Minalan looked a little offended. “No. But I threatened her.”
“You . . . threatened the goddess of love, sex, and beauty?” Pentandra laughed, despite her horror. Pissing Ishi off was rarely a certain way to a successful future. The mythology was replete with examples. “With what? Pimples?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Minalan dismissed, stiffly. “I know her weakness and how to exploit it.”
“And remain strangely unaffected,” Pentandra observed. “What’s gotten into you, Min? You’re alone with a beautiful and horny sex goddess, and you don’t exploit it?”
“Who would have thought?” he shrugged, tiredly. “The fact is, I’m a little fed up with women at the moment. Present company excepted,” he added. “You and Alya are about the only two I don’t mind at the moment. Don’t ask me why.”
“I won’t . . . I’m just impressed that you were able to stand up to her,” she said, honestly.
“Well, don’t be that impressed. I’m on the hook to build a temple to her, here in Vorone. And probably one in Sevendor.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that’s a small concession,” she agreed.
“In return, after the festival is over she will defer to your judgment and leadership, and do what she can to lend you aid,” he promised. “I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to you two to work out. But if she gets troublesome, let me know and I’ll . . . take care of it.”
Pentandra didn’t want to let the matter drop, but despite her better judgment, she did. Minalan looked tired. She saw that despite the formal affair, the costume, the mask, and being locked in intense debate with a wayward goddess – not to mention discovering his wife was under a spell – the night had taken a toll.
“You should probably get back to Sevendor,” she proposed, slowly. “You and Alya. You’ve done your duty here, and done Alshar a great service in doing so. Thank you for making the appearance.”
“Anything to help,” he promised, though he looked grateful at the thought of escape. “I really did have a good time,” he added. “When I’m off of house arrest, I’d like to come back and see more of what you are doing here.”
“What about Alya?” Pentandra asked, nodding toward where the baroness was simply standing and staring into space.
“Oh. Ishi – Lady Pleasure said she’d take care of it. She can do that sort of thing, apparently.”
“That’s the least of her powers,” nodded Pentandra. “Let us pray that she doesn’t decide to use her primal nature.”
Min smiled. “And just to whom should we pray for that?”
“Good point. Good night, Min,” she said, as she saw he was preparing to leave. “why don’t we all retire to my chambers for a final drink, before you go? You might want to use them for your transportation. It might be, um, a little showy if you did that sort of thing here.”
He looked around at the gaily colored floral costumes and a matron dressed like an enormous turkey. “Yes, we wouldn’t want to do anything to attract attention. And I could use a drink. A strong one.”
The Spellmonger and his wife did not linger, once they had a stirrup cup. He took them both back to Sevendor by way of the Alkan Ways, and she felt a great sense of relief at his departure. After he was gone, Pentandra and Arborn returned to the ball, and she relaxed through three more cups of wine until she could look at Ishi’s smiling face without wanting to vomit.
She was well-aware of how wine could make her belligerent. Right now, she was embracing that.
But it wasn’t Lady Pleasure who bore the brunt of her ire. She was angry over what Isily of Greenflower was somehow doing to Minalan . . . whatever that was. Pentandra just knew Isily had to be the culprit, the one making Minalan so melancholy. With all of his troubles in Sevendor of late, she seemed to be the one most likely behind the plots he faced.
Pentandra hated that – she’d always been wary of Isily of Bronwyn, even before she knew she was a trained assassin. She was the kind of woman other women learned to fear, if they were wise. Her ambitions were high, but murky. Now that she’d married Baron Dunselen, and was Isily of Greenflower, she had secular power as well as arcane power. Considering Prince Tavard’s dislike of Minalan and magi in general, Pentandra had no doubt that Isily would use that as leverage to get what she wanted. Whatever that might be.
