Enchanter (Book 7) (67 page)

“I like doing things and making things,” he shrugged.  “I liked fishing.  There were seamagi back home.  The ships employed them on long voyages, and they cast spells on them to help them steer and get home safe.”

“Would you like to be a seamage?”

“I . . . not really,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’m not a sailor.  Oh, I can use a boat, just like anyone.  But that was for fishing, for food.  I enjoyed the mountains more.  I really like Sevendor,” he said, enthusiastically. 

“Well, good.  It is your home now.  And for as long as you like.  It’s good that you like making things, because that is what I’m focused on, right now.  That’s why I wanted you to find the best possible pattern in the Grain of Pors.  I’m building things, Rudenal, I’m building things that have never been built before.  With your help, we can make some might wonders in this world.  Does that sound appealing?”

“Beats fishing,” he agreed. 

“No doubt it does.  Are you ready to get back home?”  He nodded enthusiastically.  It was nearly supper time.  And he still liked to eat.

I dropped him off by Waypoint at the Diketower and watched him walk back to Boval Hall before indulging in another jaunt directly back to my own tower.  Master Ulin, Onranion and Azhguri were there, drinking my wine again.

“Minalan!” Onranion said, his voice barely betraying how many bottles he’d worked through.  “So glad you joined us!  I think we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough.”

“What kind of breakthrough?  Pour me one, will you?  I’ve been playing politics all day.”

“A foul and distasteful art,” the Alkan agreed, gracefully snagging one of my empty cups and filling it.  “But back to more pure designs.  We think we’ve come up with a way to do something interesting with this fascinating rock collection you have.”

“I’m still enjoying my collection,” I said, warily, as I took a sip.  “What do you want to do with it?”

“Not all of it, just a few of the most valuable parts.  We want to . . . well, aggregate them.”

“To what purpose?” I asked, curious.

“To see what would happen,” Onranion shrugged.  “I have a few theories I want to test.”

“I’d like to hear them, before handing over my most powerful items to you,” I said.

“Oh, of course, of course, my boy.  The idea is really yours – or at least the experiments you did suggested it, and good Master Ulin here, who is quite knowledgeable about such things for a mortal, asked us our opinion on the subject, and one thing led to another, and we decided to make some sketches.”

“I thought you were working on the medical baculus project?”

“I was, Excellency,” the enchanter assured me, excitedly.  “I was tempering the lenses in the Everfire, as you so kindly arranged, and during my test runs I noticed something interesting.  Reviewing your notes on the ceramic essays you did, I had a leap of inspiration—”

“You were in the middle of Briga’s temple, in front of the Everfire,” I pointed out.  “That’s kind of her stock-in-trade.”

“Well, the goddess came through.  I tried a new mixture, at a new temperature, adding some reagents I suspected might prove useful.”  He went on to describe the results of the experiment, going into highly technical detail over his arcane reasoning.  I had to admit, while some of it was pretty subtle and obscure, even in light of my recent study on enchantment, I realized what he was proposing.  And the implications.

“That would be . . . amazing, if you could pull it off,” I said, stroking my beard.  “That could change everything.”

“It’s never been done, in the lore of the Alon, to my knowledge.  And I have a lot of knowledge.”

“Perhaps the Sea Folk have attempted such a thing, though it would seem outside their nature.  They do not pride themselves in such creations, preferring to rely on the great leviathans for their magic.  This power, if it manifests as we believe, could rival even theirs.  That, lad, is a lot of power,” Azhguri said, reverently.

“In truth, I’m not certain your mortal mind could handle it,” Onranion suggested.  “Not without augmenting and protecting it, first.  And the skill to perform such a work on a
humani
is rare.  I can think of only one or two Alkan masters who would even consider it.  And there’s no telling what it would do to your mind.  It could drive you mad.  Indeed, you’d be mad to make the attempt, if you value your reason.”

“That is open to question.  But the result . . .”

“Only if you manage to secure an enneagram sufficiently complex enough to act as a paraclete,” reminded Azhguri, doubt and reservation in his voice.  “Otherwise this entire enterprise is completely theoretical.”

“Oh, I think I have that,” I said, casually.  All three of them sat bolt upright, startled.

“You
what?  When?”
Onranion asked, his eyes wide.

