Enchanter (Book 7) (73 page)

“Lord Taren is correct, Excellency,” counseled Brother Irthine, looking up from his later oath taker.  “If nothing else this must be reported to the proper authorities.  If bear witness that Sire Trefalan authorized this attack, then he will face sanction!”

“He’s facing the loss of two thousand peasant levies and another hundred knights, not to mention the payroll,” Lanse pointed out.  “I’m not sure he’s going to be around much longer to face sanctions.”

“Speaking of the payroll, which of us is going to drag it out of the privy?” asked Taren, reluctantly.

“I can use magic to do it,” Lanse said, distastefully.

Lorcus shook his head.  “Gentlemen, you need more vision.  Here we have a whole slew of condemned prisoners, and more below.  We have plenty of helpful labor to handle that particular task, don’t we?”

I didn’t laugh.  I was staring at my sphere, distraught.

Lorcus came over to me and examined it, carefully not touching it.  It was still active, still connected to my mind in a dormant fashion . . . but it wasn’t working properly.

“Lady Mask,” he pronounced, shaking his head solemnly.  “A real ball-buster, Min.”

I didn’t kill him.  Gods only know how I refrained, but I didn’t.

*

*

“It’s really quite simple, Master,” Dara explained as we teetered on top of the fighting deck she’d so recently cleaned of errant warmagi.  “You simply hold on to these grips, here, and keep your feet in the stirrups.  The straps will keep you on his back; Master Andalnam enchanted them so you could go upside-down and not fall off, even if unconscious.  But just in case . . . hang on to the grips.”

“No reins?” I asked, in confusion.

“He’s not a horse, he’s a bird,” she recited patiently.  “You steer with your knees and with signals that you don’t have time to learn.  Which is fine, because I’ll be directing him through bilocation.  All you have to do is hang on and enjoy the view.  You’ll be back home in Sevendor within the hour.  We’re really not that far away, by air.”

I nodded, nervously.  My apprentice was being very patient with me as I embarked on my first foray into her specialty.  I had more or less left Dara to her own devices when it came to training and developing the giant hawks.  I trusted the Alkan Emissaries who were working with her on the project to keep her from doing anything stupidly dangerous. 

So far I’d been vindicated – the Mews was a well-run part of the Westwood estate, and her first eight Skyriders had become adept at flying their birds to all sorts of purpose.  Her second flight was still in training, awaiting birds of their own, but when she was done she would have accomplished something amazing, on her own.  More or less.

Right now I was wishing I had paid closer attention to her trials and tribulations.  Mounting a gigantic hawk like Faithful is a scary thing.  You feel the muscles under you, just as you do a horse, but then he fluttered his wings and I realized just how un-equestrian this mode of travel really was. 

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t even think of putting you aloft, but Faithful is the strongest we have.  You’re under three hundred pounds,” she said, with a hint of skepticism in her voice.  “He shouldn’t have any problem bearing you that distance, though it won’t be a fast flight.  He’ll get you there, though.  He’s not called Faithful for naught.”

I thanked Dara and waved good-bye to Ruderal, where he was standing in front of Lanse.  The big warmage had taken a liking to the lad, and since they would be staying here a few days until I could arrange an escort back, I was just as glad of the relationship.  Dara, of course, was thrilled to have a few days in a strange town, especially one in which her friend Lorcus owned. 

But I had to return to Sevendor, quickly.  Too much was dependent upon my ability to speak mind-to-mind, or use the Waypoints.  My mind had been running like a rapids over all the horrible things that could go wrong before I had the sphere repaired.  I was just lucky that the one Alka Alon who could do the job was also the one lowbrow and obnoxious enough to get himself exiled to my domain.  If I could get back to Onranion without difficulty, I was confident that I could get it restored.

The most expedient way to do that had been on Faithful’s back.  That night, with the crescent moon overhead, I felt the gargantuan bird crouch and leap into the sky.  Next to actually staring down a dragon’s throat it might be the single most terrifying instant of my life.

