiting priestesses did likewise, until I nearly felt the irritated spirit of the dead nun glaring down at us for making such a fuss.  Finally the last dried flowers were packed over the body, the stone lid to the sarcophagus sealed, and the crypt floor replaced.  One final hymn to the glory of the All Mother and we broke for a reception.

The reception was the real reason I was here.  The grand hall of the temple complex was bedecked in black mourning streamers and laden with dried flowers and herbs.  Several young women played instruments as nuns and noviates mingled with the guests, working the room with the practiced precision of professional clergy.  No doubt they would receive generous donations from several of the lords before they left. Some of the noviates were quite pretty.

But Festaran had quietly arranged to secure an out-of-the-way chamber for our use where we wouldn’t be disturbed or overheard.  Alya’s job was to hold forth in the hall and keep people from noticing we were missing.  After leading Dara and me there, he went back to start quietly informing the others where to meet me.  I had Dara cast wards and then loose Frightful to ensure that we were not disturbed.

One by one the lords filed in, introduced themselves, and took a seat around the fire.  I had hung a magelight overhead to illuminate the gloomy chamber and impress upon them that I was no mere up-jumped baron. 

Their attitudes ranged from wary to merely cautious to overtly friendly.  Sir Hanthan of Uwaridor and Sir Lothal of Barat were both cautiously optimistic about an alliance.  As tenant lords they made little enough for their labors, as Sashtalia imposed a heavy tribute on each fief, which left little enough for the resident lords.  Neither one was a personal friend of Trefalan or his inner circle of Riverlords.  But they feared the retribution usually meted out for a tenant who did not defend his master’s lands.

More wary was Lord Infalen of Binador.  One of his younger brothers had accompanied him to the funeral with a large party of guards.  Sire Infalen had listened to Festeran’s proposal with interest, but as a titled lord he had more to lose than just his head, if Sashtalia came against him for breaking his allegiance.  His lands would be forfeit to his liege, if he could not hold them against him. 

Sire Antalan of Karador’s court robes donned for the occasion looked threadbare, and he had arrived with but four attendants on horse, no carriage. He was friendly enough when he entered the hall, greeting his fellow lords warmly and bowing respectfully to me.  Sire Grem arrived right afterward.  He seemed interested, but so dour in nature that it was difficult to tell if he was in favor or opposed to the idea of shifting allegiance.  He eyed the other lords warily as he took a seat.

Sire Ulry arrived last, looking hesitant as he entered the hall.  He nodded respectfully to the other lords, but kept his peace otherwise.

“My lords,” I said, after I had poured them each a glass of wine personally, “I have yet to make your acquaintance in any real way, but it seems to me that your domains could find themselves in dire straits, come summer.”

“Baron Arathanial has been threatening to invade Sashtalia for thirteen years,” Sire Crem said, gruffly.  “What makes you think he’s finally going to do it?”

“Because he has informed me so himself,” I told them.  “He’s been hiring mercenaries and drilling his men relentlessly all winter long.  He is serious enough about the endeavor to invite Sevendor into a war alliance against you.”

“Sevendor?” asked one of the tenant lords, startled.  “Is this a trick?”

“I declined,” I assured them.  “I have no real ambitions for conquest, and my people have seen enough war the last few years.  Yet war in the Bontal is inevitable.  Come Duin’s Day, Arathanial will declare it, and right after that Trefalan will call his banners.  Each of you owes at least forty days of service, some perhaps more, for this year.  And in my professional opinion, this is a war Sashtalia will likely loose.  if you do not fall on the battlefield, then you will have to contend with being conquered yourselves.”

“What makes you so certain that Arathanial will be victorious?” asked Sire Antalan, curious.

“Because, among other factors, his vassal Sire Cei the Dragonslayer will be among his forces, a mage knight of some repute,” I said, casually.  “No man in this room can stand against Sire Cei.  No man in Sashtalia.”

“He is but one man,” began Crem.

“Among a host of nearly five hundred lances,” I finished.  “In addition to two companies of mercenary archers, and whatever other forces Arathanial has been able to hire.  Oh,” I said, as an afterthought, “that also includes about a third of the Warbird’s old army.  Remember that Sendaria now claims four domains of his.  Strong ones, too,” I added.  “I am not privy to the battle plan, but one doesn’t have to resort to prophecy to realize that Sashtalia faces a war on at least two fronts.”

“So what would you have us do about it?” demanded Sire Ulry.  “I have no love for Trefalan, and I have no love for battle.  But I am an honorable man.”

“Then honorably protect your people,” I urged.  “I propose that all of you – at one time – refute your allegiance to Sashtalia.  Before Duin’s Day,” I stressed – for a vassal could not legally abandon his lord in a time of war.  “Once you are under Sevendor’s protection, you may sit back and watch the lances of Sendaria and Sashtalia cross without concern as to the victor.”

