Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (23 page)

Rondal’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “How so?”

“I’d imagine that whilst on your errantry, when confronted with, say, an irate dim-witted maiden, a lord with a sword at your throat, and a priestess, that you may find it worthwhile to have already plighted your troth to a maid in a far-away land,” she suggested, making it sound terribly romantic coming from her pretty lips.  He chuckled at her, despite himself.  She smiled in return.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  A fair maid, pining away in her tower, while you go about on your errantry?”

“Oh, it’s every young knight’s dream,” he agreed, with mock seriousness.  Then he sighed.  He felt like he was deceiving Gatina, even though he’d done his best to be honest with her.

Except for the gigantic lie about taking a vow. 

“Gatina, you are a maiden of rare beauty and rarer intelligence,” he said, a statement of fact, not a conceit of flattery.  “You deserve better than a former common spellmonger from the Wilderlands.”

“I alone am the arbiter of what I find desirable in a husband,” she said, resolutely.  “My house requires I choose a mage of demonstrably impressive power and preferable noble birth – but beyond those qualifications, it grants the lady of the house considerable latitude.  We have traditionally looked for only the finest magi to bring into the family – there have been notable exceptions – and I intend to introduce only the greatest.  It is not a matter of what I ‘deserve’,” she reasoned, “it is a matter of who I can find.”

Rondal shifted uncomfortably.  “And you can find no better than me?”

She snorted.  “The magi of Alshar are a timid, weak-willed lot.  Oh, there are a few interesting fellows amongst my cousins in the cadet houses – we’ve gone there, if no better candidate is available – but now that the Bans are lifted, things have changed.”

“They have – and there are far better magi in the world!” Rondal insisted.

“Will you just shut up and let me love you?”
demanded the Kitten of Night suddenly and fiercely.  “
Sweet Darkness
, you’re the first, best, most handsome young mage who has wandered into Alshar in an age, and I’ll be damned as a thumb-fingered burglar before I’ll let you leave without me pleading my case!”

“Pleading your
case?
” Rondal asked, shocked.  “What do you mean?”

“I’m not content with merely finding a mage of power,” she explained quietly.  “I want more: a mage of power, full of valor, a mind full of intelligence, and a heart tender enough to sweetly love a maid,” she said.  “Do you have any idea how
impossible
that is to find, Sir Rondal?”

“I . . . I hadn’t considered it,” admitted Rondal, uncomfortably.

“Well, then please do,” she said, irritated.  “I understand your hesitancy: I’m a weird-looking little girl barely glimpsing womanhood, approaching you from the darkness during a time of need – you really
would
be an idiot not to take advantage of that – and
me,
” she added, slyly. 

“All of that being said, I also pride myself with being practical,” she continued, looking away.  “When your family specializes in avoiding attention, attracting a lad’s attention can be problematic.  And our creepy obsession with night-time activities and attitudes toward property rights can be off-putting.  So . . . I
understand
.  I am hardly an ideal bride,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.  “Yet I work with what the gods have given me.  If I can convince someone like you that I could be . . . well . . .” she said, trailing off. 

Rondal stared at the girl.  “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’, Gatina?” he asked, warily.

“A
hero
,” she said, as if it were obvious.

“A . . . hero?”

“A hero, like the stories of old.  Brave, kind, generous, clever, strong . . .
handsome
,” she added, blushing.  “Not merely a knight, but a knight
mage
, and one of high repute.  Darkness, even my
brother
likes you – and the last boy I liked he threatened to throw off a balcony.”

“I can see that,” Rondal nodded, suddenly appreciating a new facet of the relationship.

“Sir Rondal, I want to marry you, some day,” she said, so softly he could barely hear it.  “As a great lady in our palace, a brilliant thief in our cozy lair, or as farm wife on a freehold . . . in any life, you would be a worthy man for a woman.  And an ideal man for me, unless I misread the message of my heart.  I just . . . I just want to
prove
to you that . . . that I have the
potential
to be a worthy woman, some day.  To have you hold me in the esteem in which I hold you.”

Rondal did not know what to say to that.

Several miles later, the lad jumped down from the carriage and entered the cabin, where the others were sprawled, mostly asleep or at least dozing as well as they could in the bumpy carriage.

That was quite a long drive you took with yon novice, Sir Striker,
Tyndal observed, mind-to-mind. 
I can’t imagine that ten miles of apple orchards was that compelling a conversation.
  Tyndal was slouched in a corner of the carriage with his hat over his eyes, Ruderal snuggled up against him, asleep.

I’m shocked you didn’t listen in to the whole thing,
he replied the same way as he looked out the window at the lines of trees rolling by.

Aw, I wouldn’t do that to you,
he replied. 
That might joggle your elbow.  What happened?

Well,
Rondal returned, philosophically,
the good news is that I will likely not be getting married any time soon.

Ouch!  How did she take it?

Surprisingly well.  The bad news is . . . it looks like I’m going to have a secret girlfriend in Alshar, now.

