Hedgewitch: Book 14 of the Spellmonger Series Read online

  Hedgewitch

  Book 14 Of The Spellmonger Series

  By Terry Mancour

  Copyright © January, 2022

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  Dedication

  To Sara Jane “Sam” Raines

  And Shava Nerad

  The two hedgewitches who taught me what witchcraft is all about.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One The Tower Arcane

  Chapter Two An Unexpected Assassin

  Chapter Three The Game Of Whispers

  Chapter Four Skeldor Hall

  Chapter Five Starting A Garden

  Chapter Six An Attack In The Darkness

  Chapter Seven An Unexpected Reunion

  Chapter Eight Into The Westlands

  Chapter Nine On The Problems Of Prophecy

  Chapter Ten Reconnaissance

  Chapter Eleven A Return To Vanador

  Chapter Twelve The Children’s Table

  Chapter Thirteen A Summer In Vorone

  Chapter Fourteen The Gardens Of Vorone

  Chapter Fifteen An Unexpected War

  Chapter Sixteen Redshaft Of Nirod

  Chapter Seventeen A Crisis In Gilmora

  Chapter Eighteen A Devious Plan

  Chapter Nineteen The Royal Palace at Kaunis

  Chapter Twenty Rondal’s Army

  Chapter Twenty-One The Frustrations Of Power

  Chapter Twenty-Two The Flame of Revolt

  Chapter Twenty-Three The Matter of Wilderhall

  Chapter Twenty-Four Occupied Wilderhall

  Chapter Twenty-Five The Fields of Barrowbell

  Chapter Twenty-Six The Spellmonger’s Return

  Chapter Twenty-Seven The Shadow of Anghysbel

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Assault On Karantos Manor

  Chapter Twenty-Nine Lanara’s Debut

  Chapter Thirty A Chat With Karakush

  Chapter Thirty-One A Renewed Sense of Purpose

  Chapter Thirty-Two Negotiations and Resolutions

  Chapter Thirty-Three Revelations

  Chapter Thirty-Four Domestic Affairs

  Chapter Thirty-Five Exile’s End

  Chapter Thirty-Six Gossip and Chaos

  Chapter Thirty-Seven Aftermath

  Chapter Thirty-Eight The Black Feather

  Chapter Thirty-Nine Recriminations

  Chapter Forty Planning and Plotting

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Pay Attention When An Old Dog Barks

  Alshari Folk Saying

  Jamarain was rinsing out her tea glass in the basin when the vision overtook her.

  They happened infrequently, since she’d come back to Inmar, the city of her birth. She had once hoped that they had left her altogether, they were so troublesome; at the same time, she almost missed the overwhelming sensations that took her out of her body that the gods had given her. She had long understood when one of them was coming over her – the feeling was unmistakable, once you’d had it.

  Blessing or curse, there was a familiarity to the experience that was comforting, even if the loss of control was disconcerting. As she felt it come on, like a wave in rough seas, she had the foresight to gently set down the glass before she dropped and shattered it, then gripped the table with both wrinkled hands. If she was lucky, she knew, she could endure the approaching mental onslaught without falling.

  This one was bad, she could tell at once. Jamarain had had thousands of episodes over the years, and most were mild. Some were not. There seemed to be some correlation between the importance of the vision and the severity of the episode, she knew, and this one washed over her like a thunderous gale striking the shore.

  “Jamarain?” her grandson, Greaan, called, alarmed, as she suddenly stiffened. “Is there something wrong?”

  Before she could reassure the boy, the fit consumed her entirely, and she was no longer in her cozy little flat in Inmar. Her body stiffened, her eyes went blank, and she was gone, lost in the vision.

  She did not know how long she was possessed, for in such states time lost all meaning. She had no control over them. Jamarain was merely a vessel, an observer, with no more influence over the vision than she had over the sunset. Each one seemed to last an eternity, as the universe poured information into her mind. Yet rarely did they last even a minute, to those around her who witnessed an episode.

  “Jamarain?” Greaan called again, more agitated, when the fog finally lifted from her mind and the basin, tea glass, and the sight of her white-knuckled hands grasping the table came back into focus. “Jamarain! Are you all right?”

  “I . . .” she began, her mind confused and scattered by the profundities she’d learned. “I . . . I am fine, Greaan,” she finally gasped, forcing herself to focus on the glass. It seemed different, strange, somehow, but she knew it was the same as it had been a moment before. She consciously ordered her hands to unclasp their grip on the table. “I . . . I just had one of my little episodes,” she admitted, with a deep sigh, forcing a little smile on her lips. She did not want to frighten the boy. As much as her heart was pounding and her head was spinning, she tried to act normally.

  “Again?” her grandson asked, skeptically. “You just had one a few weeks ago!”

  “When you get old, that sort of thing is expected,” she explained, quietly, as she forced her hands to release their grip on the old table.

  “I don’t like it,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Isn’t there anything you can do about it?” the boy asked, concerned. “Do you need a healer?”

  Jamarain straightened her sore back and sighed. “Alas, no, I’m afraid. There is no potion nor lotion that can keep such things at bay.”

