The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (19 page)

A regular witchstone – a phrase I never thought I’d utter – is a nearly limitless wellspring of power, available at will to the mage who is attuned to it.  That much hadn’t changed.  Indeed, the volumes of power I could draw now dwarfed what I could do with my stone’s previous incarnation. 

But the sphere was different.  It wasn’t just a wellspring, it was a library, of sorts.  Or a storehouse. Or stewpot.  Pick your metaphor, it had structure and form inside.  It was a sphere of infinite potential and possibility, waiting to respond to my slightest wish.

As I realized the depths of the sphere’s complexity and its utility, I also got very, very scared.

No one should have that kind of power.  Not even me.  Perhaps especially not me.

But the allure of the sphere’s potential was irresistible.  I couldn’t stop admiring its subtleties, and for hours I did nothing but study it as I sat on the barge between two sacks of corn.  When I finally, reluctantly stepped away from it, I was exhausted and it was night.  And I was no closer to figuring out how to keep the Censorate from crashing my wedding.

*                            *                            *

One the thing the sphere was adept at was contacting other people with witchstones.  Specifically members of my order, whatever that was, who I had given the stones to.  Including my . . . well, I’m not certain of our relationship, at the moment, so let’s just call her an old school chum, Pentandra. 

Penny was one of the best thaumaturges I knew, and she had greeted the knowledge of my sphere with cautious excitement.  Calling to her magically and speaking to her, mind-to-mind, over great distance was child’s play.

Penny,
I began, when she had accepted the contact,
how do I get the Censorate’s attention?

Why would you want to do that?
she asked.  I could hear the shock and surprise in her “voice”.

Because they’re trying to arrest me.  Not immanently, but I have it on highest authority that the Censors are gathering with the intention of crashing my wedding and leading me away in chains.  Or better yet, burying me.

You’re paranoid,
she commented. 
Who was this source?

The Censorate.

Oh.  Well, then, I suppose you had better take it seriously.  Where are you?

On a boat on the Burine at the moment.  I’m on my way to Talry.

Of course you are.  I will be too, shortly.  But why would you want to attract the Censorate’s attention?  It seems to me that
avoiding
their attention would be a wiser course of action.

Only if I wanted to avoid them,
I pointed out.
I’ve decided I want to attract them . . . to any place but Talry.  Mama has already solidified the guest list, and she’ll be vexed if there are extras.  What I want is a distraction.  Something big.  Something big enough to keep them busy while I get wed,
I stressed.

You peasants are so invested in the whole concept of marriage,
she complained.
  Among the higher orders, it’s just not that serious of an issue.  A way to conserve property, seal alliances and promote heirs.  It’s a
legal
contract

Tell that to my pregnant girlfriend.  And remember that I’m a noble now . . . as are you.  Recently,
I reminded her.

I know, I know, oh magelord.  My point is, you are investing an awful lot in a ceremony.  And . . . look, I like Alya, she’s good for you.  But marriage?  You do realize that in a couple of years you may be one of the most powerful men in the Duchies?  Tying up a valuable resource like that isn’t very wise.  I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would be perfectly content to be your concubine, if you wanted.  That way we could—

Pentandra
, I said quietly,
I
want
to get married.

Why?
she demanded.
I’ve never understood the attraction.

It’s not so bad, if you do it right.  When was the last time you saw your parents?  Together?

Oh, a few years ago, at the reception they threw when I got my license.  They barely spoke to each other the whole time.  If I hadn’t been so drunk I would have been mortified.  You’re using
them
as an example?  That’s a poor debate tactic.

I’m pointing out that people who genuinely
don’t like each other
probably ought not to get married,
I offered.
  Alya and I do like each other.  Love each other. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, love makes it right,
she complained.
  But that doesn’t mean marriage.  Hells, some of the best romances in history have been unsullied by marriage.

My parents managed,
I said, carefully
.  You’ll see, when you arrive in Talry.

I look forward to it.  Last time I was only there for a few hours, and your folks were otherwise occupied.  But that reminds me, Tyndal and Rondal are both there.  Well, Tyndal is, and Rondal will be there before you will.  I spoke with Rondal this morning.  He checked on the Bovali refugees in Limwell, and some want to express their appreciation.  They’re sending a delegation.

A delegation?
I asked. 
All the way up to the Burine?
 
Won’t that be expensive?

They took up a collection,
she explained
.  Rondal will tell you about it.  But they felt so grateful that they didn’t want to go unrepresented.  And of course Alya’s sister and her husband will be coming.
 
Astyral cannot make it, unfortunately, nor can most of the High Magi, thanks to your victory. They’re scurrying off to follow your orders.  I’m sure they’ll send gifts,
she pointed out.

That’s fine, the less High Magi together in one place . . . actually, I just . . . wait . . . if I . .

I can
hear
your thoughts, remember,
she reminded me patiently. 
It’s kind of amusing.

Bide a moment.
  I did some fast thinking. 
Pen, if they can’t be here in person, do you think the High Magi might be persuaded to help out an old war buddy

*
                            *                            *

I actually got off the river north of Talry, at a little village called Gunder famous for its sausages.  I had never heard of the place, or its sausages, but the locals all assured me that the Gunder sausage was, indeed, the preferred and superior sausage up and down the Burine.  I tried one – it was good.  But not legendary.

That’s not just a bit of travel trivia, that’s actually quite instructional.  The quality of one’s sausage doesn’t matter nearly as much as what other people knew – or thought they knew – about it.  And how many people knew.  Or which people in particular knew.  “Famous for its sausages” is very useful, for a community dedicated to sausage-stuffing, but only if people outside of your hamlet knew about it.

