“Luin’s . . . day?” Pentandra asked, as Arborn returned with her mantle. The harvest festival honoring the god of law, order, and the apportionment of resources and duties was not for weeks.
Right around the time Princess Rardine was due for her inspection.
“That’s right -- unless your sister needs me before then,” she said, casually, accepting Arborn’s assistance with her cloak. “Thank you. Tomorrow I search for proper quarters in town for my stay. This palace looks lovely from the outside, but it’s no better than a second-rate inn. If I am going to look out for my daughter properly, it will be from my own quarters. Good morrow, my sweet. Arborn, I’m ready.”
When the two had left, with Amendra’s maid, Pentandra slumped down in her chair and drained her wineglass. She looked around for more, but Bircei was two miles downriver from her. The castellan abandoned protocol and sat in Arborn’s abandoned chair. The moment that the downstairs’ door closed, he produced a small bottle of Pearwoods brandy, strong enough for medical use, and poured slightly more than half of it in her glass.
“That could have gone worse,” he commented, taking a sip directly from the flask.
“Yes, I suppose it could have,” Pentandra said, dazed, as she took a sip of the strong, sweet liquor. “All things considered, she was on good behavior. Not the best behavior, but--”
“Oh, I have no doubt that she could be quite . . . formidable if she got truly aroused. I assumed she was merely exploring you for weakness.”
“Oh, yes, she’s formulating her strategy for the next engagement, even as she interrogates Arborn for more intelligence. I’m glad you appreciate the situation, Birsei. Not many men would.”
“I have a mother and sisters, my lady. And a wife. And a mother-in-law,” he assured her, with proper gravity, as he continued sipping. “Which brings to mind an issue that, perhaps, you have overlooked.”
She looked up sharply at the castellan. “What?”
“The effect this evening may have had on your lord husband, my lady,” he supplied, with some reluctance. “Some of the topics could not help but be understood, even by someone with Lord Arborn’s . . . noble perspectives,” he said diplomatically. “And some of those subjects nearly any man, noble or common, would find a challenging issue in his new marriage.”
Pentandra considered the idea . . . and realized with some horror that the castellan was correct. She had lightly glossed over her tacit admission to dozens of lovers - and the glorification of a former romantic interest -- as well as publicly stated her reluctance toward marriage at all.
“Damn,” she whispered to herself. “You’re right. Arborn is strong, noble, and . . . but he’s not . . . oh, Ishi’s tired twat, I really humped that up!”
“Nothing is beyond repair, with the help of the gods,” Bircei said, philosophically.
Pentandra looked at him again, considering explaining to him how one of the gods, in particular, had helped orchestrate this entire disaster. Not that he would have believed her.
“But from my small store of wisdom, might I suggest that you demonstrate to your mother how happy you are? That, in my experience, blunts a number of stings in such situations. A mother cannot argue overmuch if her daughter has built a life for herself, though she will criticize it relentlessly. And a daughter who is happy with her husband and her life will give her more peace than a string of titles and a dozen domains. Though she would never admit it.”
“No, my mother never would,” Pentandra agreed. “But she’s not the one I’m worried about now, thanks to your observation. How do I repair things with Arborn?”
“Oh, that? If the man possesses the smallest wisdom – and in my experience Lord Arborn is blessed with an abundance – then he will excuse any discussion betwixt mother and daughter as he would two friends drinking in a tavern. By morning’s light, much will be forgotten and more will be consigned to evenings past. Especially,” he added pointedly, “if he’s given cause to remember why he married her.”
Pentandra took the hint. He wasn’t discussing her profound magical abilities. She also took another sip of liquor. It was going to be a long night, she foresaw.
“And I wouldn’t worry about your mother overmuch,” Bircei continued, with increasing familiarity as the flask emptied. “In my experience, no one has more power to bring tortuous embarrassment and turmoil to a mother’s soul than being confronted with her offspring.”
Suddenly, several things clicked in Pentandra’s mind at once.
She realized an answer to several problems, if her suspicions were correct. Abruptly she set her wineglass down and summoned a small bag of gold she had tucked away in a magical pocket in her necklace.
“That’s about three times what I promised you, and then some,” she said, as she put the heavy purse in the castellan’s hand. “After you’ve cleaned up, I want you to deliver a message to the attendant at the Mirror array for me, on your way home.”
