High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (12 page)

“I understand,” I sighed, as the soup course was laid in front of me.  “I just want this to be productive.  I’m just missing the Chepstan Spring Fair for this, after all.  I do enjoy the clowns.”

“You jest,” she accused, taking a seat at our table.  “While I was not able to attend council with you, I did speak to a few friends.  Perhaps it would interest you in what was being said.”  Ithalia, more than any of the other Alka Alon, had been sympathetic to the human cause, partially because I had helped rescue her and a band of Alka Alon refugees from a goblin attack, and partially because of some native affection for our race.  I had encouraged good relations with her, on that account.  She had been very forthcoming in explaining the intricacies of Alka Alon politics, when she could.

“There is news,” she reported in a hushed whisper.  “Nearly all the refuges in the Wilderlands have been evacuated, now.  Yet thousands were captured by the Abomination and taken into shadow, it is said.  Many are missing: among them, the daughter of the Aronin of Angriel, Ameras.  It is feared she is captured, though it is also rumored she is lost or in hiding. “

“She was evacuating Angriel, the last time I saw her,” I told her.

“That is known,” Ithalia said, worriedly.  “But disappeared from her folk soon after, claiming an errand.  She has not been seen since.  Her loss would be grievous to many.”

“Is she that important?” asked Pentandra, curious.

“She represents one of three of the last lines of the old Avalanti dynasties,” Ithalia confirmed.  “The woodland folk, you might say.  That means more than you might think.  She is heir to much in our realm, and she has significant personal admiration among the younger folk.  Losing Ameras would be devastating, to some.  Losing her to shadow would be catastrophic.  The council fears the worst,” she added, apologetically.

“That’s helpful,” I nodded, suddenly worried about the beautiful Alka maiden who I’d met on the eve of her land’s destruction.  “Any other news?”

“Snowstone,” she said, simply.  “It has enchanted the minds of my folk, Master Minalan.  They delight in it in a way they have rarely done, and sing new songs of its beauty.  They are mystified by its origin, but they take great pleasure in its mysteries.”

“Aye, its great stuff,” Guri dismissed, though he had been foremost in singing its praises – literally.  “But what’s it
worth?”

“It has great value,” agreed Ithalia.  “I am deemed fortunate to be so near it on such a regular basis.  Many have asked to make pilgrimage to the mountain.”

I sighed.  This was getting frustrating.  “I won’t turn away the tourist traffic, but I’m not here to arrange excursions while the kingdom burns.”

“I know, Master Minalan,” she agreed, gravely.  “There are several who would happily lend their aid directly, but fear doing so less they invite the displeasure of the council in acting before it has made a decision.  It does not help that those who are so enthusiastic propose lending aid in controversial ways.”

“Fighting alongside of humans is controversial?”

“Teaching Alka Alon magic to humans,” she corrected.  “And employing prescribed songspells.  Transgenic enchantments, in particular.  Those who favor the humani also tend to favor more liberal use of magics the council considers dangerous.”

“What, like your slightly taller, curvier, more bountiful form?” I asked.  She paused, and probably would have blushed in human form.  Their association with us base humani had given them a little insight into our sexuality . . . and our sexual humor.  Ithalia had certainly noted just how much male attention she and her fellow emissaries had gotten since they arrived.

“That is one manifestation,” she agreed.  “But there are others, more subtle and more dangerous.  Such enchantments were poorly used in the past, and there are valid reasons for being wary of their use.  I doubt the council would not even consider such things if the situation were not grave.”

“So how many potential allies are we talking about?” asked Pentandra.

“A few hundreds, so far.  Perhaps a thousand.  But there are some notable Alkan among them.  The Spellmonger’s gift went far to attract the attention of more.  And your character is greatly admired, even among those who dislike the humani.  But among others you are seen as arrogant and brash.  An ignorant savage barely above the level of the gurvani you fight.  No offense,” she added.

“None taken,” I grunted. 