“Actually, it’s’who’: my new apprentice, Rudenal,” I explained.  “He has a knack for such things.  He delved into the Grain and found what we needed, I believe.  I still have to confirm it, and then make preparations for transfer, but if what he says is true, we’ve located an enneagram with sufficient complexity and familiarity with magic to be an ideal interface.”

“You mean . . . we could actually
do
this?” Ulin asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

“It appears we have the constituent components, theoretically,” admitted Azhguri, after thinking about it.  “But there is still a lot of calculation to be done.  If you try this –
really
try this – you’re only going to be able to do it once.  There is little room for error.”

“The whole idea is amazingly novel – only a
humani
mind could conceive of it,” Onranion agreed.  “The amount of preparation we’ll need to do is enormous.  And if my people found out about this, they would all die of scandal on the spot,” he added, delighted at the prospect. 

“The question is, will it be enough to challenge the Dead God?” I asked.  “That is the great question hovering over this entire enterprise.”

“It would,” Onranion considered.  “If what you’ve told me about the Abomination’s capacities is correct.  But much would depend upon how such a contest came about.  There is no predicting how he has improved his powers with his study of the
molopor.”

“Is not the Snowflake a sufficient challenge to that?” I countered.

“That is yet to be seen,” Onranion shrugged.  “We’re dealing with unknowns within unknowables, wrapped in conjecture and speculation.  Just my sort of party,” he grinned. 

“This is my
brain
we’re talking about,” I objected.  “This is not a party.  If the Alka Alon cannot challenge Sheruel, and the gods themselves fear the attempt, then it falls to me to find a way.  If you think this is a way, then I am willing to risk it.  But you had better be
damned
certain your calculations are correct.”

“Oh, we’ll give it our absolute best attempt,” assured Azhguri.  “We wouldn’t want Alya upset with us.”

“Oh, no,” agreed Onranion, solemnly.  “She would not approve of shoddy work.”

“My lords, you make a very astute argument,” nodded Ulin.

“My
wife?”
I demanded.  “You’re speaking of me risking madness—”

“Or death,” interrupted Onranion.  “Did we not mention that part?”

I ignored him.  Honestly, I thought death was implied.  “To forge a weapon that could defeat our greatest foe and usher in a new age of magic, and the only thing you’re really worried about is offending my
wife?”

“Well, lad,” Azhguri said, stroking his beard nervously.  “If this goes sour, then you’ll be a corpse or have the mind of a potato, so there’s really no concern about
your
reaction.  But the Lady of Sevendor?  None wish to invite
her
displeasure.  So we’ll give the calculations our very best attention.”

*

*

I was stumbling across the yard to my hall, ready to crawl into bed and likely irritate my wife to no end – and idea which apparently frightened some of the most powerful magi in Sevendor – when Sir Festaran caught up with me.

“Excellency!” he called in the darkness.  “I have been looking for you!  I heard you had returned to the Diketower, so I rode down there only to find you had left.”

“Sorry,” I said, a little guiltily. “I should have checked in.  What’s the problem?  Are the Tal rebelling?”

“No, Sire,” he said, ignoring the joke.  “Master Dranus succeeded in casting a spell on Sir Ganulan that repaired his memory, finally.”

“That is good news,” I said, half-heartedly.  Now that Lorcus had legal possession of Rolone, Ganulan’s usefulness had declined.  Perhaps if there was an inquiry he might have to testify, but I considered that unlikely.  Still, as annoying as he’d proven to me, I didn’t bear him ill will.

“Sire, there’s more,” Festaran added.  “He wishes to speak to you, personally, now that his head has cleared.”

“I have no doubt he does,” I chuckled.  The magemarks on his cheeks had been a constant reminder of his loss of power and position for the last three years.  I imagined he had all sorts of things he wanted to say to me in person. 

“Nay, Excellency, he has intelligence,” Festaran said, insistently.  “Intelligence about the war.  Things that he says you must hear.”

“About the war?  What sort of things?” I asked, curious.  “Sendaria has already started its advance across Sashtalia’s frontier, from what I understand.  And Rolone has fallen.  Whatever it is Ganulan thinks he has to tell me is likely moot.”

“Excellency, that’s the wrong war,” Festaran said.  “Sir Ganulan apparently worked with the mercenaries hired to attack Amel Wood for several months.  During that time he learned things regarding their operations, particularly some of their agents, that became of concern to him.  He was considering deserting their company and seeking higher authority, he says.  You, in particular, despite his antipathy.  He thinks they guessed his motive and so attacked him unawares during the Amel Wood raid, bewitching his mind and leaving him for dead.”

