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  Arcanist

  Book 12 Of the Spellmonger Series

  By Terry Mancour

  Edited by Emily Burch Harris

  Copyright © 2020

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Baron Eldrid Tremagne

  mka Tom Justus

  The man who taught me what chivalry really meant

  And how to drink single-malt Scotch.

  You will be missed.

  Contents

  Prologue The Light In The Mist

  Chapter One The Scion of Rysh

  Chapter Two An Invitation to a Trap

  Chapter Three The Council of the Wilderlands

  Chapter Four The Spellmonger’s Sow

  Chapter Five Of Curds and Kings

  Chapter Six Parley in a Ruined Tavern

  Chapter Seven The Interrogation of Khudoz

  Chapter Eight The War Council of the Magelaw

  Chapter Nine Disappointment at the Cave of Forseti

  Chapter Ten Heeth the Butler

  Chapter Eleven Matters Mighty and Trivial

  Chapter Twelve The Rysh in Spellgarden

  Chapter Thirteen The Hidden Castle of Iron Hill

  Chapter Fourteen A Goddess in My Bedchamber

  Chapter Fifteen The Gates of Muroshk

  Chapter Sixteen The War Begins in Earnest

  Chapter Seventeen An Unanticipated Trip to a Tavern

  Chapter Eighteen The Storm Breaks

  Chapter Nineteen The Unexpected Mission

  Chapter Twenty The Wrath of the Spellmonger

  Chapter Twenty-One Landrik’s Plan

  Chapter Twenty-Two Betrayal at Iron Hill

  Chapter Twenty-Three The Stolen Bridge

  Chapter Twenty-Four Respite and Contemplation

  Chapter Twenty-Five The Mistress of the Field

  Chapter Twenty-Six The Battle of Stanis Howe

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Lord Tiny

  Chapter Twenty-Eight The Goddess and the Merchant

  Chapter Twenty-Nine The Third Mews

  Chapter Thirty Count Anvaram

  Chapter Thirty-One Shakathet

  Chapter Thirty-Two The Battle of the Eastern Bank

  Chapter Thirty-Three Bova’s Promise Fulfilled

  Chapter Thirty-Four A Chat with Count Anvaram

  Chapter Thirty-Five The Great Oxenroast

  Chapter Thirty-Six Crinoline and Silk Slippers

  Chapter Thirty-Seven A Letter to the Prince

  Chapter Thirty-Eight The Arcanist Speaks

  Chapter Thirty-Nine Acrimony in the Beryen Council

  Chapter Forty The Fair Vale of Cartrefygan

  THE MAGELAW

  Prologue

  The Light In The Mist

  Dancing breeze at midnight at winter’s eventide,

  Yearning earth, thawing turf where hope of spring abides

  Sacred cycle summons the rains as sun warms blessed soil,

  Soon the seeds in fields and meads call for Falassa’s holy toil!

  Merwyni Folk Invocation

  When faced with the potential end of the world, even more than the prospect of imminent death in battle, most wizards would either consult their grimoires and frantically cast some spells or begin to drink pathologically. I considered both options with equal gravity, as I pondered the demise of both myself and every living thing on Callidore. But neither one promised to do more than distract me from the innate helplessness I felt at the knowledge. In a mere three thousand years, magic on my world would fade, the magical gates imprisoning an army of monsters would be opened and virtually everything would die. Including all of humanity. And there was really nothing I could do about it.

  The Vundel, known as the Sea Folk, knew about it and were quietly fretting over a future that was – for them – but a little while away. The Alka Alon, known as the Tree Folk, also knew and were reluctant to discuss the matter even among themselves, much less with such an ephemeral being as a human wizard. They confirmed the truth of the matter to me by refusing to deny it.

  Instead of diving into my meager library in search of an answer I was confident was not there or diving into a bottle for a quicker arrival at the same conclusion, I paused, took a deep breath, and did something proactive. Something I learned from Zagor the Hedgewizard. Sometimes when a wizard has a really big problem, perspective can be gained with a really good hot cup of tea.

