Enchanter (Book 7) (82 page)

“How about you?” I snorted to Olmeg.  “Do I look like I’ve got root rot?”

“Heart
rot,” he said, in all seriousness.  “Minalan, everything you do has an effect on everything around you.  Thanks to that mountain,” he said, gesturing to white Rundeval, behind us, “and how it came to be, when you are troubled the entire vale is troubled.  I’ve noted the signs for months, but have not known what to do about it.  Until now.”

“Why now?” I asked, wondering idly what mischief they were planning, and knowing I did not have time for it.  If my mood hadn’t been so foul I might have begged off – but part of me wanted the escape, and part of me wanted to prove them wrong.

“Because now is the time,” Zagor shrugged, as we crossed halfway through the outer bailey.  “When better?  I can see on your face how bad it has gotten.  I can see the troubled eyes of your bride.  Even your children have detected it, though they know not why it disturbs them.”

“There comes a time in every wizard’s practice when he must lay aside complex enchantments and deep thaumaturgy, and return to the most ancient magic to restore himself.”

“The songs of the Alka Alon?” I asked, curious as to where he was leading this. 

“No, Minalan,” Olmeg said, gently laying a hand on my shoulder.  “When a man has too many burdens to deal with, sometimes the best thing he can do is take refuge in the wisdom of his ancestors.”

I was still trying to figure out what he was getting at when I spied my father sitting under a chestnut tree, on one of the little rocky spots that belied tending.  He had a basket with him, and he waved for me to join him.

“Go talk to your dad, Minalan,” Zagor urged.  “No one better in the world to help a man out when his burdens get too great.  I know of many fathers, and yours is not so stern that he will fail to counsel his son.”

“But . . . he’s a baker,” I said, taking a step toward him without realizing it.  “He has no idea what kinds of problems I face!”

“He is your
father
,” Olmeg corrected, gently.  “You are a man with problems.  It matters not whence they spring, my friend.  It only matters that they burden you.  He may know not of the gods, or kings, or dukes or lords, and little more of magic.  But I have spoken with him often, over the months he’s been here.  He is a wise man, and worthy of your consideration.”

“Well, sure,” I agreed, reluctantly.  “He’s intelligent, and I guess he’s wise, but . . .”

“He is who you need to speak to,” assured Zagor, pushing me toward him with a hand between my shoulder blades.  “Who else can you trust more?”

That was hard to argue with.  My father didn’t have any ulterior motives or secret plots.  He didn’t have designs on my land or my gems or my home.  He even got along with my wife.

And I could smell he had sweet buns.  Freshly baked.

My stomach suddenly felt like eating.  In fact, I was starving.  And talking to my dad over fresh sweet buns on a summer morning seemed, suddenly, like the very smartest possible thing I could do.

So I did.  We talked for two hours.  I told him everything.  The gods, the Snowflake, Isily, his other grandchildren, the war, the other war, the assassins, my attack, everything.

When I finally came to the end, after relating last night’s unexpected violence, he finally let out a big sigh, and got out his pipe.  I did likewise. 

“You remember that first time I took you to Baron Lithar’s castle, to have you tested by the court wizard?” he asked.  “We brought sweet buns that morning.  When you started my ovens without flint or tinder.”

“Yes.  I’ve told that story a thousand times,” I smiled.  “I was so scared, but you were perfectly calm.  How did you manage to be perfectly calm?”

He snorted.  “Are you joking?  I was terrified.  For all I knew, the Censors would come and haul you away, and I’d never see you again.  As it was I didn’t see you for years.  But I knew that the gift the gods gave you was something that you had to pursue, and I knew that was what was best for you.  It didn’t have anything to do with me, you see, it was your life.  I could have tried to hide your talents, but what do you think would have happened then?”

“The Censorate would have eventually found me.  And hanged or imprisoned me.”

