Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Instead the warmage cleared his throat as he stood over the smoldering corpse. “Let there be no doubt that the magelords of Alshar know their proper liege, are his loyal retainers, and will not tolerate disrespectful language to His Grace!” he called, loudly. “Any further treasons will be met with similar ferocity!”

  With a last look around at the stunned faces, he retook his seat next to Astyral. If the Gilmoran magelord was bothered by his friend’s sudden and decisive actions, he didn’t show it. Two guardsmen dragged the corpse away, leaving a trail of ash and blood behind on the floor, while the herald closed the criminal proceedings of the court.

  Pentandra was relieved at that. She hadn’t relished the idea of testifying anyway, and she wasn’t particularly happy with the way Azar had handled himself, though he couldn’t disagree with the results. Sitting through a few minutes of special recognition and awards was easy by comparison, and the hour was already growing later than she’d prefer.

  That’s when she heard the herald boom out her name: “Lady Pentandra, Wizard to the Court of Alshar! Come forward and be recognized!”

  Pentandra stumbled out of her seat in a daze, wondering what Anguin had planned for her – probably wanting to invoke her assistance in the new keep he wanted to build next to the palace.

  Instead he presented her with the deed to a small estate seven miles upstream from Vorone, ‘in appreciation of her valuable efforts to pacify the criminal element of the city,” the herald read.

  “My lady Pentandra, since you first arrived in support of my ascension you and your husband have been powerful aids and allies in my struggles,” Anguin said, not reading from anything. “Your adept and subtle use of magic has already been a great boon to the duchy in the few weeks you have held your position, and the town of Vorone in particular thrives better because of it. Please accept this small token of our appreciation in the hopes that it will give you further means to improve our realm.”

  Pentandra took the folded parchment gingerly in her hands, bowing and thanking the Duke while the herald called the next courtier – Count Salgo – for a similar gift

  Pentandra returned to her seat in a daze. Arborn embraced her happily and asked to look at the deed after she sat.

  “Where is Wythland?” Arborn asked. “I haven’t heard of it before.”

  “It’s . . . I have,” Pentandra admitted. “According to this, it’s about seven and a half miles downstream on the southern bank of the river. It looks small but cozy,” she decided, looking at the map included with the deed.

  “When did you hear of Wythland?” Arborn asked, his brow furrowed.

  “I . . . I heard of it this morning,” she recalled. “Alurra mentioned it, I think, this morning. I hadn’t heard of it before then,” she admitted.

  “Wait, Alurra knew . . . that you would be given . . . this estate in particular?”

  “Alurra didn’t,” Pentandra decided. “But her mistress, this Antimei, apparently did. Which supports the idea that she dabbles in prophecy.”

  “It sounds as if she’s beyond dabbling,” Arborn observed. “Perhaps you should consider taking this apprentice,” he suggested.

  “I’m considering it,” she agreed with a whispered sigh.

  The court proceedings had included similar awards of small local estates for another four or five loyal retainers, and then finally some ceremonial presentations to the court.

  Pentandra found that more interesting than the deed to the little country estate she’d been granted. Six young women were presented to the Duke, none of them more than a year younger than he, by some of the senior Wilderlords in attendance. He graciously welcomed them, apologized for not having a proper Duchess at his side at the moment to take care of them, but jokingly mentioned that the position was available.

  That caused a raucous laugh among the courtiers. It also set the stage, Pentandra realized, for the last presentation of the day.

  An older woman, quite beautiful, who Pentandra had never met before, approached the throne with the girls standing in file behind her. Pentandra could swear that she knew the woman; she had a familiar air about her. But as striking as her face was Pentandra also knew she would have remembered it specifically.

  The woman was dressed in a magnificent green gown in a southern Alshari style popular a generation or two before in Falas, but still fashionable in Vorone. Behind her were five maidens, dressed in more revealing versions of the same gown in the same fabric. None could have been more than sixteen.

  “The Dowager Baroness Amandice of Vorone,” announced the herald, “and her maidens beg an audience with the Duke!”