  One night on the balcony of my spire, by the light of the first full moon after Yule, I made a tincture of peppermint, dried hempflower, asterith, paulverspice and certain mushrooms, laced it liberally with brandy and honey, and said an unfamiliar prayer over the concoction in Old High Perwynese before I drank it.

  The honey and peppermint were supposed to make it palatable. The brandy probably did more against the strong taste of the asterith than the peppermint and honey, but they almost made it worse. I drank it anyway. Then I settled in with my pipe, wrapped in my cloak, and I contemplated the full winter’s moon.

  The invocation was an old Merwyni rhyme, and fairly well-known, the kind usually ignored as mere folk magic by the professional class of magi. It was also bordering on theurgy, for the divine elements . . . but that was a murky area. It was highly religious, in its way, and my colleagues had an uneasy relationship with the divine, in most cases. Outside of Herbomancy, herbs were an occasionally useful tool in some spells, but they were not the sort of thing you devoted yourself to, as a spellmonger or a resident adept.

  But I tend to get results with my spells. Eventually a hoarse voice cut through the cold air behind me.

  “Well, you nearly got the invocation right,” an old woman grumbled. “But your pronunciation is atrocious, your timing was off, and your accent is awful. Your proportions in the tea were off, too,” she chided, her voice as creaky as a leather hinge. “But I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m feeling charitable, since I saw the way you protected my priestesses during the war. For some reason, the local herbmother thinks you’re worthy of including in her prayers every night, since then,” she grumbled, as she hobbled toward the balcony.

  “Thank you, Falassa, Protector of the Low Things,” I said, turning around to face her with a low bow. “I hope this isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

  She was short, dumpy, and covered with a sturdy woolen cloak that seemed to be made of leaves of all shades. Her long, gray hair protruded from her wide straw hat, giving her a resemblance to a mushroom. The cloying aroma of fresh-cut and dried aromatic herbs filled the air.

  “Summoning me right before the Spring growing season? When everything in the Wilderlands is about to explode into bloom?” she said, irritated. “I can spare a few moments, no more,” the old goddess said, with an exaggerated sigh. “But I warn you, young man, I am not to be summoned to your whim! I’m not like that red-headed avenger with whom you associate. I work for a living!”

  I wondered how Briga would take that assessment of her divinity. Since my pipe was lit, she was essentially listening in. No doubt I’d hear about that, later.

  “I understand, Mother of Herbs,” I acknowledged as graciously as I could. “I wish to beg a boon of you,” I said, matter-of-factly. Falassa was the crone goddess of herbs, but her priesthood – and therefore her character – had come from the countless old women in marketplaces across the centuries, haggling over the price of primroses. Falassa wasn’t precisely a grandmotherly figure, in the gracious and welcoming way. She reminded me more of the old biddies who haunted the temple yards after services, frowning at every frivolous display of youth. A very practical and pragmatic goddess, and one of the more judgmental. I figured she’d appreciate a more direct approach than other divinities.

  “A boon, you say. I suppose it has something to do with that little patch of garden you’ve
been plotting?” she asked, producing from thin air a long pipe carved from an impossibly curly root. It was already lit, and shortly an unbelievably fragrant aroma filled the balcony.

  “Plotting and planting,” I agreed. “I’m trying to build the most magnificent magical garden in the world. So far, I’ve procured everything money and magic can . . . save for two things. Your blessing. And your advice.”

  “So, you want to add divine magic to the soil, do you?” she smirked around her pipe. It was a wildly knotted root of some sort. I had no idea what herb she was burning, but it smelled incredible. “Aye, that can be done,” she decided, after considering the matter. “And I’ll advise you what to plant, and how. But there will be a price,” she warned, sounding like every elderly huckster in every market, anywhere.

  I chuckled. I’d been expecting this. Counting on it, even. “I would be disappointed if there wasn’t,” I agreed. “What can a spellmonger do for the Goddess of Herbs?”

  “Actually, I have a list,” she said, sharply, and began ticking it off on her long, bony fingers. “First, a shrine to me at the garden,” she began, reasonably. “Nothing fancy, but a real shrine. With an attendant,” she added.

