High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (10 page)

And the music . . . not only were there Alka Alon singing a hauntingly beautiful nameless tune, but deep, rich sounds rang out from below with every gust of breeze.  Not voices but . . . something else.  Wind harps.  I’d heard of them – read of them, actually, in the epics of the Tree Folk.  Giant structures of wood and glass and steel, enchanted to respond to the mood and temper of every gentle breeze.  I gazed at them through magesight.  Each erupted in a fountain of brightly colored magic.

“Oh . . .
my
. . .” Pentandra finally managed to say.  Dara held both hands over her mouth.  Master Guri was staring, wide-eyed, and shaking his big shaggy head in disbelief.

“We are in luck,” Lady Varen said, softly.  “The sun has just risen.  We will be able to hear the day’s lauds as we walk.” 

“Lauds?” asked Dara, swallowing.  “Like in a temple?”

“Something like that,” agreed Lady Varen, after considering.

It was nothing like that.

As the first rays of the sun smote the tallest peaks on the northern side of the valley, the song began.  Every voice, every Alka Alon – and there had to be thousands – stopped what they were doing and sang the lauds.  Like a whisper in a dream, it was almost imperceptible, at first.  One voice answered another, then duos and trios began contending for prominence, and then whole choruses erupted around us, echoing against the great cliffs and rolling across the water like fine mist.

Every song a spell, every spell a song.
  That was the lore about the magic of the Alka Alon.  The magical effects of the hymn were intense.  Powerful tensions were released in the magosphere around us.  I could feel my irionite sphere vibrate.  From within the song came a powerful feeling of refreshment and renewal, the promise of dawn and new beginnings. 

It was majestic, as well as magical.  I had a feeling that sort of thing happened here all the time.

I was still marveling over the melodious exuberance when some tiny part of my brain caught on to something. 

It was as we were passing a small group of Tree Folk, who were tending or cleaning or worshipping a small grove of nearly white-leaved trees, when I watched them sing their part of the lauds before instantly returning to work.  The smoothness of the transition was preternatural.  I had noticed a similar thing with how the Karshak Alon worked together.  With them I had suspected it was a matter of discipline, but now I was not so sure. 

It was a matter of magical coordination, I realized.  I’d witnessed a similar effect among the Karshak Alon, during the construction of Lesgaethael, and had written it off as a talent or discipline inherent to the miners and masons.  Now I was not so sure, as I watched the Alka Alon at work.

There was no arguing or discussion before beginning work, there was no encouragement or exhortation, each Alkan
simply knew
what his or her part was and when to do it.  It was the exact same effect as the Karshak had demonstrated when they were building something.  I’d watched them toss around planks and blocks, tools and sacks with not just impressive dexterity, but with absolute perfect coordination.  The Alka Alon who were tending the grove moved with similar alacrity.

I think I must have halted there on the walkway, because Dara almost ran into me.  I resumed walking at once, and contacted Pentandra mind-to-mind.

Penny, ever notice how the Karshak and the Alka work together almost flawlessly?  Without any of the traditional human shouting and arguing?

I’d never watched the Karshak
, she admitted,
but now that you mention it, the Alka Alon seem  . . . really good at digging and planting and pruning.  Like it’s all been pre-choreographed.

Let’s look into that,
I proposed. 
Quietly, of course.  But that’s . . . interesting.

Ithalia and Varen led us to a snug hostel near the tower that seemed to be fashioned with taller visitors in mind, and presented each of us with a tidy little bedroom chamber off of a common hall.  The accommodations were simple, elegant, and gorgeous, like everything else in that incredible place.  We took a few moments to refresh ourselves before Ithalia and Varen patiently escorted us to a nearby hall.   A few dozen Alka Alon mingled and served themselves fruits and drink from a low table at the center of the hall while they waited for their opportunity to speak at counsel.

“This is the Hall of the Wise.  We can relax here and await our summons,” Ithalia said, a little anxiously.  “The council meets in a chamber across the corridor. 

