Enchanter (Book 7) (44 page)

But Karandal had proved a more lucrative holding, ultimately, due to a lucrative investment in religious patronage somewhere in the past.  A lord of Karandal felt he owed a debt to Orvatas the Sky God, and gave a small estate in his rugged domain to a band of monks seeking a living.  With his patronage they started raising the mountain sheep the Uwarris were known for, with a few llamas on the side, and built a small abbey.  Fistan Abbey, to live in and preach out of.

For more than a century the humble woolbrothers had expanded both their ministry and their operations until they owned or rented pastures all over Karandal, Hosly and the other hill domains.  The abbey quietly purchased wool from individual cotholders and villeins at a decent price, then blended it and treated it until it had become a premium commodity under their seal at market.  And Sire Arkid of Karandal got a little piece of every staple of wool bound downriver to Sendaria Port.  Enough to fund both a proper square keep castle near the center of the domain, as well as a more modern tower complex in the more troublesome southern estates. 

Sire Gimbal had realized the lucrative nature of the domain and had forced a garrison of soldiers there, before I conquered him.  It had lain empty, save for a caretaker and a few servants, for the last two years.  As East Fleria had done little, outside of a probing raid in Northwood, I hadn’t staffed the small river fortification, known as Maddarch Tower, because I had been unsure of what to do with it.  But there were those who had their eye on it already, and it was time I made some decision.

“Oh, Fistan Abbey covets the place,” Sir Festaran assured me.  As Karandal was a neighbor of his native domain of Hosly, where we would visit next, Sir Festaran was a bit of an authority on the historical gossip about the region.  “The monks want the rich pasturelands around it, the river for fish and transport, and the high, dry storage there. They’ve wanted the site since it was built.”

“And no one gave it to them?” I asked.  I remember resolute Woolbrother Teer, the efficient agent of the abbey who had appeared at court on behalf of his estate a few times.  “I find that hard to believe.  They’re quite persuasive.”

“Oh, they tried to coax it from Sire Gimbal, after he became Karandal’s overlord and claimed Maddarch outright, but the Warbird was too crafty for that.  Or too greedy.  Instead he rented them the pastures at high price, for at the time he feared his brother would try to steal his patrimony from him.  Instead, to punish the monks, he made the Abbey pay scutage to support the garrison as part of their rents.  Since he’s been gone, they’ve been buttering up Sire Arkid and his wife in an attempt to win it from him.  But the good knight has reportedly deferred to your decision in the matter.”

“Wise man,” I snorted.  “I don’t want to be the ones to tell the monks ‘no’, and I don’t want to lose a potentially valuable fortification.”  I knew little of the man, but Arkid had no heir old enough to hold a second castle, and he did not want to fund the expense of setting up a castellan that I might arbitrarily dismiss.  So he sat on the matter, passing it to me to decide.

“But the property should be occupied by someone,” Sir Festaran urged me.  “It is a small estate, but strategically important.  And beautiful.  I trained there, once,” he said, a dreamy look in his eye.  “Hardly proper for a seated lord, perhaps, but a strong tenant lord could make a real go of it.”

“Are you applying for the job, Sir Festaran?” I teased.  The lad looked nearly stricken.

“Baron, no!” he said, scandalized.  “I love my work at Sevendor!  Please don’t send me away!”

I chuckled.  “No, I’ve no plans like that for you yet, Fes.  And you are already the heir to one domain – I don’t think you need more than that.  Not if you’ve a brain under that woolen mop of yours. No, I think I’m going to disappoint both Sire Arkid and the Woolbrothers of Fistan Abbey, and make Maddarch Tower a baronial estate.”

The young mage knight got a curious look on his face.  “Well thought, Baron.  May I ask to what end?”

“I know little enough about Sire Arkid, but I do know he is more suspicious and jealous of his privacy than his fellows.  I’ve been concerned that he would see a warmage in my pay so close to his affairs as a threat.  By installing him as my regional agent in Maddarch, I allow both abbey and castle to conduct their affairs in peace, while my man looks out for my interests, which include the defense of this place.”

“Which of them will you appoint?” asked Brother Hotfoot, riding his rouncey in line with ours, as the road widened. 

