Free High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series by Terry Mancour Page A

figure like a greyhound, speech as sweet as a birdsong, eyes like . . . like . . .”
    “Like a frozen pond in the depth of winter, blessed amongst gods and men yes we all know she’s beautiful,” complained Dara, “but have you ever stopped and considered what evil may lurk beneath that gown?”  She meant it sarcastically – one of Dara’s favorite weapons.
    “ I have,” I quipped.  “Which is why you’re going with me, Dara.  You’ve worked more closely with the Alka Alon than anyone, so I want you there.  To keep your eyes peeled and your mind open.”  Not only had I roped all three of the Alkan ladies into helping me teach Dara basic magical theory, but they had commenced to work with her on a few special projects. 
    “Go to a council with the Tree Folk?” she asked, her eyes wide at the news. 
    “ Not if your next sound is a squeal,” I warned.  “Control yourself.  You will be representing me and Sevendor and all of humanity.  But go ahead and pack for the journey.  Lightly, ” I reminded her, “we won’t be gone long, and I’ll have other things for you to carry.  But at least one formal gown.  You do have a formal gown, don’t you?  That fits?”  Most of the time I saw her in a simple cotton shift under a tough leather bodice, to keep from getting scratched by that bird of hers.  She was a craft apprentice, and dressed accordingly. 
    “I think I have something,” she agreed, blushing a little.  “I was given a few dresses at Barrowbell.  They didn’t fit well at the time, but I’ve . . . grown.”
    “Make sure you pack one, but don’t worry too much about what it looks like.  The Alka Alon will all be naked, anyway.  We just want to be respectful.  Now I’ve got to figure out how to break the news of this sudden trip to my wife.”
    It was almost as bad as I’d anticipated.  Alya didn’t want me to go.  She never wanted me to go on these journeys, but she was particularly adamant about this one. 
    I didn’t see what the problem was.  It wasn’t like I was leaving her besieged, again.  The vale was at peace.  No, it was thriving. 
    Sevendor village, once a dingy ring of huts, had become a town of over three thousand souls, in less than two years.  Construction sites outnumbered existing buildings, and the Commons was one large work-camp.  In fact, the town had swollen so rapidly that the Commons was quickly being incorporated into it, which would make it unsuitable for grazing.  I’d have to find another Commons, soon.
    Banamor was the force behind the town purchasing a charter from me.  My Spellwarden had adroitly steered the town’s council of artisans and shopkeepers toward the advantages of trading their traditional feudal dues for a simple cash payment, plus a few negotiable rights.  They were still on their second round of discussions over the draft of the document, and in order to sweeten the deal Banamor was doing his best to keep Sevendor Town’s growing pains from being my headache.  And hers.
    Jurlor, the Yeoman whose manor lay to the north of the town, was acting almost as affluent as Banamor.  He had profited heavily from Sevendor Town’s growth thanks to the real estate he owned that sat closest to it.  He had added significantly to his herds to supply the market.  He now had a permanent wooden shop in the nascent market square.  He was adding on to his manor house and quietly looking for stray knights or lords to marry his ugly daughters off to.
    Gurisham, now under the leadership of Yeoman Guris, a Bovali farmer-turned-reeve, had seen its fortunes rise more modestly.  But the twice-weekly market for the village’s crops and the need for day-labor had made the Gurisham peasants tired but prosperous.  Half of the huts in Gurisham had been replaced by sturdy longhouses, and the palisade around the place was being torn down to make more room.  Now that the valley itself was more secure, the practical villeins felt that rickety