The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (3 page)

“Be strong,” said Goron, before his father-in-law could answer.  “And silent.  And . . . hide.   It won’t help anything for us to get involved.  Even in support of our wives.”  Master Rinden nodded gravely.

“That’s right, we all keep our heads down, our mouths shut, and act like everything is normal . . . because it
is. 
Our wives argue like mothers and daughters always do. 
‘When dragons argue, the grass suffers but the rock endures’
.  When it’s about something like this?  Every word you speak on the subject is another log on that fire, and it will burn itself out properly in good time.  If the Censors come along asking questions, they’ll see a family arguing about petty, unimportant family matters, not a family hiding fugitives. 

“So we menfolk will just keep out of the dragons’ way, and emulate the rock more than the grass.  And I’ll warn you, that’s going to cause problems for your own marriage beds. 
Endure
them.  This will pass soon enough if you do.  Trying to curry favor with your wife by taking her side against her mother is
never
a smart thing to do.  It might be a moment of pleasure, but its salt water on a toothache,” he said, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.  Another chorus of assent bore out that piece of wisdom, too.

“Now, are there any questions?” he asked, pouring another round for everyone.  Tyndal realized that he’d barely touched his glass, and with a shrug he finished it in one pull before holding it out for more. 

“Yes, Master Rinden,” he asked, as respectfully as he could.  “What time do you think it might be . . . and where might I fine Ishi’s shrine?”

Before he left, he checked on Alya, who had been given a small room of her own in the sprawling home.  Tyndal found her weeping, which sent him into a mad rush of emotion.  At once he wanted to protect her and soothe her, but this wasn’t a bandit, goblin, or over-friendly bargeman.   The cause of her sorrow was his master’s own family, and there was nothing he could do about that – as much as he desperately wanted to. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, Tyndal,” she assured him, wiping her tears.  “Just a little weepy.  It’s not their fault, I know that . . . I’m trying to be a good daughter-in-law, but . . .”

“They just don’t know you well yet,” Tyndal offered, sounding far more confident than he felt.

“They’re just being a good family.  I’m an outsider.  I talk funny, to them.  They know nothing about me or my people.  Yet we’re to be bonded by blood.  That has to be difficult for them.  I just wish Minalan was here, instead of . . . he would know what to tell them to calm the waters.”

Tyndal very much doubted his master’s capability in that direction – from what he had seen, one of the most powerful magi in memory was not particularly adept with treating with the feminine mind – and the legion of women in Minalan’s house were no weaklings.   If Minalan was here, there was little he could likely say, in Tyndal’s estimation . . . but it did suggest how he might help his mistress.

“Alya, there is a way,” he said, hesitantly, “a way to get a message through to Minalan.  I can do it.  Magically.  But . . . I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing.  It might attract . . . attention.”

“Oh, could you?” Alya asked, her teary  eyes wide with hope.  “Tyndal, I don’t want to distract him or, or get us taken by the witchhunters, but . . . if I only knew what to do!”

Tyndal swallowed, making the decision . . . and knowing it was the wrong one.  “I will,” he assured her.  “I’ll have to retrieve my witchstone, but I can send him a message, mind-to-mind, if it is a short one.”

“I would be forever in your debt,” she said, taking his hand between hers.  “I’m so sorry to ask, but I need him, Tyndal.  Even if it’s to know he’s still alive.”

The apprentice nodded.  “I’ll fetch it at once.  And then . . . well, if it works, I think I’ll go burn a candle at Ishi’s shrine in gratitude!”

*                            *                            *

The tiny shrine on the northern edge of the village was half the size of a peasant’s hut, yet far more grand, even through the thick mist that had rolled in from the river.  Tyndal approached in reverence – due to a historical peculiarity, his native land had no temples or shrines, and one of the things he’d been most impressed with since he left Boval Vale were the number, variety, and beauty of religious buildings.  The homes of the gods were sometimes humble, sometimes grand, but always interesting.

