Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  But it was the eyes that truly commanded attention. Amendra had famously beautiful eyes, large, bright, and perfectly formed. They were compelling and demanding, and she used them with the mastery of an adept. She’d inherited enough of the look that her own pretty eyes were a trait Pentandra had traded upon often enough. But on her best day, neither Pentandra nor her sister had a tithe of Amendra’s blazing eyes. It was as if they naturally demanded the attention of every other eye in the room. And then, once her eyes had your attention, Amendra’s real weapon emerged: her voice.

  As Pentandra stared helplessly at her mother, she noted something else about those eyes, something that startled her: they were filled with genuine worry and concern as much as judgment. While that would not diminish the row to come in the slightest, she knew, Pentandra did have a sudden and unexpected flash of sympathy for the woman.

  She had not really seen her since her cousin’s wedding, more than two years ago, and she had been sparse and terse with her correspondence since. Of course, considering their last few conversations, “sparse” and “terse” was likely a good idea when it came to speaking with her mother.

  “Well, is my daughter going to embrace me,” she asked, patiently, as she raised her arms, “or must I make an appointment through your secretary?”

  Pentandra obediently gave her mother a hug, and received a matronly kiss on her forehead as she had as a child. Her mother felt small and a bit frail, in her arms, though her figure was far curvier than Pentandra’s. When she stepped away to look at her, she realized that she was starting to age, despite the deft use of cosmetics and glamours.

  “Mother, what are you doing here?” she asked, trying to sound pleased. Not shocked and horrified, she realized belatedly. Pleased, she reminded herself.

  “I was invited,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “Not by you, of course, Pentandra, but I did receive an invitation to honor your service. As I was not too far from Gilmora, anyway, it only took a few days to get here once I received word.”

  “But how did you . . .?”

  “I was traveling to see your Great Aunt Ardra in Barrowbell,” she explained. “Your father’s message caught up with me there. It seems an invitation to a feast in your honor was sent by this gracious woman, Baroness Amandice through those magic Mirrors,” she said, bowing her head respectfully. “Orisorio was kind enough to ensure it got to me in a timely manner. It was an important occasion, he thought,” she said, casually. “He wanted your family to be represented, and I was closest. Not like a wedding or anything, but something professionally important.”

  “Mother, I—”

  “I think we will have plenty of time for . . . catching up,” Amendra said, with exaggerated lightness. “But I’ve just ridden in the most devilish coach across a wasteland of Wilderlands roads, and if I don’t find some corner to throw myself into soon, I may just faint.”

  She did not look in the slightest danger of fainting. Rising up and destroying them all, perhaps, but not fainting. There was an awkward silence, as Pentandra’s mind struggled to supply coherent thought to the situation. It seemed unwilling to act. It was still five. It was torn between cowering in girlish fear and wanting the distraction of a cookie.

  “I’ll just leave you two to catch up,” Lady Pleasure said, sweetly. “We mustn’t interfere with such a joyful reunion after so long an absence. That would offend Trygg,” she said, with mock piety. “Come along, girls! Let us seek out the Warlord, to see what we can do to aid the realm. Family is so terribly important,” she added, as her attendants fell into line, each one smiling about the delicious awkwardness their mistress had contrived. “We don’t want to stand in the way of such a cherished visit. We have a feast to plan!”

  As the treacherous madame retreated, Pentandra finally found her tongue. But not for her mother. She had to take control of the situation before it escalated into chaos. “Alurra, please track down Castellan Birsei and have him prepare suitable quarters for Lady Amendra and her party,” she commanded, quietly.

  For once the girl didn’t question her – in fact, she gave her an almost-acceptable curtsey and a “Yes, Mistress!” and ran off. Her mother despised impudent servants more than anything, and even though Alurra was technically not a servant, she had an even lower opinion of apprentices. Alurra’s compliance was gratifying. Even her raven was well-behaved.

  Pentandra was about to thank the gods for small favor, when she recalled why she was in this position in the first place.

