The Spellmonger's Honeymoon: A Spellmonger Novella (The Spellmonger Series) Read online

  To complete our nuptial cruise, Pentandra had caused a pavilion more suited to a tournament than a river barge be erected on the main deck. The structure allowed for the canvas walls to be rolled up or down to deflect wind and sun, or afford privacy, with an inner curtain of loosely-woven cotton that would allow sun and light inside, but protect us from insects, birds, and the frequent winter rains.

  Within the canopy Palia had crafted a delightful nest of over-sized cushions around a wicker couch and a few luxurious chairs. Another hamper of liquors was stored there, too, with some bottles enchanted to maintain their temperature at a desired level.

  In fact, the barge as a whole had been thoroughly enchanted, though it looked normal enough to a mundane eye. She had been warded against a number of common littoral plagues: parasites, rats, roaches, snakes and river-skunks, and her hull had been strengthened and preserved against rot and decay. Pentandra’s handiwork. She had yet to add permanent magelights, or a resident water elemental or the like, but then she’d only had the boat a few days. I had every confidence it would resemble a floating bedchamber soon enough.

  In the meantime, I had every intention of enjoying the gift from my dear friend with my new bride. As she sat on the bed, after Palia departed, I ceremoniously opened the first bottle of mead and poured it into two of the ornate painted glasses included in the basket and handed her one.

  “To my beloved bride,” I toasted, “who has made me the happiest man on Callidore!”

  “To my handsome groom,” she replied, “who has conjured happiness out of misfortune and war.”

  “To happiness!” we said together.

  We drank. It was dry, smooth as a glassy lake, with a hint of lemon and coriander. I barely tasted the alcohol. We smiled. We were married. And it was awkward.

  Now what?

  I think we were both wondering that, when we finally drifted off to sleep.

  That first real day as man and wife passed from awkward novelty to contentedness quickly enough. Lunch was almost uncomfortable. Palia flitted from one of us to the other, serving small glazed earthenware bowls of hot mutton stew with a loaf of bread (my father, the master baker of Talry-on-Burine, had sent his son into matrimony with a well-loaded basket of his finest breads, enough for a week or more), fresh apples, and a tiny savory vegetable pie. We washed it down with ale, and then with another toast from the bottle marked HAPPINESS.

  “Who knew you could drink happiness?” Alya sighed, looking at me – staring at me? – intently. I wondered what she was thinking, but wasn’t certain I should ask. I figured I would stick with my strong points when it came to women, instead of trying to figure out the mystery of femininity through the vessel of my wife all in one night.

  “I’ve known a few who tried,” I admitted. “Let’s see if we can decant a little this evening . . . my wife.”

  “. . . a bottle next for health,”

  I stared at my beloved bride’s eyes as they flickered under her eyelids, her mind enwrapped in sleep after a busy day and a busy night. Dawn was still a few hours away, and as exhausted as I was I felt strangely energized. Perhaps it was the excitement of the wedding, and the riotous party afterward. Perhaps it was the sweet thrill of consummation of our union as man and wife, in the sight of gods and man. Perhaps it was the stimulating feel of the barge gently rocking under us as it made its way downriver. But regardless of the source, I felt like I could fight a dragon. Again. A small one.

  I brushed a lock of hair out of her face where it had flopped when she had turned – not an infrequent occasion for a woman seven months into a pregnancy. Was she dreaming about our child, our baby boy, I wondered? Was she thinking about our future life together? Was she envisioning a prosperous future in troubled times?

  She stirred. Alya rolled slightly on her back with a moan. Her eyes fluttered a bit. Now I would be able to discover the nature of her post-marital, post-coital thoughts. She opened her eyes wide, suddenly, and looked at me.

  “Good morning, wife,” I said, kissing her forehead.

  “Good gods, I have to pee!” she said, struggling to get out of bed. “I’m so sorry, Min, I didn’t mean – could you grab the –?”