  “But you’re a witch!” Greaan protested, indignantly. “You should know how to do that!” He looked so much like his father at his age when he did that, Jamarain noted.

  “I’m a retired hedgewitch, not a goddess,” Jamarain said, self-consciously. “There is no cure for age or the infirmities that come with it in the wisdom of men. Nor would I try to escape them. They can even bring you gifts, sometimes,” she said, as she recalled the momentous vision that had stricken her. “And curses,” she added.

  She was speaking from experience. Jamarain had had an encounter with a goddess, one that had landed her back in Inmar. She knew how powerful they were. She also knew how strictly bound they were.

  “Can’t the priests do anything? Or the wizards?” the young boy demanded. At twelve years old, he had a child’s simple perspective on the powers of the clergy and the magi. “I hate it when it happens to you. That looks like it hurt!”

  “Pain, too, is one of the companions of age,” she lectured, as she finished rinsing out her glass and replaced it in the wooden rack above the basin. “Thankfully, so is wisdom. Like the wisdom to know when to accept what you must, and not pity yourself because you might suffer a bit. And the wisdom to know when you’ve overstayed your visit, and your parents are getting worried,” she reminded him, gently.

  “But if I go home, they’ll make me go to bed!” he protested, making an expressive face that reminded him of her husband, Greaan’s grandfather. He’d always had a way of telling an entire story with a scowl or a grimace. It was one of the endearing things she missed about him.

  “That’s a common fault of parents,” she chuckled. “But so is the indulgence of allowing their youngest child to linger with his grandmother for dinner. And sweet biscuits,” she added, as she saw the boy eyeing the plate of Wilderlands-style honeyed oatcakes she’d prepared for him.

  Greaan had been coming over to her little flat several times a week, since she’d returned to Inmar and reintroduced herself to her children. It had not been an easy reunion. It had taken months to overcome their suspicion and recriminations over her fleeing the town and abandoning them to their father’s care, but time and patience – and a great deal of biscuits – had gradually gained their trust. There was no denying their kinship, of course. She’d proven she was who she claimed she was over and over again. Her son, Gethan – a prestigious Practical Adept – had performed the spell himself. She was his mother, he’d had to admit.

  But the unresolved questions about her mysterious past and her long absence were still haunting the relationship. Gethan and his wife were still suspicious and reluctant to embrace her. Thankfully, Greaan had taken a distinct interest in her, once she’d settled into one of the town’s cheaper residences within walking distance of his fine home.

  The sandy-haired boy already had the stirrings of rajira, which was to be expected. He had magi in his family on both sides, and such things frequently passed from generation to generation. He was also bright and intelligent, with an unyielding curiosity that would serve him well should he pursue the family profession. Jamarain fully expected for his Talent to emerge in the coming months as he hit his growth spurt. Perhaps explosively. He favored his grandfather in many things, and her husband’s emergence of rajira had involved accidentally igniting a haystack with his nascent
magic.

  “It’s getting dark,” she reminded him, glancing out of the single window in her simple room. “We don’t want to worry your parents. And we don’t want to be wandering the streets after dark. There are dangers. Grab your cloak,” she urged, as she picked her walking stick from the rack by the door. “It’s going to be chilly, by the time we make it back home.”

  “Oh, all right!” the boy said, with a resigned sigh. He pulled on his mantle while she gathered her things into her bag – particularly the pouch containing the project she’d been working on for months – which she tucked into her satchel. Most of the cosmopolitan residents of Inmar didn’t bother carrying much more than a purse, but Jamarain did not leave her door without her leathern satchel over her shoulder. It was a habit she’d developed over years as a hedgewitch in the Wilderlands; you never knew what you might need, once you left your home. Or what you might find.

  Or, she added to herself, what might find you.

  The streets of Inmar were already growing deserted as the townsfolk settled in for the night. Lamplighters began their rounds in the twilight, as the evening mists began rolling in off the lake, and the last of the pushcart vendors that were so prevalent here were heading home for the night. But they were moving in a hurry. They had heard the rumors too, of course. No one collects gossip like a pieman.

  “They say that Falas has real magelights in town, now,” Greaan informed her, authoritatively, as he marched down the street. “Now that there’s a new Duke and Duchess, the magi are in good favor in court, again, Dad says. When will we get magelights here?” he demanded, as they strolled down the street.

  “There was a time that such things would have invited the investigations of the Censorate,” she recalled, with a wry chuckle. “If an adept had produced a sustained magelight, back when I was a little girl, the entire town would be filled with checkered cloaks looking for violators of the Bans. You’re lucky to live in a time when their power has been broken.”

  “Censors are the worst!” he agreed with another beautifully horrid facial expression. “When are you going to take me fishing, again?” he asked, as he balanced himself on the stone curb of the street. It amazed her how quickly the boy could change the subject. Especially towards fishing, one of his favorite pastimes.

  “That will be up to your mother,” Jamarain reminded him. “She wasn’t too happy about you gutting our last catch in the middle of her pantry. And then neglecting to clean the mess.”

