The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (33 page)

“By the fire,” she said, carefully, “I’m ready to take my leave.”

Her father looked startled, and stood, as did her other relatives.  Some sort of ceremony, I guessed.  The frightened little girl looked around, almost more scared than she had been the day an entire city had lauded her a hero . . . or even the day she helped slay a dragon.

Before parting, Kaman called for his own silver cup to be filled with mead, he took a sip, handed it to his daughter, and kissed her.  Dara drank it tearfully, and probably a little too quickly, but I could tell she felt honored by the gesture.

“Let’s go,” she said, tears in her eyes, as she headed toward the door.  “Before I lose my courage please, Magelord.”

“You have that in abundance,” I said, soothing her.  “You are but a stone’s throw from your home, at Sevendor Castle, and are free to visit anytime – as are your kin.  In fact, I’ve asked your father to send Kyre by every week to practice swordplay with my men.  And you’ll have your very own room,” I added. 

That only seemed to make things worse, and she was crying in earnest now.  I didn’t know what else to do – I didn’t feel I knew her well enough to offer a hug of encouragement.  Alya was still tied up saying her good-byes to the women of the manor.  Masters Minnik and Olmeg were donning their cloaks.  And Dara just stared at me, her lips quivering, tears in her eyes.  I felt such sympathy for her, but I did not know what to do.   So I did the only thing I could.

“Puppy?” I offered, putting the little wiggly female in her arms. 

Things got a little better, after that.  It’s hard to weep when there’s a puppy in your arms.

I tried to talk to the girl on the long walk to the castle.  “Are you nervous about your new apprenticeship?” I asked, gently.

“No, Magelord,” she said, swallowing.  “I’m nervous that I’ll fail.”

I had to laugh at that – the girl had been instrumental in the only dragonslaying in history, and she was worried about failing.  “No need – I’m a gentle master, compared to most, and the truth is that you are destined to have a most unorthodox apprenticeship.  I was Academy trained, myself, so I never had a single master.  I barely got my feet wet as a practicing spellmonger, when I took on Tyndal, and Rondal I kind of inherited.  But I’m afraid I’m going to be far too busy for the usual beatings and half-rations and other disciplinary measures.”

“Dara, he’s teasing!” Alya said, batting my arm when the girl’s green eyes grew wide.  “Minalan doesn’t beat his apprentices.  Nor does he skimp on real teaching, as many masters are reported to do.  Tyndal and Rondal enjoy quite a lot of freedom – when they haven’t been shipped off to the Academy for some remedial lessons.”

“I really want to learn,” the girl said, nodding earnestly.  “I know a little, already, but what you and the Lady Pentandra can do, Magelord, I want to learn that.”

“If you’ve the Talent and the wit, there’s no reason why you can’t,” I assured her.  I knew she was intelligent – I’d spoken with her several times, and while she sometimes hesitated before she spoke, I had the sense to see it was out of shyness, not stupidity.  She had picked up reading basic words since we’d returned from Gilmora, and she seemed to have no trouble figuring.  That was a long way from thaumaturgy or enchantment, but I had no doubt she had the capacity for such higher thinking.

“I’m less worried about your lessons,” Alya said, seriously, “and more worried about you leaving your family.”

The girl looked guilty.  “In truth, milady?  I have four older brothers.  Two sisters. Seven male cousins.  Six female cousins.  And a few aunts and uncles not much older than me.  I’ve been the youngest . . . well, since forever, and this is . . . new. “

“I think you’ll like it,” I said, as charmingly as I could.  “And with Frightful and your new beast, I don’t think you’ll lack for company.”

“Or work,” Alya added, patting her shoulder.  “You may not have lessons every day, but you will have other duties, as Minalan’s apprentice.  Keeping his workshop clean and organized, keeping his library, learning his secrets and keeping his trust,” she listed.

“. . . cleaning my chamberpot,” I added, “blacking my boots, doing my laundry, serving my meals, cleaning my—”

“He’s teasing!” Alya insisted, smacking me again as we watched Dara’s horrified expression.  “I was thinking of teaching you court manners – I’m in need of a few lessons myself – and some basic duties around the castle.  For instance, now that we have Frightful, we’re going to need a proper mews, are we not?”

“I suppose we will,” I agreed, “although I have no objection to the bird staying with you, for now.  Providing it doesn’t develop a taste for Westwood hounds,” I said, unable to resist fluffing the little dog’s ears. 

“I was thinking of the responsibilities we are grooming you for, on behalf of Sevendor,” Alya said, rolling her eyes at my antics.  “Ordinarily, you’d likely get married in a few years, settle into a little cot somewhere, and start having children yourself. 