  I sighed and smiled indulgently as I fetched the chamber pot and then helped her steady herself to use it. Not as easy as it sounds. Not on a barge that didn’t feel like staying level under her.

  “This was not how I saw us beginning married life,” she grumbled as she finished. “I feel like I have to pee all the time!”

  “You’re pregnant,” I reasoned. “Not a lot of room in there.”

  She groaned expressively. “You’re telling me! Every time I roll over, he presses up against my bladder and I feel like a dam ready to burst!” She glanced out of the porthole at the darkness. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly dawn,” I answered, helping her back into bed.

  “Nearly dawn,” she answered, dully, “and you woke me up? Do you want me to be a widow?”

  “I . . . I didn’t wake you up,” I pointed out. I didn’t sound convincing, even to myself.

  “Near enough,” she grumbled unfairly, pulling a pillow over her head. “You have to let me get at least another few hours before you can expect me to fulfil my wifely duties . . . again,” she groaned.

  “As you wish, milady,” I said, sweetly. She started at the term, then smiled. Thanks to marrying me, she really was a lady now – Lady Alya. Soon to be Lady of Sevendor. I gave her a sleepy kiss and then went upstairs to the deck. One advantage of being a man on a barge is you don’t have to use a chamberpot.

  Dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky in the east, and the mate on duty nodded in silent greeting as he steered us through the lazy current of the Burine. It was peaceful . . . as I conducted my business over the side of the boat, I watched the banks. Mostly they were treed, to keep the river from roaming, and the foliage looked beautiful in the mists of dawn. There wasn’t even another boat in sight, and the world seemed deceptively at peace.

  I was just finishing up when I felt the first brush of contact, mind-to-mind. I waited a moment until I was done – there are some things you should just not do while you’re in intimate mental contact with someone – and then answered.

  The nature of the contact was odd – not like the usual communication through the witchstones. Pentandra’s spell worked through the principle that all of the witchstones in the hands of High Magi were once connected. This contact seemed to come from a different mental direction. I can’t describe it further than that, but I knew something was different.

  Master Minalan, came the call, a female “voice” in my head of surpassing smoothness.

  Yes? I replied. Then I recognized it – and her – and understood why things weren’t quite normal. Lady Ithalia, I said, taking a seat on a bench on deck. What brings me the pleasure of your contact?

  I felt compelled to speak to you after our last encounter, she explained. I wanted to check and see if there were any ill-effects from the irionite.

  I feel right as rain, I promised. Never better. Of course, today was my wedding day . . . yesterday, now . . .

  Congratulations! came the approving tone. May your goddess Trygg bless your union. That is the correct response, is it not? There is still so much my people don’t understand about yours. Particularly your gods. They can be difficult to keep track of.

  Yes, Trygg is our motherhood and childbirth goddess, I agreed. Ishi is the goddess of love and beauty, Briga is the goddess of wisdom and fire, Duin is the—

  I appreciate the instruction, Master Spellmonger, but I have an urgent errand to speak to you of. My inquiry about the sphere had purpose. Have you . . . used it yet?

  What do you mean? I asked. I’ve drawn power from it aplenty. As far as the other facilities I now find within . . . no, I’ve been a bit busy.

  I urge you proceed with the utmost caution, she said, a note of relief in her tone.

  I always do, when dealing with strange magical artifacts. T
his one just happens to be connected to my brain, so I’m being extra careful.

  As well you should, she agreed. The master who prepared the stone was . . . overzealous in his contribution, I’m afraid. I did not understand myself what he was doing, as I lack the lore in that realm, but from what I understand he not only re-formed your irionite and made it more effective but . . . he enhanced it with Alka Alon spells.

  Yes, I noticed that, I agreed. And they are so above my level of knowledge, I have not the wit to use them. Or to understand why he put them there in the first place.

  He is . . . he is an old rebel, she explained, sounding embarrassed. It is a long and complicated story, but he has a history of such mischief.

