The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (20 page)

A peasant’s revolt is bad enough – one led by a spellmonger was not just strange, it was noteworthy.  Particularly if you were hunting a spellmonger you feared was going to make trouble.  At least, that’s the theory I was testing.

Contacting nearly every High Mage we could trust mind-to-mind, Penny and I had quietly arranged for a host of reports to go out with the same basic story: there was a spellmonger in the Castali Riverlands leading a peasant’s revolt.  A powerful spellmonger. 

I gave them license to embellish the rumor as much as they liked, but they did their best to spread it across the Duchy, particularly through the bargemen that linked so much of the land.  They were often the main conduits of rumor and gossip, as well as outright news.

The thing was, if a spellmonger was involved, then regardless of what the nobility did to put down the revolt, the
Censorate
was obligated to respond to arrest or execute (usually the later) any mage stupid enough to get involved with politics.  And they would likely be called upon to do just that with great urgency by the nobility hearing such tales.  If they really wanted me as badly as they seemed to, they’d feel obligated to track down every rumor

But the location always varied.  Everyone along the Riverlands was sure it was happening just a few domains over, and there were all sorts of variations of how it started, but they were all sure of the detail of the powerful spellmonger. 

That meant that wherever the Censorate rode looking for me, they’d be searching for the center of a non-existent peasant’s revolt.  Not a peaceful village wedding.  And trying to convince local authorities to cooperate with them to break up a wedding when there were peasants’ revolts breaking out all over would be challenging, I was hoping.

If I was wrong . . . then the next day I would be riding into a bloody trap or the happiest day of my life. 

Since I’d almost always entered and left my home village by river, this was the first time I had approached it from the landward-side.  First the scattered farmsteads got closer together and the woodlands rarer, and then I started to see things I remembered.  When the sight of my father’s huge red ovens finally peeked over the horizon, I felt that blush of recognition that means you’re home.

Or at least where home used to be.  This was a visit, I reminded myself, and I was bringing danger to my family with this damn-fool stunt, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.  There weren’t any Censorate warmagi waiting for me on the road, at least – perhaps they were all watching the docks.

I smiled to everyone in my finery, tried to relax, and kept a warwand in my boot.  Every now and then I used magesight to scout ahead and see if I was walking into some sort of magical trap, but . . . nothing.

Traveler clip-clopped down the cobbles of the High Street like he did so every day.  Maybe I was just being paranoid.

When I got within sight of my father’s shop, I quit worrying, which was stupid.  But I was home, and it felt like home, and I could smell bread baking.  That put me at ease more than anything.  Instead of belligerent warmagi, my sister Urah was awaiting me, tears of joy in her eyes.  A single shout from her and I was mobbed.  Who knew I had so many relatives?

It wasn’t just my mom, dad, and five sisters – it was their husbands, children (some of whom had never met me) a few close neighbors, two aunts, an uncle, a dozen cousins and some folk I knew I was only distantly related to, almost fifty relatives in all.  The great yard around the ovens had temporarily been turned into an encampment, as both inns in town were filled. 

And that didn’t count the Bovali contingent: Rondal and Tyndal, of course, but also Sagal and Ela (Alya’s sister), Goodmen Rollo, Arstol, and stout Goodman Loas the Shepherd had arrived. 

And three more men from Boval, three I hadn’t expected.  Three knights.  Among them – and the most surprising – was Sir Cei, the former castellan of Boval Vale, and with him were two other gentlemen knights who had been liegemen to Sire Koucey, Sirs Roncil and Olve.  They looked a little uncomfortable, Alshari Wilderland knights at a Castali Riverlands commoner’s wedding, but my mother could make Korbal feel at home if she had a mind.  And the knights liked to drink as much as anyone, as we learned.

Eventually they dragged me inside to the big family room, where Alya waited.  I melted into her arms

Yes.  I was home.

