Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 2

  “But not Korbal,” Dad said, as he poured water into the basin to wash the flour off of his face.

  “No, Korbal’s necromancy does allow some bit of your mind to return,” I conceded. “That’s the problem. He’s using a very sophisticated necromancy . . . and I don’t even know simple necromancy.”

  “You’ll figure it out, Min,” he said, confidently, as he patted his face dry with a towel, and then tossed it on the side of the basin where my mother could complain about it. “You’re a smart lad. Always were. We’re going to miss you,” he sighed.

  “I’m going to miss you all, too,” I agreed. “The kids, especially. They’ve kept Min and Almina distracted, and that’s worth a lot to me.” Dad and Baron Lithar had come to an arrangement to re-open the bakery back in Talry, after the Temple of Briga lifted its interdiction on the barony.

  They were planning on leaving in just a few more weeks. Dad was only taking half of the household he left with, as two of his former apprentices would be staying on here, with my sisters, and continue to run the Sevendor Town bakery. Mom and Dad had enjoyed getting to know their grandchildren and their daughter-in-law, but it was time for them to head back home and we all knew it.

  “They’re beautiful children,” he assured me. “As pretty as their mother, as smart as their father. All your children are beautiful. But they’ll be happier with their mother. If you can find a way to restore her . . .”

  “I’ve done almost nothing else,” I agreed. “This is likely the best option I have.”

  “Then do what you have to do, Son,” he said.

  For no particular reason, his words filled me with confidence I hadn’t felt before. I wasn’t exactly fishing for his validation, but getting it unexpectedly made it all the more potent.

  “I will, dad,” I promised. “If it means chasing Korbal into his darkest cellar and beating him to death the bloody stump of his own arm, then I’ll find a way to do it. Are there more tarts? Those were delicious!”

  Interlude I

  Pentandra

  “The Conspiracy”

  Pentandra regarded her young guest with a mixture of admiration and trepidation over a cup of tea in the garden of her country estate. Ordinarily, it would be too cold to consider lingering outside for any length of time, but that was under the old feeble wizards of the court. In her very first days at the estate she’d enchanted the gardens with an invisible dome that allowed the air within to stay considerably warmer than the chill Wilderland weather outside. It made conversations like this one a bit more pleasant to have, outside in the daylight.

  “. . . so, I hope you can appreciate my dilemma,” Gatina finished, as she set down the teacup. “I really don’t see what else I can do.”

  Pentandra considered the girl’s problem. Fortunately, she seemed to be working along with the currents of fate, not against them, for her sake. Else Pentandra would have to dissuade her, or at least challenge her course.

  “I do see the problem,” Pentandra finally admitted. “Oft the gods present these challenges to us seemingly out of spite, when what we desire is so close but yet seems unobtainable. But I am not a priestess,” she said, tossing up her hands. “I am a wizard. And where the gods fail, magic prospers.”

  “Yet it seems an impossible task,” Gatina lamented.

  “Not impossible,” Pentandra said, quickly, “just . . . highly unlikely. Let me think . . .”

  The pretty Coastlord sat with perfect feminine patience while Pentandra thought. When Gatina appeared on her doorstep so unexpectedly she’d been surprised.

  The young shadowmage was in a desperate mood, however, and chose to appeal to the court wizard of the court-in-exile, instead of taking matters into her own hands. Her dark sable gown and beautiful silver necklace was at odds with the other garments she’d seen the girl wear. She was appealing to Pentandra not just as a mage and administrator, counselor to His Grace, but also as a woman.

  At last Pentandra sighed, patting her growing belly. “The problem is that the political situation is so dire,” she said, letting her eyes light on the hills in the distance, rather than her guest. “That may or may not seem to hold bearing on your problem, my dear, but I assure you that it does. You know the push to have the Count of Rhemes named Duke in Anguin’s stead?” she asked.

