Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Beer and ale flowed like the rivers on either side of the town. Ducal decree had set the price of a pint at quarter penny, and a two-ounce drink of spirits at a single penny to ensure the levity was sustainable. To keep things from getting too rowdy, however, a special detachment of guardsmen patrolled the streets day and night to calm the drunken revelers.

  Pentandra’s day was spent overseeing the examinations of fourteen aspiring apprentices, which actually took less time than she’d anticipated. She spent the afternoon watching the archery contest, which she found largely too boring to focus upon, but which did give her a better idea of the armed strength of the town.

  With Everkeen’s help she counted nearly a thousand men who had brought their bows and quivers to compete and get paid for their participation. Much of that coin ended up in the pockets of barkeeps and merchants before the end of the day, but no one seemed to mind.

  At one point, Duke Anguin and his party of gentlemen happened by as they were touring the festival. He greeted Pentandra warmly, inquired about Arborn, and asked if the Spellmonger was truly coming as promised before he continued on his way. He seemed happy and content, self-possessed but not nervous. He looked around at the town and its folk with a sense of ownership and responsibility Pentandra was pleased to see.

  She was somewhat less pleased about the two young women on each of his arms. They carried themselves just as the rest of the Maidens of Flowers, though they did not wear the green uniforms in favor of stunning gowns of their own.

  Duke Anguin introduced them as “Lady Rose” and “Lady Marigold”, and assured her that they were, indeed, actual noblewomen and not mere courtesans. Though the domino masks they wore during the day did little to hide their identity, Pentandra did not recognize them by sight. Ishi had mentioned she’d recruited the daughters of noble houses as well as pretty common girls from the refugee camps. These must be two of them, she reasoned.

  She would have been more concerned if His Grace showed any preference in his companions, but from what she could gather he seemed more intrigued by the variety of ladies available than the depths any one girl could provide. Rarely did she see the lad with the same girl – or girls – more than once. Nor did he seem to collect a doting following of cast-off suitors in his wake. There seemed to be an understanding around the town that no one woman was allowed to monopolize the time and attention of the handsome young duke.

  That particular development was particularly offensive to Countess Shirlin, who saw it as evidence of Alshar’s steady moral decline.

  “No sitting duke should flaunt his . . . his virility like this! It’s unseemly!” she fumed, when she’d caught up with Pentandra that afternoon in front of the palace. “What would his mother say if she could see him?” she lamented.

  “Maybe, ‘hey, can someone pull this iron stake out of my ear?’” quipped Lady Bertine who was nearby. Her dislike of both Castal and Countess Shirlin had been well-established. Indeed, Shirlin had complained to the Duke about her behavior (and likely Pentandra’s own) at the Ladies’ Tea, but Anguin had wisely declined to intervene. Bertine saw that as license to flaunt the popular (and probably true) theory that the Queen had been behind the former Duchess’ assassination. Each time she brought it up, Shirlin winced.

  “I was speaking of His Grace’s choice of companion!” she shot back, annoyed. “How can you just stand there and let him flaunt those . . . those sluts!” she said, seeming to take particular relish in saying the word.

  “As he is the Duke, and I am not, I see little that can be done about it,” Pentandra admitted. “That is, if I agreed with you. But I don’t.”

  “You think he does himself favors by currying scandal so boldly?” Shirlin asked, appalled.

  “Excellency, this is not Castal, this is not Castabriel, and it isn’t even Wilderhall,” Pentandra tried to explain. “These people have had four years of torment and neglect, invasion and shortage. They have been weak, afraid, and vulnerable for far too long, abused by a steward that was supposed to protect and nurture them. To see a strong, youthful, intelligent young leader in their midst is like a breath of air under water . . . to see him enjoying the company of beautiful women does nothing to decrease his popularity in a climate where it is needed desperately.”

  “At the risk of his reputation?” Shirlin asked, scandalized that none of the ladies of the Alshari court were taking Anguin’s bachelorhood seriously.