“But the gods have chosen a different path for you,” she explained, gently.  “You have the Talent, and you have the Westwood’s loyalty to Sevendor.  And you have a witchstone that you rightfully won.  It is our hope that you will someday become one of the stalwart guardians of the domain.”

“It is a mageland,” I pointed out.  “You are a mage.  And you
did
slay a dragon.”

“Only
helped!
” Dara objected.

It was my turn to roll my eyes.  “Sorry, you
only helped slay a dragon
that was destroying a castle and an army and pretty much anything else it took a fancy to.  My point is, as a mage, I’d like to train you with some specific skills in mind.  With an eye toward your future role.  Court skills, reading, writing, and etiquette will be on the curriculum . . . but so will swordplay, magic lessons, archery, diplomacy, and a host of other things neither of us can even imagine yet.”

“But we don’t want you to feel as if we are forcing this on you,” Alya reassured her.  “We want to give you the education, and encourage you to learn with that in mind . . . but if you want to go off and be a flute maker or a fisherman or something, then—”

“Oh, I
want
to become a mage!” she agreed, smiling.  “I want nothing more!  I love doing magic,” she said, sighing as she watched her bird on Master Olmeg’s arm.  “It’s hard, but it’s . . . it’s what I was meant to do,” she said, confidently.

“You won’t  just be an apprentice, like Tyndal and Rondal, you’re a High Mage, too.  Perhaps the littlest High Mage, but . . . well, we have to take especial care with you, Lenodara,” I said, a flash of memory of another young person with a witchstone springing to mind unbidden.

“Urik,” Alya said, realizing my concern.  She understood.  “Back in Boval Castle, during the height of the siege, a young apprentice named Urik, who was your age, used his witchstone to kill a fellow apprentice and damn near wrecked the entire castle.  If it hadn’t been for Tyndal and Minalan . . .”

“Urik did not survive the destruction of his stone,” I said, sadly.  “But he was not evil.  Just the youngest, the most powerless, and the most poorly used.  When you learn how to use the power of irionite, it becomes . . . intoxicating.  There are dangers to its use that even I am not aware of,” I admitted.

Dara seemed to take the lesson to heart, and the rest of the way she walked and buried her nose in her puppy’s fur.

I let Alya show her to her rooms, when we got back to the castle, long after midnight.  I knew she would need a few days to settle in, before she was ready to start lessons in earnest, and I was actually glad she needed the time – I had the twin riches of a baby and a puppy to play with.  Minalyan was delighted, in the way only a baby can be enchanted by a spirited pup.

My new hound I named Midnight, because that seemed to be the time he wanted to play the most, and he was a black dog, so it fit.  I admit, I was almost as taken with the little pup as my son.  I suppose I was still mourning the loss of my horse at Castle Cambrian, but as much as I had been fond of Traveler, Midnight was more fun to play with.

Dara named her little cur Shadow, and the two puppies promptly turned the castle upside down.  I summoned Zagor the next day, ostensibly to discuss some business about the wardings on Boval Hall, and had Alya present the third puppy to him.  The old hedgemage was touched.

“What a beautiful dog!” he beamed, as the rascal tugged aggressively at his tunic hem.  “I have so missed my Blue,” he said, referring to his old dog in Boval.  “I’ve always kept a few dogs,” he explained, unnecessarily, “they are such a help and a comfort.  This was a noble gift, Minalan, even better than my new home!”  I smiled contentedly, and mentally increased the debt I owed to the Westwoodmen. 

Dara had an exciting first few days settling in, and as I was busy with Order business, that didn’t leave me a lot of time to begin her instruction.  It was nearly a week, in truth, before I had a day free enough to bring her back up to my lab and begin her training.

She was no stranger to the place – she had practiced here with the Thoughtful Knife for hours, before the Battle of Dragonfall.  But we had been working toward a very specific purpose then.  Now it was time to ground her in the most basic elements of our craft.

It would be an interesting academic exercise, Pentandra had suggested, because Dara would be trained as a High Mage from the start, instead of learning her craft before being given a stone.  It would be intriguing to see how she fared, particularly in light of living in a snowstone castle.  I promised to keep studious notes, and then made a mental note to have Dara do the actual note-taking as an exercise in writing and journaling, two essential skills of the Imperially-trained adept.

While she started out hesitantly, her confidence grew with success at those first few lessons, justifying every hope I’d had in Dara.  Her ability to concentrate and focus without distraction was superior to either of my other apprentices, and she channeled power as well as they.  We took a break after the first few hours, and I sent my valet for food and drink while I insisted we just . . . talk.