  “Granted,” Anguin said, absently, as his eyes rested on the beautiful girls standing demurely behind the older woman. “I’m afraid I have not had the fortune to make your acquaintance, Baroness,” he said, apologetically. “I am still getting to know the folk of this town again.”

  “We have met, actually, Your Grace,” Amandice said, her voice flowing like honey. “Though you were just a babe at the time. I had the great fortune to be an acquaintance of your late father’s,” she said, lightly. “Before he met your mother. Of course, that was such a long time ago . . .”

  Pentandra was suddenly on alert. Such an admission to the lad was designed to pique his interest, no doubt, and that put her on her guard. Anguin was of an age to be deeply missing his late father’s influence on his life, and Pentandra had noticed an increased interest on his part in his sire’s history in the last few weeks.

  “You knew my father, Baroness?” Anguin said, with undisguised interest.

  “Only in his stalwart youth, Your Grace,” Amandice assured him. “Years ago. A lifetime ago, when I was but a girl no older than my maidens, here . . .”

  “So what brings you back to court today, Amandice?” Anguin said, reluctant to tear his eyes away from the loveliness of the girls. They stood there simply and casually, but despite their stillness their beauty still projected to the court.

  “I wish to beg a boon, Your Grace,” the beautiful matron said, boldly. “In the name of the people, but more importantly, in the name of Love and Beauty.”

  “And what is this boon?” Anguin asked, unable to take his eyes off of the nubile maidens, though he was clearly aware of the trap in front of him. There was a wariness about him that Pentandra was grateful for. This woman was a danger, she knew – anyone who invoked a boon for ‘love and beauty’ had to be scheming. At least the lad was suspicious of those who wished to use him.

  “Your Grace, the people rejoice in the return of the rightful heir to the realm,” she began in a praising tone. “Too long fair Vorone has suffered from neglect, and the spirits of the people are still low.”

  “So what would you suggest, Baroness Amandice?”

  “I beg you to appoint me to oversee the Spring Wildflower Festival, Your Grace,” she proposed, bowing her head with perfect dignity. “With Your Grace’s permission, my associates and I would like to see the town beautified in celebration of your reign. Vorone had no proper time to celebrate your investiture, as we were still in mourning from the deaths of your parents. Give us that chance now,” she asked. “The Festival of Wildflowers is in a few short weeks. It used to be a celebration of the expected return of the Duke and Duchess to Vorone for the summer. Let us use it now to celebrate the unexpected but welcome return of Alshar’s heir!”

  There was an uncharacteristic amount of positive murmuring from the court as the courtiers whispered among themselves. More than Pentandra expected there would be, for such a tame proposal.

  Yet the idea seemed to explode across the room like a spell, and soon nearly everyone seemed enthusiastic about the idea. To Pentandra it seemed a relatively unimportant idea – the town and the Duchy faced much bigger issues than the spirits of the townsfolk – but when Arborn turned to her, his usually stoic demeanor gone and replaced with a (undeniably adorable) boyish grin and said, “You know, my wife, that is a truly useful idea!” Pentandra knew some
thing was amiss. Arborn didn’t get that excited about anything that didn’t involve a month-long journey through the wilderness.

  She glanced down at the ring on her finger, which seemed to pulse with magic as if trying to alert her to something. She considered summoning Everkeen, but was concerned such a display would be disruptive in court. Instead she sought out Azar and Astyral by eye. Both men nodded to her across the room.

  That idea seemed to catch fire quickly, didn’t it? Astyral observed to her, mind-to-mind.

  Why is everyone wetting themselves over a wildflower festival? Demanded Azar by the same method, a moment later.

  “That . . . that sounds . . . like a noble idea, Your Excellency,” Anguin admitted. “A truly wonderful . . . plan. You of course have my permission and blessing,” he said, sitting a little straighter in his throne as the four adorable girls beamed up at him from behind their mistress. “Indeed, I shall contribute a hundred ounces of silver for the task, Dowager Baroness Amandice,” he said, attempting a dignity in his authority far beyond his experience.

