Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (79 page)

“And what would that be?  A hearth and a babe?  A
husband
to keep me in line?” she taunted.

Tyndal shuddered at the thought of any man becoming the groom of this vicious viper.  But her father was standing right there, he reasoned.  No need to be rude.  Especially to a man who had just thoroughly ground him to dust.

“Whatever your heart desires, my lady,” he said, as he took the harness that supported his thigh guards off and piled it up.  “You had power, yet you squandered it in service to our enemy,” he pointed out.

“He was the one
offering
power,” she riposted.  “I had no allegiance to the scrugs.  But it was the easiest way to gain what has been denied us so long.”

“Yet patience would have served you better,” Tyndal observed, slipping off his grieves and then his vambraces – the new dragonhide ones.  “Were you patient, you would be in line for a stone.”

“Patience is not in my nature,” she countered.  The expression on Master Loiko’s face convinced Tyndal that his daughter spoke the truth.  “I took the path open to me, when I was denied at home.”

“You were never
meant
to be a warmage,” Loiko said, warningly.

“By
whom?
” his daughter shot back.  “
Mother
certainly didn’t mind.  She encouraged it.  She said she was every bit as good a warmage as you, and I had potential to be better than you
both!
”

“Your Talent is better suited to less violent spells,” Loiko replied patiently.  He had a tone in his voice that told Tyndal this was a long, familiar argument.  “I sent you to Alar to learn to be an adept, not a mere warmage.”

“I am no spellmonger, Father,” she said with a sneer.

“Then learn enchantment . . . thaumaturgy . . .
alchemy
, for Yrentia’s sake, but try your hand at something that isn’t quite so bloody!”

She snorted.  “Like my father, the mild-mannered spellmonger?”

“I’m a Court Wizard, now,” Loiko challenged, his voice getting more tense.  “So I suppose I’ve retired.”

They went back and forth, ignoring Tyndal after that, and he contented himself with slinking back to the Rat Trap early to prepare for the Enchanter’s Guild fete.  He saw her there, later, in a bright yellow gown, looking absolutely miserable.  He ignored Nothoua at first, enjoying the company of many pretty ladies of the profession.  But eventually something compelled his feet to wander by her.

“Care to dance, my lady?” he asked, half way through the night.

“Have you seen me dance all evening?” she asked with a snort.

“No . . . but considering you look like you ate a couple small children and a puppy on your way over here, your lack of companionship is pretty easy to explain.”

She looked offended.  “So I am not attractive?”

He gave her a professional grade inspection.  “You are fair enough,” he conceded.  “But one half as fair would dance more if she were the
slightest
bit more approachable.”

“And what if I don’t
want
to dance?” she asked, jingling her bracelet mockingly.

“Then you have chosen the
perfect
aspect this evening, my lady . . .” he said, walking away.  She began to say something else, but he was having none of it. 

He had not been lying – she
was
an attractive girl.  Perhaps even pretty, if she were asleep.  And silent.  But the dim hatred in her eyes and the scowl on her lips made her painful to watch, much less speak to.  She was one of the least inviting women he’d ever met.  Carmella, whose emotional distance and detachment was legendary, was friendlier than Nothoua. 

He tried one last time, when Lady Rael the Enchantress announced the last set for the evening.  She resisted . . . but then a look from her father made her grudgingly indulge in a pavane with him.

“I am only doing this for my father,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“So am I,” he said, smirking.

“
What?
” she asked, suspiciously.

“I’m trying to show him that his daughter is not completely unredeemable,” he offered.  “And, in truth, I felt some pity for you.  You
did
make an effort to look attractive tonight, and despite your fierce demeanor.  Even an evil sorceress deserves to have that effort appreciated by a handsome knight.”

“When you see a handsome knight, please ask him to do so,” she said, sourly, as he moved her into position. 

“Smile,” he instructed her, as the minstrels began to play.

“No!” she insisted, clutching his hand.

“Then grimace foully!” he continued, as he spun her into the first set.  A smile flitted across her lips as she turned away, but it was there enough for him to recognize it.

“Why must you torment me?” she asked, frowning, as he bowed to the other lady in the square, and then to her lord.

“Because I’m a bit of an asshole,” he said, cheerfully.  “I have it on highest authority.”

“Does my anguish cause you so much joy?” she asked, bitterly, as she bowed in return.

“No, but you do have a nice smile,” he shrugged.  “And by dancing with you, I’m letting everyone else know that you ate no babies on the way to the party.”  Another smile, when turned away. 
Good,
he smiled to himself.

“Just the puppy,” she conceded. 

“I’m sure the puppy deserved it,” he said, spinning her into the second set, around the backs of the other couple.  “Tell me, why do you hate your father so much?” he asked, when their backs were turned to the other couple.  The question clearly caught Nothoua by surprise.

“Because he left me, after my mother died,” she said, in a low voice he could barely hear above the music.  “Left me with my aunt, in Castal.  And then married a woman I’d never met.”

“Wouldn’t an ironic poem, read in public, have sufficed to embarrass him?” he offered. 

