After the furor of Ishi’s Night died down, she found she could turn her attention to the upcoming Arcane Conclave in Castabriel. While Arborn sent his men off on their next mission to the skirts of the Penumbra, she focused on making a good showing at the conference.
At first she was hesitant to even plan to go, but when she mentioned the Solstice meeting in the far winter capital of Castal to the Prime Minister, Angrial all but insisted she attend as a matter of national pride. Not merely attend – Count Angrial wanted to make a point that the wizards of Alshar were thriving as magelords of power when their colleagues in Castal and Remere saw them.
“The easier we make it to recruit magi to Alshar, the more warmagi we have at our disposal,” he explained, against Pentandra’s objections over mounting such a grand retinue for the Conclave. “It is the festival of Midsummer,” he reasoned. “The crops are planted, the walls are mended, and it is a time of repose. There is nothing pressing going on in the middle of the growing season. And if the goblins were going to attack in force, they would have begun preparations at the very beginning of spring – or so says our wise Warlord.”
“But— “
“Go,” the slender man insisted, “and take as many of our magi with you as you think will impress your colleagues. The Duchy will pay for it,” he added, dismissively, forestalling Pentandra’s inevitable question about expenses. She nearly asked how the duchy would pay for it, but she’d gained enough experience in her months as a civil servant to understand the folly at questioning any gift from the bureaucracy.
So it was settled. Pentandra couldn’t argue with the Prime Minister’s reasoning, though she thought the expense was a bit much for the struggling duchy for so small a potential return. She wasn’t even certain if many of her colleagues would be interested in the boring, dry and tedious annual Conclave.
But when she contacted Astyral, Azar, Carmella and Wenek, the four most powerful magi in Alshar after her, they all expressed great enthusiasm in the plan – even Carmella, who Pentandra knew usually hated such social events. She wanted to recruit more warmagi specializing in defensive magics and battlefield construction, she claimed in her mind-to-mind conversation. If she was going to build a keep in Vorone – or anything larger than a pele tower – then she and the Hesian Order needed more competent magi.
But her friends weren’t merely magi anymore – they were magelords, too. They all had responsibilities and lands of their own, and they were starting to see past their personal careers and toward a larger picture of regional stability and prosperity. In some ways they were actually starting to think of themselves as Alshari, regardless of their national origins. Or at least loyal vassals of the Duke. All four pledged to gather as many magi as they could and make the journey to Vorone, before the larger journey to Castabriel.
Arborn recovered quickly, thankfully, after a few days rest in their chamber. Mostly he just slept. The palace physician tended his bruises and Pentandra monitored him regularly. Jerics, his lieutenant, stayed steadfast by his side and acted as nurse, which produced a few tense moments.
Jerics had never been in favor of Arborn’s marriage to her, despite his enormous respect for the man and a reverence for his decisions. Nor was it that he disliked Pentandra – they had a fairly congenial and even friendly relationship. But Jerics – and many other Kasari rangers under Arborn’s command – felt that by committing to her he had betrayed his commitment to their corps. The rangers were the elite of Kasari society, respected above all others, and Arborn was the greatest ranger of his day. To marry a woman outside of the Kasari, much less a full mage from a distant land, was a challenge to their sensibilities. Indeed, to marry at all seemed an aberration.
Such excellence as the Kasari rangers demonstrated relied on devotion and commitment to the mission, not to a woman. Romantic entanglements bred complications in a ranger’s life, they felt. Ordinarily a ranger postponed matrimony until he grew old enough that he was a liability in the field, if he considered it at all. Few ranger Captains ever took a wife. It was a testament to his men’s great loyalty to Arborn that they tolerated his unusual decision.
That had led to some conflicts between Jerics and Pentandra. She had tried to gently impress on the stern-looking Kasar, over and over again, that she was his wife now. That gave her certain duties, responsibilities and privileges that had previously fallen to Jerics, and took some getting used to. Despite the friction, Pentandra tried to be understanding. When you’ve known your captain since you were both boys, it was hard to give up the duty of caring for him.