  “What reputation?” Pentandra challenged, growing even more annoyed with the woman. “He’s barely a man, with little to shave and little to worry about. People like to see how attractive their liege is,” she offered.

  “It’s unseemly,” the Countess repeated, watching the young nobleman dance with both of his companions at once for a while, drawing the attention of the entire crowd.

  “It’s Vorone,” Pentandra shrugged. “Honestly, why are you so concerned that people will think that Anguin is young and virile?”

  “Because it indicates that there is no supervisory authority in this duchy!” she spat. “No one to keep the dark desires of the people in check! Do you know where that leads?”

  “To victory, hopefully,” Pentandra said, watching the lad dance and laugh. “It might be months, it might be years, but at some point that ‘young man’ will be leading his men in defending us all from the gurvani. The more confidence his men have in his abilities, the more valiantly they will fight.”

  “We have a treaty!” snorted the Countess. “The gurvani wouldn’t dare start trouble again!”

  Pentandra couldn’t stifle her snort fast enough, and looked apologetically at the countess out of the corner of her eye.

  “My dear Countess, from what I can tell the only ones who think the treaty will hold back the gurvani are you and the royal family. Everyone in Vorone understands that it is just a matter of time until hostilities resume. When they do . . . well, do you expect King Rard to climb his arse on his horse, draw sword and protect this town from them?” she demanded.

  “The King is sworn to protect every mile of his realm!” protested Shirlin.

  “So why hasn’t he restored the rebellious areas after almost five years?” challenged Pentandra. “Or driven the gurvani back to their holes in the Mindens?”

  “He’s been busy!” fumed Shirlin. “There have been important matters of state to attend to!”

  “I lived in Castabriel in sight of the royal palace for almost three years,” Pentandra reported, patiently, “and the only pressing matter that Rard seemed to have was the design and construction of his new palace. If the gurvani break the treaty, then it will be incumbent on Anguin, not Rard, to raise a defense. Knowing their liege is a potent and popular lad among the ladies could well keep his men stalwart in their defense.”

  “At the cost of appearing as barbaric as the Kasari?” the older woman said, scornfully . . . and without remembering who her husband was.

  “If Anguin looked half the man most Kasari are, we would be well-served indeed,” she said through tightly clenched teeth as she turned on her heel and strode off toward the palace.

  She was not an impetuous woman anymore, she reminded herself. She was not the kind of woman who struck out at those around her blindly, or impulsively . . . no matter how enticing the transitory pleasure of violence might be.

  But as she left the litany of complaints from Countess Shirlin behind her, she suddenly had a burning desire to learn the immolation spell that Azar preferred when he wanted to make a statement while he killed someone.

  Something like that would have come in handy that day.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Spell On Alya

  “Pentandra!” Minalan said, eyes wide, as he materialized with Alya on his arm. It was a fascinating thing to watch, still, the sudden appearance of people out of thin air. It was even more fascinating to watch the look on Minalan’s face as he blushed and tried to stare anywhere but at her nakedness.

  Pentandra smiled to herself. She just couldn
’t resist tormenting him like that. And she had a rationalization ready at hand.

  “What?” she said, innocently. “There’s only two hours until the ball, which is barely enough time to get ready!”

  “Min, you are dismissed,” Alya said, shoving her husband toward the rest of the chamber beyond the bathtub. Alya understood – both the pressing need for expediency and the innocent flirtation between old lovers. Pentandra liked Alya. She was a very sensible woman. Besides, she reasoned, Minalan would give her husband someone to speak to. Perhaps he could encourage him to open up a little.

  “Arborn is in my chamber! Have him get you a drink! We’ll be out . . . soon,” she called over her shoulder as he stumbled past the screen. “Hello, Excellency! I’d curtsey, but that might be awkward,” she said as the new maid started rinsing her hair. “Ishi’s’—my goodness, you look gorgeous!” she flattered.