Talry’s shrine to the mother goddess was a circular building made of mortared cobbles, rounded in the river.  There were round windows on three sides, aglow with the candles lit within, the product of other pilgrims’ prayers.  The doorway had the circular sigil that Ishi’s priestesses used to bless her holy grounds.  The air smelled of the sweet  incense the Great Mother preferred in offering.  The roof was a high-peaked cone, resembling a breast, a dome of glass at its summit.

At this late hour it was unusual for the tiny shrine to be visited by anyone in the village, but as he drew closer Tyndal saw a figure in a blue mantle, head bowed before the gilded statue of Ishi.  Even through the cloak he knew it was Ansily.

He suddenly stopped.  What do I do now? He asked himself.  Why was he here?  Was he paying court to the innkeeper’s daughter, the way the ranchers of Boval did to each other’s daughters?  The inn she described did sound like a worthy livelihood, and the life couldn’t be as hard as that as a stableboy.   If he could learn to be a mage, he could learn to keep an inn.

But he was a mage.  He had obligations, and responsibilities.  His conversation with his master through the new spell Lady Pentandra had contrived had reminded him of that – pointedly.  Far from chewing him out over connecting magically, Master Minalan had given him some excellent advice about how to deal with the situation in the baker’s home . . . and a powerful new reason to fear the agents of the Censorate.

So what was he doing . . . here?  This had nothing to do with either Alya’s domestic troubles or hiding from the Censorate.  Meeting Ansily here in the middle of the night served no useful purpose, and (his usually-quiet conscience was screaming at him) even increased the risk that he and his mistress would be discovered.   He couldn’t be an innkeeper – he was going to be a spellmonger.  Or a warmage.  Or something, but with a shard of irionite and half an idea of how to use it, Tyndal didn’t see a lot of innkeeping in his future.

He was about to turn on his heel and head back to the bakery when the figure in the temple turned, peering anxiously out into the darkness and biting her lip.  The flash of her eyes in the candlelight and the curve of her neck were all he really saw through the mists, but suddenly his conscience was mute and his feet were propelling him into the shrine.

“I was wondering if you were going to come,” she said, quietly, not breaking her reverent pose. 

“I . . . felt in need of prayer,” he said, uncomfortably.  She giggled.  He relaxed.  A little.

“I often do, at this time of night,” she said, turning to greet him.  “You know, there is a legend that Ishi’s daughter, Delanora, was placed in charge of the river, for a time.  She wasn’t particularly good at being a river goddess, due to her restless nature, but she did her best.  One night a priestess called for her aid, to help carry a young couple to safety, as she was a noble and he but common,” she explained.

“Why didn’t she just—”

“Shh!
My
legend!” Ansily insisted sharply.  “Anyway, this priestess was trying to get the goddess to bear their boat upstream, away from their pursuers . . . but Delanora wasn’t listening.  Instead, they were forced downstream and made landfall at Talry.”

“That was convenient,” observed Tyndal, his eyes jumping from freckle to freckle. 

“Wasn’t it?  Too late Delanora came to the priestesses’ aid.  But she was so contrite that she contrived a thick river mist to cloak the young lovers until their pursuers had passed.  So powerful was the mist that it concealed them from even the other gods, and they were able to escape downriver and live happily ever after in another land.”

“That seems—”

“I’m not done.  Because the spell was so powerful, it is said that ‘what happens within the river mists of Talry will not be seen by the gods themselves.’”

“But I came through the mists and I saw just fine,” objected the apprentice.

“You . . . have no appreciation of culture,” Ansily said, her lips cocked to one side of her face.  “Or subtlety.  Ishi’s idol is
right there
. . . does a girl have to rip open her dress and push her twins in your face before you can
take a hint?”

Tyndal was struck dumb.  Was she . . . ?

“Well?” Ansily demanded.

“If I say ‘yes’,
will
you?”

The innkeeper’s daughter rolled her eyes expressively.  “Tyndal, you are impossible!  I’m going to scream if—” she began, her voice rising . . . so Tyndal kissed her.

He had no idea what possessed him to do so.  Her lips were just so close to his in the tight quarters of the shrine, and his anxiety that they would be discovered made him want to keep their voices low, so . . . it seemed the quickest way to shut her up.  And it seemed to be what she wanted.   The way she kissed him back, he soon had no doubt.  After that things started to go blurry.