  “Intimately,” Gatina said, flatly. “His party, and those of the other rebels, has made it a practice of extolling the virtues of such a move. Only the Count of Erona stands to object, and he is quickly seeing the advantages of letting another claim the coronet.”

  “That must not happen,” Pentandra insisted. “I need more information. How would you say is Anguin viewed in the south?”

  “By the nobility? As a foolish boy, under Rard’s thumb and a lackey of House Bimin, pretending to be Duke while hiding in the woods. By the people? He is barely known at all.”

  “And the gurvani invasion?”

  “Considered a myth by all but the highest nobles,” Gatina confirmed. “Duke Lenguin is seen to have lost half the Wilderlands due to his own incompetence as a war-leader.”

  “Castal’s fleet?” she prompted.

  “Openly scorned as part-time warrior-merchants, inadequate to face the vast Alshari fleets if they had the Storm Lord himself on the tiller.”

  “And the undead?”

  “Hollow tales of drunken mariners,” Gatina said, with a sniff of disgust. “Stories of how they are infiltrating the swamplands are obscured. Yet the Nemovorti continue to recruit. Their agents prowl the slave pens looking for the finest . . . hosts,” she said, distastefully. “Others are taken at night, or off the street, and never seen again. Magi especially are prone to such disappearances. As if we are being hunted. More and more villages go silent as their headmen and elders are taken, slain, and reanimated. It is said that even the Count of Caramas is now under their direct sway,” she added, worriedly.

  Pentandra thought in silence a few more moments. As if she were matching up the particulars of the situation with some prophecy or another.

  “I can think of a way,” she began, hesitantly. “But it will take much work, coin, and a number of very brave men. And magic. Lots of magic.”

  “Coin I have in plenty,” she reminded Pentandra, “and what I lack, I’ll steal. The prospect of work has never bothered me. And there are brave men aplenty in the Wilderlands,” she observed. “What magic we need I shall secure. I assure you, my lady, I am committed to this course. What price you ask of me, I shall be happy to pay.”

  Pentandra couldn’t argue with that. “We shall come to that in a moment,” she decided. Manpower wasn’t the problem. Where it was and where it wasn’t, that was the problem. But one thing at a time, she decided.

  “If you want to work to our mutual benefit,” she told her guest, “then among the first things that must be done is to remind Enultramar that they have a very real Duke, and one who is not pretending in the slightest.”

  Gatina smiled, and her lavender eyes widened in a way that made Pentandra shiver a little inside. The girl was determined, that was certain.

  “Just what do you suggest, my lady?” she asked, leaning forward expectantly.

  “Actually, my plan has several parts,” she said. “But the first will involve a journey back to Falas. A clandestine journey,” she emphasized.

  “No one ever notices a cat,” she shrugged, nodding toward where a big tabby that lived in the barn was sprawled on a sunny ledge.

  “Just so,” Pentandra nodded. “Once the message is delivered, and I speak to my cousin Planus for some essential supplies, we can progress to the next part of the plan. It will also require some assistance from Sevendor, assistance that I cannot let Minalan know about without compromising him . . . but Lord Banamor owes me a favor or three. And Gareth is suddenly available, I hear. I can acquire what you need.”

  “And warriors?”

  “Warriors we have in plenty,” Pentandra assured her. “Since the arrival of the Third Commando, and th
e influx of Wilderlords for the Weapontake, we now have thousands of soldiers. I know just the type to undertake this task. A highly risky task, even under the best of circumstances,” she reminded her guest.

  “I am aware of the potential consequences, my lady,” Gatina said, nodding her head.

  “Should things go ill, it is likely that all involved will face execution. Unless the soil is prepared properly, this garden shall not bear fruit . . . or even sprout.”

  “Understood, my lady,” Gatina nodded. “I think I know what needs to be done to till it, before the planting. And then water it . . . liberally,” she grinned.

  “You may need to remove some offensive weeds, along the way,” she warned her.

