Enchanter (Book 7) (40 page)

“Exactly, Excellency,” Sir Festaran approved.  “It’s a visible display of power and authority, and one that your vassals will come to love you for – as long as it does not become burdensome.” 

“Then prepare a party,” I decided.  No more than twenty men-at-arms, and assemble whatever warmagi are hanging around, looking for work.  Inform Dranus that I’d like him to attend me, as well as yourself.”

“I’d be honored, Magelord,” the loyal young knight assured me.  “Shall I have Dara accompany you as well?” he asked eagerly – a little too eagerly.  Whatever problems Alya and my teasing had sown between the two young people had not dampened Sir Festaran’s enthusiasm for her company.  But I wanted the young man focused on my business, not impressing a girl.

“No, I think the Hawklady needs to focus on bringing her new clutch to nest,” I pointed out.  Frightful had finally mated, and the makeshift mews that Dara was using in the Westwood was the focus of her energies right now.  Nor was she the only bird with new eggs to hatch: one of Dara’s early “failures” in the program to grow transgenically enchanted giant hawks and falcons had been a trio of birds who had escaped their jesses and refused to return to their falconer.

It happened, I was told; there was always a risk for any bird in training to return to the wild and go feral, though they rarely integrated well with their wild brethren.  These three birds – a male and two females – had taken to a nest on the far side of the nearly-impassable central ridge just beyond my official territory.  But what was interesting was that the two females had escaped captivity after their transformations – their nests were the size of wagons, and their wingspans were thirty feet or more.

The male, on the other hand, had been the first to escape, and was from a much earlier phase in the program.  His wingspan was merely double the size of his transformed mates.  But apparently to Mindens Raptors size didn’t matter – both females were laying on clutches of eggs the size of cabbages.

Dara was as excited about those birds as she was about the new crop of trained birds she was nurturing – and the new crop of skyriders she was trying to get trained.  She had presented nine new candidates for training at the Spring Court, and they were all working on the basics in the barracks she’d had built for the purpose in the Westwood. 

But whichever way you looked at her schedule, hauling her away from her work so she could enjoy a few days of Sir Festaran’s attention just didn’t seem like in anyone’s interest.

“Besides, this is a military mission, and an administrative one,” I reminded him.  “But you’re right.  Having an apprentice along would certainly be instructional.  Have Dranus prepare Ruderal for an excursion of a few days.  It’s time I got to know the lad who would be my apprentice.”

*

*

I think Alya was glad to see me get out of the castle for a few days.  The rain was starting to get oppressive, after such a harsh winter, and I was haunting our hall and playing with the children so often in between enchantment sessions that I think I started to irritate her.  She finally gave me the look that I’d come to interpret as
“Min, I love you, but I need to miss you more.”
  So when I told her about the tour, she was enthusiastic.

“In fact,” she continued, after I’d outlined a rough itinerary, “you can use the opportunity to escort Sister Bemia’s representatives to the domains,” she offered.  “She’s been trying to make contact with each of the castle chaplains to develop that Sevendori ecumenical council she’s so fond of.  With the inclusion of the Abbey, the new temples, and Landfather Merton’s estate on our frontiers, now, she thinks that stronger ties amongst the clergy will help consolidate our power, here.”

“Well, I’m already overseeing the arcane infrastructure, I suppose I can assist the spiritual, as well,” I grumbled.  I’d been looking forward to a relatively rugged excursion with my knights and men-at-arms, not a ladies’ pilgrimage.  But a Magelord has to do what a Magelord has to do.  “Who is this representative I’m escorting?”

“Oh, she picked a monk who was going that direction, anyway,” she said, absently.  “He showed up a couple of days ago, got an audience with her at lauds, and agreed to help out.  You know him – Brother Hotfoot, from the Kasari March?”

I was surprised, and it took a moment for me to respond.  “Oh, yes.  Excellent fellow.  That won’t be so bad, then.”