“Likely Heeth the Butler,” I said, after thinking about it a few moments. 

Heeth was one of the more scholarly warmagi, with a background in thaumaturgy, who I’d hired.  I liked Heeth – he was a class ahead of me at Inarion, but had gotten stuck in Farise with the rest of us.  He got his nickname because he spent time between warmagic assignments serving as an actual butler for an ancient lord on whose estate he’d been raised, near Castabriel.  He dabbled a bit in dioramic magic (Lanse of Bune had recommended him) when he came to Sevendor, looking for opportunities.  He’d been in the Battle of Cambrian, but had missed the icy Poros.

He was also, by reputation, a decent scholar and an adept administrator.  Just the kind of man I wanted in charge of a contentious tower on my frontiers. 

“Good choice,” Hotfoot agreed, instantly.  “A sage as well as a warrior.  And a bit of a diplomat,” he approved.

“I have high aspirations for Heeth,” I said, confidentially.  “All of these warmagi, actually.  I’m grooming them each for stones, eventually.  But this allows me to test their skills and character without putting them all to the kinds of rigorous trials I did those who took the oath during wartime.”

“And having them guard your frontiers, in the meantime, puts them to good use,” Festaran agreed.  “Which do you propose for Hosly?”

“Kedaran the Black,” I said, nodding back to where the shave-pated warmage was riding behind us.  “He has a fell reputation, perhaps even dark, but he is a determined man.  And skilled at his trade.  He specializes in non-lethal charms that debilitate, rather than kill.  I hope that your father can keep an eye on him for me as much as Kedaran keeps his eye on Hosly,” I admitted.  “For Northwood I am sending Dail the Destroyer – despite his name he’s actually a pretty reasonable fellow – who will assist Sir Roncil in keeping the Northwoodmen at peace.  For little Hosendor, Amrace the Elfman, for his familiarity with the Alka Alon.  Sire Fyk will be wedding one of their noble ladies any day . . . year, now.”

“And isn’t
that
match the subject of much tittering in some quarters,” Brother Hotfoot said, knowingly.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, Brother,” assured Sir Festaran, confidently, “I have known Lady Falwallon for three years, now, and despite what folk say about her fey beauty, she is a lady of noble virtue, as well as bearing.  No dishonor will come to Sire Fyk from any of the Sevendori, I swear!”

Brother Hotfoot chuckled.  Those were not the quarters he was referring to.

“You know,” he said that night, in my canopy as we camped beside the road in the wood, “those weren’t the quarters I was referring to.”

Sir Fes, the other knights, and the warmagi were seeing to setting their own meager camp, without the benefit of magical pockets and enchanted tents to aid them, so it was safe to speak in more specific terms.  “I know, Herus.  I suppose you might have heard something about that, on the road?”

“As chance would have it, I have,” he said, smugly, as he drank my wine.  “The tales of the road are—”

“It’s been a long day,” I pointed out.  “We’re in private.  Can you spare the divine embellishments?”

“The Alka Alon are in a tizzy, lad,” he chuckled.  “Oh, my, not since Perwyn sank have they been this concussed.  Losing the City of Rainbows so audaciously, nearly losing a second great lord, and being forced –
forced!
– to wed with the base
humani
in perverse transgenic form, all on top of letting the Abomination lose on the world . . .”

“Well, I know all of that,” I pointed out.  “Do you have any news?  The only Alkan I’ve seen in months is Onranion, and he’s hardly helpful that way.  He said he was thrown out of council.”

“I’m shocked they let him in to begin with,” mused the deity.  “But among the great lords of the Alka Alon, times have been too busy for even those worthies to indulge in counsel overlong.  News?  Aye, I have news.  Much of the refugee population has been resettled, temporarily, in refuges hastily built in the Kulines, and elsewhere.  Though at great cost, the Alkan lords have saved a great multitude of their folk . . . particularly since the new darkness in the West,” he said, suspensefully.  “And I’m not talking about the gurvani.  Korbal has arisen, Spellmonger, and he has the Alkan lords terrified.”

“Korbal?” I said, suddenly interested.  “The Demon God of the Mindens?  I knew that Sheruel’s minions were searching the scarred lands for his tomb – or whatever – but I hadn’t realized they had succeeded in raising him.”

