Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (20 page)

Rondal glanced at Tyndal, who nodded.  “He can see the internal enneagram of just about anything with self-awareness.  It’s a sportish Talent, but I think he bears a full measure, and could become a great mage, one day.”

“What do you mean, he can see internal enneagrams?” Atopol asked, confused.  “Sorry, but shadowmagic doesn’t use a lot of thaumaturgy.”

“Every self-aware entity can be perceived as an enneagram, with the right knowledge,” Rondal explained, thoughtfully.  “Simple, crude ones can even be constructed through the use of high-level thaumaturgic runes and a whole lot of power . . . but without some force self-directing it, like a living consciousness, the artificial ones soon degrade.

“But what makes Ruderal unique, as far as we can tell, is instead of requiring hours of work and an intent knowledge of thaumaturgy and enneagramatic magic just to perceive them, he can just . . .
look.
”

“He can look . . . at my
enneagram?
” Atopol asked, troubled.

“Not only look, but he’s managed enough experience to develop some sophistication with his perceptions.  He can tell when you are being disingenuous or insincere, which is usually a precursor to lying.  So don’t fib to him unless you want him to know about it.”

“What’s more,” Tyndal continued, filling his own pipe, “with that kind of perception, doing advanced enchantment would be a snap.  That has some very impressive potential.”

“Enchantment?” Atopol asked, dismissively.  “No one does enchantment anymore.”

“The High Magi of Castalshar do,” assured Rondal.  “You remember the wand that dismembered the warehouse?  That was a simple one.  With irionite, the only limit is our powers of imagination.”

“And an awful lot of research,” added Tyndal, discouraged.  He was not fond of enchantment, beyond warmagic.

“Some of the things we’re doing in Sevendor weren’t even done in the Magocracy. The entire Magic Fair this year was devoted to Enchantment.  Even that old duffer Dunselen had some interesting things to say,” he admitted.

“Enchantment?  Irionite?  A Magic Fair?  And here we are hiding in the shadows from three old men,” Atopol said, sadly, as he took the flask from Tyndal.  “When news of the Duke and Duchess’ deaths arrived in the south, they came with a wave of refugees.  Among them were three senior members of the Order, who imposed on the Count of Rhemes to support the Bans and reject the proposed Kingdom.  The Three Censors still punish any deviation from the Bans harshly.  Their foul checkered cloaks patrol every barony in the land.  In fact, they’ve had a regular purge of even common spellmongers and adepts.”

“They’re trying to keep you all afraid,” Tyndal observed.  “The fact is, this is about the last place in the Five Duchies that the black and white checkered cloaks hold sway.  In Castalshar, they’re banished.  In Merwyn and Vore, they’ve transformed into the official magical order of the duchies, The Knights of Nablus, and thus wear red and white checks.  Far more stylish.”

“In Alshar, they reign supreme,” Atopol said, darkly.  “They sit in their tower and send their brutal thugs out to keep the magi cowed.  Particularly the old Coastlord families.  The council backs their ugly assaults, as they keep the possibility of Castali influences away from Alshar.”

“Not all of Alshar,” Tyndal reminded.  “Duke Anguin sits in Vorone, now.  The Wilderlands are free of the Three Censors.  Indeed, it is where some of the mightiest High Magi now dwell.”

Atopol shook his head while his sister, still garbed as a noviate, quietly entered the hall.  “It’s as if the rest of the world is passing us by.”

“If you saw what was left of the Wilderlands, you might reconsider,” Tyndal said.  “It has been
ravaged
.  Most of the Wilderlords have perished in battle or defending the last few strongholds.  The northwest is under the Shadow, with only Tudry standing against it.  Vorone is a vast refugee camp, as the gurvani drove the yeomen of the Wilderlands from their homes.  It’s a mess,” he said, discouraged.

“But that’s where Anguin went!”

“That’s the only bit of Alshar he could claim within reach,” Rondal pointed out.  “And it’s a ducal capital, which supports his claim.  He couldn’t very well--
humpf!
” he said, as the Kitten of Night fell into his lap unexpectedly.

“It is so enticing when I hear you discuss the great and powerful, Sir Rondal,” she purred, nuzzling his neck.  The sudden attention made Rondal freeze, his hair standing on end.  Gatina was light, warm, soft, and smelled heavenly, despite her drab garb.  Gone were the teeth, hair and freckles and the dull expression of an unfortunate-looking noviate nun.  Rondal became acutely aware of just how feminine the girl was.

“Sweet
Darkness
, Gat,
leave the man alone!
” Atopol commanded.

“Oh, leave her be,” Tyndal urged.  “Unfortunately, my lady, Sir Rondal and the other bachelor knights of our order have taken an oath not to marry until the Brotherhood is utterly defeated and the Duke restored to every lost inch of his realm,” he said, apologetically.

That captured the lithe girl’s attention abruptly. 
“Really?”
she asked, her cat-like violet eyes wide.

“Alas, yes,” Tyndal said, sympathetically.  “Sire Cei, the head of our order, suggested the pledge as proof of our commitment.  Even poor Sir Festaran is denied his beloved,” he said, with a deep sigh.  “It is the sacrifice we chose to make to ensure our success.  We can do no less, as knights magi.”