  The hairs on the back of Pentandra’s neck were standing. There was something wrong, here.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she sighed, breathlessly. “And please . . . call me . . . Lady Pleasure.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Dangers Of The Divine

  Pentandra’s head was spinning as Arborn escorted her away from the hall and toward the west wing of the palace. While she still held the sealed deed to her new estate in hand, her mind was neither there or on the judgments the Duke had made. She wasn’t even concerned about the Rat Crew’s bloody massacre, anymore, though it had happened the previous night.

  Pentandra was far more concerned about the sudden appearance – and instant acceptance – of a mysterious mature noblewoman into Anguin’s court.

  It wasn’t as if the place wasn’t already filled with such useless nobility. Generations of Alshari great nobles had either retired to the hunting paradise or had kept their mistresses or wives here to visit during the convenient summer months. Widows accumulated, as did younger sons of the great nobles.

  There had to be a dozen purposeless nobles the rank of Knight Banneret or above roaming the streets of Vorone at any one time. Indeed, there were entire streets in the market district designed to attract their trade. Some, like Viscountess Threanas, had position as well as rank. Most did not, or at least not to any important extent. Occasionally they were assigned little tasks or duties. The court thrived on the experience and dedication of such auxillary folk.

  But Pentandra also knew that Dowager Baroness Amandice – “Lady Pleasure” – was no mere rich widow. What she had done to the court in one brief visit had been no less than magical, and had it not been for the protective power of her own spells, Pentandra guessed she would have been enthusiastically supporting the woman as much as everyone else.

  Nor was Lady Pleasure’s proposal concerning the Wildflower Festival out of line. The Spring Wildflower Festival was, traditionally, the rallying point for the Voroni to prepare for the busy summer season, when the court would arrive from the long journey from Falas to take residence for the glorious warm months.

  Sacred to Ishi, patroness of flowers (and a half-dozen local divinities) the Wildflower Festival was an excellent excuse to clean, paint, repair, and decorate the town to prepare to celebrate the rising of the sun tides. Begging to be put in charge of the thankless task of organizing the popular event was an excellent way for Baroness Amandice to be introduced to court, Pentandra realized.

  Hells, she even managed to get Anguin to pay for some of it.

  But who was this woman? An obsequious widow with ambitions of position was one thing – but the transformation Lady Pleasure managed to win over the court, causing even long-mistrustful opponents to agree with her, was both mysterious and worrying.

  And clearly magical. Which put it squarely within Pentandra’s purview as Court Wizard.

  Before she realized where she was being led, Pentandra was at the door to the Court Wizard’s office. Her office. Her new quarters, she remembered.

  “Oh, Arborn,” she said, her heart sinking, “we’re not ready to stay here, yet. I still haven’t gotten anything moved from Spellmonger’s Hall, and—”

  “Do you think you are the only one capable of packing, my wife?” he asked, gently. “I had my men and your new apprentice handle the affair. All of our things are here, now,” he said, proudly.

  “You . . . you moved us?”

  “It wasn’t hard,” he pointed out. “You’ve barely unpacked.”

  “I’ve been busy!” Pentandra snapped, automatically. “And I haven’t yet decided on taking Alurra as my apprentice, either!” she added, a little bitterly.

  “Haven’t you?” Arborn asked, cocking his head.

  “I . . . I don’t . . . I’m still thinking about it,” Pentandra said, at last. Before she could say any more about the blind girl, she was interrupted by mind-to-mind contact. It was Astyral.

  Pentandra, where are you? Azar and I wanted a word with you before we left. We depart in the morning.

  I’m at my new offices, she responded automatically. You recall the way?

  The same ones Thinradel had? The Gilmoran mage asked, with good-natured skepticism. You poor girl! I think I remember where it is. It’s been a few years.

  Do you mind finding a bottle before you come? The buttery hasn’t been supplied yet, I’m afraid. And I desperately desire one.

