The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (18 page)

When we were close to narrowing it down to a few estates, Lady Arnet ordered another pot of tea and lunch for us both, before leaning back in her chair with a sigh.

“So do you have any questions about the reading?” she asked, stifling a yawn.  She’d been busy.  Two new thimbles had been delivered that morning, I’d noticed, one brass and one pewter.

“Many – but I honestly won’t know which ones to ask until I’m faced with the problem,” I admitted.  “It seems like an awful lot of work, being a landed noble.”

“It is.  But that is the price we pay for holding up the social order.  The nobility is the bridge between the common people and the Duke, or other central authority.  As a noble, you represent the entire Duchy to your folk.  To the Duchy, you represent your people.  All good nobles understand that they are even more bound to the land than the basest villein.  Their first duty is to their people and to their land, after their duty to their liege.”

“But all of this . . . revenue stuff,” I said, exasperated, “whether a man is serf, villein, freed or free, how much land he should be accorded, the nature of his crimes and fees, when civil law is applied and when canon law – all of this is more complicated than I’d ever imagined.”

“Oh, you’ll master it soon enough,” she dismissed.  “You’re a damn sight smarter than most nobles I’ve taught.  Indeed, I
like
you, Spellmonger,” she confessed.  “I have high hopes for you.  But if you’re really worried about it, the best advice I can give you is to hire a castellan you trust.  The greatest fool with a title can be rescued by a competent castellan, provided you have their trust.”

Then we got down to the final matter of selecting my domain.  We had reduced the possibilities to three, none of them sterling prizes in and of themselves, but each with decided advantages and disadvantages.  We went through each of them in detail, until she helped me winnow it down to the best possible selection.

It turned out to be a quaint little domain in northeastern Castal, not too far from the border of Remere – and only a few hundred miles southeast from Wilderhall, which might prove convenient.  It was technically within the sprawling Castali Riverlands, but nestled in the vales of the small but respectable Uwarri mountain range. It was a small land, easily defensible with one castle, two towers, two villages and a couple of hamlets, and it was unlikely to be the target of aggressive neighbors.  It was remote, it was convenient, and according to the ledgers, it should be fairly productive.

And it was hundreds and hundreds of leagues away from the goblins invasion in Alshar.  That alone was worth quite a bit to me.

“So, you want one of the old Lensely domains, eh?” Lady Arnet asked, when I presented her with my final selection.  “Good choice.  The Bontal Riverlands are a fertile region.  I’ll have the patent and award drawn up by this afternoon, and then you can be on your way, young man.  If I remember correctly, you are going to be wed?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Yes, my bride awaits.  She’s living with my parents at the moment, down the Burine.”

She smiled wickedly.  “If you thought becoming a lord of the land or a knight of the realm was complicated,” she snickered, “just wait until you launch upon the grand adventure of being a husband.  That, Sir Spellmonger, is the most harrowing title of all.  Now what was the name of that domain again?”

“Sevendor,” I said, savoring the name as I spoke it. 

*                            *                            *

With a new leather folio detailing my award to my new domain in my saddlebag and a draught on the Ducal treasury for a one-time stipend of five thousand ounces of gold, I nearly flew south toward Talry.  After such an uneventful time at Wilderhall I couldn’t wait to get home and claim my bride.

Alya had stayed with my parents in Talry for most of the last few months while I was off fighting the goblin hordes.  She had initially gone there with Tyndal, before I recalled him to duty, and from how he had described her relationship with the many women in my family, I was actually pretty happy with the goblin hordes. 

Supposedly things had calmed down after Tyndal (with some help from Pentandra) had driven off the Censors who were searching for me in my home village, but if I knew my mother and sisters Alya was feeling tortured by now.  I took a barge south from Wilderhall, rode overland to a landing on the Burine, and was soon speeding on my way toward Talry and wedded bliss. 

I wasn’t the only one – speeding toward Talry, that is.  The word had gone out across the land, mostly by arcane channels, to those who knew me and who might want to attend my nuptials. 