That’s unusual in an apprentice-master relationship, but I wanted to get to know this girl who may someday be the key to Sevendor’s safety.   I began with her relationship to her falcon.

“So, tell me about Frightful,” I said, as I poured a mug of weak ale for each of us, and tore a loaf of bread in two and handed her one.  “How did you come by such a magnificent bird?”

She swallowed nervously.  “I saw his dame circling last autumn, Magelord, and tracked her back to her eyrie,” she explained.  “I went out before the dawn and scaled the cliff to get him,” she said, proudly.  “I nearly died,” she added.  “Papa was vexed with me.”

I suddenly realized that I would have a boy at least as spirited in just a dozen short years.  I tried desperately not to think about him teetering on the edge of a cliff seeking a fledgling.  “That is uncommonly brave of you, Dara.  But what drove you to do so?”

“I . . . I heard Frightful,” she said, hesitantly.  “In my . . . my head,” she confessed.

“You heard the bird?” I asked, surprised.

“I believe so, Master,” she agreed.  “It called to me.  I can hear many of them.  Not that they have much to say, but I’ve hearing them for a while now.”

“That’s . . . that’s fascinating,” I agreed, not sure what to do with the information.  I just didn’t know enough about Brown Magic to know if that was normal or not.  “And training the bird?”

“Well, once I got over the whupping I took,” she grinned, “my uncle helped me train him.  Just little hops at first, to get him attracted to the lure, but then he flew last year.  And came back,” she added, proudly.  I could imagine how embarrassing it would be for a hawkmaster if their falcon didn’t come back the first time they flew them.

“Impressive,” I said, truthfully.  “Did you plan on selling the bird?”  Hawking was an expensive sport, in part because of the long hours of training involved and the difficulty of securing a fledgling.  If Dara had taken her bird to a market town, she could have gotten a fair amount of coin for Frightful.  Hooded Silver Raptors are, from what I understand, highly prized as hunters.

But Dara looked scandalized.  “Sell Frightful?  Never!” she said.  “I bled too much for that bird.  And he won me my stone,” she reminded me.  “Besides, he’s my best friend.  Well, he and the new puppy,” she grinned.

I smiled back.  I could appreciate the value of a new puppy.

“Well, Dara, it looks like Westwood Hall has more than one secret on the other side of the chasm. 

“But let’s get started.  One of the first things a mage needs to be able to do . . .”

“The Road To Sevendor”

O!  The wizards weep and witches leap

On the Road To Sevendor!

The adepts smile, the footwizards beguile,

On the Road To Sevendor!

Gleaming castle, enchanted mountain

Skyward spires, dancing fountains

More magi than a man can count on

The Road To Sevendor!

Lesana pulled her thin mantle up to her neck against the chill autumn west wind that never seemed to stop blowing, as if it meant to blow right through her.  She had been walking all day, and though night was close at hand she saw no end to her journey in sight.  For ninety leagues she had walked, but she would walk ninety more if need be, if it brought her nearer to the mysterious land of Sevendor.

They called her a witch, in her home village, and while that title had merit for those who could legally sell their powers, in Lesana’s case her magic was erratic, irregular and . . . strange.  She was not trainable, or so the court mage at Eserine had told her.  He then referred her to the Censorate, and cautioned her against too much hope from the checker-cloaked warmagi, and then he sent her away.  Quickly.

Lesana had decided against visiting the Censorate’s nearest stronghold, in distant Riklan, because she did not see the sense in traveling all that distance to meet with people she knew did not have the sense to appreciate what her special abilities could do.  The fact that their most likely response would be to poison her mind until she could do no more magic did little to dissuade her.  No, if Lesana was going to travel to anywhere, it would be to the land she’d heard the bargeman speak of. 

With her parents dead and her brother married to a stern woman who did not like her, Lesana saw little point in staying in her home village.  The people there were suspicious of her, always suspecting her of some mischief or devilry regardless of whether or not she was actually involved.   Indeed, she had rarely indulged in any of the social crimes the villagers had accused her of.

Twice she had been thrown in the stocks for the night after being accuse of various petty crimes.  Once for theft (she’d been accused of stealing fruit from the temple orchard) and once for witchcraft, when Goody Clera, who’d hired her as nursemaid for her ailing mother, had confessed an affair with a cotter she later swore was an utter lie to her husband, Goodman Mear. 

Both nights had been nightmarish exercises in punishment.  As young as she was, and without a husband or father to protect her, the village youths had seized the occasion. 