  It was not idle flattery. Alya did look stunning. She was wearing an emerald green gown of Gilmoran cotton, cut in the current Riverlands style, with long sleeves and wide neck concealing a gauzy shift underneath.

  The sleeves, hem, and collar were all embroidered with a lighter green thread, with the occasional accent in thread-of-silver forming tiny snowflakes among the green. The beautifully intricate silver snowflake embroidered on the breast was a credit to the needlework of the seamstress, a fascinatingly complex design that Minalan had unnecessarily enchanted to emit a cool, pale light.

  Alya wore her hair in two braids, but she had them looped under her simple conical headdress. The shape accented her face nicely, giving her the appearance of more of a chin than she actually had. She bore that gaudy emerald Minalan liked to wave around, and the silver and snowstone snowflake pin on her pure white mantle complemented the decorations on the ankle of her green slippers.

  She looked very well put-together, and clearly someone had spent considerable time at the effort – someone other than Minalan, who was largely ignorant of such things.

  But there was something wrong with her friend.

  Pentandra suspected something in the first few moments, when Alya didn’t react the way she anticipated to her nakedness. A subtle difference, but telling.

  “How are the children?” Pentandra inquired, as her maid fetched a luxuriously soft towel the size of a sail.

  “Fine,” Alya said, absently, as she took a seat. That raised Pentandra’s suspicions, too. Alya was always thrilled to talk about Minalyan and Almina. In depth. Sometimes to the exclusion of everything and anything else. While it was annoying, it was also expected and endearing. For some women, the novelty of motherhood never wore off.

  “Is there . . . anything wrong? Everything all right between you and Min?” she asked, cautiously.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Alya shrugged. It was as if she were preoccupied by something . . . without actually being preoccupied. “Everything is well.”

  That did it. The day that Alya failed to complain about some small, irritating, but secretly endearing aspect of her life with Minalan, she was either ill or . . .

  “Sweetie? Would you mind grabbing that robe for me?” she asked, pointing toward a chair where the maid left it. “Go fetch my clothes,” she instructed the girl, who went to open her press.

  While Alya’s back was turned, Pentandra quickly summoned Everkeen and cast a quick thaumaturgical essay. With the baculus’ eager assistance she got her answer and banished the rod before Alya turned back around.

  “Thank you,” she smiled at her friend, as she helped her shrug into the robe. “It’s still a bit chilly in Vorone this time of year.”

  With the new maid’s assistance, and a little of Alya’s help, Pentandra put on the layers of finery she would be displaying to the court tonight.

  As it was her first celebratory occasion as a high minister, she had elected to dress to emphasize that fact.

  She’d chosen a beautiful floor-length dress in deep scarlet estate-grown silk, a fairly rare color and rarer fabric here in the Wilderlands. The trim was done in thread-of-gold, tiny little mage stars alternating with the acorns she’d chosen as a badge at Fairoaks.

  The cotton under tunic was the filmiest Gilmoran shift she could find – she’d been attending balls long enough to know how sweaty she was likely to become, even with the light weight of the silk. She had chosen a golden belt of square links, a tiny ruby set in the center of each one – a graduation gift from her grandmother, and one she rarely had occasion to wear. Her slippers matched her gown, although they were much sturdier and thicker than standard cloth slippers, augmented with leather soles. She’d been subject to Vorone’s sudden rainstorms frequently enough to take the precaution.

  Pentandra wore her amulet containing her witchstone around her neck. Her hooded cloth-of-gold mantle completed her outfit, fastened with a pin shaped like an acorn. And she’d had a cap sewn to match the dress in an approximation of a traditional wizard’s hat, but had paid to have semi-precious jewels from her collection stitched around the brim.

  Lastly, she put on the simple baldric the officers of the court had been requested (instructed) by Lady Pleasure to wear tonight, denoting her position. There would be a lot of petty nobility at the masque, bumpkin knights and lordlings who had made the long and dangerous journey to see their new Duke and enjoy his hospitality. The baldrics were to keep her from being mistaken for a serving maid by the newcomers and the ignorant.

