Enchanter (Book 7) (81 page)

“Perhaps,” I nodded.  “If she and Isily knew each other in the past, then once Mask fell out of favor with the gurvani – okay, I’ll admit, I pushed her out of favor – then she might just go to an old friend in civilized parts, who just happens to be powerful now, if she needed refuge and assistance.  Especially if she had made a deal with these Enshadowed Alka before she left the Penumbra. 

“If they were aware of my treasury, then they’d want a human spy to investigate it.  With no Alka around to speak of, they couldn’t do it themselves.  Of course with no Alka around to speak of, they’d have a hard time doing it themselves.  They’d need her help.”

“That’s probably who got her the new witchstone,” Gareth snapped.  “I was wondering where she got one so quickly!”

“Oh, easily,” Onranion nodded.  “The Enshadowed would have access to a gracious plenty.  But I fail to see where Isily enters into the conspiracy.”

“I do,” Dranus said, quietly.  “She covets this holding, for one thing.  I noted that at the Magic Fair.  And she is . . . familiar with the Magelord.”

“We served together at Timberwatch,” I reminded them all.  “She was my liaison with Ducal Intelligence.  I’ve established that she was not working on the orders of the Royal Family.  She’s considered semi-retired, now, her marriage, position, and freedom a reward for past services.  And yes, she does covet the snowstone mine.  Among other things.”

“Enough to betray you so bitterly?” Master Ulin asked, his eyes wide.  He was an academic, not a politician, warrior or spy.

“Easily,” Dara nodded, condemningly.  “I never liked her.  She’s the kind of woman who would sell her own child if it got her what she wanted.”

“She’s capable of great mischief,” I said, simply.  “And her motivations she keeps to herself.  But her position gave her access to Sevendor during the Fair,” I reminded them.  “That would be when they inserted Lady Mask here, in disguise.”

“In disguise?” Onranion asked, intrigued.  “What kind of disguise?”  The Alka Alon didn’t go in for that sort of thing, culturally.  They don’t see espionage and skullduggery as valid means of warfare, the way humans do.  Therefore it fascinated Onranion.

“She wears a mask,” Dara snorted.  “All she has to do to not be recognized is take it off!”

“Does she?” Gareth asked, suddenly.  “If she was around then, we’d remember her.  Even if we didn’t note her at the time.”

“The memory is a deep thing,” Ulin nodded sagely. 

“But how would we know who we’re supposed to remember, if we don’t know what her face looks like?” Dranus asked, an eyebrow raised.

“We don’t need to know her face,” Gareth said, suddenly sitting upright.  “We just need to know what her eyes look like.  Which we do,” he added. 

“That’s true,” I nodded.  “I’ve seen her eyes.  They’re memorable.  But how . . .”

“The Memory Stone,” the young thaumaturge supplied.  “Review the last few months, since the Fair, and see if you can recall seeing those eyes anywhere.  When you do, you’ll remember what she was disguised as.  And when you remember that, you’ll know at least how she got around and where she was staying. That might give you some information.”

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Dranus said, approvingly.  “Well done, lad.  It seems to me that if she was here one of her missions had to be identifying waypoints to allow her confederates into Sevendor.  Pardon me for saying, Baron, but we have not considered the Ways a point of entry by unfriendly forces.  Now that the Alka Alon – albeit a radical faction – are at odds with us, we should consider ways of taking precautions against this happening again.”

“That’s going to be hard, with half a mountain full of waystones,” Gareth said, sourly.  “And you’ve been sprinkling them everywhere, Master,” he reminded me.

“I know,” I said, miserably.  “That’s going to take some thought.  They are just too damn useful to abandon.”

“We will address it at a later time,” Dranus agreed.  “Until then, Excellency, I counsel you to station more guards around the castle.  Warmagi,” he emphasized.  “It will be expensive, but how much was the least of the three pocketstones worth?”