“I don’t see them as that advanced, actually,” Guri mused.  “I’ve lived among them for a few years, now, and they aren’t any better than the average gurvan.  And their mating customs . . . weird.  No other word for it,” affirmed Guri, stroking his beard.  “If we did things the way you do, we’d—“

“I doubt now is an appropriate time to discuss the subject, gentlemen,” Pentandra interrupted, “although I would greatly appreciate hearing your insights another time, for professional reasons.  But the point Lady Ithalia is making is that we have opponents on the council as well as proponents.  We must try to weaken or nullify their voices, or we shall receive little help from the Alka Alon.”

“Those same opponents argue that you have received too much already,” Ithalia agreed.  “Lord Letharan is of the belief that the Abomination is not of Alkan concern, it is a human problem.  Lord Aeratas knows that it is of concern, but so loathes the humani that he would see the shadow fall over your lands in spite.”

“Ouch,” I winced.  “What did we do to him?”

“It was long ago, generations, by your count.  But the lord has a long memory, and great influence.  If he was not immune from the unexpected pleasure of your gift, he was especially wary.  He suspects treachery from the humani.”

“That’s just good thinking,” I quipped.  “I don’t really trust me myself.  The gift was given in good faith, however.”

“I understand that, Master Minalan.  Convincing Lord Aeratas and Lord Letharan might prove more difficult.”

“I’ll just have to be particularly charming, then.”

“You will get the opportunity,” she agreed.  “After our meal there will be a . . . you would call it a reception.  A time for informal talk, stories and song.”

“And wine, I hope.  What could I possibly say that would charm such opponents?”

Ithalia considered.  “They dislike and distrust the humani for different reasons.  Letharan is a xenophobe with a vendetta.  Aeratas is jealous of his realm.  And finds your folk distastefully ephemeral.  Both have been strongly in favor of receding from the realm of human affairs, and are reluctant to renew relations.  They but they have grudgingly allowed the volunteers who stood by your side to do so.  They disapproved of our intervention at Cambrian, but excused it.
After
the fact,” she added, guiltily.

“Hmmm.  Neither of those are very easy to work with, but I’ll see what I can do.  Isn’t Lord Aeratas involved, simply by proximity?  I understood that Anthatiel was in the Mindens, somewhere.”

“It is also an impregnable fortress, on an island in a mountain lake, surrounded by a great gorge.  The five waterfalls that fall into the gorge produce a constant array of spectra – rainbows – over the gorge that Aeratas uses to carry the protective magic that both guards his realm and cloaks it from sight.”

“Gods!” whispered Pentandra.  “That sounds . . .”

“Gorgeous?” offered Master Guri with a smug grin.

“It is.  One of the greatest wonders of our realm.  Unless the gurvani feel like swimming and dodging arrows in the water, they pose no threat to Aeratas.”

“What about our other opponent?”

“Lord Letharan’s great citadel of Anas Yartharel is in the Kulines, near to the Pearwoods.  A secluded vale requiring leagues of hard travel to reach overland, with a strong and fast fortress.  One of the mightiest still standing from our glorious past.  He is next nearest the Shadow.  But he sees the shadows of humanity equally as dreadful.”

“With the Pearwoods clans for neighbors, I can almost understand that.”

The rest of the day was spent sightseeing, as Ithalia took us on a little tour of Carneduin.  It was, simply, a magical place, the sort of place where you would expect just about any sort of delight to spring from the ground or float by on the air, just to amuse you. 

That evening, after being given a chance to refresh ourselves in the guest houses, we were summoned to the reception Ithalia spoke of.  It was held in the same building but in a much larger hall.  This one seemed designed for sweet songs, impassioned stories, and cozy discussions.  The music was, to my surprise, instrumental, with five Avalanti musicians playing a variety of string and horn instruments I’d never even seen before.

I wandered around the room a little, getting a feel for it and examining the refreshments.  Most of the room was crowded with Alka Alon, but there were a few humans.  We stood out.