  There were three servants behind her mother who Pentandra recognized from home, surrounded by her baggage. “Leave that here,” she commanded. “I’ll have the castellans remove it to your quarters. Why don’t you three go to the main hall for something to eat? Have it charged to the Court Wizard’s account,” she added. “They won’t give you any trouble. I’ll send word where you can find your quarters,” she promised, shooing the servants out the door into the corridor. “Down this hall, on the left, take a right at the statue of the Maiden of the Havens, and straight until you can smell the food.”

  Once they were gone, she turned back to her mother. “Why don’t we go to my office for a cup of wine while we await Castellan Bircei?” she proposed.

  “That’s the first civilized thing that has been said to me, today, since I arrived in Vorone,” she grumbled, eyeing her daughter circumspectly. “I asked your secretary – I had to ask! – and she looked at me like a drunkard.”

  “In the Wilderlands, wine is usually reserved for evenings,” Pentandra pointed out. “Not at breakfast and luncheon, like in Remere. They drink beer, instead.”

  “How . . . charming,” Amendra said with a delicate shudder, as she entered Pentandra’s office. She stopped and inspected the place by eye, making Pentandra thankful that her mother was not a mage with the capacity for magesight. That would have just given her one more thing to criticize.

  “This is the Court Wizard’s office?” she asked, skeptically. She was clearly unimpressed.

  “For the moment,” Pentandra said, apologetically. “Don’t forget, this is merely the summer palace. It wasn’t intended to be used constantly, so there wasn’t as much emphasis on presentation as there was utility. Please, have a seat while I pour,” she said, leading her mother by the elbow to the chair in front of her desk.

  “No windows,” Amendra pointed out, critically. “Hardly larger than a coach, in here. And you clearly are not beating the maid hard enough,” she sniffed. “Or is dust a cherished Wilderlands tradition, as well?”

  “I’ve put in a request for larger and more functional space, Mother,” Pentandra said, evenly. “The duchy is in a state of flux right now, but it has been noted.”

  “You’d just think that an important post like Ducal Court Wizard would demand something more . . . appropriate,” she sneered as Pentandra poured two silver goblets full of a decent Taro Bikavar red Bircei had discovered in the cellars.

  “Mother, I am here with all of the other great officers of the duchy,” she reminded her. “We all have jobs to do, and the palace is only so large. I’ve got twice the space that the Warlord does. Arborn doesn’t even have an office in the palace, proper. The Master of Wood’s office is in the stockyard, near the stables.”

  “What does a tree warden need an office for, anyway?” Amendra complained, rhetorically. “But that does brings us to my next topic: your . . . husband,” she said, solemnly, pronouncing the word with the slightest hiss.

  Pentandra swallowed, hard, and realized that she wasn’t breathing. All of her attempts to control the situation were dashed by that one word. She tried to rectify that, marshal her resources and respond as an adult woman in her own right, not a naughty little girl whose truancy had been discovered . . . but she found it took effort. Her mother’s eyes bored into hers, reproving her for daring to escape her influence. As if it were pure folly to suffer under the illusion that Pentandra had any idea of how to run her own life.

  It was an old story, and one at the r
oot of their relationship. Pentandra’s older sister was the genuine image of her mother; Cartelendra was, if anything, even more beautiful than her famous mother, and just as lacking in rajira. A goodly portion of Pentandra’s childhood had been spent witnessing Amendra conspiring to arrange the best possible match for her pretty daughter . . . and educating and shaping her into being the best possible match for the highest-ranked husband she could find.

  No effort or expense was spared as Cartelendra learned dancing, singing, reading, and all of the other virtuous arts a man sought in his wife. Amendra had even hired an older priestess of Ishi to tutor the girls on the Crimson Arts of the bedroom (for which Pentandra was actually grateful, as the woman had taught her far more than Amendra could imagine).

