Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Dear Pentandra,

  I call upon you now as a friend of mine and of Minalan’s. Sevendor has been attacked and robbed, and while Lady Mask is now in our dungeon, her confederates were able to make away with several valuable artifacts. Upon questioning it was revealed that Lady Mask has conspired with Baroness Isily of Greenflower, among others, against our barony, our home, and our family. Due to her collaboration with Lady Mask, the renegade mage allied with the enemies of all humanity, Baroness Greenflower has committed treason against the state and ethical violations of the codes of conduct governing magi under the Arcane Orders. Therefore it has been determined for the Order to demand the return of her witchstone and take other just and reasonable actions against her and Baron Greenflower, her confederate.

  To that end, I invite you to participate in the disciplinary action ahead. As a former Steward of the Order, your reputation for fairness and competency is well-known, and your inclusion in this process should help alleviate the idea that this is at all a response to a political issue. My home has been burgled and my children threatened by this mage. I ask my good friends to help me get justice.

  Alya, Baroness of Sevendor

  Pentandra looked at the note thoughtfully as her mind worked furiously.

  This explained so much, she realized. If Isily had been working clandestinely with the renegade warmage Lady Mask, whose old staff she now bore as Everkeen, and both of them were working with the renegade Alka Alon fanatics known as the Enshadowed, then the entire conspiracy demonstrated the power of a new player in the dark game of Rushes that was playing out across the Wilderlands. It also demonstrated the lengths to which Isily would go to achieve her boundless ambition.

  Pentandra wished she could say she didn’t understand Isily’s motivations or her strategies, but it galled her to find just a hint of admiration in her thoughts about the shadowmage. Isily had been a product of her upbringing, which (from what she knew of the Family) included murder, mayhem, torture and abuse. Add to that the inherent frustration of being a mage under the Bans of Magic – and then release the limits imposed by those bans – and she could easily see how Isily had rationalized her actions to herself.

  All she had to do was ignore the issue of accountability and totally misplace her reason, and any mage might have done the same.

  Pentandra found herself growing more and more angry with her former friend, the more she contemplated Alya’s message. Regardless of her role as the puppet of Her Majesty’s clandestine assassination service, Isily was theoretically retired, ennobled, and raised to the peerage as a reward for service well-rendered.

  So why would she imperil that reward and the great secular power she’d accumulated merely for the hope of higher ambition? She could not hope to replace Grendine at King Rard’s side, nor had she made any overt designs on Prince Tavard – which would have found herself arrayed against her former bloodthirsty mistress – so pursuit of pure secular power did not seem to be her motivation. But what position could be higher than that of queen?

  There was no archmage at the moment. Imagining a future where there was one, and you were his wife, was beyond adolescent fantasy. It was a real sickness.

  It made no sense . . . unless you had an obsession with ambition. And Isily was just the kind of woman who saw herself emerging from the shadows, the secret player in a game only she knew the rules to, to become the center of power, control, and attention. Pentandra was well-aware of the type: her sister suffered from the same delusions of importance. Though she was prettier than Isily, at the moment, she did not have the power or the drive that Isily possessed. Thankfully.

  But Isily was so much more dangerous than her self-centered sister. Her long association with Queen Grendine’s organization, the Family, had given her a warped sense of what was permissible in the pursuit of her ambitions, Pentandra knew. And her possession of a witchstone and knowledge of the obscure branch of photomancy known as shadowmagic made her exceptionally dangerous. Her use of a spell on Alya proved her willingness to use magic to ruthlessly achieve her political – or personal – goals.

  Add that to the power she’d accrued through her own ambitions and her rank and position she’d gained through her decrepit old husband, Dunselen, and she was an even more formidable opponent. Being a peer of the realm granted tremendous influence.

  So did having a few illegitimate children by the most powerful mage in the world, one of the few who might stand in her way and hold her to account. By using her womb as leverage against poor Minalan, as disgusting as the idea was to her, Isily had ensured that she could operate without accountability. It sickened Pentandra to think of children being used as political tools like that – though it was common enough, particularly in Remeran households. It was also completely within her expectations of Isily. She had warned Minalan of her enough times.