But once we were aloft, and the mighty bird climbed to a comfortable soaring height, my fear of falling abated.  I was able to look down on the fertile fields of Rolone, rolling out from the ribbon of river below, silvered by moonlight.  It was similar to being in the Otherworld, only with the chill of the wind in your face.  And bugs in your beard.  The air wasn’t just cool, it was cold, and my cheeks quickly became numb.  I remembered the charm to keep my eyes from freezing Dara had taught me, and then took a good look.

Rolone was magnificent, a model Riverlands domain with dozens and dozens of prosperous farmlands spread out between the hills.  This was what they were fighting over: the right to own what those folk below did every year.  Grain was life, grain was prosperity, so Huin’s monks told us.  But to the nobility grain was gold and power.  That's why they were fighting for those croplands so devotedly.

Beyond the vales were the first of the foothills, and I recognized a few landmarks that told me how quickly we’d come to the frontiers of my new lands.  Below my new domains spread out under me, humble little scraps compared to the wide, lush fields below. 

Here barley and oats replaced wheat, and even further up the mountains the tiny gardens grew just enough corn and beans to get folk through the year.  My lands would never produce the crop yields of Sashtalia or even the smaller domains to the north of Sevendor.  I would have to make us prosperous through magic.

Faithful flew lower, over the mountains, the moonlight glinting from his wingtips as he soared serenely over the trees.  The ridges of Sevendor Vale stood as a great dark fence around my land, overlooking the smaller hills around it.  And behind it, to the south, rose the imposing interior of the Uwarris, claimed by no lord because the terrain was so rough and unmanageable. 

But there at their base was the familiar sight of white Rundeval, my brilliant castle looking tiny by comparison.  The big bird slowed as we crossed the ridgeline, and to my surprise he banked right.  Before I knew what was happening we were circling the beautiful spire on Matten’s Helm, fair Laesgathal.  Dara was showing me the sights, I realized, and there were few more stunning than that amazing snowstone edifice. 

But then we pulled out of the circle and soared back toward the castle, getting lower and lower to the ground all the time.  Faithful swept in at what felt like just over the wall, and actually had to climb a bit to land on the roof of my tower.  Only once I could see and feel both of his feet firmly on the stone did I chance to unclench my fists. The straps came off easily, and in moments I was on solid ground again.

“Thank you, Dara,” I said, bowing to the bird, adding, “And thank you Faithful.  You’ve lived up to your name.  Why don’t you take him back to the Mews, Dara, and I’ll get in contact with you in the morning?”

The bird didn’t answer, of course, but it bobbed its head and then took off in a rush of feathers.  I sighed.  My sphincter unclenched the tiniest bit. 
How did she do that all the time?

I made my way downstairs, grateful for the quiet and the feeling of being back home, around familiar surroundings.  I tarried a moment on the ground floor, my study and sitting room, where I took a moment to pour myself a shot of peach spirits and sit until my knees felt like they could support me again. 

That’s when it hit.  I started shaking, all over.  I had been attacked, I had been targeted, I had had my magic taken away from me, I had been in danger, and someone had broken my most powerful magical treasure.  The fact that I’d survived without other serious loss was beside the point. 

I was supposed to be better than this, I told myself.  I’m the
Spellmonger
, everyone depends upon me to be the one with the plan, the one with the spell, the one with the scheme that saves the day.  Only this time I hadn’t, and I’d gotten a nasty cut and almost died because of it.

Now other people were plotting against me, and I didn’t like it one bit.  I’d done everything in my power to build a safe place to call home for me and my family, and besides honor, professionalism, and political reality the fact was that I was sick of it.  Mask was probably dead, but then I’d thought that before.  Isily was not just alive, but was about to give birth to my child. 

Unfortunately, there was almost nothing I could do about any of it.

So I just sat there and stared at the bookcase, my broken witchsphere on the chair beside me.