  What, is it dangerous? I asked, alarmed.

  Of course, she said, its irionite. There are those among the Alka Alon who see such things in the hands of humans as perversion – a minority, but a vocal minority. But the spells are even more dangerous than the innate power of irionite. Some of them are . . . well, they are powerful. More powerful than any a human has been given access to.

  ‘Been given’ access to? I asked, confused. We’re not idiots. We can figure a lot of stuff out on our own.

  Of course, she soothed. In some ways human magic has progressed tremendously over the centuries, often in unexpected and intriguing ways. But it is still based on Alkan magic, and ours is, by its nature, more sophisticated. The spells he gave you were some of the most sophisticated. He is . . . he is in trouble.

  How? Under arrest?

  My people do not do things that way. But he is being questioned. And there are many, now, who see what he did as a betrayal. For your own safety, I urge you not to use those spells, not yet.

  Why not? Are they inherently dangerous, too?

  Some of them, she admitted, if you do not understand their nature. Others you might be able to cast. But at a cost.

  What cost? I asked, swallowing.

  Your human nervous system is not designed to utilize magic at that level. Or, to put it a better way, Alka Alon magic was not designed to be utilized through the vehicle of a human mind. When some of us heard of what he had given you access to, we immediately feared for your safety.

  So . . . some of the Alka Alon are afraid of me, and some are afraid for me.

  And some just wish to take the sphere out of human hands, she added. It is an old prejudice, that humanity cannot be trusted with such power. It has caused much strife between our peoples over the years.

  I’m not sure that I disagree, I replied, thoughtfully.

  You do not think you are ready for that kind of power? she asked, amused.

  I have a healthy respect for corruption, I said. Including my own. Luckily, I’ve got the things I want most, now, and I’m willing to fight to protect them. Corruption would not be helpful to that end.

  Your new family, she said, approvingly. One of the things we find alluring about your people is your ability to bond so passionately after so short acquaintance. In our culture there is often a long, long period of shared experience before such a bond is possible. It is more complete, but with such long acquaintance passion is difficult to cultivate.

  Some of us don’t even need to know their names, I agreed, ruefully. But yes, I’m counting on wanting to protect my wife and son to keep me from descending too quickly into corruption. Gold, magic, power, armies, none of it has the appeal to me that family life does. I suppose I should be more ambitious, I said, philosophically.

  You are the most powerful human mage in history, she said, flatly. I think you have risen beyond any mortal ambition.

  Point taken, I smiled. But I’d still give it all up to rid the world of Sharuel.

  Even the sphere?

  Especially the sphere, I agreed. I know how powerful it is. Or I can guess. Whatever the answer is, it’s ‘more powerful than I can command’. I’m content to let it lie, for now. But I know once I start exploring it, my curiosity alone will doom me to try to master it. If it can be mastered. But I’d drop it like a hot coal if it was the price for a normal, goblin-free life.

  Well said, she said. One of the arguments in favor of you keeping the sphere was that you have good moral character.

  ‘Keeping the sphere’? I asked, concerned. I do hope no one tries to take it. As much as I’d get rid of it, the only price I’d accept is a world without the Dead God. If someone tried, well . . . I might be tempted to consider those spells.

  It could be taken from you, she said, simply. I concur, it would not be easy, particularly if you resist. But your actions at Timberwatch and elsewhere have also drawn many an admiring eye among my folk. There is a renewed swell of enthusiasm for the humani and their bold, rash, noisy ways. Even among the Karshak Alon and other races you have admirers. Admirers that could become allies.

  That’s good to know, I replied. But it also implies that I need allies in that context. Which implies that there is opposition to me having the sphere. Organized opposition.

  Organizing opposition, more like, she corrected. As we contend with the emergence of the Dead God, we discuss all contingencies and assets. You are considered an asset. Undeveloped, undisciplined, but charismatic among your own people and shrewd. Unbeholden to your warrior prince. Unfettered by loyalties outside of your family. And devoted to the eventual defeat of Sharuel.