  But Pentandra never thought she’d stoop to treason to advance her goals. Yet her collusion with Lady Mask could be nothing else.

  As she re-read the message, she could also see how Isily had failed. Thanks to Ishi’s interference (and, she was forced to admit, her own) Alya hadn’t been enchanted into stupefied complacency and suggestibility, as she had planned. Minalan must have confessed his affair to her, and instead of blaming the poor man she had acted like a defiant wife.

  It took the realities of matrimony for Pentandra to really understand the power in that. A year ago she might have been amused at the idea of a wronged wife making a scene about her wayward husband. The theme was certainly a popular one in Narasi culture, from puppet shows to mummer’s plays to epic poetry. The antics of Trygg, the Great Mother, in response to her wandering husband Orvatas encompassed an entire dramatic cycle of myth within her cult.

  But only now, with the perspective of a wife in fear for her husband, did Pentandra appreciate the potency of Alya’s response. She did not seem to blame Minalan, it appeared from the message. And where he was unable to hold her account, Alya did not hesitate.

  A calm fell over Pentandra as she thought of herself in Alya’s position. If some bitch had launched an entire conspiracy to bed Arborn – say, the way Zuska had, during her Matrimonial Rites – what would she do? How would she feel if she had not only bedded her husband . . . but conspired to have to children by him merely as a means of controlling him? What would she do if her rival had position, authority, and influence at court, was protected by a castle and a small army of warmagi, and political favor?

  There was no question in Pentandra’s mind. She’d tear the fucking castle down around the bitch’s ears and invite every woman she knew to participate.

  Pentandra might have felt that way anyway, but the fact was she liked Alya, personally. Though they were as different in background and vocation as was likely, they had overcome their mutual mistrust and bonded, originally, over their mutual devotion to Minalan. Alya had quite graciously overlooked both the fact that Pentandra and her husband had once been intimate, and the even more mortifying episode in which Pentandra had mistaken her for Minalan’s chambermaid at their initial meeting.

  But she had grown to like the bold peasant woman with whom Minalan had fallen in love. She was kind, pleasant, and wholesome, with just enough evil in her to keep her interesting. She had accepted Pentandra before Pentandra had accepted her, fully, and she’d insisted that she come to their wedding despite the idea that it might be awkward. Not only had Pentandra’s presence been a tangible sign of her endorsement and approval of the union, it also had saved the bride and groom from capture, incarceration, torture and death at the hands of the old Censorate.

  Since then, Alya had graciously made room in her home and her life for Pentandra when by rights she did not have to. She entrusted her children to her, upon occasion, and had included her in Alya’s circle of confidants as Pentandra had helped her adjust to first the life of a noblewoman, and then to the life of a baroness. And she had been enthusiastically supportive of Pentandra’s pursuit of Arborn.

  She was, i
n other words, a friend to Pentandra when fate could have quite easily made her a foe

  She looked up at the attendant – Lacnei, originally a spellmonger from some northern village. “Send a reply: I’m on my way.”

  “That is all, my lady?” he asked, surprised.

  “That’s all that needs to be said,” Pentandra agreed.

  Let’s make this snotty bitch pay for what she’s done to our man! she was thinking to herself.

  “I have to go somewhere,” she told her husband, when she got back to her chamber. He had finally returned to duty as Master of Wood, taking over from Jerics. His men were no worse for wear after the goblin’s midsummer raid. They’d assisted in the defense of several villages around Vorone as they screened the town, and Pentandra had no trouble imagining the black furry bodies they’d left in their wake along the road. Arborn was eager to return to action, too – there were still gurvani bands roaming the southern vales.

  But he was not very enthusiastic about Pentandra’s news.