But it was good.  I was willing to pass that on, if the subject came up.

The point, I decided as I rode Traveler south overland, was that appearances were often far more important than performance.  After hanging around Ducal court, I should have figured that out by now.

I had gone ashore at Gunder for a couple of reasons, and none of them were sausage-related.  I wanted to give Traveler a chance to stretch his legs, for one thing.  He dislikes water travel, and he can get positively nasty if he doesn’t feel land under him regularly.  I didn’t want to arrive with a pissed-off steed.

The other reason was that I felt in need of a bath and a shave and a bit of rest before I arrived for my wedding, which I still had a few days to get to.  I’d not tidied up much since Wilderhall, and my beard and hair were getting annoying.   A proper indulgent hot bath, perhaps with a pretty attendant or two, sounded like a splendid way to prepare for my wedding.

The third reason was that I didn’t want to show up at Talry, step off the barge, and into a pre-nuptial duel with the Censorate.  The precautions I’d taken were impressive, but they weren’t exhaustive.  At most they would lessen the chance of a general bloodbath.  If I was very lucky, no one at all would show, and I could begin my marriage in peace.

I was very philosophical as I rode.  I had a little more time before the wedding day, thanks to my speedy trip downriver.  I enjoyed the scenery and smoked and got slightly tipsy, checking in with my colleagues mind-to-mind as I needed to.  I thought of the folio of parchments that represented my new life, I thought about Alya as Goodwife Alya – sorry,
Lady
Alya, now, wouldn’t that be a surprise.  I thought about the son I had yet to meet. 

It was a blissful ride.  The peasants were busy with the last of the harvest, untroubled by war or its rumors.  The merchants and peddlers and artisans went about their business without the fear of the Dead God.  The priests and priestesses, monks and nuns were dutifully at their devotions and ministries, unconcerned yet for a storm from which they had yet to hear the thunder. 

I did my best to engrave that beatific ride into my soul while I rode, and tried to make it a part of my being.  The peaceful order of life, the routine of daily living.  As much as the war in the west frightened and worried me, I needed to be able to maintain that rhythm in the hearts of my new people, whomever they were, that would inspire growth and hope, not fear and defeat.

By the time I made it to Loxly, the crossroads farm village just outside of Talry, I was in a good mood.  I was going to get married, in front of the gods and with my entire family, and I’d be damned if I was going to let the Censorate ruin that.

I paid for a few days at the inn in Loxly, a creepy-but-homey place Tyndal, of all people, had recommended called the
Four
Stags
.  The beer was good, the fare was fair, and the innkeeper’s daughter was comely, so I can’t fault his advice. 

I tarried for a shave and a haircut at the barber across the road, then paid for the big copper bathtub in the back of the inn to be filled with water.  It was four pennies to fill it with cold water, ten to fill it with hot.  I paid for cold, and then raised it to the perfect temperature by magic.  It’s the little things like that that make being a mage tolerable.

The innkeeper’s daughter brought me wine and dinner while I soaked and scrubbed, and for two pennies more I got her help with certain hard-to-reach parts.  By the time I got out the water had become both murky and cold, and my flesh was wrinkled like a prune.  I changed into my cleaner pair of travel clothes and had the innkeeper’s daughter wash the rest, while I took up a spot by the fire in the common hall.

Wrapped in my mantle and smoking my pipe, I could have been anyone, of nearly any class, from baron to beggar.  The
Four Stags
was a busy place, and as a crossroads near to the river there was a lot of commerce it availed itself of.  And a lot of gossip.  I was looking for particular pieces of information, and sometimes you could get that passively more effectively than going around asking attention-getting questions.

I employed the Long Ears spell, and pretended to be dozing and smoking, to keep anyone from bothering me.  But I listened to each person who spoke in turn, and with the spell I could hear every whisper.

Most was useless to me, of course, although it was a pleasure to hear people speak in my native accent.  Mere rural gossip about who was fighting with whom, who was attacking whom, whose neighbors were boning whose wives.  Utterly typical discussion you could overhear in any inn in the Duchies.

But if one is thoughtful, one can comb-out the random seeds of information you need from the tangle of voices.  It’s the same kind of mental acuity you need to practice any high level of magic.  It’s also a helpful skill, I’m told, if you are a bartender.

Two hours of leaving my line in the water caught me more than I’d hoped, as one of the late-arriving travelers of the evening brought news from the east that a spellmonger had started a peasant’s revolt in Nagosk.  Less than an hour later, another rumor of another spellmonger and another peasant’s revolt, this time south in the Peachlands.  When I heard the latter, I smiled, opened my eyes, and ordered another ale.

Everyone fears a peasant’s revolt.  They are inevitable, often the result of a bad lord or a few enterprising commoners or both, but they happen with ugly regularity, particularly in the Riverlands estates.  The problem with peasants’ revolts is that they force you to take a side. 

Only the clergy are exempt, it seems, although they’ve led more than a few.  If you’re a noble you are obligated to fight to put down the revolt.  Duchies have stopped major wars and assisted each other in putting down revolts several times in history.  A noble who joins a revolt, or is co-opted into one by force, will likely lose his title and his head at its conclusion. 

Commoners, on the other hand, are in a similarly dangerous position.  If the mob arrives in your village, then it’s difficult not to cooperate with them lest they raze the place as an example.  If you do cooperate with them, then afterwards it might be your neck in the noose.  Both common and noble alike feared the aftermath.  There were some domains that never recovered from them.