The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (35 page)

“I await the Spellmonger,” she explained, thinking a servant had come to clean the room or clear the fireplace.

“Your wait is over,” the man said with a bow.  “I am he.  And what a lovely victim of a curse you are!”

She blushed, despite herself.  “I am Lesana,” she explained, “and I have a wild Talent.”

“So I hear,” the man said, congenially enough.  “You compel people to tell the truth . . . that’s awful!”

“I know,” she sighed.  “That’s why I’m here.  Can you help me?”

“How the hells should I know?  Let’s take a look.”  The Spellmonger led her to a stool and then confidently began casting his spells.  In the magelight above she thought she could see some faint flickers of his power against the white walls of the tower, and she endeavored to remain as still as possible. 

Before long he was making thoughtful noises as he studied her.  “That’s interesting,” he murmured.  “You certainly have a measure of rajira in you.  Potent, too, although we won’t know the full scope of it until we do more testing.”

“But my curse . . .” she began.

“I’m investigating,” the Spellmonger answered, continuing his mysterious work.  “The nature of your condition – I would hesitate to call it a ‘curse’,  as I detect no theurgic residue that would indicate a purposeful infliction – is that you have an awful lot of Talent focused in just a few specific areas.”

“I’m a sport,” she blurted out, recalling what the court mage at Eserine had told her about herself.

“Exactly,” Minalan the Spellmonger agreed.  “A sport.  Until last year, that would have been a death sentence or a brutal life.  But now . . .”

“Now?”

“Now there is hope.  Not much, but some.  Your Talent is manifesting in an area known as Blue Magic, the magic of the mind.  It is among the subtlest of disciplines to master, but those with such Talent can be impressively powerful when it comes to the realm of the mind.  Memory, thought, inspiration, desire . . . these are the subjects of Blue Magic.  As is truth.”  He waved away whatever he was doing and turned to face her. 

“So what can be done?” she asked, nearly begging.

“Well, I’m debating between finding a way to use you for my own purposes and having your throat quietly slit to spare us both some grief.  But—ah, shit.  I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Don’t worry,” she dismissed, “I’ve heard it all before.  I know how much trouble I can be – my curse can be.  That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s uncommonly understanding of you,” the wizard admitted.  “I’m not certain I’d have that much grace in your position.  But you are an intriguing problem, my dear.  More so because of your youth and attractiveness.  And I enjoy an intriguing problem.  So I think I’m going to try to help you.”

Lesana was elated.  “Thank you, Spellmonger!”

“Call me Minalan,” he insisted.  “Or Magelord, if we’re in company.  It flatters my vain ego to be called that.  Although the ‘Spellmonger’ designation has actually been better for relations with the people.  In any case, this will take some research on my part.  And that will take time.”

“I . . . I can return later,” she said, suddenly beginning to wonder where she would sleep and how she would eat.  The Spellmonger seemed to read her thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he soothed, “I’m not going to turn you out.  But I can’t just let you stay in the Great Hall, or even put you up in an inn.  With your condition you’d start a riot in no time.”

“It has been known to happen,” she admitted.

“I have no doubt.  No, I’m going to have to find a place to stash you while I work.  I think we have a cot deep in the forest you should be comfortable with.  Let me ask my apprentice.”  The Spellmonger closed his eyes and waited a moment.  “Now, have you eaten?” he asked, having not moved on his errand.

“N-no,” she said, confused by the question.  Minalan the Spellmonger closed his eyes again.  “I think you’ll like this cot – it was an old lady’s, my apprentice’s great aunt, before she died last year.   It’s well protected and . . . remote.  No people around,” he emphasized.  “And it has a tick and table already, I hear.  I’ll have you taken there tonight, and have some groceries sent around tomorrow.”

“You are extremely generous, Magelord,” she said, bowing her head.

“I’m extremely self-serving,” he replied, automatically.  “I have enemies and your condition could well prove valuable in protecting me from them.  If the price of that is an extra mouth to feed, it is not too high to pay.”  As soon as he said it, he looked troubled by it.  “And keeping your condition as secret as possible would be prudent.  I’ve never heard of a sport like you before, but then I’m fairly ignorant, despite my pretensions.” 