“Find me some,” I ordered.  “Get them from Tudry or Megelin or hire them off the street.  If they’re any good, there might be glass in it, for them.  Until then, give them the advanced Sentry Wands we built.  Pay them forty ounces of silver a week, plus livery.  But get them on duty as soon as possible.  One in the tower, one on my hall, and one guarding the entrance of the new castle.  Yes?” I asked, as I saw Sir Festaran approaching with a sheaf of parchment in hand and an exhausted look on his face.  He had taken the attack on the keep and the hall as personal failures, and he had yet to go to sleep since they’d occurred.

“Excellency, a messenger came bearing these this morning from the chapterhouse,” he said, handing me four separate sheets.  “I felt they were important enough to inform you at once.  Well, some of them, at least.”  I took the parchment and spread it out while the others watched.

The first message was from Arathanial, informing me that he had defeated the first contingent of Sashtali in the field.  Two thousand men had been routed at some ford I’d never heard of, and he was moving south to attack their retreat positions.  Good for him.  I could really care less at the moment.

The second message was from Duke Lenguin, from the Mirror array at Vorone.  It was a dispatch thanking me for the quick and unexpected return of the warmagi to Alshar.  Thanks to my quick action and the bravery of my men, he reported, most of the nearby raiders had been met and defeated or repulsed on the field.  They were planning on rallying and pursuing the more far-flung elements as soon as Vorone was secure.  He particularly commended Lady Pentandra’s skillful coordination in defense of the realm.  That was good news.  But not really my most pressing concern.  For good or ill, Alshar was in other people’s hands for the moment.

The third message was a surprise: His Highness, Prince Tavard, had graciously lifted my house arrest, granting me free permission to travel as I pleased.  It was short, almost terse, but it was all the authorization I needed.  I’d have to send a nice gift to Princess Rardine as a thank you for her intervention.  She was kind of a bitch, but I felt sorry for her.  She didn’t have to help me out, but she had, for no particularly good reason.  I appreciated that, in an abstract sort of way.  But I had more important issues to deal with than royal politics.

The fourth message was from Baron and Baroness Greenflower.  Announcing the birth of their son and heir, Istlan of Greenflower.  Mother and child were healthy and hale. 

“This meeting is adjourned,” I said, hoarsely, ignoring their confused faces.

I needed to think.

I stumbled outside into the morning sun, my tired brain steering my body while my mind burned to the ground.  It was too much.  Mask.  Isily.  The Enshadowed.  And now Korbal the Demon God. 

It was nearly enough to make me think nostalgically of Sheruel.

My feet were moving, but I wasn’t headed anyplace in particular.  Alya and the kids were still sleeping off the effects of the spell (it was better to let it run its course than try to waken them magically).  The castle was going through its busy morning routine around me, but I was barely aware of it all.

Isily had the baby.  A son.  My son.  Istlan.  While my first son was nearly murdered in his bed in front of his mother, had it not been for a pregnant Tal.  The message she sent was no mere courtesy, or the preening of proud new parents.  It was a direct challenge to me, a hollow laugh at my expense during a moment of turmoil.  Turmoil she had authored.  Betrayal she had plotted.  She had taken me like an idiot boy behind a haystack his first time, and she had done it knowing that a child would result.  Now that child was a reality.

I felt a sick rage in my stomach as I wandered across the yard.  I still didn’t know where I was going.  I had no idea what I was going to do.  I didn’t really want to talk to anyone.  And I desperately wanted to talk to someone.  But I was afraid of what I might say.

But then Olmeg the Green strode up to me, his big bare feet clutching the earth like roots and his tall pointed green hat looming over me like a shadow.  He cleared his throat and made a graceful little bow, for such a big man, his mantle thrown back.  One just cannot ignore or dismiss Olmeg the Green.

“Lord Olmeg,” I said, bowing curtly in return.  “What can I do for you this morning?”  I realized he had likely come to ask about the Tal Alon servants.  They were in his purview, and no doubt they were still terrified of their late night battle.  He was the kind of man who would see to his responsibilities to the River Folk as quickly as possible, he cared for them so much. 

But the big Magelord surprised me.

“Minalan, come with me,” he said, firmly.  It wasn’t a request.  Nor did he wait to see my response.  He turned and started striding away toward the outer bailey.  My feet just naturally followed, although they had to struggle to catch up with him. 