In fact, it would be quite helpful . . . “Brother Hotfoot” was, in actuality, the earthly incarnation of the minor God of Travelers, Herus.  That was only known to me, the goddess Briga, and one very irritated high priestess in Wilderhall, but it was significant.  If Hotfoot had appeared, then there was likely more to it than a pleasant spring journey through the countryside.

Or maybe it was . . . the gods are a capricious lot, as I’d discovered.

Two days later we were ready to depart. 

Sir Festaran led the company, at the head of four of our household knights currently assigned to the castle and sixteen mounted men-at-arms from our garrison.  Six warmagi came along, too.  There were always several haunting Sevendor Town, either honing their skills, waiting for work, or spending their loot, but all were tacitly awaiting an opportunity to gain a witchstone from me and make their fortunes.

Since the King had curtailed the official High Warmagi program after the treaty with the gurvani, I hadn’t gotten a new candidate from Relan Cor in over six months.  Unofficially, that was because the Royal House was getting nervous about the great number of such magi running around, I knew, but that didn’t curtail the desire of my colleagues from the allure of that power.  Plenty of them had wintered in Sevendor, occasionally taking a turn in the Manufactory or working on their own skills and waiting for something interesting to happen.

The six I had selected to hire were all eager to take my colors, particularly during a time of local instability.  If nothing else, being able to brag about that appointment would assure their employment afterwards.  And there was always the possibility that I would quietly raise them, if I was impressed enough and found them worthy, with one of the secret cache of witchstones I had in my mountain.

They were all veterans, of course.  Three had been on the Farisian campaign, and four had been with us as Cambrian, and one – Master Camulus, a Narasi with a Remerean name – had gone all the way up the frozen Poros with us, and lived to tell the story.  I had selected not based on their specialties (all warmagi specialize in one element of the art or the other by necessity) but because they were demonstrably competent in a general range of warmagic. 

They could, with more or less equal facility, lay the enchantments needed to strengthen a fortification, cast wards needed to screen for foes, do minor magical healing, interrogation, and scrying.  And each of them was personally combat-ready, as I attested in a string of practice bouts in the yard that proved it had been far too long since I’d picked up a mageblade. 

They were all willing to sell their loyalty to the Spellmonger, in return for my equipage, a lucrative posting, and my patronage.  Each would act, in addition to being my military representative, as a court wizard for my vassals, at my expense.  Any reasonably normal request by their lords would be entertained.

That, alone, was a huge boon for my vassals.  Court wizards are expensive, as are warmagi.  Each of my men would be in residence at the cost of livery (usually only a half-ounce of silver a week) plus a stipend of ten ounces of silver a week, paid into their accounts at the Temple of Ifnia.  They received green woolen tabards, distinctive from the surcoats of the knights around them, each with a big white snowflake on the breast.

It didn’t take long for the chuckles to begin about the Spellmonger issuing uniforms that served to make his warmagi targets.

But they got more than new clothes, before we departed.  Each received and was briefly trained in using some of the more-dangerous Sentry Staves.  I’d even given Sir Festaran his own custom staff, though he was just barely a mage knight, which Gareth had prepared to take advantage of his unique Talent for estimation and apply it to warfare.  While he still preferred his trusty non-magical cavalry blade, after learning how to use the mage’s weapon in combat, he proudly displayed the staff in his lance holster instead of the more traditional weapon. 

“I will call it Vigilance, for ever shall it guar my honor,” he declared, after besting four squires with it at practice.  “Using it I can estimate an attack to the finest detail, and respond accordingly.  A magnificent gift, Excellency!”

The other warmagi were similarly impressed.  They had their own custom enchantments they’d built, and each bore a mageblade, but they’d had nothing as elegant or powerful as the Sentry Staves to play with.  After a day of practice with them, they were eager to use them in earnest at my behest.

The morning of our departure we gathered the company outside of the Diketower, which was preparing for a substantial renovation, and had a final pint at the Boval Inn, where we collected Ruderal from Yeoman Rollo.