Min, there’s someone you have to meet,
Pentandra sent to me, mind-to-mind, as I nibbled on a flower from the buffet table.  Yes, a flower  .

Who?  The Minister of Floral Arrangements?  Because he did a hell of a job
, I quipped.  The sweet liquor I’d chosen was hitting my stomach, and I was fawning over a glorious living sculpture or serving presentation  in the hall made up entirely of flowers.  People were eating them, and they were delicious. 
But I’ll have to yell for him.  All of these Alka look alike.

No, you won’t.  He’s easy to spot: he’s human.
  Since there were only a few of us in the Hall of Hospitality, that helped. 

Which one?  And why?

The dark and handsome one with the cleft chin and the cheekbones, and the hungry look in his eye.  Dark, slightly wavy hair, surprisingly delicate ears.  He had really good looking hands, too, rough but not too rough.  His eyes—

I’m a man, Pentandra, remember?  The green cloak or the robe? And why?

Green cloak.  The Kasari ranger.  As to why, because when he came up behind me a few moments ago he mentioned that he wished to speak a moment with my master.

Oh.  That’s all?

Besides him calling you my master?  He smelled like evergreens,
she added
.  Cedar, not pine.  And those eyes . . .

I’ll see if I can’t have words with him.  Would you like me to send for a towel?

The man in the green cloak at the other end of the room towered over our hosts as much as I did, but he seemed far more comfortable about it.  He drank mead from his great waxed horn while he spoke to several Alka Alon who all seemed to know him.  He looked up and caught my eye, alerted by some preternatural sense.  He stared at me a moment, then grinned and excused himself as he made his way over.

I first heard about them (the rangers, not the Kasari people) in Farise. 

A troop of them spearheaded the infiltration of the city’s landward side, and a group of us from the Magical Corps were detailed to go to the vanguard of the column and cast various spells to assist.  I got the task of magically cloaking the lead ranger patrol against scrying.  Since the rangers were supposed to eliminate the sentries guarding the city, it was considered an important task.

There were nine of them in this patrol.  They were tall, dour men who nonetheless remained extremely polite and patient as I prepared them.  Their garb was nearly identical – not just tabards, as other fighting units frequently contrived, but all of their clothing.  They wore tunics and breaches of light green hempcloth, their rank and honors embroidered upon the breasts and shoulders in distinctive patterns.  Around their waists they wore wide leather belts from which hung all manner of pouches and pockets.  Their boots were sturdy leather, with hardened soles designed for long journeys.  They each wore a rolled neckcloth around their necks fastened with a simple broach. 

But their cloaks are what tell a Kasar ranger out.  They’re ankle length, made of some special wool from their mountain pastures that seems to repel water, and each bears a long hood that acts as cowl or hat.  The cloaks are dyed a mottled dark green and black, and across the back of them were sewn triangular patches across the shoulders, the point facing down.  Their rank and unit insignia was sewn in a circle in the center of the triangle, and if thrown back, the hood obscured the whole thing, leaving them virtually invisible in the forest.  The neckcloths and the triangles were the only colorful part of their garb. 

Each had a broad steel blade about twenty inches long at their hip, and a few carried other weapons.  And then there were their distinctive bows.

They used longbows, but not just any warbow.  Huge springs of hickory and yew, expertly laminated together and strung.  I was told they did not fire in vollies, like ordinary bowmen.  They were snipers.  Their reputation was that they were able to bend a bow and hold a position without moving for hours, and then let fly at a distance with uncanny accuracy. 

They could stalk and track better than any in the Wilderlands.  It was said that when the Count of the region tried to parcel off some of their sacred groves and give it out to his cronies, the armies he sent to capture their fortress was defeated.  The Count’s men were  silently picked off by the hundreds along the wooded roadway to their citadel.  The beasts of the wood seemed to fight on the side of the Kasari.  By the time the force arrived it was so hopelessly outnumbered that it lay down arms and sued for terms.