  Both Alya and her maid assured her that the look suited her well, and whatever spell was befuddling the former dairy maid had not affected her fashion judgment. Pentandra considered augmenting the costume with magical flames or some other showy piece of magic, as Minalan had done with Alya’s embroidered snowflake, but decided against it.

  She was the bloody Court Wizard. If people didn’t know that by now, they weren’t paying proper attention.

  She allowed both women to attack her face with cosmetics and pigments, then adjusted the result herself in the looking glass. When she got to the point her mother would have been satisfied with, she kept up the embellishment in defiance.

  “Finished,” she finally declared, and then cast a small spell to keep the carefully-applied cosmetics in place. “Let’s go dance!”

  “How do you keep it from smearing all over the place, my lady?” asked her maid, who was amazed at the result.

  “Magic,” Pentandra shrugged. “It only lasts for a day or so, and it makes you feel like you have mud on your face after a few hours, but it can get you through a rough day with a pretty face. You are dismissed,” she informed the maid. “And you are hereby condemned to enjoy this evening’s entertainment. Let’s get the boys and go, Alya. I’ll get the costumes on the way. We don’t want to be too fashionably late.”

  It had been a major coup for her to secure the Spellmonger’s attendance to the masque. Minalan was hugely popular in most circles in Alshar, with notable exceptions. Hailed as the savior of Tudry (though he’d threatened to burn it down), the hero of the Battle of the Lantern, and the mastermind behind the Battle of Timberwatch, which had blunted the first wave of the invasion, there were few left in the Wilderlands who didn’t know who the Spellmonger was or what he’d done in defense of the region.

  More, his visible and enthusiastic support for Duke Anguin was a key to the security of the realm. While most were unaware that this support extended to loan guarantees to the Temple of Ifnia to keep the government running, enough of the right sort of people did to bolster confidence in the regime. Having Minalan and his wife here, now, was a tangible demonstration of that support. He was doing a huge favor for her by merely showing up.

  Now it was time to return the favor – and her friend looked like he needed one.

  Minalan’s face looked unnaturally tired and drawn under his smiles and grins, and he seemed as preoccupied as Alya. Some of the spark had gone out of him, somehow, and his eyes seemed more wary than merry. The kind of eyes that really needed to be sleeping, but were too focused on obligation to make the sacrifi
ce.

  She opened a connection to him, mind-to-mind.

  You look like crap, Min, she told him.

  He looked down at his spotless doublet. Hey! I just got this outfit!

  She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see the expression. Your clothes look fine, she agreed, patiently, but your face looks like you’ve been . . . worried? Anxious? Afraid? Tired?

  Well, which one? he demanded, irritated.

  Pentandra snorted. As if it made a difference.

  I was just offering suggestions, and hoping that you’d supply the appropriate emotion, she explained. The very fact he’d reacted that way told her that something was, indeed, amiss. What’s going on, Min?

  It’s complicated.

  It’s always complicated, she objected. You want to see complicated, you should see my marriage.

  I am, he said, nodding silently toward her husband’s back as the descended the stairs. It looks reasonably happy. As long as Arborn doesn’t speak, he added, wryly.

  That’s the problem, she confessed. I can’t get him to speak.

  You were the one who wanted the strong, silent type, Minalan pointed out. That had been one of the reasons she’d claimed she could not ever marry him herself, because he was too short and couldn’t shut up. It had been a joke at the time, but considering who she’d fallen in love with and married, she had to reluctantly admit that he had a point. But that did not mean she could spare him a counter-accusation.

  And you were the one who wanted the wholesome farm girl, she observed. That seemed like an opportune moment to bring up the results of her cursory inspection. A man should know if his wife is enchanted. Or at least enchanting. And speaking of your lady wife, don’t be alarmed, but . . . there’s a spell on her.