Lesana studied him thoughtfully and tried to read his thoughts on his face.

“You’re starting to reconsider slitting my throat, aren’t you?” she asked, cagily.

“Yes,” he agreed, looking even more troubled.  “Or making you mute.”

“I defer to the Magelord’s judgment,” she said, bowing her head.

“Oh, stop it,” he insisted.  “I’m not here to pile up bodies.  I’m here to use magic to make people’s lives better.  You are an excellent test of that endeavor.  If I cannot help you, I won’t be much of a Spellmonger.  Ah!  Dara,” he said, as a young woman of twelve or thirteen came in.  Her bright red hair was braided behind her head, and she had a wealth of freckles between her green eyes and her pouty mouth.   But when she saw Lesana, she smiled broadly.

“She really is pretty!” she said, despite herself.  She brought in wooden tray with a deep bowl of delicious-smelling stew, a heel of bread, and a big mug of ale.  “I’m Dara.  Master Min said you needed to be put up, and Aunt Lana’s cot has been empty nigh on a year.  It was as far away from my grandsire as possible, so it’s pretty far out into the Westwood.  Not much traffic,” she explained, as she set the tray down on a table and began serving Lesana.

“I’m very grateful,” Lesana said, trying to keep herself from devouring every morsel on the spot.  She had grown so used to hunger that she saw every meal as a feast, and the fare before her – while common for such lordly folk, she reasoned – was a banquet in a bowl.  “I’ve walked so long, and did not expect such a warm welcome.”

“Not everyone gets one,” Dara said, making a face.  We turn away folk all the time.  But if anyone can help you, it’s Master Min.  He’s so handsome . . .” she said, and then clapped her hands over her mouth, shocked at what she had uttered.  “Now I see why he wants you!” she said, blushing.  “I’ll keep you safe and comfortable while he works . . . but don’t worry,” she said, confidently, “if anyone can counter the spell, he can.”

“Your confidence in me does you credit, Dara,” Minalan said, approvingly.  “And the extra ass-kissing never hurts.  Which is why, under the influence of the Truthteller so that there can be no mistake, I’m telling you that I’m very happy I got you as an apprentice to fill the void left by those reckless lunkheads.”

“Thank you, Master!” Dara replied with a grin.  “I’m happy about it too!”

“Great.  Now that we have established our confidence in each other, go fetch some things for our guest, and then go ahead and take her to the cot.  And Dara?”

“Yes, Master?” the young redhead asked.

“Don’t let her talk to anyone – or be around a bunch of folk – if you can possibly help it on your way.  Especially Lady Alya.  There are some things a man just doesn’t need to be told the truth about,” he said, sagely.

*                            *                            *

The tiny cottage appealed to Lesana.  It was larger than the one her family had grown up in, more snug, better furnished, and best yet she did not have to share it with anyone.  She reveled in the security of the sack of groceries Dara had brought along with her from the castle kitchen, and she gloried in the solitude that allowed her to let down her guard.  Once the apprentice mage had left her alone, she had cried herself to sleep in relief.

Lesana stayed at the tiny cot for almost three weeks, getting occasional visits from Dara or her uncle to bring her more food.  She made herself at home, not only cleaning the dusty little cot as if it were her own, but tending the two rod long patch of garden next to it.  Just as the first sprouts were breaking through the well-hoed soil, Dara appeared one day with a big grin on her face.

“Master Min says come up to the castle tonight,” she said.  “After everyone is asleep.  He thinks he has an answer to your problem.”

That night she carefully made her way through the forest to the road, and thence to the castle. The guards admitted her without comment, and Dara was waiting in the Great Hall to escort her past the dying embers of the day’s fire and up the stairs to the Spellmonger’s tower. 