The disturbing thing was, Pentandra suspected that what she wanted – who she wanted – was Minalan. She’d always been ambitious, but her recent successes had clearly fueled those ambitions beyond reason. With the protection of the Queen in addition to her personal resources, Pentandra could foresee Isily becoming a powerful force in the politics of both the Kingdom and the Arcane Orders . . . and a potentially deadly enemy.
Isily wasn’t particularly level headed, either, Pentandra reflected as she drank and watched the ball. Quite the contrary. Her cool demeanor and pretty face concealed a vicious intelligence that was not necessarily bounded by good taste, ethical consideration, or restraint. Or even reason, Pentandra knew.
Arborn interrupted her brooding a few moments later, as a new set of musicians took the floor . . . including some of the Maidens.
To her surprise, he invited her to dance.
“You know how to dance?”
“A raptor learns many obscure skills . . . including the pavane, various brawls, and the odd jig,” he assured her, taking her arm. “Many barbarian tribes have dance as a custom. So do the Narasi nobility. It is best to be prepared to participate.”
Pentandra’s enjoyment of dance was usually limited to one or two slow numbers and perhaps a lively jig before she gave up for the evening. But she also understood the importance of being seen at a court function as much as Lady Pleasure did, dancing with her handsome new husband and showing everyone how stalwart their marriage was.
And, in truth she was curious to see how well he danced.
As the fiddle began and the dance master called to places, Arborn whirled her into position on the floor with the same practiced ease he used when drawing sword or bowstring. Or mounting a horse. Or repelling from a rope. Or . . .
It felt good, she realized, displaying her handsome husband to the other women. She was proud of him, and counted herself lucky when she saw the pale, flabby specimens of Narasi nobility lurking along the walls.
Arborn’s height and broad shoulders, his long dark hair, clean shaven face and deeply tanned skin set him apart from the mustached Wilderlords physically, and the graceful, precise way he stepped and twirled Pentandra around the floor demonstrated his experience at the art. Pentandra found herself impressed with him anew.
The pavane was lovely, and obligingly short, leading the couples on a circuit only half-way around the room . . . when the music abruptly changed.
A brass horn played a fanfare, and Lady Pleasure herself stood forth on the dais, next to the Duke. With a smile she waited until the hall was silent, and then nodded to the minstrels behind her. Then she began to sing as the musicians went from the stately music of court to a lively country tune.
She had a beautiful voice, a high soprano, Pentandra noted automatically, but her range was startling broad as the melodic country song demonstrated. When she came to the chorus, three of the Maidens sang with her, producing a delightful chord that launched them into the second verse. The crowd was enrapt - even the clergy had stopped their critical gossip from the sides of the hall and were focused on Lady Pleasure.
But there was something else going on, Pentandra realized as the other dancers pulled her and Arborn into a grand circle. Ishi’s voice was magically alluring, the lore said, and when she sang it not only ushered in the spring season, it could affect everyone who heard it. There were entire legends about some poor bastard accidentally hearing Ishi sing and then doing something brave, stupid, and occasionally fatal in response. One of her daughters was even known as the Mistress of Song, Pentandra recalled.
But this was no legend, myth, or tale - this was happening to her, and everyone in the Stone Hall.
She could feel the tide of magic shift, subtly, in a way she couldn’t define . . . but in a way that definitely disturbed her. As the music played and Ishi sang, Pentandra tried to resist, but to no avail. She found her hands joined with the others, whose laughter and delight at the subtle change didn’t reflect any worry.
Pentandra started to panic as she looked around the circle at the other dancers, most of whom still wore their woodland masks. It was a mad scene, and she wanted to be suspicious, but she rationalized that the wine she’d enjoyed probably contributed more to her misgivings than any sinister sorcery.
It was just a dance, after all, part of her mind whispered. Just a song . . . what could happen?
You’re too concerned with the arcane, she could hear her mother’s voice reproving her from long memory. Relax and enjoy yourself!
As the dancers began moving around the circle to the tune, Lady Pleasure continued to sing in a loud, low voice.