He didn’t know how long they kissed in the shrine, and he found her hands wandering all over his arms and back as they did, and he wondered if he was too slobbery and whether or not she could taste the beer he’d had earlier and then his hands began to wander and most of his coherent thought stopped about then.  His mind went into a dumb state, preoccupied only with the moment, only on Ansily.  He even felt the brush of someone attempting to speak mind-to-mind with him, but they stopped before he could give it his full attention.

When the last candle lit by Ishi’s faithful sputtered out, Ansily finally broke their embrace.   She looked at him, her eyes magnificently large in the gloom, her face solemn but excited.

“And that’s where we should stop,” she announced, placing a hand on his chest.  “It is late, Tyndal of . . . Somewhere.  And while it’s true many a maid has sought Ishi’s counsel in prayer until deep in the evening, my father isn’t that stupid.  Besides . . .” she added, biting her lip.

“Besides . . . ?” Tyndal asked, confused, deprived of oxygen, his blood pounding in his ears so hard he could barely hear her words.

“Besides . . . while I’m not adverse to allowing a customer to sample a barrel before he buys it . . . one must be certain he has the coin to pay, and we have but short acquaintance.”  She said it as if he would naturally understand, which he naturally did not.  Then he thought he did, and almost said something, but then he didn’t and wisely shut up.  If Ansily wanted to end their courting for the evening, Tyndal was satisfied . . . if also painfully frustrated.

“Then . . . may I escort you back to your inn?” he asked.  He doubted she needed an escort – Talry was hardly awash in footpads.  But he also didn’t want to leave her sweet-smelling company. 

“That would be lovely,” she agreed.  “Would you like to share my cloak?  The mist is
quite
chilly.”

The next morning found the lad short of sleep, but strangely contented.   Only Hirth, the senior apprentice he shared a room with, noticed anything amiss.

“So, you were prayin’ at Ishi’s shrine?” he muttered, quietly, as the family began to wake and prepare the day’s chores.  “Who was she?”

“What?  What do you mean?”

“Well, unless Ishi smells of lilacs and seaflowers instead of horseshit, and uses rouge that stays on your face, I’d say that you slipped and fell into something delicious along the way.”

“I did not,” Tyndal protested, madly dabbing at his face.  The apprentice sighed and helped him out.

“Sure, Shitfoot, but don’t let Frentine see,” he muttered.  “She’s got an eye for you.”

“Wha—?”

Tyndal tried to forget the conversation as he mucked out the stalls at the stable for the day, but his lethargy was apparent.  Master Gonus found him listlessly heaving hay into mangers with the pitchfork and stopped him.

“Take a break, lad, it looks like your arms are made of cotton today.  Besides, I need you to take the wheelbarrow down to the dock.  Barge in this morning, already heard the bell.  Upriver.  Got a load of iron on it th
at needs fetching.  The farrier is due on market day, and he charges double if he supplies the iron.”

Tyndal groaned at the prospect of heavy lifting but dutifully hung the pitchfork up and took up the battered old wheelbarrow.  The docks were only a quarter mile away, and downhill at that . . . but that easy decline would turn into a hellish ascent, once the pig iron was loaded.  Still, Tyndal tried to enjoy the trip down to the docks – it was a beautiful day, once the sun had burned the fog away.

The barge was better than some Tyndal had been on, and it carried not just cargo but paying passengers – high born, too, from the look of the luggage piled on the dock when he arrived.  He knew enough about river traffic now to know that the passengers would depart first before the cargo was unloaded . . . and iron would be the last thing unloaded.  He parked the wheelbarrow between two crates large enough to shield him from the morning sun, and settled behind it for a nap.

He was thinking fondly of the spot on Ansily’s neck where it was trying to make up its mind whether or not to be shoulder or neck or some mysteriously intriguing combination of the two when he imagined her so vividly, he smelled her.  Then a shadow covered his face.  When he opened his eyes, an amused Ansily looked down on him, shaking her head.

“If your master knew what you were doing . . .” she began.