“My lady?” Bircei asked, confused.
“I just had the kind of fiendish idea that would make my mother proud!” Pentandra explained. “Thanks to your brilliant insight!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pentandra’s Report
Amendra spent the next few days seeking a suitable residence in town, giving Pentandra a much-needed respite from the constant flurry of challenges. She had a job to do, after all, and as much as waging Magewars and repelling invasions was part of that job, so was making certain that the regular business of the office continued.
She spent much of the next day - after a busy night trying to distract Arborn from the disastrous dinner with her mother -- ensuring that examination schedules were made, the Mirror array was staffed and functional, and that minor requests from members of court were handled or rejected, as appropriate.
That did not even contain the voluminous amount of correspondence that was piling up. Or her apprentice, who needed specialized training.
She was in the middle of answering letters resulting from the recent Conclave (there was always an eruption of business after a convention) when a page from His Grace appeared with a request that she attend him in the Game Room.
Pentandra didn’t even bother to change. His Grace had the usual male blindness when it came to such subtleties as wardrobe, and she just didn’t have the capacity to give it much thought. She grabbed her bag and her baculus and went. Her arse was starting to hurt from the office chair, anyway.
Anguin appeared in good health and excellent spirits when she arrived - if anything, leading a force to relieve the tower bearing his name had given him a victorious glow that Pentandra found endearing. He was in conference with Count Salgo, Father Amus, and an armored knight Pentandra hadn’t met.
The stranger was in his early thirties and clearly a military man by his bearing and raiment. He wore plain, serviceable mail that was nonetheless made of good steel and well-constructed. The sword at his waist was no courtier’s toy. Across his chest he wore a simple leather baldric as the only token of his rank.
“Ah, our Court Wizard, the famous Lady Pentandra!” Anguin said, enthusiastically, as she bowed. “Thank you for joining us. Just a casual meeting to introduce the inner members of court to Commander Kersal of the 3rd Commando. After some negotiations, I think we’ve reached an accord. Sir Kersal is to become the new Master of Arms, under the command of Count Salgo. His men will be tasked with training our folk in defense, organizing and strengthening the militias, and responding to any threats to the realm expediently.”
“That should give me time to raise troops, if needed,” Salgo pointed out. “But if Kersal’s men are doing their jobs, hopefully I won’t have to.”
“A pleasure, Commander,” Pentandra smiled and bowed. The man was not handsome, and his face bore scars from many engagements, but there was no denying his compelling presence. He gave her a curt bow in return.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, my lady,” he said in a low voice thick with the mud of the southern Riverlands.
“Indeed, I was at Castle Cambrian. I have heard you were in no little part responsible for the outcome.”
“It was a team effort, my lord,” she assured him, lightly. “And it was only the one dragon.”
“And one goblin army,” he reminded her. “My thanks for your part in that. And I do look forward to working with you,” he added.
That was politically important. Traditionally the military had been skeptical of what magic could do, and the long-running rivalry between “grunts” and “sparks” bred mistrust. But there was growing number of knights who were realizing the powerful advantages magic could bring, and were interested in exploring a stronger cooperation between the two.
“And I, you,” she assured. “Commander, it was my impression that the 3rd Commando was rent by political issues – merely my observation from your correspondence,” she added. No need to spook the man. “Yet you seem firmly in command, now. May I ask how that came to be?”
“Simple, my lady: when His Grace’s generous proposal arrived in Gilmora, we discussed it and voted on it, in the style of the Free Companies. Most of the 3rd favored His Grace’s plan, as we were being pressured by the local lords who feared such a mighty army in their midst . . . and grew tired of the demands we were making on their resources,” he admitted. “When we sat in counsel, a call was made for new leadership, and my sword brothers voted for me,” he said, humbly.
“You are a Castali?” she inquired, helping herself to the wine on the table.
“I was raised in Castal, squired to my mother’s brother, Sire Kalastor of Dunnex. But I was born here in Vorone - one reason that my sword brothers favored my leadership.”
“Sir Kersal is the youngest son of the late Baron Edmarin,” Father Amus offered. “He and his father had a strong antipathy. He bears His Grace no ill for his execution.”
“Indeed, he saved me the trouble,” the soldier growled.