The words of the old country song were simple and quaint, discussing a young girl’s first crush on a boy, but in Lady Pleasure’s mouth they shifted and became something else. Something lurid. With a naughty grin and a wink to the crowd Ishi began adding new verses, each one slightly more suggestive than the last. With every step Pentandra could feel the power build up around her, but she was helpless to stop it, or even evaluate it. She was as caught up in the moment of the dance as anyone.
The song got faster and faster, and Lady Pleasure’s lyrics got nastier, until the promises that the girl in the song was making to secure the attention of the boy became outright obscene.
Nobody seemed to mind, save for Countess Shirlin, who glared at the Baroness and her pretty maidens from the back of the room, and perhaps a few of the older nuns. The Castali noblewoman was visibly unhappy with the riotous way the Alshari court had evolved. She made her disapproval of the antics – and the fawnish way the Maidens surrounded the Duke in the smaller circle of dancers at the center of the room – loudly and repeatedly known to anyone who cared to listen. No one seemed to pay her much heed, however. She was reduced to making sad and angry faces at Anguin and his folk.
But every frown and grimace from her seemed to egg Ishi on. The goddess sang, and Pentandra was helpless to intervene as the focus of the magical field building around them shifted almost imperceptibly. But of such subtleties are great works wrought, she knew. As the song came to a climax, so did the working – it was too broadly-based and powerful to be considered a simple spell, Pentandra realized. Ishi was working divine magic, something few human magi understood.
To what end, Pentandra did not know . . . but she suspected the worst.
Arborn seemed just as infected as the other dancers as he whirled her around the room. A half-mad, gleeful look came upon his face, very different from his usual stone-faced expression. Pentandra herself felt her inhibitions and worries slip away into the music even as she realized the danger.
The feeling started as a seed in her head, but quickly worked its way lower. She could witness its effect on the entire court, a sprouting of desire and arousal in everyone who heard the music. It was powerful, overwhelming, uncontrollable, an irresistible wave of erotic energy that seemed to saturate everything.
Pentandra looked up toward Ishi’s face. The masquerading goddess looked supremely beautiful . . . even with that maniacal smile on her face.
This, Pentandra realized, was the culmination of her efforts. This was what Ishi had been planning. Unleashing the primal nature of sexuality with the power of divine magic on an unsuspecting town.
“Arborn,” she said, as she realized that there was no reliable thaumaturgical counter to theurgic magic, “we need to leave!”
“Leave? That was fun!”
“We need . . . we need to get back to our chamber,” she said, as she felt the warmth of desire invade her loins. Arborn looked incredibly desirable now, she realized. He grinned boyishly. “Now!”
“I was really hoping you would suggest that, Wife,” he smiled, taking her arm and pulling her close to him.
“It’s not what you think,” she gasped, as the dancers broke up, unaware that they – and the entire palace – had been enchanted. “There’s a spell . . . sort of. We need to get somewhere . . . whew! We need to get somewhere private. Quickly.”
Already couples were seeking each other out. Romance was not merely in the air; it was suffocating the affair. More than one pair had started kissing passionately in alcoves, corners, or even in the middle of the room without much regard for rank, position, or propriety.
“What about His Grace?” asked Arborn worriedly.
“I don’t think he’s in danger,” Pentandra considered, as she searched the room for the Duke. He was sitting in a corner, a maiden in his lap and three more around him. She couldn’t see his hands. Or theirs.
“No, he’s in good hands,” she admitted, then giggled at the joke. Far more than she would have under normal circumstances. It was subtle, but then subtlety was Ishi’s stock-in-trade.
“Then . . . what is happening?” Arborn asked, confused. She shuddered as a wave of pristine desire washed over her anxious soul like a comforting wave at the ocean shore.
Ishi’s perky nips, he was a handsome man!