Pentandra was clearing up some errands but promised to be there.  I’d sent Tyndal and Rondal ahead to help my parents with the preparations.  Pentandra had even thoughtfully sent word south, where the Bovali refugees were encamped, and told them of the date.  A few old comrades, a few new ones, at this point I didn’t care if Korbal the Mountain Demon of the Mindens showed up in formal robes with a nice fruit basket with the Dead God on his arm as an escort in a pretty new gown, I just wanted to get on with my well-earned reward.  Someone owed me a happily-ever-after, and I wanted it.

The first glimmer that something was amiss occurred completely by chance – or fortune or fate, depending upon your religious and philosophical perspective. 

The barge had made landing about a hundred miles above Talry, at a lackluster riverport called Grolt, which gave me an opportunity to stretch my legs and have a pint of ale.  I also had an errand.  My pipe had been empty since I’d left Wilderhall, and I was missing it. 

The bargeman laconically pointed out a stall at the top of the bank, above the docks and set away from the porthouse where I might find such sundries.  The place looked decrepit, but there was a fire in the pit and the smell of roasting meat wafted down to the river enticingly.  I wrapped my mantle around me, realizing that I’d need a good winter cloak soon, and trudged up the steep incline. 

The shop itself was not much more than a shed, a single room with a single door through which the vendor sold his wares, and with two barges in at the same time he was doing brisk business – I had to stand in a cue. 

That’s when I noted the distinctive checkered cloak of one of the Censors of Magic, not three places in front of me. 

My blood froze the instant I recognized it.  The Royal Censorate of Magic is responsible for regulation and enforcement of the Bans on Magic, the four-hundred year old repressive code that manages my trade as a warranted mage.  That’s sort of like going to the privy and meeting the bailiff who’s looking for you with a warrant coming out.

I was in egregious violation of the Bans, you see, because I had wisely chosen power over death.  I was in possession of a witchstone, a piece of irionite that greatly augmented my powers.  Those were technically illegal.  And in my case I was a flagrant violator.

Possession of the smallest piece of it is usually a death sentence – and the Censorate’s super-jurisdictional position made appeal to civil authorities impossible.  Duke Rard was challenging the custom, and planned on using it as a pretext to make a crown for himself, but the politics of the thing weren’t what concerned me.  What had me anxious was the fact that I was holding a sphere of the magical green amber almost as wide as my palm, a gift from the grateful Alka Alon for a timely rescue. 

Now, it wasn’t that I was worried that I could not best the best of the Censorate’s warmagi in a contest – my sphere gave me incredible leverage in that regard.  The problem was that I was on my way to my wedding, and stopping to get involved in a fight with potentially dynastic implications just wasn’t what I wanted to be doing.  I wanted a bag of smoke, a pint of ale, and to be on my way to collect my bride. 

Thankfully I had stowed most of the accoutrements that would identify me as a mage of any sort back on the barge.  I didn’t wear a mageblade, carry a staff, or wear my four-pointed hat.  My cloak was the travel-worn dark woolen mantle I’d carried through the end of the summer’s campaign season.  It was stained with mud, blood, and worse, but it didn’t look otherwise remarkable.  Apart from the sphere that lay cool and dormant against my chest, there wasn’t much actual enchantment on my person.  Unless he chanced to gaze at me with magesight I might as well be a swineherd.

It was possible that it was mere happenstance, of course – for all I knew, he was on his way home for his sister’s wedding, or something equally innocuous.  But when one is wanted for high crimes against the Bans Of Magic, one is far more aware of such coincidences.  Magic is, after all, the science of coincidence.

I studied the back of the man’s head while trying to appear like another bored and weary traveler.  He might have been a warmage, but he was un-armored and bareheaded.  A young man – the Censorate likes to recruit young magi while they are still idealistic – but a fighter, I realized, by the way he moved.  He may not have been wearing his mageblade on his shoulder, but there was a wand hanging from his belt, I saw when he turned a bit.