“He’s less ‘demon god’ than he is ‘nasty Alka Alon bugger’ – one of the few of their lot to go undead.  He managed to do with Alkan magic what you use the stones to do, make his enneagram permanent . . . or at least sustainable.  Sort of.  I don’t know all the details, but from what I understand he’s a little miffed at being imprisoned in a tomb for a few centuries, and the Alka are scared shitless he and Sheruel are going to be close friends.”

That
was
interesting news.  “How scared?”

“Scared enough so that an entirely new faction has arisen, vowing to defeat Korbal.  A faction that sees even the stain of transgenics as a necessary perversion to defeat the rising abominations.  Old Versaroti families whose lines go back millennia, a few conservative Avalanti, from back in the deep woods, and even a few Farastamari fanatics.  They’re gathering at a retreat not far from Kasar, actually.  And your old friend Lord Aeratas is urging them on with renewed vigor.  Word on the road is that he sees it as an opportunity to rally support to retake lost Anthatiel.  And he is openly calling for the pardon and release of certain rebels who have traditionally been very friendly toward the
humani.”

I thought about the stern Alkan lords who were not particularly friendly toward
humani
.  Until I had given him assistance, Lord Aeratas had been one of them.  “His former allies on the council could not be happy with his sudden change of heart,” I observed.

“Spittin’ mad, actually.  It nearly rent the council,” he chuckled.  “For months, now, the great among them have been debating whether to embrace the
humani
struggle, or go their own way.  Seeing Aeratas appear in formal council in his humanoid form was scandalous.  Learning that he had betrothed his daughter to a mortal was even more so.  But he alone on the council seems eager to go to war against our common foe, and whether it is opportunity or genuine respect that motivates him, even the gods know not.  But he is gathering as many as who will come to his banner at Ysethary refuge, and offering to transform any who desire it into humanish forms for the duration.  Many have become fanatical – and a fanatical Alkan, Min, now that’s a sight to see!”

“I can imagine,” I nodded, doing some imagining. 

“I don’t think you properly can,” he said, without criticism.  “Some of the younger, more fanatical Alka are declaring they will not adopt their proper forms until the Abominations – plural, now – are defeated.  And they eschewing their very identity, now.  Some even call themselves . . . the
Tera Alon
.”

He caught my confusion with a bit of irritation, as he poured himself more wine.  “It’s one of the old High Perwynese words for ‘human’, or even ‘
importasta
’.  Which makes the other end of the factions seethe with contempt and loathing.  Poor Master Heruthel is having a hell of a time even keeping them speaking.  Now that there is the real possibility of a mix-breed, transgenically augmented progeny arising from such a union . . . well, they’re in a tizzy,” he repeated, definitively.

“So . . . when will they be getting out of their tizzy?” I asked, frustrated at how Herus enjoyed the story more than the intelligence.

“Any time, now.  Could be next year, not more than a decade, I’m thinking.”

“That’s not particularly helpful, for us,” I reminded him.

“It’s the Alka Alon,” he reminded me, in turn.  “They excel at not being particularly helpful.  A lot will come from the next great council they’ve called in a few weeks, where some serious decisions will be made.  But even then, there’s no real telling what that means in human terms.  But, my lad, their distraction is our gain,” he said, warmly.  “As long as they have their noses turned toward the vile gurvani and the evil undead lord, they aren’t watching what you’re doing with my sort.”

“You mean, making more gods permanent?  I’ve done three so far.  You know the results.”

“Which is why I’ve spent months scouring the duchies in search of good candidates to add to our little pantheon.  With some limited success,” he boasted.

“What kind of success?” I asked, suspiciously. 

“Well, for example, the god Avital, it would seem, has a long-held desire for just this sort of thing.  And unlike others, he is likely to actually be useful.  The problem is, he doesn’t manifest in the flesh, much.  He’s one of those cerebral divinities, most times, awash in the serenity of complex thought, like Yrenitia or Rada.  That doesn’t provide much emotional energy to summon his avatars very often.  But,” he said, triumphantly, “where there’s a god, there’s a way . . . and come to find out, Avital is a syncretic divinity.  His cool, calm, logical exterior has a dark side – in Cormeer, where he is known as Avital Damatuko.”