Pentandra felt her knees go weak, as well as other physiological effects less evident to casual observers. She glanced around the ballroom wildly, seeing courtiers and maidens in various stages of seduction . . . and each scene seemed to warm her own desires yet further. She had never realized how well-built Count Salgo was for a man of his age, for instance, but the way he had that maiden hoisted in the air, upside down, more than proved his virility and strength. Damn!
When she noted how even small, reedy Count Angrial ‘s eyes were particularly attractive, Pentandra knew that they were powerless. She wasn’t remotely attracted to the Prime Minister, but when she saw him with a petite little blonde Maiden on his knee, she was overcome with jealousy and desire.
Countess Threanas had discarded her mask and was now pressed up against a support column, a courtier’s nose buried in her bosom and his hand snaked far up her skirts. It may well have been the first such invasion of that quarter in decades, but the Minister of the Treasury was arching her back and purring like a kitten.
Something was decidedly afoot, magically speaking.
“I’m not sure,” Pentandra said, grabbing a hold of his arm – his big, muscular, brawny arm – and pulling. “But we need to get out of here, now! Whatever it is, it’s going to be big, it’s going to be confusing, and if I had to guess. . . it’s going to get really sticky!”
Chapter Thirty-One
A Plague Of Passions
The aftermath of the Wildflower Festival’s signature fete, the Woodland Masque, saw a town plunged into a mesmerizing period of hyper-eroticism, thanks to Ishi’s divine intervention. Ishi’s Night infected the townsfolk like a sickness or a madness.
Though she had pledged to the Spellmonger to be on her best behavior, to Ishi “best behavior” was a relative thing, Pentandra reflected, as she felt herself – and nearly everyone around her – become affected by the compelling wave of magical energy beyond the capacity of her protections to defend.
It happened over the course of a short time, but the effects were felt everywhere - far beyond the Stone Hall, far beyond the palace. The entire town of Vorone was blanketed by Ishi’s design, it was said by the sages, later. Few of the clergy could explain the phenomenon any other way.
It was as if all of Vorone had become drunk with love and lust and suffered a plague of passion.
Not everyone was affected equally, Pentandra was able to piece together later when she investigated the phenomenon critically. She felt compelled to, as a matter of professional interest as much as in fulfillment of her duties as Court Wizard. For weeks afterwards she collected information on the four-day orgiastic excesses that came to be known in Vorone ever after as Ishi’s Night.
While some were overcome with an irresistible e
rotic compulsion almost instantly, for others it was a more gradual onset. Still others found themselves unaffected until they witnessed something that inspired the madness, or simply found themselves suddenly overcome for no reason.
Pentandra collected reports of husbands and wives who had enjoyed years of marriage together and did not seem overcome suddenly find themselves tearing off their clothes in the middle of the street and rutting with a passing stranger. Conversely, she also heard tales of couples who had been at the brink of marital war suddenly find themselves passionately engaged in the most intense erotic episodes with their tortuous spouses.
It wasn’t everyone. But it was a significant enough portion of the population was to cause widespread mayhem – and there were plenty of townsfolk who, while not directly affected, saw an opportunity to fulfill long-held desires with neighbors and friends, employers and employees.
Commerce ground to a halt as the compelling desire to indulge in carnal pursuits overtook pragmatic reason. The market, the day after the Masque, was a wild tangle of limbs and pleasures that kept any real business from being done. Even the whores who poached the place around midday were blocked. No one was paying for sex during Ishi’s Night.
Convents became temporary houses of pleasure. Monasteries and temples were transformed into lusty centers of sexual excess. Even the most conservative and ascetic sects were afflicted with the plague of passions, causing some among them to break lifelong vows of celibacy.
Nor was age any barrier – the effect seemed to influence anyone with a healthy and active sexuality, and quite a few who had thought their days of merrymaking were long behind them. Old widows became as randy as maidens, and long-married wives whose looks had succumbed to the sacrifices of Trygg after many children pranced around like coquettes . . . and attracted plenty of erotic attention.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 65