“I pictured more guards and such,” I mused as I consigned myself to waiting.  “With that many important Alka Alon leaders in one place . . .”

“This is a safe place, Magelord,” Ithalia objected.  “And one could argue that the Alka Alon . . . lords within are a far more potent force than any guards who could be stationed outside.” 

I couldn’t argue with that.  The Alka Alon tended to promote their most powerful spellsingers to their most powerful positions of secular authority, from what I understood.  Being able to master songspells was essential to governing, it was felt, or something like that.  But I had never heard of an Alka Alon leader – prince, lord, demi-god, or however you wanted to translate their native terms – who wasn’t also extremely powerful, personally.  The one time I had seen an Alka Alon lord in battle, I lacked even the context to tell how good he was.  But he had stared down Shereul’s lifeless eyes and didn’t flinch, so that said something.

“I still would have posted guards,” grunted Master Guri, quietly.  “Classes up the place.  I feel like I’m waiting to see a physicker, not a raer.”

“Why do I have to carry all of the heavy stuff?” complained Dara in a similar whisper, with a lot more whine.

“You’re the apprentice,” I reminded her.  “That’s your job.”  She shifted the bag uncomfortably from one shoulder to another.  I figured I might as well give her instruction.  “When I summon you, hand the parcel to Master Guri,” I ordered, catching her eye to make sure she understood.

“You brought them, then?” Master Guri smiled, knowingly.

“Just a sample,” I said conspiratorially.  “Five of the little ones.”

“Ah,
that
will get them astir!” he grinned.  “I wouldn’t even mention the big ones, yet.”

“To what do you refer, Magelord?” asked Lady Varen.

“Just a small token of our esteem,” I promised.  She looked at me curiously, but did not ask any further questions.  Ithalia just looked at me nervously.

Soon enough, I was called in.  I’ll say this for the Alka Alon: they didn’t keep me waiting nearly as long the Duke of Castal had, the first time I met Rard.  They got essentially the same story he had, that first time I met with him a few years ago in Wilderhall.

I was escorted into the room to face five singular Alka Alon, seated on cushions in a circle around an empty space.  The one open space was clearly meant for me.  Perhaps it was felt by someone insightful that being in a circle made us all feel more equal, but that wasn’t how I was feeling.   I’ve rarely been under that kind of careful scrutiny before. 

Five small pairs of sharp, dark, piercing little eyes looked at me intently.  It was disconcerting.  One would have thought I was addressing a gang of children, except for those alien eyes.  They peered at me and I knew that they had seen ancient things in ages past, and I was but a mere ephemeral gnat in their minds.  If anyone was the child in that room, it was me, and I knew it.  They were humoring me, allowing me this moment to inform them the way you would patiently allow a child to recount a tale to learn something of value.  I was not fearful, I was merely inadequate.  Not even my witchsphere was impressive to these sages.

One of them, a male with a face longer than the others and a slightly shaggier mane, stood.  He bore a short, plain staff in his hand.

“We bid you welcome to our council, Master Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor,” he said.  I suppose the tone was friendly enough, but the voice was decidedly brassy, like a longhorn, which was also disconcerting.  “I am Raer Haruthel, Master of Carneduin,” he said with a bow, “and I am the leader of this council, today.  As well as your host.  Please let me know if there is anything that you require.  Among you are Lords Aeratas, Letharan and the Ladies Micrethiel and Ladas.  We represent the interests of the Alka Alon in this realm.” Each of them nodded when their name was called.  None of them moved otherwise. 

Deep breath.  Time to turn on the charm.

“I am honored to be among such wise and powerful lords today,” I said, bowing slowly from the waist to the group.  “I hope my testimony will help bring light to a good many things.  How may I be of assistance to this worthy council?”

“It would be helpful if you told us how you first came across irionite, Master Minalan,” Haruthel invited, taking his seat.  “Tell us simply, in your own words.”

So I did.  It took a while.