Rollo had kept the boy with a small but growing collection of Wilderlands orphans who had found their way to Boval Hall.  The man had been widowed and lost his family in the invasion of his homeland, but had been stalwart enough to help lead his people into a new land, build a new home, and make anew a life for himself.  The children I’d saddled him with had been highly therapeutic, I noted when he brought young Ruderal out to us. 

Once Rollo’s eyes had been constantly haunted by the ghosts of his beloved family; while there was still a strong tinge of pain behind his eyes, there was something more, there, now, thanks to me forcing him to care for the orphans.  The two I’d rescued from a cave in Alshar last summer were thriving under his care, and accompanied Rollo and Ruderal with the comportment of well-trained pages.  He had provided a sure-footed pony for the boy’s journey, explaining that he was more used to boats than saddles, and he had ensured that the lad had packed properly for the trip.

“So are you prepared for your first foray as my apprentice, Ruderal?” I asked, smiling.  He looked up at me nervously, gray eyes peeking out of his long dark hair.

“Aye, Magelord,” he said, swallowing hard.

“In this capacity, it is proper to call me ‘master’,” I corrected him, gently.  “Don’t worry.  The rules might seem complicated at first, but you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

“Are we going far . . . Master?” he asked, nervously casting his eyes back on Boval Hall.  The only home he’d had for months.

“A ways,” I assured him, “but only within my own lands.  We’ll be safe.  And you’ll be safely returned.”

That seemed to satisfy him, though he still looked back longingly at Rollo and his foster siblings as we departed the estate.  Once we were on the road, however, he lost his sense of homesickness and was instead curious about everything around him. 

Just outside of the Diketower we met with Brother Hotfoot, astride a rouncey mare.  The humble monk greeted Festaran and I warmly as old road companions, and before mid-morning we were walking our horses through the Enchanted Forest, enjoying the novel lack of rain on our faces.

I traded on my baronial prerogatives to ride knee-to-knee with the monk ahead of the rest of the party for a ways.  “So what brings you to Sevendor, this time of year?” I asked him, knowingly.

“A good monk is always on the road,” he chuckled.  “Though I admit, I spent much of the winter in warmer climes.”

“I suppose that’s your prerogative,” I shrugged.  “If you have all the world’s roads to choose from, sticking to the sunny, dry ones during winter doesn’t sound like a poor option.”

“In truth, I had business there,” he admitted.  “Your gift has given me the ability to settle some old debts, so to speak, and make good on some old promises that were long overdue.  Once I handled that business, my feet just naturally led me back up into the Riverlands, to see my old friend Minalan.”

“It is good to see you,” I agreed.  “Your cousin paid me a visit a few months back, to my benefit, but I was hoping we’d meet again.”

“Oh, you could wager on it,” he nodded, looking more serious.  “Minalan, far be it from me to question your wisdom—”

“Why not?” I interrupted.  “It seems like one of the more popular past-times, lately.”

That earned a grin, but not much more.  “But one must question why you would consent to permanently embody such a powerful primal force as Ishi.”

“Would it help if I said she flashed me her boobs?” I asked, feebly.

“They’ve been known to have that effect,” he conceded.  “But I thought you were beyond mere animal reaction to such things!  You are a man of reason!”

“I’m still a man,” I pointed out.  “And the specifics of the occasion were . . . unique.  I was in a bind and at the mercy of my enemies,” I explained.  “Without her intervention, the consequences could have been disastrous.  She took the opportunity to intervene, I felt obligated to repay her the way she desired.”

“That was a dangerous move, Minalan,” he warned.  “Of all the divinities you could have granted permanence to, Ishi is among the most capricious.  You’ve heard what she’s doing in Vorone?” he asked, alarmed.

“Pentandra’s been keeping me informed,” I nodded.

“She’s turned half the town into a brothel,” he said, distastefully.  “I’m not opposed to whoring, mind – plenty of roadsisters have been known to offer comfort at a shrine in return for a better offering, when no one was looking, and I’ve rarely met a monk who didn’t stretch his vows or take solace in his celibacy with a lusty indiscretion or two – but what she’s doing in Vorone is just shameful!”