  If there is a bottle to be had, I shall find it, promised the gracious Gilmoran.

  “Ishi’s tits!” Pentandra swore as she opened her eyes. “We’re going to have company!”

  “Who?”

  “Azar and Astyral,” she explained as she threw open the door to her private quarters, upstairs. “Business, it sounds like. With all of our things in disarray!” she moaned.

  “It isn’t that bad,” Arborn promised, as he followed her up the narrow flight. “We did the best we could . . .”

  Her husband was right – it wasn’t that bad. Not nearly acceptable, but the rangers had managed to place her chests and trunks in some semblance of order in their bedchamber instead of just dumping them in a corner, as she had feared. Stacks of her books and scrolls had been neatly gathered and laid in baskets for the journey, and while they were by no means organized, they were neat and tidy. They even endeavored to hang a few tapestries borrowed from the castellans from stores to brighten the place and cut down on drafts from the over-wide windows.

  But it was still a mess, far from the homey presentation she wanted to make to her professional peers. Thank the gods it was only Astyral and Azar. Had it been women coming by, Pentandra would have crawled into bed and refused to consider a visit.

  Pentandra sighed. “Time to use magic,” she said, simply. She held out her hand and summoned her baculus, and Everkeen (as she was beginning to call the rod) appeared obligingly in her palm. She gave it the briefest of orders – more like an expression of her desires more than actual spellwork – and the magical tool got to work.

  Suddenly the logs in the fireplace burst into flame, four magelights appeared and floated to the corners of her room, and chairs and benches moved across the floor at Everkeen’s direction. Indeed, all around her the baculus sought to fulfill her wishes to conceal, decorate, and improve. In moments the minor disarray of the room was replaced by arcane order. By the time Astyral and Azar knocked on the door, it looked as if she had spent all day arranging things.

  “Welcome, my friends,” she said, casually. “Sorry that I’m still in my court garb,” she said, fingering her gown.

  “You’d look stunning in anything, my lady . . . or nothing at all,” Astyral flirted. She was used to it – it was an intrinsic part of the Gilmoran’s charm.

  “Captain Arborn,” Azar nodded, respectfully. “It’s been awhile . . .”

  “You two know each other?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

  “Magelord Azar graciously extend
ed the hospitality of Megelin Castle last year for me and my men,” Arborn explained. “We were tracking a platoon of goblins at the edge of the Penumbra and were caught off-guard by a hob patrol. Azar’s brave knights cut them off and allowed my men to get to safety.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” the slender warmage dismissed. “I’ve always liked the Kasari, and I saw how your men handled their bows. As well as Sarakeem, on his best day,” he boasted to Pentandra. “I put the men up for a few days, tended their wounds, and gave them a chance to rest. Learned a lot of valuable intelligence, too, if I recall.”

  “Your hospitality was greatly appreciated,” Arborn assured him. “I hope to repay the favor one day.”

  “As I said, it was nothing. All those who fight against the scrugs are my allies. Your folk bring us better news of their movements than any of my own people.”

  “Just what have their movements been?” Pentandra asked, as she instructed Everkeen to summon the chest of spirits and wines she finally remembered that Minalan had thoughtfully included with the baculus. Her colleagues were suitably impressed – by the enchantment, not by the wine she conjured.

  “That is one impressive toy, my dear,” Astyral said as he took a seat, sipping carefully from a silver goblet. “I do wish Minalan would craft one for me, but you were always his favorite,” he observed, enviously.

  “I prefer a more martial presentation,” Azar said, good-naturedly. “If the sight of the thing doesn’t strike terror in the hearts of your foes . . .”

  “It’s a whopping great long magical silver cock,” Astyral pointed out. “That might not make you uncomfortable to consider as a weapon, but for some of us—”

  Arborn looked a little uncomfortable at the discussion, so Pentandra quickly changed it. “So what did you gentlemen want to discuss?” she asked, lightly, as she reclined on a well-cushioned chair. “The court cases?”