  “Hard work and dirty hands never bother me, if the fruit is juicy enough,” she countered.

  “I will not be able to help much, in my present condition,” she pointed out, patting her tummy.

  “I would feel cheated if I could not claim the satisfaction of this achievement for my own,” Gatina declared. “Your counsel and wisdom are assistance enough, my lady.”

  “Well spoken!” Pentandra approved. “Then I can do what I will to assist . . . with the understanding that the onus for success or failure lies on your shoulders. It must be a conspiracy, for now. Perhaps until it is concluded.”

  “The greater the prize, the greater the glory,” Gatina quoted. “I shall speak of it to no one, save my mother,” she advised.

  “Then let us begin,” Pentandra said, conjuring a blank sheet of parchment out of her amulet. She’d had it modified, since she became Court Wizard, to produce such helpful things when needed. A quill and inkpot followed.

  She began the letter to her friend and colleague, using some coded terms that she would understand. “I shall send this to Lady Carmella to make the initial arrangements . . . yes, yes, I think that she’ll have precisely what you need to proceed. Alurra!” she called to the cat.

  It wagged the tip of its tail but once in response. “Have one of the pages sent to me, to bear a message to Vorone!” she instructed the cat.

  “You summon your apprentice? Mind-to-mind?” Gatina asked, confused.

  “No, the nosy girl has been listening in the entire time,” Pentandra explained as she wrote. “Through the ears of Lord Fuzzypaws, over there.”

  “Ah! A beastmaster,” Gatina nodded, understanding.

  “Yes, a highly useful quality . . . when it isn’t irritating me,” she conceded, looking purposefully at the bored-looking tabby cat. “As apprentices go, I could do worse,” she admitted. “She does look after me, when Lord Arborn is out ranging, as he is now.”

  “Will Duke Anguin be angry, if the . . . if we come to harvest, Lady Pentandra?” Gatina asked, concerned.

  “My dear, we are so far away from harvest that such considerations really just don’t bear consideration,” Pentandra dismissed. “What you are attempting is so far-fetched and unlikely that . . . well, by the time Anguin learns of it, you will either be dangling from the end of the traitor’s noose, or you will be triumphant. Worrying about such things before they are at hand is pointless.”

  “I submit to your wisdom, my lady,” Gatina agreed.

  “We can get Tyndal and Rondal to assemble the men,” she decided, as she finished the note to Carmella a few moments later. “We need not share our intent; the less they know of this, the better, for now. The best kinds of conspiracies employ agents who do not realize they are such. I shall come up with a clever excuse for doing so.”

  “Won’t they feel betrayed, if we come to a successful harvest?”

  “If we are successful,” Pentandra countered, “then they will spend their energies gleaning from the field of victory,” she promised.

  A moment later Alurra appeared, being led by a scrawny young servant. Her raven, Lucky, was perched on her shoulder.

  “I come with Barstan, my lady,” she called, unnecessarily.

  Pentandra nodded to the lad as he bowed, gave him the letter, and bid him to deliver it as quickly as possible.

  She could have used mind-to-mind communication, she knew, but Pentandra also knew that Carmella was a wizard of intense concentration, when she was working. Considering she was laboring to build a Ducal keep in a tenth the time and at half the expense of normal, she really didn’t need to distract the warmage in the middle of the day. Not for something that would require a little finesse on her part.

  When the boy left to get a horse from the stable, Pentandra regarded her blonde apprentice.

  “Alurra, you do realize that this should be kept discreet,” she reminded her incautious apprentice.

  The blonde girl snorted. “As if I could understand one single thing you two said!” she accused. “First you speak in riddles, then of warriors, then of conspiracies, and then of gardening. Does no one in this court speak plainly?” she asked, exasperated.

  “There are good reasons to keep secrets, sometimes,” Pentandra explained, patiently. “Lady Gatina has ambitions that require the assistance of the court wizard. Thankfully, her ambitions coincide with the good of the realm. Thus I am supporting her endeavors.”