And I
shook.

Chapter Thirty Four

The Perfect Paraclete

“Oh, Minalan,” sighed Onranion as he examined my sphere in my workshop the next morning.  “You really cracked this like a nut, didn’t you?”

“Annulment spell, while it was floating,” I explained, grudgingly.  “Can you repair it?”

“Well, certainly . . . to a point,” he admitted.  He didn’t look enthusiastic about the prospect.  I didn’t much care.

“Well, do it, then!”

“Well,” the human-formed Alkan said, putting his hands behind his head the way he’d seen humans do, “the thing is, I’m not so certain we should go rushing into that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.  “I
need
that thing!”

“Of
course
you do,” he said, with a patronizing note in his voice.  “But stop and consider a few things.  Azhguri and I have been talking . . .”

“You’re always talking!  And drinking!  That’s about all you two do!” I said, exasperated.  Luckily Onranion was more amused by my outburst than offended.

“It’s
what
we’re talking about that is the important thing,” he said, condescendingly.  “We’ve been studying that Snowflake of yours, and all your pretty rocks, and we think we can make something better than this plain old thing,” he said, waving his long, delicate fingers at the cracked sphere with disgust.

“What do you mean, better?” I asked, suspiciously.

“You know the direction we’ve been going, theoretically,” he said, reasonably.  “Perhaps it’s time to take the next step, as you folk say.  Let me speak to Azhguri about it – and Master Ulin, he does have some novel perspectives for a mortal – and we’ll let you know what we come up with.”

“Let me know?” I asked, outraged and irritated.  “How am I supposed to do magic until then?  How am I supposed to use the Waypoints?  This is not a good time for me to be kept waiting, Onranion!”  I didn’t bother listing my worries, because I was too mad and he wouldn’t care anyway.

“Just use one of the Seven Stones you have, temporarily,” he soothed.  “Those have the Waypoint enchantment in them already.”

I stopped.  “They do?”

He looked startled.  “Of course they do!  It’s standard!  Those low-powered stones were used by sentries and . . . well, call them hunters, and they needed to use them fast, sometimes.  The stones are a shortcut to that.”

“And all of the Seven Stones have them?”

“Yes, of course.  Didn’t I just say that?”

“So I could have taught Tyndal and Rondal and Azar and everyone else who I’ve given one of them to how to use the Ways?  And maybe not doing all of this dangerous magical travel myself?”

He considered.  “Well, I suppose you could,” he admitted.

“That would have been helpful information to have,” I suggested through gritted teeth, “about a
year
or so ago.”

“It didn’t come up,” he dismissed.  “But go ahead and use one of those temporarily, and we’ll get back to you when we’re ready with the new model.”

“I really hope you know what you’re doing, Onranion,” I said, sighing.  Grabbing one of the special Seven Stones I reserved for powerful magi in the service of their orders would be easy enough, but I also knew that, despite the Alka Alon sophistication, it wouldn’t be nearly as much arcane power as I had grown accustomed to.  But it would suffice, for now.  As long as I wasn’t so handicapped for long.

I spent the rest of the day drafting letters to Lord Trefalan regarding his vassal’s craven violation of oath, and proposed consequences, I caught up on some of my correspondence concerning the upcoming Arcane Orders Conclave – dear gods, was it really that soon? – and spent some time establishing a rapport with the Seven Stone.  By the end of the day I was confident enough in the link to try a quick Waypoint trip to Boval Village to tell Yeoman Rollo of Ruderal’s delay, then back again.  Satisfied it would work I called Dara and Tyndal, mind-to-mind, and informed them of my lessened power.

They reported that eight of the surviving Roloni knights had been captured and taken to the prisoner-of-war camp, there to dig ditches and break rocks in penance for their crime.  The townsfolk had been genuinely angry at the betrayal, and had pelted the coffled knights with refuse as they were being led away south on foot, stripped of their armor and their dignity.