  “But . . . why does Minalan need you?” Arborn asked, concerned. “Wouldn’t this be more of a job for warmagi?” he asked as she conjured first her baculus, and then her clothing press. The heavy wooden cabinet appeared in the middle of the floor and she pulled open the door. Just what did one wear for an assault on a magical castle?

  “Minalan didn’t summon me,” Pentandra answered as she thumbed through the possibilities. “Alya did. But the need is the same. And in this case I might be every bit as valuable to the effort as a warmage. I know Isily, or I did. More importantly, I know what kind of woman she is.”

  “But are there not others—”

  “When the duke sends you to oversee some important aspect of the wood, my husband, does he not know there are others who could do the job?”

  Arborn stiffened at the comparison. “I see your point, Wife . . . but does this have to happen right now?” he protested. “Setting aside my concern for my wife’s safety, the Wilderlands were just attacked. There are still troops in the field and danger to the duchy. And you are still Court Wizard of Alshar . . . not Castal.”

  “My husband, you excel at rationalizing your fears, something I find particularly endearing,” she said, indulgently, as she selected the outfit she thought would be best-suited for the night’s activities. “I discussed the situation with Terleman on the way over, and he assured me that the Wilderlands can spare me for a day or so. Duke Anguin is already returning from Salik Tower, cleaning up stragglers and scouts along the way. Things are well in hand,” she promised as she stripped off the finery she’d been wearing since . . . since the banquet at Castabriel?

  Had it been that long since she’d changed clothes?

  “But it is still dangerous,” he said. A statement, not a question.

  “I would be shocked if it wasn’t,” Pentandra admitted as she pulled a clean shift on over her head. “Isily is what we professional sex magi refer to technically as a ‘slippery little cunt’, and she’s had every opportunity to prepare for this.”

  “So you’re walking into a trap,” Arborn said, disapprovingly.

  “More like we are going to overwhelm whatever trap she thinks she’s constructed,” Pentandra corrected. “For all of her power and her obsession, Isily is going to be facing some of the deadliest warmagi in the world . . . and one really, really pissed-off wife. To be honest, I’m not even certain Alya will leave anything left for me to do.”

  “But Alya isn’t a mage,” Arborn protested.

  “She’s the wife of a mage and likely the mother of two of the most powerful magi of the next generation – so far,” corrected Pentandra as she fastened the belt she preferred for active occasions around her waist. It had several pouches and pockets she found convenient if she was in a hurry. “She’s my people even if we aren’t officially related or anything. More importantly, she’s my friend,” Pentandra stated.

  “I do not like you going into danger,” Arborn said, quietly.

  Pentandra looked up sharply. “Nor do I like you going into danger – but we live in a dangerous world, my husband. You are not going to be able to protect me from it completely, no matter how you might wish to. Nor am I able to protect you from it, either. This is an arcane matter, and it is my duty as a High Mage to see it through. And this is a personal matter, and as such it is my duty to my friend Alya to be there to support her.”

  “You aren’t planning on just . . . rushing in, are you?” he asked, having seemingly given up on the idea of stopping her from participating.

  “Of course not. Minalan is smarter than that. He has Lorcus scouting the castle they’re staying in, in Greenflower, and once he gets back with a report they’ll formulate a plan of attack. And hopefully it will be something more sophisticated than rushing in.”

  “Minalan is sneaky,” Arborn conceded.

  “Not nearly as sneaky as your wife, and I’ll be assisting in the mission plan,” Pentandra said, pausing to give him a brief kiss. “But he needs my help. The idiot fractured his witchsphere in battle, and he’s operating without access to his accustomed power stream.”

  “This seems like an awfully large response to a simple infidelity,” Arborn pointed out. She’d filled him in on the details of Isily and Mask’s conspiracy, including the strain they’d inflicted on Minalan. Arborn had a lot of respect for the Spellmonger, and he was genuinely angered to hear him treated so poorly. But he still did not approach the matter as a mage.

