The truth was far more prosaic; Amirantha had used magic, though not his own, to build the simple tower. A pair of magicians, masters of geomancy, had used their arts to manoeuvre rocks in such a design that when they were done, Amirantha had only to employ a local carpenter to install the two wooden floors, hang doors, and build some furniture; including the large table now before the magician and the heavy chair in which he sat.
He examined an old text he had written nearly a century before, letting out a long sigh of regret as he pushed it aside. Looking out of the window of his study, at the village below, now caught in the reddish glow of sunset, he considered how almost idyllic his life had become during the last twenty years – if he didn’t give too much thought to the occasional mishap like the one three days ago, near Lanada.
He remembered when he had first come here, with a young Brandos and his wife, and how he had decided, almost on a whim, to take up residence. He looked above the village at the distant sunset and wondered how much of his decision came from his affection for these views. A sunset was, he thought, an odd thing to be drawn to, but then so much of his life had been a series of choices that seemed arbitrary, even capricious, at times; such as giving a home to an uncouth street boy who had tried to rob him more than thirty years ago.
This village was the only home he had known since his childhood, a time so distant he often had to concentrate to remember much about it. The villagers had at first been frightened of the Warlock on the Hill, as they called him, but he had since then protected the village from marauders on more than one occasion, and had even kept the army of the ambitious Maharajah of Muboya from occupying the settlement when the region was annexed into that burgeoning nation. He took pride in having used only ruse and guile with no loss of life. While absent of the everyday concerns of most people, Amirantha did scruple over crossing certain boundaries.
Some of his dilemmas were practical in nature, dabbling in the darker arts brought scrutiny that could lead to persecution. How ever, most of his moral concerns were for his own wellbeing; often he had seen that travelling down a certain dark road to knowledge cost a magician far more than the disapproval of others. Although not a pious man, Amirantha still wished to face Lims-Kragma, certain that he had no major stains on his escutcheon; he could accept having to explain a minor blemish here and there. Some, because of his chosen art, might not consider him a good man, but he had his principles. Besides, he had seen better men fall prey to the lure of the dark arts. It was a drug to most magicians.
He moved slightly in his seat and determined, as he had almost every day for the last two years, that he needed to take a trip to the city and purchase new cushions. He glanced around his study. The fire burned as it always did during the cold weather, casting a warm glow across the room. The sleeping quarters below were often draughty in the winter, and the Warlock often slept up here next to the fire. He was convinced the problem had something to do with the way the chimney was fashioned, but never could find the time to have anyone look at it, so for three months each year he endured blankets on the floor.
Brandos trudged heavily up the circular stone staircase, which hugged the interior of the round building, and entered the room. ‘What did you find?’ he asked without preamble.
‘What I feared,’ said the Warlock, standing up. With a wave of his hand he indicated the old tomes on the table. ‘I think we need to undertake a journey.’
‘Going shopping in Maharta, are we?’
Amirantha regarded his oldest friend. At nearly fifty years old, the warrior was still a powerful looking man, even if his grey hair was now bordering on white. His sun-worn, leathery face spoke of years of campaigning, and he bore an impressive number of scars. ‘Well, yes, for I do need a new seat cushion, but that will have to wait.’ He gazed at his old tomes and said, ‘I think something very bad is happening, and we need to speak to someone about it.’
‘Anyone specific in mind?’
‘Tell me about this Kaspar.’
Brandos smiled and nodded. He sat down on a small stool near the fire and said, ‘Here’s what I know: About a month or so after General Alenburga disappeared, which was ten years ago now, this Kaspar of Olasko arrived at the Maharajah’s Court along with a small army of soldiers from the Tsurani world. The young ruler of Muboya gave Kaspar the title of General of the Army, announced that Alenburga had retired to some distant place, and turned his attention to consolidating his territory and preparing to conquer more.
‘But, this is where it gets interesting. Kaspar seems to have earned the Maharajah’s trust, and has come up with diplomatic solutions for two conflicts, set up a very difficult relationship with some of the clans ruling the City of the Serpent River, and has annexed two city states to the north without bloodshed. After a long war, he’s also achieved an alliance with Okanala through a couple of well-crafted royal marriages, effectively ensuring that his and the King of Okanala’s grandchildren will eventually rule a combined empire. He helped Okanala put down two rebellions, and now Okanala and Muboya will combine to move against those murderous little dwarves who live in the grasslands to the west.’
‘A prodigious list of accomplishments for so short a period of employment.’ Amirantha tapped his chin with his right index finger, a nervous gesture that Brandos had seen since childhood. ‘Now, what else?’
‘Speculation and rumour. Kaspar is an outlander, from far across the sea to the northwest, a nation called Olasko, so I have been told. He was a ruler there, before being deposed, and has been absent for some years. Somehow he became close to General Alenburga, but little is known of that. It is also rumoured that he often vanishes from Muboya’s new capital city of Maharta for a week or so, simply to show up again as if he had always been there.’
‘Magic,’ said Amirantha. ‘He goes somewhere, but no one sees him leave or return.’
‘Or he enjoys very long naps in the privacy of his quarters,’ quipped the old fighter. ‘Perhaps with friends; he’s reputed to have quite an eye for the ladies.’
Tapping his chin as he weighed his options, Amirantha was silent for a long time. Brandos knew his foster father preferred silence when he was reflecting, so the old fighter got up and left the study, trudging down the stairs.
The tower was a simple cylindrical keep with three levels, the middle held two large rooms, one for the Warlock and one for Brandos and his wife, Samantha. Brandos crossed the tiny hallway separating the two sleeping rooms and moved down the stairs to the bottom floor, where the kitchen, storage room, and guarderobe were housed. The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread and something bubbling in a cauldron above the fire, Samantha’s well-regarded chicken stew if Brandos guessed correctly.
Brandos paused for a moment to observe his wife. A stout woman, she could still spark a fire in her husband with just a whisper in his ear, though the years had taken their toll on the former tavern girl from the Eastlands. She wore a simple green dress with a blue cloth head covering, arranged in her native style. Brandos had met her in the huge tavern at Shingazi’s Landing, on the Serpent River where it bends near the Eastern Coast, less than a mile west of the Great Cliffs, overlooking the Blue Sea. With the aid of a lot of flirtation, and a lot of good wine, she had eventually agreed to come to his bed.
But rather than forget her, as he had so many before her, his mind kept returning to the pleasant-looking, plump young woman from the Eastlands. After months of incessant mooning over her, Amirantha had given his foster son leave to visit her.
He had returned a month later with his new wife. Despite Amirantha’s original reservations, he had come to understand that Brandos had found something very rare with his tavern wench from the Eastlands. Brandos knew the Warlock envied them, even though he had never spoken a word.
Brandos knew his foster father better than any man alive, and knew that only once in his life had the old magic user succumbed to a woman’s guiles. Remembering the encounter still made him smile; if it weren’t for Amirantha’s genuine pain over how that liaison had ended, it would have been worthy of a bard’s most ribald tale.
Samantha