“They always unload the iron last, and the passengers first.  I’ve got time.  And if I linger too near the barge, they’ll make me unload it.  I’ve seen it happen.  Besides,” he smirked, “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

She grinned back. 
Dimples.  Damn
her.    “Me, either.  Spiritual crisis.”

“But what are you doing here?  I thought – oh.”

“Right,” she reminded him.  “I’m here to meet a barge.  This is the barge I’m meeting.  So just how long does it take for these passengers to depart, and the cargo unloaded?” she asked, mischievously.

“Let me check,” he said, peering through the crack between the crates.

That’s when he saw it, between the cracks.  A black and white checkered mantle.  His breath stopped.

Then he saw a second, and his blood froze in his veins.

Witchhunters
.  The Censorate.  Here.  In
Talry.
  And there was only
one
reason why they’d be here.

He knew better than to attempt to cast a spell, this far away from his witchstone and this close to professional magi – professional warmagi, he corrected himself as he saw a mageblade peeking over the shoulder of the larger of the two Censors.  But there was magic and there was
magic
– any spell that affected the Censors might be detected.  But the subtle spells he could cast on himself would not be, except under close examination.

At least that’s what he hoped he remembered from his unorthodox training.  Six months learning basic spellcraft, then a crash-course in warmagic wasn’t much to go on, but he knew a few common cantrips – such as the one called the
Long Ear. 

Cantrips were the building-blocks of magic, the very first ways a new mage learned to channel and command his Talent.  He’d spent hours practicing them, those wonderful first few months as Master Minalan’s apprentice, before the goblin troubles arose.  He’d loved the physical demonstrations of his power.  There were a few hundred he’d mastered – simple things, like encouraging and energizing the air on your fingertip to emit a flame or a spark, to make a bubble of magical force and then reduce its size until it ‘popped’, to coax a drop of water up a straw or to make a trail of sand follow your finger across a table. 

The more cantrips you knew, the more you knew how to put them together to make simple spells.  Like the letters of the alphabet combining to form words, as Minalan had taught him both disciplines at once, in Boval, and words form sentences, so did cantrips form spells.  The more you knew about them, the more you knew how to fit them together, the more magical energy you had to put into the casting, the more profound and dramatic effect.

This particular spell was extremely useful, and had led to his first lecture on professional ethics from his master.  The
Long Ear allowed you to listen to whispered conversations a bowshot away, if you did it right.  He assembled the symbols in his head, put them in the proper order, visualized them in the proper color . . . and gave them just enough power from his own source, not his shard’s, to energize it.  Then he softly whispered the command word just as the girl stepped perfectly into place.

“So?” demanded Ansily.  “Do we have—hey!” she squeaked, as Tyndal pulled her down on top of him. 

He hadn’t done it to be romantic – although he wasn’t averse to the idea, after the previous night’s excitement.  He’d done it – once again – to keep her quiet, and give him something to do while he eavesdropped on his enemies.

Ansily struggled a bit at first, but quickly melted on top of him, her soft lips tracing his as the tips of her hair tickled his face.  He devoted as much attention as possible to the matter, but part of him was invoking the command words on the
Long Ears . . . and then the words of them men fifty feet away were as clear as if they were standing over him.

“. . . this shithole domain when there are more junior officers capable of this kind of work.  Honestly, Wantran, if it’s just an investigation, surely we have less important folk for that!”

“Are you taking issue with the commander’s orders, Lespin?“
asked the older man with the deeper voice. 
“I’m certain he’d be happy to entertain your suggestions.  You know how forgiving he is.”

“The Commander does what the Commander sees fit – I am merely a tool in his hand,”
the younger Censor recited disdainfully. 
“But with renegades popping up all over the West, we should be riding that way, not searching through every third-rate barony in the Riverlands.”

“It’s because of the renegades that we’re here,”
reminded Wantran.  Tyndal tried to picture the man’s face, even as Ansily’s kisses became more urgent.  “
The intelligence says that the renegade leader’s family is here – he’s common born, a baker’s son.”

“And he has a witchstone?”
scoffed Lespin. 
“That’s unseemly!”