  “This is not about infidelity,” Pentandra objected. “This is about treason. Minalan captured Lady Mask in the process of robbing his castle with confederates from the Enshadowed. They left her behind, of course, but Minalan persuaded her to confess the nature of her relationship to Baroness Greenflower. The two are, in fact, co-conspirators against the realm. Therefore this is about treason,” she repeated.

  “Then why not invoke His Majesty’s assistance in this?”

  “Because the only thing Rard can do is look at the Arcane Orders and tell us to handle it. Which is what we’re doing – but without his involvement.”

  “Which helps preserve the independence of the Arcane Orders,” Arborn reasoned. “If you go to the crown first, then it demonstrates your subservience to it as a matter of precedent.” Arborn might have been a ‘tribal barbarian’, as her mother’s latest letter had said, but he had an intensely intelligent mind, and knew Narasi law like a lawbrother. She’d often thought he would have made a magnificent adept, had he been blessed with rajira.

  “Exactly,” she sighed. “It sounds like you are beginning to understand the politics of court, my husband.”

  “Aren’t you proud of me?” he asked, affecting his goofy, boyish grin as he kissed her.

  “Saddened for you,” she sighed, returning the kiss. “You were so innocent, once. Now you’re headed down the inevitable path toward jaded cynicism.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” he asked, one last time. “I’m certain Jerics can lead the men until I return . . .”

  “This is magi business, not Kasari business, dear husband,” she said, shaking her head. “Not even Alshari business. No, this is a real, honest-to-gods Magewar, the first one since the Magocracy fell. As much as I would value your strong arm and your sword protecting me, in truth I would spend more time worried about protecting you from the arcane than you would protecting me from the mundane.”

  “I . . . understand,” he sighed, resigned. “Where exactly are you going?”

  “First, to Sevendor, to plan,” she answered, breaking their embrace. “Thence to a small castle in Greenflower barony, in the Castali Riverlands,” she said. “Someplace called Salaisus.”

  When Pentandra returned from Salaisus a few days later, she was drained beyond all accounting.

  The aftermath of the Battle of Salaisus Castle was brutal, and word of is result quickly spread through the magi running the kingdom’s Mirror array. The Magewar of Greenflower had taken one night, and a brutal toll on the
Spellmonger.

  Though victorious, the battle with Isily and her foolish old husband Dunselen had required a high price. Alya was utterly catatonic, now, her mind shattered by her role in destroying Isily’s powerful lacis of enchantment. Though it had also shattered Isily’s mind and slew Dunselen in the blast as well, by some miracle (and Pentandra had her suspicions) the Baroness of Sevendor was alive . . . but maimed.

  Alya was unresponsive to all but the most basic stimuli. Though Minalan had summoned the best magical healers in the kingdom to come diagnose her, their conclusions were not good. Despite the fading hope he placed in them, Pentandra was certain that they would not be helpful.

  Pentandra hadn’t taken part in the actual fighting; instead she supported the attack by handling the wards and other passive spells that allowed the attack to proceed . . . yet the battle had taken its toll on her. She felt as if she had jogged her way back here from the Riverlands, not slipped through the cracks of reality to find herself back in that nasty old tomb. Luckily she did not have to go back to Murvos’ temple so frequently in the future, having begged a Waystone from Minalan’s store to install at the palace.

  Alurra met her outside of the gloomy place and helped her walk home. Her apprentice looked quite different now than she had just a few months ago. Her hair was brushed and plaited, and she wore a sturdy brown gown as the townswomen did, though in place of an apron over it she wore her apprentice’s baldric. Lucky was perched on her shoulder and a brace of hounds accompanied them all the way back to the palace.

  Pentandra told her the entire story on the way, omitting only the roles of the gods in the tale. Alurra listened thoughtfully, nodding the entire time.

  “Yes,” she agreed, when Pentandra’s tale wound to a close, “just like Antimei said would happen,” she said, sadly.

  Pentandra said, stopping in the street and grabbing Alurra’s shoulder. “Old Antimei knew about Greenflower? All of it?”