“That is so . . . so . . .
honorable!
” Gatina said, looking at Rondal with new respect.  “You would put aside your duty to sire heirs until you see your duty done?  A hundred youths I’ve seen who would trade the simplest quest for an estate, a pension, and a pretty wife. 
None
have I met who would eschew the comforts of nobility and filial duty to pursue such a magnificently immense task!  Do you realize how very
attractive
that is?”

“Perhaps you misunderstood, my lady,” Rondal said, uncomfortably.  “I am
unable to wed.
  Therefore, we have little hope for a future as man and wife.”  He braced himself for the tempest he expected to ensue . . . but instead he found his mouth preoccupied with Gatina’s full, warm, wet lips.

“You merely propose a worthy, monumental goal as a precondition, my love,” she said, dreamily, when she finally broke the unexpected - but not entirely unwelcome, he realized - kiss.  “If all I have to do is assist you with destroying the Brotherhood of the Rat and restoring Anguin to the throne at Falas, then my path is clear: only by demonstrating my own commitment will I prove myself worthy of yours,” she decided.

“Worthy . . . of
what?
” Rondal asked, uncomfortably aware he had a lap full of eager young woman. 

“Of
you
, Sir Rondal!” she declared.  “I could never ask you to consider a bride who had not at least equaled your efforts, if not your achievements, now could I?”

“Well, no,” Rondal said, confused by her words and even more by the really large, incredibly soulful eyes that were now mere inches away from his.

“Then it is settled,” she sighed, happily, snuggling into his arms.  “We will speak no more of marriage until we stand before Anguin on his throne in Falas!”

Aren’t you glad I fixed that for you?
Tyndal asked, hesitantly, as he watched his friend squirm as Gatina curled up in his lap like a happy kitten.

Yes,
Rondal replied, stiffly. 
I really dodged the arrow that time.

Chapter Nine

Palomar Abbey

When the first Counts of Falas began to order their inland realm and fortify it against the Viscounts along the shore, like the methodical, rational Imperial magi they were, they conducted expeditions and sent out scouts to explore and categorize the coastland shelf.  From the swamps of the east to the great vineyards of the west, the agents of the Counts of Falas brought remarkable reports of the fair land. 

For concealed within the wetlands and hills were several structures of ancient build and human manufacture.  Either abandoned or reclaimed by the coastal tribes, many of these ancient buildings were used as the basis for larger fortifications, for their foundations were profoundly strong and their walls incredibly so, for how thin they were.  Others were used as barns or seen as simple curiosities. 

But some were employed in near-continual use as communal or tribal dwellings, or as the homes of certain sects of mystics and sages.

The Secret History Of Enultramar

They stayed a day at the quaint little village of Ejecta, a most unusual place. 

The mountain upon which the famed abbey stood was unlike any other the two had seen.  Instead of a fairly graceful conic shape, as a mountain should be, the entire thing seemed as if a giant had hurled some massive stone to land here.  The cliff rose above the village for six hundred feet, slightly overhanging the base by goodly amount.

The summit was crowned with the ancient tower, a broad cylinder of stone that rose five stories to a gentle hemisphere cap.  A winding stairwell was cut into the face of the rock of the unusual mountain, and both young knights were eager to make the journey to survey the vale from the vantage point. 

The view was gorgeous, with the great green meadows and groves of the Coastlands spread out before them like a gaily colored tapestry.  Behind them, to the north, the beginning of the Great Vale could be glimpsed, with the fields being prepared for spring planting.

“This is spectacular,” Rondal nodded, as they toured the abbey.  Not only was the view from the tower incredible, but the real treasure proved to be inside: shelf after shelf of books and scrolls dating back hundreds of years, on subjects as diverse as agriculture and astronomy.  There was entire section on magic, although it was secured against casual inspection.

“Come back and browse at your leisure,” Atopol assured.  “Some of the canons of the abbey have been real collectors over the years.  In some cases entire collections were brought from Merwyn and Vore during the Conquest.”

“I didn’t think there were this many books in the world,” Tyndal said, shaking his head in wonder.  “I thought the libraries at Inarion were intimidating!”

“I would love to have a chance to delve into this,” Rondal admitted, incredibly tempted to begin devouring the place at once.  “But we have to get Ruderal to safety.”

“He would be safe here,” Atopol proposed.

“We cannot put you in that kind of risk,” Rondal decided, after considering the matter.  “If the Brotherhood is, truly, tracking us so eagerly, then the last place we would want to lead them is to our new allies.”

“They would never survive the encounter,” Atopol assured, darkly.  “We are not assassins, by trade.  But we are not powerless.  Though the abbey was not designed for defense, it is not undefended.”

“It’s not that,” Rondal dismissed.  “We need to keep our new alliance quiet, for now.  Tyndal and I will return, as soon as we deliver the lad and we are able.  When we do, I would prefer that our allies were not suspect, and continued to work undetected.  We can hardly ensure that if we lead our foes right to your door.”

Atopol sighed.  “There is wisdom in that.  But if not here, where will you go?  The mother is not the adventurous sort,” he said, kindly.  “She may not survive the passage across the mountains.”

“I fear that as well,” Rondal agreed.  “We have an . . . agent in the area,” he said, uncertain of how to phrase the relationship.  “If we can impose on the Nightbrothers to borrow their carriage, overland the journey is not too far, no more than two days east of here.  There is someone we can impose upon for help, there.  Someone who owes us a boon.  We intend to collect, and ensure that she is watched over as diligently as a duchess’ virtue.”