“Exactly what the Commander thought,”
replied Wantran, dryly. 
“Only it had less to do with his class and more to do with his flagrant violation of the Bans.  And he’s handing them out to every hedgemage and footwizard he can find.  If we want him to stop, we need leverage . . . and sources say his bride may be staying with his kin, here in Talry.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“Then we spend a few days looking around, do some scrying to be sure, and then we move upriver.  I don’t see what you’re complaining about, Lespin, this is as easy a duty as you could ask for.”

“I don’t want easy duty, I want interesting duty.  Chasing down a renegade’s whore isn’t my idea of a challenge.”

“Well, maybe I can find a way to make it more interesting,”
suggested Wantran, his patience beginning to slip. 
“The bakery is right there – see the red ovens over the fence?  It will take us an afternoon to inquire, a day or two to be certain, and then we’re off.”

“Fine, fine,”
grumbled the younger man
.  “Do a quick scry while I get the baggage, see if you spot anything.  If we’re lucky, the renegade himself showed up and is hiding in his mother’s chamberpot.”

“Funny.  I haven’t been feeling so lucky lately,”
observed Wantran
.  “Particularly since my last partnering assignment.  Before we go interrogate this baker, let’s find an inn for luncheon.  Those biscuits they served us this morning would have been sent away from a prison cell.”

The two Censors continued to banter good-naturedly, the type of running argument any two men of a profession might have, while Tyndal’s mind raced and his mouth was preoccupied.  He found his hand stealing to her back, and then her hip, and then to points south seemingly of its own accord.  His terror at being discovered was – for the briefest of instants – replaced by a primal appreciation of Ansily’s curvy body.

Tyndal continued kissing her until he heard the two men stomp up the stairs from the river dock and begin the climb up the slope to the bakery.  He didn’t break the embrace until he was certain that the two were out of sight.

“Whew!” Ansily said, breathlessly, as she broke.  “You know, you aren’t a bad kisser?”

“That’s what the horses keep saying,” he teased.  He was
trying
to stay relaxed – he did have an amorous girl laying on him, which wasn’t helping, except that in a way it was.  She stared at him a moment, her eyes dancing as they took in his face, and she offered the slightest grimace.

“Those men were who you’re hiding from, aren’t they?” she whispered into his ear.  He was shocked – but he nodded.  “I thought so.  I was kind of hoping that was all about me, but I noticed how tense you got when they passed by.  Who are they?” she asked.

Tyndal struggled with what to tell her, and how much.  Admitting he was actually a fugitive from one of the highest authorities in the Five Duchies would be problematic.  He wasn’t sure that there was an official reward out for his capture, but he had to imagine that the Censorate would look favorably on anyone who informed them of his whereabouts.  Ansily was not poor, but the Censorate was rich, and compensating an innkeeper’s daughter with riches beyond her dreams would be simple for the institution. 

Could he depend on Ansily?  More important, could he trust her?  With the truth?

What would Master Minalan do?

Tyndal sighed.  “They are Royal Censors.  They enforce the Bans on Magic.”

Ansily’s eyes went wide.  “So you’re not a stableboy . . . you’re a hedgemage?”

“Apprentice spellmonger, actually,” he admitted.  “And yes, I’m far better at being a stableboy.  But then I’ve just begun the trade.”

“So what did you do to get them on your trail?” she asked tossing her head toward the stairs the Censor’s had climbed.  “Kill your master?  Use magic to steal?”  Ansily asked, biting her lip with excitement – then studied him even more carefully through slitted eyes.  “Seduce his daughter?”

“No, no, and oh
dear gods
, no.  Master . . . well, my master is only ten years older than I, for one, so he has no daughter yet.  He’s very much alive, but he’s working for the Duke right now to stop an invasion of goblins in Alshar.” 

“Yes, I can see why that would get the Magic Police on to you,” she agreed, with feigned sagacity.  “Really, Tyndal – or whatever your name is –
why are they chasing you?”

“Because my master is using forbidden magic against the goblins,” he explained.  It was the simplest explanation that didn’t require a history lesson to put into context.  “And even though he’s trying to save the Duchies, he didn’t fill out the right paperwork or something.  I don’t know.  All I know is that the Censors will be happy to use Alya – that’s his intended, and she’s pregnant – or myself as hostages to persuade him to surrender.”