  “Easily done,” I agreed. “I’ll make it an actual temple, if you’d prefer.”

  “I am not that ostentatious, young man! I take only what I need. But for that garden down there, you’re going to want to have one of my people around. It’s a good teaching opportunity, too,” she added. “Once, this vale was the home to the greatest hedgewitch in the northlands. While she’s gone, now, I’d appreciate it if her reputation for herblore were continued. Once this shrine is built, I would that it become a place of learning for herblore for any hedgewitch who desires to hear it,” she pronounced.

  That should produce some interesting foot traffic, I thought. “That would be my pleasure, Goddess. I’ll even provide a hall to lodge them in,” I offered.

  “Secondly,” she continued, more boldly, “there is the issue of the Tal Alon,” she continued, exhaling a billow of smoke as she spoke. “Right now, there are pockets of surviving Tal hiding all over the Wilderlands.”

  I frowned. “I didn’t think there were many Tal in the Wilderlands,” I pointed out. “I always thought of them as a Riverlands fixture.”

  “Only because they’ve been exploited more by the Riverlords than the Wilderlords,” she snorted. “The Wilderlords mostly ignored the clans, up here, unless they were in someone’s way. They didn’t make them serfs to pick seeds out of cotton. But there are a few thousand of them who managed to escape the worst of the invasion, clinging to existence much as the Wilderfolk were, before you arrived. I want you to give them refuge.”

  “Why?” I asked, curious and intrigued at the request. “Not that I’m adverse to the idea, but I thought the gods were supposed to be interested in protecting humanity. The Tal are Alon. I’d think they’d be outside of your sphere.”

  “Well, pardon me for bending the rules!” Falassa barked, through a cloud of smoke. “Really, Minalan, you should understand by now that the divine doesn’t perform in any straight-forward way. Hear this wisdom: when the collective subconscious of humanity is involved, any ‘rules’ you perceive are of your own making, and are subject to change at your whim, and do.”

  “But why the Tal?” I pressed.

  “If they weren’t already here, I’d have to find a way to create them,” she sighed. “The Tal have always been mistreated, but they know the land,” she explained. “Not in the fancy way the Alka Alon do. They don’t sing lauds to the glory of rock formations or waterfalls. They know the land from the dirt, up. They know the soil,” she emphasized. “What it needs. What the plants it grows need. They understand it. When the Alka Alon designed them, they exceeded expectation. To the Tal Alon, the soil and the growing things within are part of their being.”

  “You make it sound like they’re doing magic,” I observed, with an indulgent smirk. I’d never heard of a Tal Alon with rajira, as occasionally happened with the gurvani. I was curious about the differences between the races. Her perspective was welcome.

  “It is magic – just not the sing-songy variety,” she conceded. “The Tal’s connection to the soil, to roots and growing things, is magical, but it is subtle. They do it without realizing it. Their senses are acutely attuned to their environment, down to the mud under your boots. Some few – a very few – can manifest that magic in a more profound way. Especially as they age. But even then, their magic is terribly subtle. Too subtle for most outsiders to consider. Or even recognize.”

  “So, you want me to start a home for wayward Tal Alon?” I nodded. I liked the Tal Alon. Half of my servants had brown fur.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she nodded, pursing her lips around her pipestem. “You now have charge of many lands, Minalan. Set aside a vale or two for them, alone. Let them settle it and offer them protection,” she proposed. “And for my sake, let them manage their own affairs. The Tal have never been allowed to congregate in any serious fashion, to my knowledge. They pick up whatever culture they happen to be near, until they get kicked out or driven away by circumstance. Tribes are always splitting, moving, losing the security that would allow them to prosper. It would be nice if they had a place of their own and an opportunity to see what kind of culture they’d develop, left to their own devices,” she explained.

  That is an interesting proposal,” I considered, envisioning such a place. Just how would the Tal run their affairs, without human lords or Alka Alon masters to serve? They managed a marginal existence, in the forests and meadows of their tribal settlements, but Falassa was right, they’d never been given any chance of security and autonomy in large numbers, to my knowledge. “I like the Tal Alon. I wouldn’t mind having more of them around.”