  “Oh, she was angry!” the boy chortled in delight. “She spanked me so hard—”

  “Oh, I recall!” she laughed at the memory. “She was also quite cross with me, if you remember. But I think we can go again soon,” she said, quietly, as she glanced at the glimpse of lake visible through the elegant skyline of the town. She did love fishing, here; it reminded her of her own youth.

  But then the weight of her vision returned to her, and she knew such an expedition would have to be quite soon. Or not for a while. If she survived the night.

  “Perhaps I can persuade your mother to take you out after next Market Day,” she decided, as the boy stumbled off the curb. “I can borrow Bartagan’s boat again, I think – he barely uses it, these days.”

  “He’s the one you knew as a little girl?” Greaan asked, catching up to her.

  “Oh, yes, Bartagan was once one of the most promising adepts in town,” she agreed. “General practice, but he specialized in a few very lucrative areas. Detecting forgeries, for instance, and finding lost items. Quite a fisherman, too – that’s why he bought the boat. But he hasn’t done much on the lake since his gout started acting up. Too much rich food,” she said, disapprovingly.

  “Why doesn’t he just cast a spell and cure it?” demanded Greaan, looking confused.

  “Because he specialized in detecting forgeries and finding lost items, and not medical magic,” Jamarain reminded him. “A mage can’t know everything, no matter how old he is. I’ve offered him a tonic that would help ease his suffering, but he says it’s superstition, the old fool. He’ll trust a medical mage before an old hedgewitch, no matter how long we were acquainted. And medical magic is an uncommon art, here, unlike Farise.”

  “That’s where the pirates are!” agreed her grandson, enthusiastically.

  “Among many other places,” she nodded. “Pirates, slavers, Censors, wicked magi, bloody revolutionaries – but Farise has a tradition of producing the best magi who specialize in medicine. If the bloody Censors have left them alone,” she added, frowning.

  “We hate the bloody Censors!” agreed the boy.

  “Language!” chided the grandmother, frowning even more sternly. “And yes, we do hate the bloody Censors. Thankfully, good Duke Anguin chased them away. But it will take the Spellmonger to chase them away from Farise, once and for all,” she said, quietly. “If he doesn’t die. Perhaps if he does. The Spellmonger is the greatest wizard of our age. And a good friend to our new Duke. If anyone can do it, he can.”

  She dared not say any more to the boy, even casually. The fate of Count Minalan the Spellmonger was foremost in her mind tonight because he had been the subject of her disturbing recent vision. In the few seconds she had been lost in a swirl of foresight, she had been plunged into the confusing and chaotic future that had largely concerned that hapless but important name. So much relied on the strength and will of the Spellmonger; she’d known that for years. But in one instant, all that she had believed about the man from hundreds of other glimpses into fate – or fortune – had been cast into question.

  The issue, she realized, was the contradictory nature of the prophecy. It was not an uncommon matter, she’d grown to realize. Seeing what might happen – what would happen – was a dicey matter, at best, subject to broad interpretation. The most straightforward-seeming prophecy could go askew over some minor detail the prophetess who produced it may misinterpret. She was certain she’d done it herself, many times. As profound as the flashes of insight she suffered were, they were brief, intense, and woefully lacking in context. What might be technically true might also be of damning uselessness, she’d learned in her many years indulging in the forbidden art.

  The facts of the matter might seem easy to identify, but without proper context it was far too easy to mistake one meaning for another. Some elements of her visions were purely symbolic, she knew, while others were starkly factual. That left ample room for mistakes and misinterpretations. It required nuance and understanding to cull the useful bits from the disconcerting visions. And a humble willingness to admit to herself that the prophetess might just not know what in three hells she was talking about.

  How could the Spellmonger save the kingdom if he lived, but save the world if he died? That was the perplexing question that arose in her as she led her grandson back toward his home. It was much darker, now, and the streets were clearing. The rumors had spoken of the thing that stalked Inmar by night, and while the city authorities dismissed such talk, she knew it was true after months of studying the matter. People disappeared in the night in Inmar.

  If it was going to happen, she prayed it would not happen until her return trip, after she’d dropped off Greaan to her son. She didn’t want the boy to experience that sort of thing. She could face death on her own well enough – she’d done it plenty. But he was too young to have to contend with that when he was such a merry boy.

  Alas, she knew, Fate does not give us the choice.

  “Hurry!” she whispered, as a dog started barking from one of the flats they passed. An old dog. There was no sign of pursuit, when she looked over her shoulder, but she dug her hand into her satchel, seeking the pouch she’d prepared anyway. “You should always listen to an old dog barking,” she instructed her grandson.

  “Why?” he asked, stopping suddenly.

  “Because an old dog only barks when there’s something worth barking at,” explained Jamarain. “So hurry! We’re almost there!”

  But it was too late, she knew before they came to the next street. Darkness had fallen, and Fate was approaching.

  Chapter One

  The Tower Arcane

  The tallest trees attract the lightning, the fattest sparrow, the hawk.