“You think Sevendor could resist Sashtalia?  Excellency, I’ve heard amazing things from Sevendor, since you took power there, some I scarce would credit as true,” Sire Antalan said.  “And your reputation for warfare is beyond repute.  But Sevendor is still but a mountain domain.  How many lances can you put against Sashtalia in our defense?”

“Sevendor measures its might by wands, not lances, and of those I have a sufficiency to keep Trefalan at bay, in the unlikely event he prevails this summer.  If you swear fealty to Sevendor, you would be extended the same protections all of my other client fiefs enjoy.  Your castles would be strengthened by magic, and your lands made prosperous with enchantment.”

“High words,” Sire Grem said, his stonefaced expression matching his gravelly voice. “You speak of magic and enchantment.  Yet I fear the swords of Sashtalia.”

“Do you fear the pain of tribute, as well?” I challenged.  “Under Sevendor, your tribute would be reduced to
half
of what it is.  Sire Trefalan is known to keep his mountain fiefs overtaxed to keep them too weak to rebel.  But this is not rebellion, gentlemen,” I said, encouragingly, “this is the opportunity to avoid a war you will lose, and keep the lands that you hold.  Without reprisal,” I promised.  “Any action taken against one of my sworn fiefs would be met with swift retribution . . . and I think Sire Trefalan is too wary to enlist another enemy against him, when he is already overmatched.”

“It is an opportunity, my lords,” Sire Antalan insisted to his fellows.  “Do you not see that?  The Spellmonger is known to be favored by the gods – have you not heard of the miracle of the Everfire?  Or of the enchanted white mountain?  Of the giant hawks which overfly its skies and the commerce to be found there?  We have an opportunity,” he insisted, “to throw off the yoke of Sashtalia and forge something better for ourselves!”

“What if you do invite Trefalan’s wrath?” asked Infelan.  “To betray one lord to escape a war, only to fight against him in another is foolishness!”

“I pledge to you now,” I said, softly, “If you take up the Snowflake and Trefelan marches against Sevendor, your lands and people will be excused from its defense.  You will instead receive aid from us to strengthen your own.”

“We were told there would be a money payment,” Sir Hanthan said.  “Your young castellan assured me that you would pay good gold for our service.  Not promises.”  It was a statement, not a question.

I murmured a word and summoned one of the six bags I’d prepared from the hoxter pocket in my necklace.  It fell to the floor in front of Sir Hanthan with the unmistakable clink of gold.

“Every ounce that was promised,” I said, nodding to the bag.  “Newly minted royal currency.  I have one for each of you.  And additional aid, as needed, to repair your destitute domains.  The Spellmonger comes not as a conqueror, gentlemen, but as an ally.  I’d be willing to buy some of your estates outright, as well.  And you would have the rare distinction of being considered magelands,” I added.

“
Magelands?
  What talk is this?” Sire Grem said, with a dismissive snort.  “I am a knight, by Huin’s Axe, and the only reason I am even entertaining this plan is because once I’ve spent my strength at war this summer my northern neighbor will be raiding me bare by autumn.  I have no need of wizards, Baron,” he said, just this side of respectfully.  “I have need of real might to defend me from my foes.  Giant hawks?  Wands?  Bah!  Tales of wonder are born from the cups of drunks,” he said, shaking his big fuzzy head.  “The hills are
full
of hawks – how are we to know their size in the air?”

“I’ve seen one,” Lord Ulry admitted.  “They are as large as any horse.”

“Larger,” I agreed.  “Our skyriders’ steeds have forty-foot wingspans, and can pluck a destrier from the field and drop it from a hundred feet in an instant,” I said, painting a picture for their narrow minds.  “Our warmagi toppled castle that had stood a hundred years – not in weeks, with siege equipment, but in an
hour
.  My folk faced a hundred times their number of gurvani in the Wilderlands and lived to speak of that danger.  And of conventional forces, I have a goodly number of lances to call upon, at need.  As well as staunch allies . . . some of whom you might not suspect.”

“Words,” Lord Grem said, shaking his head.

“Gold,”
I said, manifesting his sack in front of him.  I did to each of the lords in turn, until they were all sitting there, staring speechlessly at the bags between their feet.

“And just to sweeten the bargain . . . Sire Antalan, Sevendor will purchase three hundred ingots of copper, at fair market price, and grant you license to sell in our market.  Sire Infalen, I will be happy to purchase either or both of your younger brothers’ estates, and further will sponsor your youngest with armor, horse, and retinue for tournament season, this year, if he bears the Snowflake on his shield.  Sire Ulry, I would like to garrison – at
my
expense – a mercenary company of archers in your lands, should you take my service, to help ensure your continued security. 