“Are you certain you can trust him?” I asked, skeptically.

“Sire, while Ganulan’s general character . . . questionable,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully, “I find him yet a man of honor, fallen to low estate by temperament and circumstance. We might be opponents, and he feels bitterly about Sevendor, but I estimate that he is speaking sincerely and truthfully about this.  Indeed, it pains him to be of such assistance to us.”

“So what does he have to say?” I demanded.  “What is this intelligence that he carries?”

“He will not reveal it to me in its entirety, despite – or perhaps because of – our long acquaintance.  But he did tell me a single name he said would elicit your interest. Lady Mask.”

I couldn’t stifle my laugh.  “Lady Mask?  That pint-size warmage we defeated last summer?  He’s still half-mad, then.  She was stripped of her witchstone and reduced to impotency after our little battle.  I witnessed her keep slighted myself, and her estate ruined.  Her dark masters do not tolerate failure among their human auxiliaries.”

“That is what Sir Ganulan is telling us, Excellency, if I’m not mistaken.  Lady Mask is alive and well.  More, she has made alliance with some of your enemies, and works at some secret purpose against you.”

“Lady Mask? 
Alive and well
?”

“And working against you, Excellency,” he repeated, concerned.  “Indeed, if what the dishonored knight says is true . . . she has been in the Bontal Vales for months, preparing some wicked plot.  If he is to be believed, she has been haunting Sevendor, itself!”

Part Four

Chapter Thirty One

Sir Ganulan’s Tale

Sir Ganulan was being held at Brestal Tower, the small keep the garrison used for training, storage, and, when needed, a prison.  He was familiar with the place- he’d once illegally controlled the estate, and it wasn’t his first term as prisoner there, either.  There were some dark, dank cells under the keep, but due to his wound and his rank Festaran had placed him in the upper chamber of the square tower, instead.  While it was hardly opulent, it was clean and neat and warm, compared to the cells below. 

Ganulan was stretched out on a pallet, covered in a blanket, despite the warmth of the day, his hands over his bandaged abdomen.  When I walked in, he glared at me, the mark I’d placed on his face bright red against his pale face.

“Spellmonger,” he hissed, weakly. 

“Sir Ganulan,” I nodded, finding a stool and taking a seat next to his bed.  “I hear your wits have been restored.”

“But not yet my fortitude,” he noted.  “I was finally permitted bread with my broth, this morning.”

“You had a nasty wound,” I said, nodding to the bandage wrapped around his middle.  “Not many survive a belly wound.  You certainly weren’t intended to.”

“And I have you to thank for that,” he said, not sounding the least bit grateful. 

“It seemed the right thing to do at the time,” I reasoned.  “I was hoping you could answer some questions.”

“I probably can,” he agreed.  “You realize that’s not my natural inclination.”

“You have cause to hate me, after losing your home, your family, and your patrimony,” I agreed, evenly.  “Yet I have spared your life – twice, now – and even seen your father given an honorable post.  I am not your enemy, Ganulan.”

“You are hardly my friend, Spellmonger,” he said, with acid in his voice.

“Yet clearly we need each other.  I saved your life because I need to know about the raiders in Amel Wood.”

I expected another sarcastic retort, but instead Ganulan threw back his head and laughed.

“Amel Wood?  You’re concerned with
Amel Wood?
  That scrap of nothing is the least of your concerns, Spellmonger!  You have no idea what is about to happen to you!”

He was sincerely amused, not dissembling, I could tell.

“So what
is
about to happen to me?”

“Why should I tell you?” he demanded.

“We’ve established that we need each other.  You are my prisoner.  And clearly you’ve already decided to tell me, otherwise you would not have sent for me so urgently.  Either you have real intelligence of value, or you are playing a game.  I urge you to decide where your best interests lie, and act on that.”

That calmed his laughter, but did little to stem his antipathy.  Ganulan gave me a calculated stare before continuing.

“Fine.  I shall have to depend on your magnanimous nature, Sir, for which I despise you all the more.”

“You needn’t like me,” I nodded.  “But speak freely, if you value your freedom.”

“I have spent the last three years wandering the backcountry of the Bontal Vales, skipping from one mountain domain to another, thanks to this damned magemark on my face.  I took the bandit’s trade to support myself when other occupation was elusive, but soon I discovered the market for those who wish to have your snowstone, but do not wish to pay your high prices for it.”