Once Arborn was able to stand under his own power again, a lot of the tension evaporated. While far from hale, he was out of danger and that was a relief to them both. He seemed to bear no lasting damage from his brush with the Nemovorti. Or witnessing untold acts of carnal debauchery. Pentandra found herself equally relieved at both.
Pentandra was relieved about more than that, she was afraid to admit. She had steadfastly not informed Minalan about the undead incursion, on Alurra’s insistence, and if Arborn had been seriously injured or killed she would have been forced to. As it was, she could safely tuck the episode away until some future day when it no longer mattered.
If there was one other benefit to Ishi’s Night, it was the disposition of Countess Shirlin. She had virtually disappeared from court life after the festival, and at least one report had her stumbling back to her rooms in the palace five days after the festival, looking and smelling like the most popular girl at the brothel – which was not far from the truth.
While few in the court besides Pentandra and Arborn knew the lurid truth of the matter, the noble matron was mortified, at least of the parts of the experience that she could remember. She was even more frightful of the parts she couldn’t, Alurra confided in Pentandra, once she’d spied on the woman using one of the palace cats as her agent.
Pentandra almost felt sorry for the matron and her lost dignity. But as that mortification kept her clear of the court as Lady Pleasure seemed to be making herself, these days, and Pentandra relished the peace. Shirlin did not show up for three consecutive Ladies’ Teas, and the old guard of the institution were delighted. In fact, it seemed as if most of the older ladies of the court were in good spirits these days, despite the horrific impropriety of the divine visitation.
The fact that some of the old bats had gotten more male attention than they’d had in years during Ishi’s Night might have helped their disposition, but Pentandra was too gracious to mention it.
Carmella arrived early for the Conclave expedition, and she’d brought a friend. The Karshak builder Rumel.
Pentandra remembered the Karshak (who was actually a member of a cadet tribe or ethnic minority of the race – the facts were confusing) from the Great March, where he assisted in the six major construction projects in the form of the pele towers. Unlike the stonemasons that were turning Minalan’s magic mountain into the most secure castle in the world, Rumel’s folk were actually closer in spirit to the woodsmen of Alshar than any stonemasons. Hailing from a tribe of Karshak woodsmen, essentially, Rumel was much different in attitude and manner than the often-arrogant stonecutters Pentandra had met back in Sevendor.
“You said you were interested in building a keep here in Vorone,” she reminded Pentandra, when they’d adjourned to her office for wine, late in the day. “I’d like to take a shot at it. With Rumel’s help.”
“Pardon me,” Pentandra said, diplomatically, “but I thought your folk preferred to work in wood?”
“Oh, aye, as a rule,” Rumel said, in accented Narasi, grinning with far more teeth than a human could manage. “But I’ve learned a fair bit of stone from Guri and his crew, and to be honest, I think there’ll be as much woodwork as stonework involved.”
“This will be a keep belonging to a palace, after all,” Carmella pointed out. She wore a dark gray smock that was unadorned, save for a sash that bore her arms as the master of the Hesian Order. “It needs to impress as much a
s protect. I’ve brought some initial designs and drawings for you and His Grace to look over, but I think you’ll be pleased.”
“And I can get a cadre of my clan to come and work on it, quietly,” Rumel added. “I’ve got a bunch of cousins who would be interested in that work, and who like the area. They aren’t part of an official lodge, so we’ll have to do the work under-the-table, but if you don’t tell the Karshak, I won’t.”
“Your folk can’t work outside of a lodge?” Pentandra asked, surprised.
“It’s a . . . cultural thing,” Carmella tried to explain. “The Karshak lodges are very picky, and have long codes about that sort of thing. Rumel’s people are not very high status – wood isn’t as glamorous as stone, or something like that – and the Karshak frequently discriminate against them. That’s why they’re known as Yglakarshak, which means ‘petty Karshak’, a derisive term, to the four main clans. They prefer the humani term ‘wood dwarf’ to that.”