They had put a flour bag over her head and tormented her body in vile ways, secure in the knowledge that no one, not even her shamed brother, would seek retribution.  They had used her shamefully until the dawn broke and the Reve had freed her.   She had asked him, the moment the stocks were free, if he had joined in her torture.  He told her that he had, that he’d enjoyed it, and that he could not wait until the next time some jealous or superstitious goodwife put her there again, so that he could take even greater liberties.

Lesana had left that very day, taking a blanket, a water skin, and a knife. She begged her brother for some help to speed her on her journey, but his shrewish wife had let him part with only three silver pennies and a small handful of copper and iron bits.  Almost all of that was gone, now, but she was ninety leagues closer to Sevendor . . . and the hope of salvation.

Lesana was one of that oft-miserable breed, known to the wise as a magical sport.  She had a measure of
rajira
, the Talent to do magic with which the gods had variously gifted or cursed humanity, but not sufficient store to be able to channel the power to her will.  Witch she might be, but not the productive kind that often lived beyond the village hedge or off the beaten path, dispensing useful remedies and charms. 

Instead, her Talent had sought a natural expression in her untrained mind and body.  To her misfortune, the gods had decided that Lesana would be cursed.  For when she was in someone’s presence, that person could not lie.  If they spoke, they spoke truthfully, whether they had designs to evade the truth or not. 

It had been a horrible, damnable curse to her.  Since her Talent had begun to manifest when she was thirteen, she had lived a miserable existence.  Her mother had told her that she did not really love her as much as her brother, for she was pale and sickly, and unlikely to wed and bear her grandchildren, nor was she skilled enough at anything to hope for more than labor.

Her father’s spontaneous confessions, a year later, had been even more awful.  To their mutual horror, he revealed things about his thoughts for her that were cursed by the gods.  Two days later she had returned from the market to find him hung in the barn by a noose of his own making.

Her brother alone seemed to be able to navigate the treacherous waters around her, his laconic nature sparing him the worst of her curse.  He had learned in childhood that you cannot be forced to speak the truth if you do not speak.  When he spoke it was in very short, matter-of-fact sentences, always mindful of her wild power.

But everyone else . . . they found themselves confessing their deepest, darkest secrets to her, secrets she never wanted to bear.  Rarely did they even realize that they were doing it until the words had escaped their lips. 

She had heard all manner of horror stories from the people of her village.  Bastards abandoned to temple orphanages, or unwanted babies thrown in wells or left for the wolves in the wilderness, murders for gain or revenge, and convenient accidents they had kept to themselves.  Secret affairs and longings of the heart, the hidden obsessions that drive the souls of all folk, sometimes including the worst sorts of perversions were told to her unbidden.  Revelations of her neighbors’ vilest thoughts and their most unrealistic hopes were her daily fare.  Clandestine truths long held dear were blurted in the blink of an eye.  And once uttered, they could not be un-heard.  Lesana had born witness to thousands of confessions.

At first she had merely received an unjust reputation as a gossip, and until she realized the nature of her curse she had blamed herself for the discord around her.  After she had understood her curse, she had hidden it as well as she could.  Fear of exposure among her confessors had led to fade into silence to combat the rumors.  She rarely spoke, when she could help it, and soon learned to avoid certain people especially.  She could hide in a group, at need, until they fell to bickering when one ugly truth after another was lobbed at closest friend and dearest family alike.  

Eventually, folk began to realize she was somehow connected with the dissention, even if they could not prove it.  Goody Clera had tried as much at the hallmoot where she was accused, but for once her wild talent worked for her.  In front of the jury and the reve himself, Goody Clera had confessed how she had lied about the affair, affirmed that it had pleased her greatly, insisted she loved her husband but loathed his shortcomings, and then confessed to plotting against Lesana, hoping to condemn her to banishment or worse to cover her embarrassment.

As the reve could not very well reject the plaintiff’s own account of events, he ruled that he found the entire matter stupid, a mere course of hysteria, but suggested that another night in the stocks for Lesana would do everyone in the village well.  Then he had quickly adjourned.  There was no doubt in her mind what a further night in the stocks would entail for her, and she had found a way to avoid it by asking her jailor just what would convince him to allow her to go free, and then performing the deed.  He had looked the other way while she had collected her scant belongings into a sack and took to the road.

Since then, Lesana had kept moving, staying on the road headed west, walking mostly alone and seeking the brief acquaintance of strangers only when she was forced to by hunger or circumstance.  Then she stayed with them until her wild gift turned them against her.  Her gift made all contact with other people problematic, but even with the prospect of (freely-admitted) assault so dreadfully near, she still preferred the company of men over that of women.  The women lashed out fiercely when their secrets were spilled against their will, blaming her – the men, no matter how base and vile, usually fled her company after a brief, if intimate, acquaintance.  As unpleasant as some of the experiences were, few men felt compelled to stay with a woman to whom they had revealed their darkest secrets. 