  “If I find you oppressing them,” she warned, wagging her pipestem at me, “I have ways of making you regret it. Those poor souls get knocked about every time that the greater powers in the world get into conflict. The Karshak don’t particularly like them. The Alka Alon mostly ignore them. The gurvani hunt and eat them, at the moment, and they didn’t exactly get along before the invasion. They have no champion. They are not warriors. But they are worthy of our protection.”

  She got a faraway look in her eye as she gazed out into the moonlit landscape, where snow still streaked the land. She began listing the elements of Tal Alon society that had captured her attention and admiration.

  “The Tal Alon are respectful of the Low Things. They honor the power of the small plants, and they understand the counsels of roots. They revere the flowers and even the moss in ways no others do, and they know how both to make them grow and to use them to their best efficacy. They know the mushrooms and the lichens, and tend them like treasures. They are bold and brave and kind, usually, and their passion for hospitality is noteworthy. They are an especial people, to me. But they need to be taught how to make use of this simple wisdom and let it grow into something to make them truly prosperous. And they need to be given a chance to rule their own affairs, for once. Take on this task and I will ensure that they flourish – and you will prosper in turn by their proximity,” she proposed.

  “I have no doubt that we could use the vegetables,” I conceded. “And they know how to brew ale, which is always a handy thing. There are some lands to the southeast that were pretty much cleared out, during the invasion. Back beyond the old Chilver domain, along the Dain River at the base of the escarpment,” I said, manifesting a magemap to highlight the area I spoke of. “Not that they were heavily populated to begin with, but now there are only a dozen human families in the region.”

  “They’d have to be able to garden, remember,” she warned, unnecessarily.

  “It’s a handsome little strip,” I assured her. “The lands are reasonably fertile, but not ideal for our style of agriculture. The river valley is too narrow and rocky. But the Dain River is constant and clean. I was going to resettle it with our folk, eventually, but th
ose efforts have stalled, thanks to the war. We can settle it with Tal, instead. I’m already essentially giving the Wood Dwarves their own domain. I might as well provide some more variety for Vanador. And I can make them a protected domain. If you want to make them your pet project, I can aid you. It will be an interesting experiment. Anything else?”

  She paused and studied me closely. The wrinkles around her eyes contracted, and I felt the Magolith rise over my shoulder, as it took notice of the goddess doing . . . whatever she was doing.

  “I ask for the boon of persistence,” she finally said, grudgingly. “When Herus told me about your wonderous spell, I was skeptical. I’m a seasonal deity, ordinarily, and I usually only manifest for a brief period in spring and autumn, occasionally at high summer. It would be nice to be around for the intervening days. I think that would be useful,” she said, simply.

  “That is, in fact, the reason I invoked you,” I admitted, exhaling smoke. “You come highly recommended by your fellow divinities. Not the most powerful goddess, but—”

  She snorted – and I learned that Falassa’s snorts had divine power. The dried herbs in my smoking pouch suddenly sprung to life, vibrant and green. “Power is not always measured in armies, spells or great social movements, young man. Power is measured in effectiveness. Herblore should teach you how a very little thing can have a potent effect, when you have the knowledge of how to use it properly. One little seed can change the course of kingdoms, if it’s planted in the right place,” she assured me with divine confidence. “My sphere of influence may not storm the heavens, Minalan the Spellmonger, but if you use it properly, it may well prove decisive for you.”

  “That is my hope,” I admitted. “Unlike my colleagues, I’ve always had a lot of respect for what is considered ‘low magic.’ I don’t really know how you can help, Goddess, but in this struggle, I need far more weapons in my arsenal.”

  “And more herbs in your pouch! Make me persistent, Wizard, and I’ll ensure you have the finest. And the lore to use them,” she added. “That’s the key: managing the lore. The natural wisdom that accumulates about herbs. That’s a great deal of my responsibilities,” she said, proudly.