“Exactly.  That’s not the kind of life I wanted for my son.  So I took some sweet buns to the baron that morning, my guts turned to water with fear, and I had to keep smiling at you and pretending that everything was normal.  Most excruciating day I’d ever had, until your sister had your nephew and we almost lost them both.  But that’s what I had to do.”

“I can see that,” I admitted.  In retrospect, as a father myself, I could certainly imagine what was going on in his head that day.  I’m not sure I could have borne it.  “So what do I have to do?”

“The same thing I had to do when Zagor and Olmeg stopped by the shop and reminded me that the Baron was in need of sweet buns.  You shut up, you listen to what you should clearly be hearing, and you cooperate with it.  After that, you’re on your own,” he added with a chuckle.

I sighed.  “Dad, sometimes it feels like I’m always on my own.”

“You’re not,” he insisted, shaking his head.  “Now shut up, eat a bun, and let me tell you what you need to do.”

Chapter Thirty Eight

The Truth Comes Out

There are some things that you can depend upon like the sun rising and the tides receding.  Such is paternal counsel.  My father’s advice was, predictably, the very last thing I wanted to do.

“You’ve got to tell your wife about this, Son,” he sighed, heavily.  “Everything.  All of it.  Every little bit.”

I was horrified.  “Dad!  Why?  Gods, that will
crush
her!”

“You think it isn’t already crushing her?” he asked, a note of accusation in her voice.  “And your marriage?  Son, your wife is no idiot.  She knows you are burdened.  At the risk of violating a confidence, she’s spoken to me about it.  Several times.  She’s a bright girl, and she loves you deeply.  Seeing you like this is making her miserable.  And you don’t even notice that.  You’re fighting so hard to protect your family from threats from outside that you’re letting it decay from neglect.”  The words stung, and from anyone else I would have gotten angry. 

But I had to listen to my father’s perspective.  How could I not? 

“But Dad, if I tell her everything--”

“Then what?” he snapped.  “She’s going to be angry?  You had better believe it!  And she has every right to be angry.  But anger is better than confusion.  If she knows what is bothering you, then her imagination won’t supply an even worse scenario.”

“Worse? Dad, I’ve been violated!  My seed was taken from me!  You have grandchildren that you didn’t even know about!”

“No doubt,” he chuckled.  “I knew having a son would be interesting.  I didn’t realize how interesting.  I’m not here to judge you or congratulate you, Min.  I’m here to help you straighten things out.  Your heartache stems not from the assault – although that is a very disturbing thing to hear – but from your guilt over not being forthright with Alya over something you know in your heart she would want to know.”

“So I should reveal l was unfaithful?”

“You should tell her you were
attacked
,” he countered.  “She’s your wife.  She has a right to try to heal your pain, if she can.  At least the right to know what is bothering you.  If you can get over your shame and guilt long enough to realize it, you might just salvage your marriage.  You have a duty to let her know if there is a danger to her family.  You aren’t keeping her safe by keeping her ignorant of this.”

I hung my head.  This was not what I wanted to do.  “Keeping her informed could keep her from speaking to me, Dad.”

He snorted. “I don’t know about you, Son, but I was smart enough to marry a woman who puts her family’s welfare above everything else . . . and is smart enough to see a predator for what she is.  You don’t think your mother has had to contend with unwanted rivals?”

“Huh?” I asked, surprised.

“Before you were born,” he chuckled.  “A widow woman in Corlot, that hamlet downriver and to the east?  She ran a small inn, and bought trenchers a couple of times of month.  A real friendly widow woman,” he said, knowingly.

My eyes bulged.  “Dad?  You?”

“Calm yourself,” he said.  “I enjoyed the attention.  I got a good price.  But I never so much as touched her.  Your mother was still unamused, however, when the gossip reached her.”

I could just imagine.  Mama is not the most reasonable of women.  “What did you do?”

“I told her the truth.  I flirted, I teased, but my heart was only ever set on her.  The widow was comely enough, and I might have gotten away with it, but while I might have had the desire I knew better.  And that’s what I told your mother.”

“And what did she do?” 