  “Well, unless they involve growing peppers or potatoes, I have no idea what you were talking about,” Alurra said, annoyed. “And that is perfectly fine by me. It’s bad enough to find that your quarters have been consumed by the dragon,” she began complaining, “but then to be shipped off to this boring old place, out in the middle of—”

  “Thank you, Allura, that will be all,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.

  “It’s not like I’m stupid or anything,” the girl continued. “I know you were talking about Enultramar, and—”

  “Thank you, Allura, that will be all!” Pentandra repeated, more forcefully.

  “Yes, Mistress,” Allura said, curtseying sarcastically. “I swear to Trygg, every day it’s a new ruse, a new deception, a new—”

  “THANK YOU, ALURRA!” Pentandra said, nearly angry.

  When the blind girl returned to the hall, and Pentandra glanced at the tabby cat and continued. “Clearly, you’ve established the desire for a change in leadership in your own mind, my dear, else you would not have come.”

  “My motivations are not so pure, I’m afraid, my lady,” Gatina demurred.

  “Your motivations are as pure as any a maid possessed,” chided Pentandra in return. “The gods rarely put what we desire in easy reach, for what glory then in its attainment? No, Lady Gatina, I admit I admire your willingness to pursue your heart’s desire. No wizard worth the name could have chosen a worthier goal.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Gatina said, standing and giving Pentandra a perfect curtsey. “I stand much in your debt, if I succeed.”

  “And if you fail?” Pentandra asked, the obvious question.

  “If I fail, I expect you to arrange a rescue, before my neck is stretched,” she confided. “Failing that, arrange for a heroic funeral oratory in my honor to celebrate the noble futility of the endeavor. To serve as inspiration – or warning – to others,” she suggested.

  “I could do no less, my lady, for one so brave, during a time so tumultuous,” Pentandra agreed.

  “I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT IN THREE HELLS YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” Alurra screamed from the hall.

  “And another piece of professional advice, my dear? Be very, very careful about the quality of apprentice you take,” she advised. “You never quite know what you’re going to get.”

  Part I

  The Spellmonger’s Bargain

  Chapter One

  The Departure Of Dranus

  My parents were not the only ones to be leaving Sevendor soon. Another departure was occurring sooner, and required my attention. It is customary, when letting go a retainer who has provided good and faithful service, to send them off with gifts and praise as they move along to a better position. It’s just good management. When the retainer in question is making the jump from Baronial Court Wizard to Count and member of the peerage, the
occasion merits a grand gift and an extended personal visit.

  “I came to see you off to press your candidacy, and wish you both luck and blessings as you press your case,” I told Dranus as he saw the last few crates from his empty laboratory packed into a hoxter pocket in his new warstaff. “That doesn’t mean I don’t regret losing you. You’ve done a masterful job in Sevendor.”

  Most of the common items in the small tower on the wall of the inner bailey that had become the home for my court wizard were staying for Master Loiko: elementary texts and references, basic lab equipment, common tools of enchantment and thaumaturgy.

  But he was taking a number of enchantments he’d constructed in the last year with him in his bid to become the Count of Moros. Deadly ones.

  “It is my duty, as well as my legacy,” the Remeran nodded, turning to face me. He’d had the barber shave his head entirely, allowing his bushy eyebrows to dominate his forehead unopposed. It gave him a much more dangerous look.

  “My half-brother Inutulius has enjoyed three years of interim appointment, since my father’s death. In that brief time, he has allowed my father’s legacy to decline damnably. The people of Moros are poorly led and trained, the roads are in poor repair, and the castles are neglected in favor of the estates, and the arsenals are laughable. My late father would be livid. It is in a poor situation for defense, which is the primary responsibility of a count.

  “Inutulius intends to take the position permanently, and use it much as my uncle did, before my father restored the position – as a means of enriching himself, not properly seeing to his office.”