She bought the vow story?
he asked, amazed. 

It’s not a story, any more,
Rondal sighed. 
Consider it in full force.  You, me, Fes . . . no one gets married until the Rats are gone and Anguin rules over all of Alshar.

You say that like it’s a bad thing!

Just . . . just promise you won’t get married without telling me, first,
Rondal requested, lamely
.  And if you do get married, do
not
tell Gatina.  Oh, and if she finds out you lied to her about the oath?  She’s likely to kill both of us.  So . . . no sudden fits of matrimony, all right?

It is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make for the good of the Order,
he agreed, pleased. 
So, she accepted your rejection?  You let her down easily?

Uh, in a way,
Rondal reasoned. 
Let’s just say . . . it’s going to be a very complicated relationship for awhile,
he decided.

Striker, they all are,
Tyndal said, with uncharacteristic sympathy. 
At least she’s cute.  Most of the time.  I don’t know how she even talks with those fake teeth.

Surprising well,
Rondal reflected,
and with the same precision with which she uses a blade.  Doesn’t even get in the way of kissing,
he added, unintentionally.

Well,
that’s
good to know
, Tyndal said, the slightest snort emitting from under his hat. 

Chapter Ten

The Lord Of Oirghort

While the great river, from the mouth to the Falls, is clearly the gods’ own garden, the lush and fertile soils of the northeastern Coastlands in the shadow of the escarpment are among some of the most spectacular in the duchy.  With gently rippling hills and a soil ideal for apples, peaches, pears and even some varieties of oranges, the real bounty of this soil must be the tobacco and grapes grown here.  For the leaf of Oirghort is well-known in the finest courts of the land, and the brandy from the region is highly prized when aged and treated with proper care.  No wonder, then, that the Black Duke coveted this beatific little land for his own mistress, and later bride.  No wonder his successors were so quick to include the scandalous halls there in young Grendine’s dowry to Castal. 

A Secret History of Enultramar

While it might have been perfectly acceptable for the two errants to ride boldly up to Sire Gimbal’s elaborate hall and present themselves to his castellan, that seemed far too mundane for them.  It was also unlikely to produce the effect Rondal desired.

Instead he chose a surprise appearance - easy enough to manage with a couple of first-class shadowmagi along for the ride. 

When Sire Gimbal retired to his chamber to dine, that evening, he dismissed his servants after they laid his table and poured his wine, and he began reading his correspondence by candlelight.

“My congratulations, Sire Gimbal, on learning the scribe’s art,” Rondal said, abruptly, startling the man as he took a chair at the lord’s table.  “I never suspected you had the brains to learn to read.”

“Who are you?” demanded the former Warbird of West Fleria, snatching his sword from beside the table. 

“No one you want to draw a blade upon,” Rondal said, contemptuously.  “We’ve met, my lord . . . and we’ve fought against each other, and with each other.  I even destroyed a few of your castles,” he added, casually.

“Well, he helped,” Tyndal disputed as he joined them, seemingly out of nowhere.  “Well met, Sire Gimbal.  We bear greetings from our master, Minalan, Baron of Sevendor.”

“The . . . apprentices,” the man said, letting his sword fall.  “You’re his apprentices.”

“Were,” corrected Rondal.  “We’ve recently passed our exams.  But we still look to our former master, and run the odd errand for him.”

“Which brings us to here, this magnificent palace . . . far grander than you deserve,” Tyndal added.  “I was as surprised as you when Minalan proposed you for this post.  I was convinced you were too untrustworthy to hold it, without seeking to betray your liege.”

“It was a popular sentiment,” recalled Rondal.  “Many shared it.”

“I swear, I have served our king faithfully!” he insisted, sounding hurt at the suspicion.  “I have faithfully executed his warrant and managed his lands with the most careful of oversight!”

“Lord Gimbal,” soothed Rondal, “we are not here to accuse you.  We are here to . . . in a sense . . . test you.”

Gimbal looked back and forth from one knight to the other.  “In what way, my lords?”

“If you are indeed a trustworthy custodian of King Rard’s estates in this rebel land, without raising the ire of the rebels, then we wish to see what other matters might be entrusted to you,” suggested Tyndal. 

Sire Gimbal continued to study them, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.  “Why would I wish to help you?” he asked.  “Rard is my liege.  Not Minalan,” he snorted.

“Baron Minalan,” reminded Tyndal.  “A man in the highest councils of the kingdom.  The head of the Arcane Orders.  The baron of a fair bit of former West Fleria . . . and, unless I miss my guess, he’ll have a bit of Sashtalia before long, too.”

“That would be an impressive feat,” snorted Gimbal.  “Sashtalia has a hundred times the lances that Sevendor does.  Even with magic, Minalan would be a fool to invite that.”

“Our Master is no fool,” countered Rondal.  “The alliance between Sevendor and the allies who defeated West Fleria is strong.”

“He’s also subtle,” Tyndal added.  “How will Sashtalia’s castles fare better than West Fleria’s?”