“Oh, we had a hellacious fight, one the gods themselves likely fled from.  But in a couple of days things were back to normal, and the next time I went to Corlot your mother decided to join me. She introduced herself to the widow and made the deal.  After that there weren’t any more problems.  I choose a woman of high quality, and I knew it.  So did you,” he encouraged.  “Don’t be a fool and think that she cannot endure the truth.  The deception is what is stifling her.”

“But Dad, in my case I
did
actually touch her!”

“Of your own volition? Did you not say she compelled you with magic?” 

The distasteful memory of that awful night swam back to me, with the help of the ghost of the Celestial Mother.  Apart from knowing she was doing it purposefully to get a child from me, the most horrible thing about the ordeal was her compelling me to treat her with the same loving passion I treated my wife. 

To be forced to display the tenderness and intimacy reserved only for my beloved, and be compelled to give it to her with genuine feeling, had felt like the most vile of betrayals. 

I realized that my dad was right.  My guilt was what was burdening me.  The guilt that I couldn’t resist her spell.  The guilt that part of me had not wanted to.

“Yes, she enchanted me,” I sighed, miserably.  There might have been a tear.  “It was a psychomatic compulsion spell.  A powerful one.  There was nothing I could do.”

“So what was the difference between that and her hitting you in the head with a chair and having her way with you?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

“I was conscious through the whole thing,” I admitted.  “And that just sounds like a rationalization, Dad.  I’m sure that’s what Alya will think.”

“What, you think she will suspect that you pursued this woman?” he asked, skeptically.  “After the way you’ve been acting?  I’m no wizard, Son, but even I can see that you aren’t lovesick.  You’re melancholy.”

“You really think Alya won’t blame me?” I asked, doubtfully.

“Not if she’s the woman I think she is,” he said, after a few moments of contemplation.  “Really, Min, you’re torturing yourself.  And her.  And by extension the rest of us.  When I find two wizards in my shop first thing in the morning, informing me that the Baron has need of sweet buns, and the news of an attack is all over the town . . . you’ve got to take care of this, Min.  You’ve built a magnificent thing, here in Sevendor.  But if you don’t take care of yourself, then the thing it’s founded upon will be too weak to sustain it.  Trust your wife, Son.  Trust yourself.”

I just sat there next to him in silence for ten minutes, just smoking and watching the town over the walls in the distance.  Finally I dumped out my pipe and heaved a great sigh.  “I suppose you’re right.”

He snorted again.  “Of course I’m right.  I’m your dad.  I’m always right.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, for when Minalyan’s older.”

“It might be the most important lesson I’ve ever taught you,” he agreed.  “Now go take the rest of the buns to your wife.  Believe me, bad news goes better with fresh pastries.”

*

*

Alya was awake in bed when I came in.  Sister Bemia was attending her, brushing her hair and speaking to her quietly while Daisy toddled about the chamber, straightening unnecessarily. 

“Are you all right?” I asked, hoarsely.  “Are the children?”

“Yes, we’re fine.  Min, what happened?” she asked, anxiously.  I sat on the bed.

“We were attacked.  Remember Lady Mask, that warmage I fought in Alshar last year?  She tracked me down.  She was attacking you and the children to get to me.”

“Oh, Min!  I was so confused!  I went to sleep fine, last night, and then didn’t wake until an hour ago, to find the entire castle in an uproar.”

“There was an attack on my tower at the same time.  It’s a long story.”  I caught Sister Bemia’s eye and motioned for the door.  She understood and took Daisy out for some air.  “Alya, I need to tell you some things.  Things that are hard to talk about.”

She straightened herself and gave me her full attention.  “All right.  Tell me,” she directed.

So I did.  It took two hours, but I spared nothing.  I wept several times as I told her, unable to meet her gaze while I described my relationship with Isily over the years.  Her eyes grew cold and distant.  I kept talking.  If I was ruining my marriage anyway, I might as well unburden my soul while I did it.  This was no time for half measures.