I told them how I had retired from a life as a mercenary warmagi to become a simple village spellmonger in the furthest reaches of the Five Duchies, back among the vales of the Minden range.  I explained how after six months of blissfully boring practice as such, I was awoken one night and forced to defend my village against the vanguard of the goblin invasion; how I had dueled a gurvani shaman and procured a shard of precious irionite.  How the powerful substance had intrigued me enough to seek out the Aronin of Angriel, a nearby Tree Folk refuge.  How I had subsequently hired a small army in the mistaken belief that we could defend the castle against the invasion, and how I had summoned yet more warmagi to aid us when it became clear we couldn’t. 

How I had armed each of them with captured irionite as we fought a losing battle against the besieging goblin legions; how we had discovered the treachery of Sire Koucey’s ancestors and the existence of a sacred molopor under the castle; how Gurkarl, a prisoner of war, became the first gurvan to see the sacred cavern; how I had used the molopor and the irionite to rescue the Bovali peasants, and how I was rescued in turn from the lifeless intelligence behind the goblins’ invasion by the Aronin of Angriel’s dying act. 

How I had convinced the Dukes of Castal and Alshar to combine their forces under my command and we stopped a massive gurvani invasion campaign at Timberwatch. How we then lost most of northern Gilmora to a second advance into the heart of the Duchies, where Duke Rard had used the crises as pretext to make himself King Rard.  And how we – with Alka Alon assistance – faced down a goblin army and a dragon at Cambrian Castle, and how we defeated them both.

I wasn’t going to talk about snowstone, yet.  That was my carrot.  I wanted them to appreciate the stick.  I hadn’t just found a witchstone on the ground, I had been
fighting a war
with them. 

Of course, they had questions of their own.

“Master Minalan,” the steely-voiced Alkan Lord Letharan said, his eyes boring holes in my soul.  “You claim you did nothing to stir the gurvani of the Mindens—”

“Not unless they found curing warts and finding lost cows offensive.  I was a simple spellmonger in the hamlet of Minden’s Hall, my lords.  We were minding our own business when the attacks came.  And when they did, they came with irionite.”

“Which you seemed to have no trouble acquiring,” Lord Aeratas observed, coolly.  Once you got over the novelty of the higher-pitched voices, their individual personalities started to come through.  Lord Aeratas clearly had a low opinion of humanity.

“Well, the gurvani may have expected a spellmonger, but they got a retired warmagi.  I improvised, and I got lucky, that first time.  After that I consulted the Aronin of Angriel,” I reminded him.  “He is the one who cleansed my original stone.”

“An oversight, if my opinion was to be known,” Aeratas, the lord of the lake city Anthatiel said.  “Such tools in the hands of humani—”

“The gurvani have apparently learned the secret of its creation,” Lady Micrethiel observed.  “It is not as if they raided your treasuries for it.  The gurvani have no better hope of controlling such forces than the humani, but they invited such disaster to themselves.”

“I cannot say which is the worse perversion,” the lord of Anthatiel said, disgustedly.  “The gurvani making a
kulnuara
or this mage!”

“The worse perversion,” I interrupted, “is the undead gurvani shaman whose head lies in the heart of an entire sphere of irionite . . . and at the heart of a dark and malignant empire that imperils us all.”

“We are aware of the danger the Abomination poses,” said Lord Letharan, dryly.  “But a few mountain vales and foothill farms hardly constitutes an empire.  The gurvani have merely made a kingdom in mockery of their human foes.” He sounded almost proud about that.  “Let them battle it out until they tire of slaying each other.”

“This is no mere uprising,” I corrected.  “They aren’t fighting with little iron maces, my lords.  You don’t arm a thousand shamans with irionite and raise the dead to lead them, successfully attack and control a molopar and conjure up some dragons to go to war over domains like
gentlemen.
  Shereul means to slay us all, humani and Alon alike.  He has said as much.”

“He has raised an army, such as it is,” admitted Letharan.  “And his priests are surprisingly effective, given their lack of skill with song.  But he has taken a sparsely peopled province, no more.  He has scattered a few modest refuges.  The loss of Angriel was dear, and we yet seek for the lost heir of that line, Ameras, but even that is of small concern.”