“Are there enough of you around to form a lodge?” Pentandra asked, curiously. She’d only rarely heard of the Karshak themselves, much less their poorer relations.
“There are three or four little families of them in little settlements in the Wilderlands, all kin of Rumel and part of his clan,” Carmella answered. “Mostly they’ve kept to themselves, like the Alka Alon and the wild River Folk tribes, but that’s mostly because they fear the wrath of the Karshak, if they engage overmuch in commerce.”
“That’s terrible!” Pentandra said, imagining that kind of existence. The fact that her own family’s Remeran estates kept serfs in bondage in much worse conditions didn’t occur to her. The thought of good craftsmen denied the right to ply their trade was what troubling. “By all means, let’s use them. Trygg knows the place could use a little sophistication, and something that didn’t look like it was imported from some Sealord’s sanctuary. We can get Anguin to set up a charter for a construction crew – open to all races – and keep you out of Karshak jurisdiction.”
The idea seemed to please Rumel. “It will be fun – your woodwork here is vibrant but . . . crude. I’m not even worried about the money. The Sevendor job was the first time in a century any of the lodges has employed us in two centuries, and sitting in the woods rebuilding our own homes over and over gets boring.
“Besides, your folk do know their way around a brewery,” he added, respectfully. “Seems a shame to let that noble art go without proper appreciation.”
“Why don’t you survey the site while we are at the Conclave?” Pentandra suggested to the Karshak. “See what is feasible, work up your ideas, and I’ll sell them to Anguin when we return. And then we can use that as a stepping stone toward getting him to approve that other project.”
“The Anvil?” Carmella asked, excitedly, naming the mountain site deep in the northeastern Wilderlands she favored for building a truly strong fortress upon. “You think he’s considering it?”
“Minalan is pushing it, quietly, I’m pushing it, and once the court is firmly established, they will want it. But money, political issues and a firm commitment are still lacking, even if the desire for a stout refuge is rising. There have been some . . . incidents in Vorone that have made everyone uneasy.”
“So we’ve heard,” chuckled Rumel. “Sorry we missed it.”
“I’m not!” Carmella said, rolling her eyes.
“I’m not speaking of the festival,” Pentandra said, gravely. “Gurvani agents sowing subversion, undead sent from the Necromancer in the Mindens, and a smoldering gang war, and those are merely the highlights. Vorone is being stalked; prepared, almost.”
“But you seem to have things well in hand, Pen,” Carmella pointed out. “Despite all of that, the place is still here.”
“Let’s toast to low expectations, then,” Pentandra said, raising her glass. “Which seems appropriate, on the eve of the Conclave.”
The other magi arrived in Vorone in two larger waves. Astyral, Azar, Bendonal, Master Cormoran and the warmagi from Tudry and the Penumbra came to town in one long column as near to a parade as one could wish. A parade complete with magical fireworks and other wonders, thanks to the showy nature of the average warmage. The second group arrived from the east lands a day later, led by Baron Wenek, and including the magi clustered around Timberwatch. Ormar the Alchemist, Landrik of Honeyhall, and a half-dozen other minor magelords gathered.
The Prime Minister graciously put most of them up in the palace, with the overflow encamped in the courtyard overnight. Count Angrial and the Duke personally feted the magi before their departure in a magnificent feast in the Stone Hall.
Count Angrial seemed particularly pleased at the turn out and the political message it would send to his rivals in Castal and Remere. Anguin seemed genuinely enchanted at the sheer number of wizards in one place, and the feast quickly became a contest of who could dazzle the duke more with their magical displays. Pentandra had other issues in mind.
“You know,” she said to Astyral, mid-way through dinner, “this has the seeds of an Alshari Wizard’s Council.”
“We’ve already discussed it,” agreed Astyral. “It’s unofficial, at the moment, but that’s only because we lack the leadership of the ducal court wizard.”
“Don’t I lead enough?” Pentandra protested, disgustedly.