  Amendra had started to invest the same effort in her second daughter’s future, despite looking slightly more like her father and less like her mother. With Cartelendra’s stunning face and figure as a guide, there was always the chance that Pentandra would be a late blooming flower, she reasoned. And the girl was unusually bright, the one concession Amendra was happy to repeat when discussing her younger daughter.

  Unfortunately for Amendra, Pentandra developed her rajira shortly after menarche, and when the tests confirmed that she was Talented, much of that attention stopped – for better or worse. As a mage, Pentandra was unable to marry a nobleman, under the Bans. Or at least it was highly unlikely a nobleman would be attracted to a woman who could not share his title.

  Either way, Amendra’s dreams of a grand wedding, a great match, and a social coup around her second daughter were dashed. She redoubled her efforts for Cartelendra and mostly ignored Pentandra, as her father eagerly began her magical education.

  After that, the two became estranged. Pentandra plunged into magical studies with her father and cousins, while Amendra focused on her elder daughter. While Pentandra was pleased to escape the exhaustive lessons on dance, flower-arrangement, and estate management her sister was forced to endure, she was also disappointed in the development. Cartelendra seemed to not only attract plenty of attention from suitors, but she had nearly the entirety of her mother’s attention. Once Cartelendra was officially searching for a husband, Amendra had very little time for her younger daughter.

  Then Pentandra went away to Alar Academy in Wenshar when she was fourteen. After that the gulf widened.

  Each interaction with her mother after she left for school was fraught with conflict. Every family event she attended brought a stream of harsh criticism from Amendra, until Pentandra found herself living her life almost in defiance of her mother’s ideas about how she should properly conduct herself. Even her area of study had been chosen in part to mortify her mother in the Remeran social circles she found so important.

  But after her sister and her cousins had been successfully married off to good matches, Amendra found herself with one single daughter and too much time on her hands. A few years ago she began corresponding with Pentandra while she was at Castabriel, urging her to look for a worthy husband while she was staying in the new Kingdom’s capital.

  Pentandra had returned each missive with snide comments and joking references to entirely unsuitable suitors, until Amendra gave up in frustration. It was easier to taunt her mother through correspondence than face-to-face, when she did not have to bear the brunt of her displeasure. The last such letter had been four parchment pages detailing what an ungrateful and disrespectful daughter she was, and how Amendra would no longer attempt to assist her.

  That had suited Pentandra fine, at the time. The suitors her mother proposed were hardly worthwhile, to her standards, chosen more for their pedigree or their treasury than their character. She was not the type of woman upon which to base dynastic alliances, she’d pleaded with her mother. She was a career woman with an important position.

  Which was the basis of Amendra’s ire today.

  Here it comes, Pentandra steeled herself. Keep your mouth shut and just let her talk, she reminded herself. That was her father’s only advice for dealing with her.

  “When your father told me that your cousin Planus told him that you had wed a barbarian tribesman in secret, I’m sure you would have appreciated the look on my face,” Amendra began, evenly. But the tone was reminiscent of many such lectures she’d endured in childhood, so Pentandra prepared herself for the inevitable ritual of her mother’s displeasure. “No doubt your purpose was to embarrass and humiliate me by doing something like that. After all the hard work and endless money we poured into you as a girl, I would think that my daughter would have the sense and decency not to ruin her life on a fantastic whim.

  “After all the other scandals you have inflicted on me,” she said, pointedly, making Pentandra wince at the memories, “I had hoped that this sense of rebelliousness left your spirit. But it seems you felt compelled to throw yet one more insult in my face.”

  Pentandra realized she was waiting for some response. Despite her pledge to herself to keep things civil, and her father’s advice to just shut up and listen, Pentandra found her emotions rising in her voice as she spoke. But instead of being upset about Arborn, she was more irritated that her mother felt so involved in a life she had ignored for so long.

  “Mother, I did not get married out of some sinister plot to embarrass you,” she said, with a trace of disgust in her voice. “Credit me with some basic intelligence, at least.”

  “You certainly didn’t see fit to include me in your search,” Amendra shot back, the hurt feelings apparent in her voice. For once, Pentandra didn’t care.