I’ll spare you the banal sentimentality involved, but there was a lot of emotion in that evening.  It was a celebration, a wedding, a reunion, a homecoming, all wrapped up into one.  On the morrow I would meet my bride at the Old Well in the commons and with the help of a bridesister of Trygg, I would at last be wed to her.  And anyone who wanted to get in the way of that was going to regret it.

Eventually the men tore me away from the women, who helped my fiancé waddle up to her room to prepare for the next day’s ceremony. I had met the priestess, a pretty young woman from Norhald, and she would instruct my bride on her duties and mysteries, as well as bless our child.

My brothers-in-law – including Sagal, I was happy to see – hauled me out of the house on their shoulders and carried me off to my father’s woodshed.  There were manly mysteries to learn, advice from the married men and scorn from the single.  I took the traditional Twelve Draughts of the Bachelor, a custom designed to make me sick, and one ribald joke after another was made at my expense.  It didn’t help that Alya was already pregnant, and the raunch just flowed from there.

As the younger boys and light drinkers faded out, one after another, at last it was just me, my father, and my brothers-in-law sitting around the room, smoking and drinking and being philosophical.  Dad got weepy, and imparted a bargefull of advice that I’ve since forgotten (although it springs to mind when needed, I’ve noticed) about how to run my household, once we were wed.  The importance of being a good leader to my wife and faithful to my family.  All sorts of meaningful stuff like that. 

Finally, I had to seek sleep.  I stumbled out to the privy to relieve myself before bed, and on my way back I encountered Pentandra.

“Penny!” I said, drunkenly.  “When did you get in?”

“Just a few moments ago,” she said, quietly, her breath pale in the moonlight.  She was wrapped up in a flowing cloak against the chill, and it only served to make her seem smaller and more vulnerable.  “My boat put in for the night downriver, so I bought another one and had an elemental push us here.”

“That’s . . . dedication,” I said, not sure how else to describe it.

“Hey, if you think I’m going to let my best friend get married and not be there, you’re crazy, peasant!”

That took me aback.  I was never sure where Pentandra and I stood.  We’d been lovers, but not in love; we had been colleagues; we had fought together, and she was my . . .

. . . well, my best friend.   I just hadn’t put it that way ever.  It suddenly occurred to me that this might be painful to her – she’d always insisted that she wasn’t interested in marriage, which would detract from her studies, but I could see in her eyes she wasn’t nearly as detached about the subject as she let on. 

“Damn.  This must be hard for you,” I said, without thinking.

“Not really,” she said, more lightly than she appeared to feel.  “Min, I do have deep feelings for you – but I don’t think I could be married to you.”

“Then you’ve—”

“Of
course
I’ve thought about it,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Every woman thinks about it . . . with just about every man. Just like every man thinks about every woman he knows naked.  As much as I admire and respect and yes, even love you a little, we never shared the kind of fire I see in your eyes when you look at Alya. Don’t—” she said, placing a finger on my lips before I could say anything.  “I am no fool, Minalan.  I inspire camaraderie, friendship, even lust in you, but when you look at me, you don’t have that
passion
.  And, to be truthful, I don’t have it for you. 

“Now I could act like a jealous old harpy and try to sabotage your happiness, like a lot of women would do, or I can remember that I had my chance and decided against it, and live with that consequence.  For whatever reason that peasant girl has stolen your heart, but I’m not so petty as to want to try to take it from her when I don’t really want it.  What I want—”

“What do you want, Pentandra?” I finally managed to interrupt. 

“I want what
she
has . . .” she admitted.  “But not from you.  You’re endearing and goofy, brave and valiant, noble and wise . . . but you are not for me.  I know that.  But you’ve proven to me that it exists, and that’s . . . vital.  And in knowing that, I take solace in knowing that by protecting and nurturing what you and Alya have, perhaps I’ll find it one day myself.”

I was stunned.  That was the most profound, heartfelt, personal confession I had ever heard fall from Pentandra’s lips.  And she didn’t shed a tear until she had finished.  I knew she was right. 