“Ah, Lesana!” the man said, as she entered his chamber.  “I’ve been working on your little problem, and after discussing it in detail with Lord Taren, a thaumaturge of the highest order, I believe we have hit upon a solution.  I’ve been working on the enchantment all week, but I think it’s finally finished.”  He pulled a small amulet out of a green silk bag.  “Here it is – I had to get some help on the hard parts, but . . . try it on,” he urged, handing the necklace to her.

She studied it a moment before placing it around her neck.  It was a small, round disc of white stone inscribed with runes she did not comprehend; in the center was a tiny fleck of sparkling glass.  She carefully put the amulet on.  She felt no different.

“Let’s test this: I’m secretly a woman,” the Spellmonger said, “I have a twelve inch penis, I’ve always been partial to bullies, and I know what the hell I’m doing.  Yep,” he grinned.  “It worked.”

“Really?” Lesana asked, her eyes wide in amazement.  “Those are lies?”

“Do I look like I’m secretly a woman?” the mage smiled, stroking his beard.  “A really ugly woman?”

“Let me try!” Dara said, eagerly.  “I’m nine feet tall . . . I ate a puppy for breakfast . . . I absolutely love doing elemental correspondences . . . it
does
work!” she said, excitedly.

“Dara helped a little on it,” the Spellmonger confided, “so she’s feeling a bit invested in the outcome.  But that little sliver of thaumaturgic glass should hold on to the counterspell for years.  Simply take the amulet off to allow your condition to assert itself . . . or put it on to force the truth out of folks.”

“Thank you, Spellmonger!” she gushed, tears in her eyes.  “How can I ever repay you?”

“By taking a job,” he answered.  “I may have need of your Talent from time to time, and it would be helpful to have you around.  We’ll keep the nature of your gift secret, of course, but when I need a truth-telling, I’d like to be able to depend on you.  And study your Talent.  It’s possible to figure out how to do a spell to mimic the condition,” he theorized.  “And it might be useful if you learned to control it.  If it’s controllable,” he added.

“I . . . I’d be happy to!” she said, beaming. 

“Explaining your position might be imprudent,” he reasoned.  “For now, let’s just tell everyone that you’re . . . you’re an artist or scholar of some sort.  You can keep living in the Westwood if you like, but now you can venture into town at need and not worry about breaking up every marriage in the place. 

“Now, how would you like to go downstairs and meet everyone?  I’d like your face to be known as well as your name.  Sire Cei, at least, should meet you.”

The Magelord led the woman down to the Great Hall, where the evening meal was being served.  The folk of the castle were eating at several trestle tables set up for the purpose, and two other wooden tables housed the guests of the castle: a visiting lawbrother, a cobbler staying for a few weeks to make boots for the castle, a Yeoman from a nearby domain bringing his manor’s tribute to the castle, a pair of masons who were helping with construction.

Lesana was introduced to the castle’s Castellan, its lady, and the rotund head of the kitchens.  The Spellmonger was gracious with every introduction, explaining that Lesana was an artist he’d commissioned for some unspecified work.  Everyone seemed friendly enough, and she was secretly elated at the novelty of people lying to her about what a pleasure it was to meet her.

Finally, she was settled at one of the visitors’ tables, where a trencher heaped with meat and vegetables was prepared for her, and a wooden cup of cider set at her elbow.  For a while she ate in silence, appreciating the casual falsehoods and dissembling she heard with every other breath.  But something was bothering her – not just the flurry of lies and half-truths everyone seemed to be making.  There was something else . . .

The Spellmonger was about to retire for the evening, after a brief conversation with his castellan, when Lesana rose and stopped him.

“Magelord,” she said, swallowing nervously, “I . . . I have to tell you something.”

He smiled at her.  “Truthfully?” he jested.

She smiled back.  “Yes, actually.  You see the lawbrother there, at the guest’s table?”

The Spellmonger raised his eyebrows.  “Brother Landa?  He arrived two days ago, fresh from the temple school in Burine.  He wanted to offer to help with the accounts and the courts of Sevendor.”

“The man is a spy,” she said, quickly and quietly.  “I met him on the road, and because of my curse . . .”

Minalan’s eyes went wide.  “A spy?  You’re certain?”