“You were the one who started mining snowstone at Taragwen,” I recalled.

“Yes, and it was quite a lucrative trade, before your apprentices and that godsdamn traitor Festaran put a stop to it.  By that time I already had a goodly supply put away, but they pressed me for my business partners, so that revenue was denied me. 

“However, though my contact was no longer willing to engage me, one of his clients sought me out to see if there was any more snowstone available.  I had cached around four hundred pounds of it in my lair, and was eager to capitalize on it.  I met his agent, we made the transaction, and I personally oversaw delivery.  That’s when I met the warmage, Dyvors.  After I was paid and we were about to go our separate ways, he asked if I was interested in more work – the kind of work most knights will not do,” he emphasized.

“More banditry?”

“More like an insurgency,” he corrected.  “He suggested that there might be coin available for a man who had intimate knowledge of the Spellmonger’s doings.  He thought my familiarity with the region would be helpful, so I agreed.  I hate you, after all,” he said, casually.  “I gladly embarked on spying on you.  I reported back every few months, took my purse, and went back into the wild.

“Then six months ago I was approached by Dyvors for more robust work.  He wanted me to assemble a squadron of mercenaries – more like a bandit troupe – for some fell work his master intended to see done in the region.  I had no issue with that – if he wanted to pay me to make war on the Spellmonger, my blade was otherwise uncommitted.  I found the thugs and cutthroats I needed throughout Sashtalia – some of my father’s old friends allowed me to stay there, despite my dishonor, out of respect for him.  Soon I had two dozen men in my camp.”

“What did you do with them?”

“At first, we merely gathered information.  Dyvors had very specific questions about Sevendor, some that took real work to discover the answer to.  But the silver kept coming, so we kept delivering.  Then Dyvors began having us conduct small raids, waylaying travelers on the road who were headed to Sevendor.  Artisans and pilgrims, mostly.  I knew not for what they were seeking, but I engaged in the rough trade well enough. 

“It seemed a petty way to make war on a man, I recall thinking at the time,” he said, glancing at the pitcher of water on the table near his bed.  I quickly poured him a glass and handed it to him.  He took it with a glance of gratitude and sipped, before continuing.  “But if my employer wanted to pay me to rob carpenters and torment pilgrims on the road, it was an easy enough trade. 

“After a few months of this sport Dyvors returned with others and announced a change in our policies; thenceforth, we would be commanded by a warmage.  A woman of small stature but lithe and powerful.  One who wore a concealing veil under her helm.”

“Lady Mask,” I said, recognizing the description.

“She was introduced to us as Flyndrig, an Alshari warmage.  She was clearly in command of Dyvors, and treated him like a lieutenant.  Me she treated like an ancient, despite my rank and my toil in constructing the weapon she wanted in my squadron.  She took control of the company, despite my objections, but she proved her worth soon enough.  We embarked on a two-week campaign of suppression amongst the Sashtali back country, where the peasantry and petty nobility were resisting Sashtalia’s banner call.”

“So she was working for Sire Trefalan,” I reasoned.

“No, Trefalan was unaware of her and my band,” he said, shaking his head.  “She had contacts among the domain lords of Rolone, Pirine, and Avanal.  Perhaps other places.  I know she took commissions from Sire Cullien,” he admitted.  “But ultimately she was working to pull you and Sevendor into the war between Sashtalia and Sendaria, even as Trefalan was trying desperately to keep you out of it.  So whomever she was speaking to within Sashtalia, it was not at Trefelan’s direction, I think.”

“That does make sense,” I agreed. 

“Regardless of her contact in Sashtalia, they made arrangements to have our band based in a camp near an inn in southern Rolone.  Near the Granite Tower.  From there we prepared to strike at Sevendor’s environs . . . when you went and purchased the loyalties of six of the domains we were to be based from.  That took Flyndrig completely by surprise,” he recalled, fondly.  “She was livid, when the news spread after the Feast of Duin.  She begged her contact in Rolone for permission to assault the rebel domains in retaliation, but was overruled.  That was when she secured permission for the raid on Amel Wood.”

“So she was kept from raiding by
someone
,” I nodded.  “It seems she is not entirely without a master, then.”

“More of a confederate,” he said, sipping more water.  “Another woman, I believe.  For when the tale of the six domains’ disloyalty was heard, she furiously used her magic to speak with her partner, which I chanced to overhear.  That was when I first heard her referred to as ‘Lady Mask’, not Flyndirg.”