“We’ve seen what Minalan has accomplished with his local Sevendor Council,” Astyral pointed out. “Banamor, Olmeg, the enchanters of the Bouleuterion . . . he’s even included sports like Sire Cei and that funny knight of his, Sir Fes. Look what it’s done for his country.”
“He’s also poured gold into it like a bottomless pit,” Pentandra reminded him.
“And became rich in the process,” Astyral riposted. “We both know what snowstone is really worth, not to mention the other pretty rocks in his collection. Part of that is sheer magical power, but part of that is letting complementary wizards work together for the improvement of all.”
“Well, it’s well-known that Anguin favors the settlement of more magi in the Wilderlands, particularly warmagi,” she nodded. “Any you can persuade to join us would be seen as a boon.”
“Well, it’s not like there is a dearth of abandoned estates and freeholds,” agreed the charming Gilmoran mage. “But protecting them is the problem. Anything close to the Penumbra requires a damnable amount in security costs.”
“Which is why we’re looking eastward, beyond the Danz River. That region was already sparsely populated before the invasion, and there isn’t a lot of gurvani activity there, from what we’ve heard.”
“Ah, the magical land behind the pele towers,” Astyral nodded, enthusiastically. “Apart from the number of wild tribes, bandits, refugees and dangerous wild animals, it’s completely safe.”
“Nothing a High Mage couldn’t contend with,” Pentandra shrugged. “It’s land that Anguin technically owns, and now that the 3rd Commando has started arriving, there will be experienced soldiers to help hold it.”
“Then let us, indeed, initiate an Alshari Wizard’s Council,” Astyral approved, congenially. “I nominate the Court Wizard as titular head and principal officer.”
“Go to hell, Astyral,” sighed Pentandra. “I have enough to do already!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find someone else to actually run it,” he proposed, soothingly.
The matter was tabled until the next day, when the long line of carriages and horses departed for the journey to Castabriel. It was a merry column, as old friends reacquainted and stories were swapped. Along the way a few stragglers joined the caravan, and an inevitable wake of fellow travelers joined the journey as it made its way south along the Timber Road into Gilmora.
Along the way, three days into the journey, they passed a large column of 3rd Commando infantrymen who were willing to camp alongside the magi and get to know their new employers. Some of them Pentandra had encountered before on the battlefields around Castle Cambrian, and all of them impressed her as good, professional soldiers.
More, they were genuinely eager to be quit of Gilmora, which had turned into an unfriendly place for them. They were very enthusiastic about the welcome they were promised they would receive in Vorone and the Wilderlands.
Once the caravan of wizards passed through Barrowbell, a week later, and hired a barge to take them the rest of the way into the Riverlands, proper, Pentandra started to relax a little. Unlike previous Conclaves, she was not in charge of every little detail, and she found the prospect of enjoying the event she’d organized for years quite appealing. She was looking forward to seeing how Genthil, her protégé at the Order, handled the Conclave, for one thing.
At the busy docks at Castabriel she had her servants from Fairoaks meet her with her coach with a few dozen blue baldrics with the arms of Alshar (the antler portion of the arms, at least) embroidered upon them. Getting them made upon such short notice merely took coin, but they did add a handsome splash of color and uniformity to the magi from the north. She handed one out to each Alshari mage in their party, reminding them that they were representing the duchy . . . and exhorting them to make a good showing.
They arrived at the city at dusk, casting beautiful magelights to hover over their procession as they made their way through the crowded streets of Castabriel. That attracted a lot of attention, particularly from the clergy whose evening services were disrupted by the spectacle.
“That was impressive,” Minalan told her, after a footman assisted Pentandra from her coach in front of the looming tower of the Arcane Orders’ headquarters. Liveried grooms came out and led the horses to the stable, too, which she found impressive. That hadn’t happened when she was in charge. She liked it. “I’m surprised you didn’t arrange for a fanfare at your arrival,” he teased. He looked older, more worn and tired, but genuinely pleased to see her. She couldn’t help flirting a bit.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 73