“Sir Hanthan and Sir Lothal, you have the option of continuing as lords tenant of your respective domains or taking service as officers in my army.  Conversely, I will pay you fifty ounces of gold if you desire to walk away from this sordid affair and find a more peaceful estate, elsewhere. 

“And Sire Grem,” I said, turning to face the dour man before he could object, “Gold I will give you, in return for your oath of fealty, but I will also pay to have your keep restored to its proper glory.”  Sir Festaran had learned that the man’s biggest weakness was for his decrepit family castle, a modest keep with a beautiful view that was crumbling after two generations of vicious taxation.  “I will make it a castle that none of your neighbors will ever assail.  I swear this in front of your fellow lords.”

I turned one final time and surveyed them all.  “It is your choice, my lords.  Stay with Sashtalia and risk losing all and finding yourself under the banner of Sendaria . . . or take refuge under the Snowflake banner, and begin enjoying the benefits of being a mageland. 

“But your strength is greater together, than apart.  Discuss it as you will . . . and any of you who wish to decline my offer, simply walk away from the gold at your feet and ride back to your lands,” I suggested.  “Death in battle guarantees Huin’s notice in the afterlife.  Or that’s what I hear.”

Chapter Sixteen

Amel Wood

We didn’t immediately return to Sevendor after the funeral.  We were only a few miles away from one of the two fiefs that King Rard had given me when he made me a baron, to complicate my life.  Amel Wood was a tiny strip of land in the rolling foothills, a wooded tract with a small village with a single rustic manor.

The domain had been in the hands of the Duchy for years, and hadn’t even had recourse to a tenant lord for much of that time.  Amel Wood had been one of the tiny estates the Lenselys’ gifted their loyal retainers at the height of their rise, and at one point there had been a substantial logging operation here, as the towns in Rolone and Avanal, the two large, prosperous domains to the north, grew.  There had even been a small sawmill here, once.

But when the demand for timber was filled, times in Amel Wood grew hard.  The knight who owned title to it when deeply into debt and eventually surrendered it to the Coronet in lieu of tribute.  Thus it had languished, lordless, for twenty years until Rard decided I needed a scenic wooded lot in enemy territory.

I felt obligated to visit the place, as we were so close, and I had no pressing engagements elsewhere.  I was still, technically, on my own lands, so I was not violating my Duke’s wishes.  And it felt good to be away with just Alya . . . and a half-dozen retainers. I sent Dara and Sir Festaran back to Sevendor with Sister Bemia and her nuns, and continued on with just the coachmen and the guards.

Amel Hall was at the top of a steep rise.  I could see why no one had bothered attacking the place for two decades – the grade up the hill was ferocious, and it would only take a few archers to discourage anyone from attempting it.  The road was a mere track, just barely wide enough for our coach.  The horses struggled up the mile-long track until we came to the broad meadow in front of the picturesque little village.

Amel Village was home to two hundred hardy woodsmen who eked out a meager existence on the fringes of Sashtalia.  Most of the domain was steep and rocky, requiring a certain expertise to harvest the big oaks, hickories, and elms that grew in such abundance on the slopes of the hills.  There were a few gardens, but only one small field of barley, that I could see, and two others lying fallow.

The village itself was enclosed by a rough stockade of logs, boulders and soil, though the broad wooden gate was broken and propped open.  About two dozen round wooden cottages surrounded the stone walled manor, with the ancient refuge tower looming behind it.  The single fortification on the domain was an ancient five story tower with a square stone base and a wooden peak, and it was used more for spotting fires than defending the manor.  Everything else seemed reasonably neat and tidy, and the folk friendly-looking enough, though we got some curious looks as our wain arrived in the manor’s yard.

The folk of Amel Wood were good-hearted, if a little insular and suspicious.  But they knew their duty, and when I presented myself and Alya as their new lord they gave us all due respect.  They were understandably wary – apart from a few messengers from their new lord, there had been little contact or oversight since I had taken title.  I had discussed the matter with Sire Cei after my investiture, and he had advised a slow approach.

But now I was here, and real, not some distant lord administering the estate from afar.  I did my best to be both lordly and friendly, attempting to impress them with my power as well as re-assure them that I had their best interests at heart – not lining my own pockets with the meager result of their labors.

Alya did most of the work for me.  She was wearing a light green travel gown under a dark green velvet sideless surcoat embroidered with tiny snowflakes, and a richly-made wimple enwrapped in silk and thread-of-gold.  Her friendly face bore a practiced smile as she met her new subjects for the first time, and her ability to appreciate the common folk’s perspective as well as articulate her nobility made her adept at winning the Ameli’s admiration.