“What’s the problem?” I asked, when I was next to his shoulder.  And slightly under.

“The Baron is sick,” he said, matter-of-factly.  “He’s sick, and the whole vale feels it.”

“The . . . whole vale?  The Baron?  Me?  What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.

“Since just after you returned from Kasar last year, at the Fair, you took ill,” he observed.  “It was a subtle thing, but those who know you saw it.”

“I’ve just been busy,” I said, a little irritated.

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “You have stirred a great many to industry, to your credit.  Enchanters make as much as burghers, these days.  Wonders and enchantment abound.  But you are still sick, Minalan.  Sick in your heart.  And I am not the only one to think so.”

I was about to demand who else had been spying on me, when he revealed himself.  Zagor stood up from behind the gatehouse, when we came through.  He wore a black mantle and his dogs were both at his heels.  He didn’t bow, but gave me a respectable market nod.

“Minalan,” he said, easily, ignoring my rank.  Zagor had been a hedgemage for years in Boval Vale, and he only saw people, not titles.  “Are you well?”

It was a simple but heartfelt question.  And not one that I could deflect.  Not with these two.  Of all the wizards I knew, these two were the least likely to give a damn about my authority or my power or my wealth.  Zagor had known me as a brash young spellmonger, a colleague in his craft, long before I’d become . . . whomever I was at the moment.  His treatment of me hadn’t wavered from his first assessment of me. 

Olmeg, on the other hand, only saw plants, animals, and people, and if one was in distress then he did what he could to help it.  He cared for the Tal Alon and the gardens of this valley with the passionate devotion of an old widow for a foundling.  I was part of that charge, I realized suddenly.  Olmeg didn’t actually work for me, in his mind; I was merely one of his many responsibilities.  He was doing for me what he would do for a twisted pine tree or a lame fawn or a beleaguered peasant. 

I couldn’t ignore these men.  Their concern was genuine, without worry of their lot or motives of their own.  I sighed.

“No, Zagor.  I am not well.”  It seemed like a dreadful admission.  I was trembling.

He nodded sagaciously.  “I thought so.  Minalan, has no one ever taught you that you can only do so much without rest and repose?”

“I have not been using the Ways overmuch, as I did last year,” I said defensively.  I didn’t fool them.

“That is not what we’re talking about,” he said, flatly.  “You are ill, my friend.  Not from magic.  From the sickness in your heart.”

“I . . .” I looked from one bearded, concerned face to the other.  “We were attacked last night,” I offered.  “My home was invaded.  My family was endangered.”

“That was last night, Minalan.  They are well, and the foe is long gone from here, now.  You have been heartsick for
months,”
Olmeg’s deep voice said, quietly.  “We have seen it on your face.  And in your eyes.  You hide it well from those who don’t know you, but we see it there.”

“We have been quiet for long enough,” Zagor pronounced.  “Minalan, every wizard learns that he can only bear his burdens, and those of his clients, for so long before his shoulders begin to bow.  Our troubles accumulate, for we adopt those of those around us.  Even magic cannot make us strong enough to endure that without respite.”

“I can’t exactly step away,” I muttered, a little annoyed.  They had no real idea with the kind of thing I was contending with: wayward goddesses, new dark lords, new enemies, an assassin intent on killing my wife and children –

“You need not leave your troubles behind,” Olmeg said, philosophically, as we continued to walk.  “They cannot be outrun.  You are a good enough man to not inflict them on those around you.  Instead you inflict them on yourself.”

“No one else can bear them,” I grumbled.  “Look, gentlemen, I appreciate your concerns, I do, but—”

Zagor stopped.  “Minalan, back when you were a spellmonger, what did you do when the client didn’t want to listen to reason about why he was asking for the wrong thing to do what he needed done?”

I paused and considered.  “I’d politely insist, through the benefit of my superior knowledge and skill.”

Zagor nodded.  “A good tactic.  Minalan, shut up and let us do what we know needs to be done.”  He started walking again.  “As long as I’ve been doing this, you would think you’d know to trust me . . .”