I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation when he approached the doorway of the shed.  He paid six pennies to fill up his aleskin, a needle, some thread, and a trencher of vegetables and grilled lamb. 

“Back again so soon, m’lord Witchfinder?” the grungy merchant asked with a cock-eyed grin.

“Wickedness never sleeps,” the man agreed, as he spelled out his order.  “No mere witch or footwizard this time – there’s some real nastiness brewing,” he added, darkly.

“You don’t say, m’lord?” the merchant asked, curiously.  “Sorcery?”

“The worst sort,” the Censor agreed, gravely.  “There’s going to be a whole meeting of them, downriver.  I’ve had to summon help to deal with them,” he added.

“You, Witchfinder?” the merchant asked, surprised. 

“It’s unlikely that they will go quietly,” he pointed out.  “And I wish to avoid any unnecessary casualties.  But I will not let this coven slip through my fingers.  They’ve already killed one of my men and wounded another.  If they aren’t stopped, there’s no telling what sorcerous mischief they’ll raise.”

“You give ‘em a swipe for me!” the merchant declared adamantly as he took the man’s money.  “I don’t hold with those unnatural practices!”

“Just keep it to yourself,” the Censor added.  “No one knows what this one really looks like, and just about anyone could be in their dark coven.  And there’s no telling what magics they’ve employed to scry us out.”  That seemed to terrify the man, as it was designed to. 

That’s one thing I’ve always hated about the Censorate.  Most of the Censors aren’t really evil, but there’s something about petty authority that seems to stunt most men who have it inflicted on them.  The need to intimidate for no better reason than to be intimidating was something I’ve always found to be bullying.

The Censor passed by me without a second glance.  If he felt the presence of my witchsphere, he made no indication.  But my heart did not slow down to a respectable rhythm until I was back on the barge, my pipe in my shaking hands.

As unlikely as such an encounter was, I wasn’t about to throw away a warning from the gods like that. 

I sat and smoked and studied my new toy while I controlled a water elemental that was pushing our barge along at about twice the speed of the river.  My obese sphere of irionite sparkled in the sun. 

It was made from shards of the stuff that had been cleaved away from the massive sphere encasing the head of Sheruel, the undead goblin king of the gurvani I had spent the last year fighting.  It had been melded into this shape by one of the Tree Folk, the Alka Alon, the diminutive non-humans who were apparently just as welcome for sacrifice at Sheruel’s table as humanity was. 

I tried to forget the impending interruption to my wedding and explore the new power I had, explore it without succumb to the urge of using it.  Madness was an occupational hazard for magi, and those High Magi, those of us with witchstones, were particularly vulnerable.  Now I had four times as much at my disposal as any other mage, and it had been . . . augmented, somehow, by the Alka.

I spent most of the rest of the afternoon using various thaumaturgical spells to root around the sphere, exploring the spellcraft that had gone into its creation with fascination.  To an outside observer, it looked like I was taking a nap.

But inside my head . . . inside my head while it was inside the sphere, things were marvelous.  I recognized a sophisticated array of spell elements, useful components which could be accessed and assembled with a thought.  The sigils, runes, and symbolic magic of the Imperial school of magic were all easily identifiable – those I knew.  It was like sitting down before a massive organ keyboard in a big city temple, or being the captain of a magical ship or – well, there isn’t any easy way to describe it, not unless you understand the language. 

And even then the sphere was vastly more sophisticated.  There were hundreds of representations within its circumference I had no idea of what they meant or did.  And I’m considered a talented thaumaturge.  I could only conclude that they were of Alka origin and design, perhaps elements to Imperial magic lost to us over the years. 

Then I realized, as I studied the arcane spaces within, that the sophisticated array of tools at my disposal was purposefully reduced in complexity from the Alkan underpinnings that had given the sphere actual arcane architecture.   They were giving us the kind of help you’d give a child, in other words, who couldn’t understand Grown Up Talk.  Let me attempt to explain.