“He is my father,” she insisted, allowing him to turn her around.  “He is Loiko Vaneran, best blade in the craft.  If it doesn’t cut, cast, or explode, he’s not going to notice.”

“I think you have his attention, now,” he said, nodding to the corner where her father was sitting with some of the older wizards in the room.  Loiko didn’t go more than two minutes without picking his daughter out of the crowd by sight. 

“And if I do?”

“What are you planning on doing with it?” Tyndal asked.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, my lady,” he said, leading her in a circle.  “Now that you have your father’s attention, what shall you do with it?”

“Why, show him I’m the best warmage in the world!” she said, as if it were obvious.

“And if he so acknowledges you that?”

“Well, then
he would be a failure!
” she said, bitterly.  “He wouldn’t be the best, anymore!”

“Ah, but he would
not
have failed,” Tyndal replied, sadly.  “If his daughter should surpass him, then he might have been a lesser warmage . . . but a highly successful teacher,” he pointed out.  “And an even
more
successful father,” he added.  “For every father wishes their child to surpass them in their lives, if they can.  It is their highest pride.”

“So . . . you are saying that by being successful at being a warmage, I’m not hurting my father . . . I’m making him
proud?
”

“I am saying that your very complicated relationship with your father might benefit from some candor,” Tyndal shrugged.  “He is not an evil man.  Indeed, he is a noble man.  And he fights like a demon,” he added.

“
You
are still the one who slew the dragon,” she reminded him.  “Not he.”

“If your father hadn’t organized the attack and assigned Rondal and I the task, my idea never would have come to pass.  He’s
good
.  You’re both good.  Does it matter which of you is the better?  You have youth and spirit.  He has age and wisdom.  He will only decline in ability, as he grows old, whereas your finest years are ahead of you.”

“You wish to counsel me, then, Sir Tyndal?” she asked, mockingly, as the music signaled the end of the set.

“If you would accept it.  Lay aside your petulance, and get to know the man.  Let him be your father, now that he is not at service in a demanding post.  Enjoy Sevendor, and learn magic to your heart’s content.  You wish to be the best warmage?  Here, you can learn to be the best
everything
,” he boasted.  “Only your anger bars your indulgence.”

She was quiet for many long moments as he led her back to her seat.  She looked thoughtful, but still angry.  “I will consider your counsel, Sir Tyndal.”

“And I will warn the mothers of Sevendor that their babies are safe,” he said, with a bow.  “Until next time, my lady.”

“You really are an asshole, Sir Tyndal,” she replied, coolly.

Tyndal felt better about the exchange, if for no other reason than he’d been seen dancing with the girl in front of everyone.  He had not been lying – he really did feel sorry for her.  Despite her murderous intentions, she was trying to prove her worth as much as he was.

The next day he had cause to regret the conversation, however, when Nothoua Vaneran won the Spellmonger’s Trial . . . and a witchstone of her own.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Ambush At Pantacas

A week after the Champion’s Feast, Tyndal found himself wading through knee-deep swamp water through the murky darkness, trying to simultaneously scout his surroundings for caiman and other dangers and keep moving fast enough that the mud underfoot did not swallow his boots.  It was a far cry from the elegant decadence of the Champion’s Feast, he thought, sourly.

How much more of this?
he asked Atopol, mind-to-mind.

A quarter mile
, Atopol responded, helpfully.  Tyndal knew he was somewhere ahead, at the vanguard of the expedition, but the shadowmage was employing such stealth in his approach that Tyndal could not detect him even with magesight. 
Then we hit the road, and we’ll have to start being careful.
 

I don’t think I can get more careful,
Tyndal replied, glumly
.  Your father’s intelligence had better be accurate.  These were new boots.

Master Hance does not report on anything he hasn’t verified
, Atopol replied, without being defensive. 
This came in from three different sources.  The goblin meets with his new clients tonight at Pantacas.  He’s invited all of his new allies for the presentation, and has promised more gifts.
 

And he didn’t invite us,
Tyndal reminded him.

Considering there is now a price on your head, you might thank him for the consideration
, Atopol replied. 

That had been a novel feeling, Tyndal reflected, when he had learned that his head, alone, was worth five hundred ounces of gold to the coin-strapped Brotherhood.  On the one hand, having a head worth the price of a prosperous domain was gratifying.  On the other, after what he and Rondal had done to the Brotherhood he would have thought they would have valued it
much
higher.

Pantacas, unfortunately, was an ancient Coastlord keep left over from the Magocracy’s ambitious program of pacifying the rebel tribes and local lords of the eastern marshes by building a number of fortified manor halls around the great lake in the center of the marsh.  Unfortunately, as Atopol had informed them, the program merely provided the rebels with their own fortifications, as they took each of the stout stone fortresses from the Coastlords, until the Count was forced to recognize them as lords in their own right.

Of course, Pantacas was still in the middle of a bloody swamp, so Tyndal didn’t see what there was to fight over in the first place.  The southern region of the County of Caramas was not, in the proper sense, “lands”, to Tyndal’s mind.  Not when most of the “land” squished when you trod upon it.