  “That’s because I wasn’t searching for a husband,” Pentandra riposted. “My purpose was not to find a ‘good match’. I married for love,” she added, knowing as the words fled her mouth that her mother would pounce on them.

  “Love!” she scoffed, predictably. “What does love have to do with marriage, you foolish girl? A lovely tumble with a brawny man is one thing, as long as one is properly discrete. But to pledge yourself to some illiterate barbarian in the middle of the wilderness with some wild, tribal ritual—”

  “Mother, not only is Arborn literate, he reads as many languages as I do,” Pentandra said, flatly. “And he’s not just ‘some barbarian’, he’s a captain of the Kasari rangers, a ranked raptor in his tribe. That’s the highest rank a Kasari man can earn,” she added, proudly. “And Arborn is among the most respected Kasari rangers in the Wilderlands.”

  “So you married an important barbarian,” Amendra said, snidely. “I feel so relieved.”

  “He’s also the Ducal Master of Wood,” Pentandra pointed out, sullenly. “Does that not count for anything?”

  “It does,” admitted her mother, condescendingly. “I suppose I can mention that, and hope no one asks too many questions.”

  “You are so gracious, Mother,” Pentandra said, sarcastically. “What a horrible oversight that we neglected to invite you to our barbaric fertility ritual.”

  “Was there at least a priestess involved?” she asked, her brow wrinkled in concern.

  “Most of the Kasari worship the Narasi gods,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes. “Yes, there was a proper Priestess of Trygg officiating. I can show you the certificate, if you wish,” she added, airily. “All the parchment is in order.”

  “I’m just pleased your husband could sign it,” her mother snorted. “Penny, why under heaven did you do this?” she asked, a tone of lament in her voice.

  “Everyone else was getting married,” Pentandra shot back, snidely. “My mother taught me to conform and blend into society, so . . .”

  “You are so insolent!” snorted Amendra. “Where is that wine you mentioned? I swear this is watered,” she said, looking into the chalice of bold red suspiciously.

  Pentandra considered calling for one of the clerks to run up to the buttery and fetch a bottle, but she felt a demonstration was in order. Her mother was impressed by social status and displays of power. She had yet to see what her daughter could do, now.

  I
n quick succession she summoned Everkeen to her hand, then used it to summon a silver plated tray with two silver wine glasses and a decanter of expensive Cormeeran red. She’d prepared the wine as a contingency, placing it one of the many useful magical pockets within Everkeen’s extensive thaumaturgic inventory. The tray appeared on the desk between them, and Pentandra made Everkeen disappear with a flash.

  “Is Cormeeran all right?” she asked, casually, as she used magic to remove the cork and the beeswax that sealed the vintage. “I picked it up in Castabriel the other day.”

  “It will do, for this time of day,” her mother conceded, as Pentandra poured. She sipped it appreciably. “First decent cup I’ve had since Gilmora,” she mused.

  “I try to keep the creature comforts in stock,” Pentandra said, casually. “It impresses the barbarians. Mother, let’s dispense with the verbal fencing, shall we? It’s exhausting, and I honestly do not have the capacity at the moment.” That was telling. Amongst Remeran noblewomen that sort of innuendo-laden duel was a practiced art.

  Pentandra had witnessed hours of adept sparring between her cousins, sister, aunts, and friends of the family over the years. Remeran women rarely spoke plainly, and when they did it was as a last resort, when all of their artful insults and attempts to undermine had failed.

  “If you’d prefer,” Amendra conceded, reluctantly, after some consideration. “Something on your mind, my daughter?”

  “I take issue that you disapprove of a man who you have yet to meet,” she said, simply, directly, and – to anyone who was familiar with the two women – aggressively.

  Amendra responded in kind. “And I take issue that you turned your back on the family that raised and supported you, and let your future be decided by your loins and your heart, not your head. And then you compounded your rebellion when you didn’t even have the decency to inform us yourself, much less invite us to celebrate.”