There was sadness and regret in what she said, but also hope and even the anticipation of happiness.  I wanted to feel sorry for her, but realized that my pity was not the reaction she had been seeking.  Indeed, it would appall and repel her.  So I just stared at her, our breath fogging in the frosty moonlight, and suddenly I wished for nothing so ardently as for her to find what I had found.

I embraced her, kissed her on the forehead, and there may have been a tear or two in my eye.  “I just realized something,” I whispered.  “I have no earthly idea where I’m supposed to sleep tonight.”

“Come down to my new boat,” she suggested.  “It’s not particularly large, but it is snug.  You can sleep in my cabin, where no one will have to see you throw up in the morning.”

*
                            *                            *

Thankfully, the gods spared me more than a token hangover in the morning, and once I’d taken the briefest of dips into the chilly flow of the Burine, I felt positively sober and intoxicated at the same time. 
I was getting married today!

Part of me wanted to agree with Penny: it seems a silly thing to get worked up about.  Marriage customs vary across the duchies, and across the classes, and mean different things to different people.  Pentandra’s parent’s attitudes toward the institution were fairly typical for her station.  Other folks looked at marriage differently.

Among the peasants, particularly serfs and villeins, getting married usually just means the couple makes a promise, states their intention to each other in front of a shrine or on the steps of a temple, or just moves in together and starts referring to each other as husband and wife. 

There was little other ceremony, beyond paying the manorial fee.  Sometimes they splurged on a keg of ale, and if they were particularly ambitious they could even offer
gewyntage
; that is, the right of any and all of the folk of the village to watch the couple’s consummation, at a silver penny each.  Some attractive, bawdy, or popular couples could establish quite a nest-egg that way, and it wasn’t subject to fee to the manor, the way a dowry was.  There was always the apocryphal tale of the comely couple who married in three different villages, and garnered enough capital to buy a homestead.

Among the nobility, of course, marriage is a carefully-negotiated affair that has more to do with property and inheritance and assumption of rights and obligations than it does long kisses and new bedding.  For men it was the establishment of a dynasty, a way to make more nobles to inherit your fortunes and honor.  For the women of the nobility, their wedding was the highlight of their lives, the last celebration they had to themselves before they began dutifully bearing heirs. 

It was only with the artisan class, professionals, merchants, clergy, and among the wealthier free peasants that marriage was seen as a dignified celebration of the union of two people with the sanction of the gods – although there was often a powerful economic component, as well.  There’s almost always a ritual, a number of folk traditions to be adhered to, a lot of gift-giving, and a huge feast.  My father had five daughters – I knew all about weddings.

As Alya and I were guests in Talry, not residents, we wouldn’t have to pay Baron Lithar for the privilege, as my sisters all had.  Instead we paid for a bridesister of Trygg to officiate.  Instead of the tiny shrine my village boasted, we held the ceremony on the north end of the commons, a spot with a beautiful well (known, creatively enough, as the Old Well) where many types of ceremonies were conducted, from naming to eulogizing.  The Old Well had been around for at least a century, crafted of six pillars of smooth white stone and capped with a bronze dome that had a beautiful patina of verdigris. 

My sisters had found big bouquets of winterflowers, somewhere (I think Ura had ordered them from further south, but there were dozens of earthenware jars of the velvety, bright red blooms surrounding the well) and there were boughs of some golden-leaved tree I should have known the name of entwined betwixt the pillars.  Ribbons of yellow, white, and red laced them all together, and bells and chimes sparkled merrily in the wind.

It was beautiful, and the weather was sunny and clear.  I couldn’t have bribed the gods for a more perfect day.

I was surprisingly calm – nervous, of course, but I had been looking forward to this for so long I couldn’t help but feel more victorious than anxious.  There had been so many times I had thought I’d never make it to this day that I wasn’t about to let anything else stand in my way.  Pentandra helped me get dressed in my finery.  After Rondal told me, mind-to-mind, that the bridal party had departed my parent’s compound I went back home, grabbed a roll for breakfast (my stomach wasn’t up to anything more robust) and Penny kissed me for luck before heading off to the Old Well herself.