“How did you overhear such a conversation?” I asked.  “And just what device did she employ to speak to her partner?”

“One of those magic mirrors you make.  She had at least two, from what I could see.  It was a heated exchange, and though I did not hear the name of her partner, another name was spoken that caught my ear:
Dunselen
.”

So Lady Mask was working in concert with Isily.  That did not bode well.

“I overheard that first conversation by accident; thenceforth I made a point of lingering near Flyndrig to discover more of her plots.  I was suspicious of her cavalier attitude towards me and my men.  I’ve been around enough commanders of common thugs to know when they saw their men as disposable, and Flyndrig had that attitude.  I was wary.  A few nights after that, she was again speaking to her partner on her Mirror in the dead of night, while she was on watch.  She assumed we were all asleep, but I had dozed in anticipation of such a communication, and feigned sleep to overhear.

“That was when much of her plan was revealed to me.  She spoke first of an upcoming attack on Amel Wood, of which I was unaware.  Then she proceeded to question her partner of other plots; particularly one involving Sevendor, itself.”

“Now we come to the meat of the feast,” I nodded.  “Pray continue.”

“Against my inclination, I shall,” he agreed, reluctantly.  “The conversation concerned several operations they had planned.  It was difficult to tell which was which, for they often spoke in code and ambiguities, as such folk are used to in order to protect their schemes.  But I learned that one of them concerned an assault on Sevendor Castle, itself.  A grand assault, which was originally planned while you were away at war with Sashtalia.  As that was frustrated, they were searching for a more auspicious time for their attack – one which saw you away from your home and unable to protect it.”

“To what purpose?” I demanded, sharply. 

“I know not, specifically,” he admitted, “but it involved the slaughter of your kin, at the very least.  Flyndrig has an especial desire to see you suffer.  One of the things which we found ourselves in common, as we sat around the campfire,” he said, touching the magemark on his face. 

“The gods often provide good company for such strong passions,” I said, dryly.

“But I concede that her hatred of you was superior.  There are things which even a disgraced and dishonored knight cannot bring himself to do – things involving
children,”
he said, distastefully.  “She fully intended to see your brats dead, and your wife slain in a most horrific fashion.  Listening to her delight in the horrific vision she described was appalling, Sir, even for one who despises you as much as I.”

“That is to your credit, then, Sir Ganulan,” I said respectfully.  “But did you learn anything else?  When they were planning this attack, for instance?”

“The annexation of the mountain domains altered their planning,” he reported.  “They were searching for a better opportunity, and had not yet selected one.  Yet it was clear that they had worked out a stratagem that would allow them unrestricted entry into Sevendor.  It was also clear that Flyndrig had personally inspected the castle grounds and probed for weaknesses.”  I suppressed a shudder at the thought of that murderous bitch freely wandering around my home. 

“But your death, apparently, was not part of the bargain.  Flyndirg argued incessantly that you needed to die – which I had a hard time arguing with – but her partner forbade it.  She had some sort of hold over Flyndrig, one which the warmage resented.  And they mentioned others who were devoted to their cause, other missions and other operations.  I was not able to hear any details, save that they spanned the length of the kingdom and involved many different agents.”

“Did you learn who the author of this plot was?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.  “Whomever they work for, it is someone of great power.  A patron, of sorts, in whose grand design they both confessed their ignorance.  But also their fear of retribution, if they failed.”

I tried to think who could be behind such a thing – certainly not Dunselen.  The very thought of the old fool being their secret master was laughable.  But that would have been preferable to the alternatives. 

I had no lack of enemies even after I’d eliminated the Family – the Knights of Nablus, the Brotherhood of the Rat, and of course the Dead God and his minions.  Hell, there may be others I wasn’t aware of.  I had barely been aware of Ganulan’s antipathy, though it had consumed his life.  There was no telling who else I had inadvertently pissed off.  The list of people I’d pissed off on purpose was long enough.

The only force I was aware of who might have the means to compel both Isily and Lady Mask to action, and then restrict their movements, was Sheruel.  He had barely stirred in the last few years as his folk consolidated their hold over the Umbralands.  His greatest military attempt had ended in qualified disaster, and his forces were weak and in disarray.  Striking at me through infiltration and sabotage, assassination and subversion would seem like a cheaper way to come at me, I realized.