Occasionally – very occasionally – she had met someone who was so forthright and truthful that they did not fear her company, or even notice the effect of her gift.  But she wisely left them for their own benefit.  Few honest folk could stand to hear the naked truth their neighbors harbored about them for long.  Once she had traveled for six days with a mute woman, the longest acquaintance she’d enjoyed in months, but one morning the woman was mysteriously gone. 

Lesana did what she could for money and food.  She was young and sturdy and knew how to work, though she lacked a clear trade.  Again her gift helped, upon occasion.  If questioned carefully, she could persuade people to tell her where there was work to be had, and for what wages, and whether or not the master was honest or cruel. 

Other times, when she was desperate and hungry and had no other choice, she had used her gift to learn just what a man would pay for her to do for him at night.  She was not a particularly attractive girl, but she was familiar enough with Ishi’s rites to accomplish what was needed for the small price involved. 

She had been cautious, avoiding those who admitted harboring ill feeling toward her, or who intended upon cheating her, but she had done what she had to do to survive.  When one is cursed, she had often thought to herself, one does what one must, for one is damned regardless.

But since she had heard about the magical land of Sevendor, and the great power of the Spellmonger, she had begun wandering with a purpose.

One day in some crossroads encampment she had heard a man singing about a magical vale in the Riverlands of Castal, where a powerful wizard ruled a magical domain, and how all the magi of the world were traveling there.  Lesana had been intrigued, and had first thought it but a fiction.  But when she had questioned the man, he had explained that he had heard the song from a jongleur, who had been in Castal that summer and had witnessed some strange events.  The land was called Sevendor, he knew, and he agreed to teach her the song for a kiss or two.

That was twenty leagues east of here, two months ago.  Now the weather had turned cold, and the rumors and legends about the mysterious Spellmonger had grown.  He had fought the Goblin King.  He slain one duke and made another the king.  He had raised a peasant rebellion.  He had bedded a fair lady of the Tree Folk.  He had married a peasant wench.  He had turned a mountain to ice and stopped rivers from flowing.  He had turned a rival knight into a chicken.  He had defeated a dozen strong knights in a duel on his doorstep, and sent them away with his strange sigil on their faces. 

And most recently, she had heard tale of how he had conjured an army and slain a dragon.

It was all far-fetched, she knew, and expecting any of it to be true was foolish.  But Lesana was a refugee from her own uncontrollable power, and she had no better place to go.  Every whisper she heard of Sevendor encouraged her feet to move one more mile, one more hour, one more step.  Every time she sang the song – to the tune of ‘the Road to Barrowbell’ – her heart was filled with hope.  Foolish or not, she found it better to be walking toward something than away from something.

The wind was chill and promised a cold night, but she sang the song and took another step . . . and soon saw the glint of a fire near the side of the road. 

Other travelers, she saw, a few road-weary folk stopping to camp for the night.  She hesitated, hovering around the edge of their firelight, just watching for a while.  She had learned all too painfully the consequences of making too quick an acquaintance.

But this group offered the prospect of warmth and company, she soon saw – at least until her curse affected them.  She saw only half a dozen gathered around the fire.  Among them was a man in a long brown robe, his hood thrown back, a good thick cloak of brown wool around him.  A priest, and by the jug at his side and the sign around his neck, a priest of Herus, the god of travelers.  Better fortune she could not have asked for.

The priests of Herus were always on the move, their order dedicated to keeping the roads, bridges, and by-ways of the Duchy in repair and safe.  The hostel-temples of Herus were open to all, regardless of station, and had saved man a traveler from the vagaries of the road.  They would tend you if you fell sick on the journey, feed you if they were able, and their sacred jugs were always full – with water, if nothing stronger.  Lesana had taken refuge in their roadside huts as often as she could. Their symbol, the eight-spoked wheel, was a sign of sanctuary, and no sane man profaned their shrines with violence or theft, lest Herus let the road punish him accordingly. 

This priest was an older man, of an age where most of his order would have settled, albeit temporarily, as a keeper of a hostel shrine or temple lodge.  His boots were well-worn and travel stained, but he had a wide, kindly smile and a deep, friendly voice.  He noticed her before the others.

“Come, child of the road, and join us by Herus’ hearth!” he called to her.  She smiled in the shadows and stepped forward into the light.  “Ah!  A maiden on the road after dark – my dear, are you in distress?” he asked, concerned.  The others turned to peer into the darkness after her.  “I am Roadbrother Gaffan, child, come hither and warm yourself without fear.”