  That seems overstating it, but I suppose that’s a valid perspective, I observed. But this opposition . . .

  Many bear old grudges against the humani. Some consider you interlopers, alien, foreign beings at odds with the way of the Alon. Some even hate the humani, although not with the singlemindedness of the gurvani. They may not approve of the abomination that is Sharuel, but they do not begrudge him his target.

  That’s disturbing, I said, uncomfortably.

  It should be, she agreed. Some of those who dislike your species hail from ancient houses of great power and majesty.

  But not you, I pointed out.

  Not me, she agreed. I am . . . my people are more rustic than those who dislike humani. As such, those of us in the region of the Five Duchies have seen you more intimately and understand your ways better. We do not have the highest rank among our folk, but our voices are respected. And there are those in other kindreds who are just as enthusiastic about humanity’s resistance, although not always for altruistic purposes. I have sought to gather those who share that opinion so that we might advocate on humanity’s behalf in our counsels.

  That’s very generous of you, I said, sincerely. But I can’t help but be curious as to your own motivations. Forgive me for being suspicious, but . . . well, I am largely ignorant of the Alka Alon. I figured that was the most tactful way to put it.

  By design, she agreed. Since the . . . you would call it the Late Magocracy, after the tragedy of Perwyn, the Alka councils decided to veil ourselves from intercourse with humanity. There was politics involved—

  Even among the Alka Alon?

  Where there is conflict, there is always politics, she said, ruefully. But regardless, the decision was made. Our settlements in the humani region were veiled, and our exchanges with your people were limited. As the Late Magocracy fell to the barbarians of the north, those of the Alka kindreds that do not favor an accommodation with the humani prevailed. Our two races were largely sundered, our dealings restricted. They saw the fall of the Magocracy as vindication of their position.

  But now that Sharuel has come, your folk are re-thinking their position, I finished.

  The arrival of the gurvani and the Abomination were not foreseen clearly by my folk, she admitted. We have lost many refuges within the realm of darkness. The gurvani bear us great ill, for what they see as past wrongs. Sharuel’s dark priests delight in bringing us to the sacrificial stone. Her image shuddered.

  So now you want our help, I realized.

  Some of us do. And some of us recognize you as kindred spirits, worthy of our protection and guidance.

  I just looked at her image. You do realize
how utterly patronizing that sounds, don’t you?

  I . . . I ask your indulgence, Master Minalan, she said, embarrassed. As you have said, we are ignorant of each others’ cultures. The Alka Alon do not mean to . . . patronize other races.

  A little humility would do you some good, no doubt, I grunted. Perhaps your association with us will grant that.

  There are now many who would ally more meaningfully with you. Specifically, with you, she said, meaningfully looking at me. It made me a little uncomfortable. The tales of the Spellmonger’s gallant fight have reached rarified halls. You have inspired many, even among those who do not count themselves humanity’s champions. If you are the human with whom we can have relations, and not your warrior princes, then there is hope.

  Well, I suppose that is encouraging, I grumbled. But I am guessing that doesn’t translate into legions of Alkan warriors.

  There are some who, for reasons of their own, wish to fight the gurvani by your side, she acknowledged. And there are those who could be persuaded to do so, at need. But no, Master Minalan, it is unlikely that an Alkan army will take the field.

  I’ll settle for technical assistance, I sighed. I take it that was what was behind the advice to settle in the northern Uwarris?

  Yes, she agreed. There are within those old hills fortresses and deep settlements, long abandoned, that may serve you well in your struggle. And the lost Karshak Alon city of Angrenost lies somewhere within that range. Mayhap there are hidden secrets of the Stone Folk you may find helpful in your struggle. And the location is convenient for us, I admit.

  You do realize it’s marginal farmland at best, it’s sparsely peopled and the folk there are ignorant and superstitious?