Pentandra studied his face. Yes, she could see the resemblance, particularly through the eyes and forehead. Yet this warrior was as far removed from the overfed parasite whose death she’d witnessed that fateful Yule as a tiger was from a tabby. “I hated my father. As long as he lived, I could not return to Vorone. His Grace did me abundant favors by ending his life.”
“Do you plan on contending for his estate?” she asked, hesitantly. That could be problematic. “For, legally, his barony and all of his lands were forfeit upon his execution. It has been already reassigned.”
“I want nothing of my father’s,” Kersal said, defiantly. “I am my own man and have built my own career of arms. If anything, I seek to repair the stain he cast upon my family line. Any fortune I have, I have myself to credit.”
“Well spoken!” Salgo said, enthusiastically. “I recruited Kersal myself; excellent soldier, outstanding command potential. His time in Gilmora has seasoned him well. As Master of Arms, he will provide the coordination of our military defenses. Provide a common point of reference between the traditional feudal military, the local militias we have to train, and the magi.”
“Apropos to that,” Pentandra said, suddenly, “Your Grace -- my lords -- I wish to recommend Magelord Terleman as my . . . military attaché. He was instrumental in coordinating our response to the recent goblin incursions, and he has more experience in the arcane war than anyone but Minalan. Maybe more. He doesn’t have a job at the moment, and he’s willing to come work for us.”
“What does he want?” Salgo and Father Amus both asked at the same time. Even Kersal looked interested.
“Terleman? Get him!” the soldier insisted. “I worked with the man briefly in Gilmora. There are few warmagi who would be soldiers if it wasn’t for their sorcery, but Terleman is one of them. One of the better ones,” he added.
“He doesn’t want much - mostly a worthy purpose where he can practice his abilities. The commander is correct: he is perhaps one of the best warmagi of our age, and he has the favor and backing of the Spellmonger, as well as the confidence of the Arcane Orders,” she added.
“All right, all right, give him a job,” the teenage duke grinned. “If he’s not too picky about how he gets paid . . .”
“Not at all,” Pentandra assured. “And in all candor, Your Grace, we need a coordinated response against the goblins. At the moment this garrison and the stipend we receive to support Tudry are the King’s only real contributions to the defense. No doubt he would raise a grand army to repel a threat to the Riverlands, again, but only after Alshar has fallen. No, if we are to survive, we must see to our own defense. Military and arcane. There are dangers to the realm that are only suspected by my Order at the moment, gentlemen, but dangers that we are ill-prepared to defend against without sufficient preparation.”
“What dangers?” Sir Kersal asked, his smile fading. Pentandra took a deep breath.
It was time to explain the entirety of the situation.
“An ancient evil loosed from its tomb in the Land of Scars, who has recently occupied an even more ancient Alka Alon stronghold of untold power. Oh, and he’s in league with Sheruel. Perhaps even in a management role,” she began.
“Gods save us!” Salgo said, his face looking pale. Father Amus made Huin’s holy sign of warding, wiping the sacred sweat from his brow.
“They have, at least once, already,” Pentandra admitted. “I cannot go into details, but I must report that there has been at least one attack of these undead on Vorone already. This spring. If you recall the . . . strange events of Ishi’s Night, I can personally attest that the goddess, herself, was involved in repelling the threat to the town.”
Father Amus looked startled. “There really was a visitation? I thought we just made that up!”
“Did you think that half the town spontaneously humping everything in sight was the result of really good maywine, Father?” chuckled Count Salgo, recalling the events of that strange night.
“Ishi protected us - that is all you need to know, for now. My lords, I feel it is time for me to make a full report, now that the crisis has – I pray! – passed. And, yes, Ishi herself plays a role in how it developed in the first place.”
That had the attention of all of them. You could not discuss the Goddess of Love and Beauty (and Sex) without inspiring the interests of most men. Even granting dispensation to Father Amus for his piety, he was likely intrigued from a professional standpoint.
At least, that’s what Pentandra tried to convinced herself. She took another deep breath.
“I cannot speak to her methods or mechanisms. I dislike the Arcane Orders speaking for a realm that rightly belongs to the clergy, but I know that much for a fact: Ishi intervened to preserve Vorone. The danger is real enough to attract the assistance of the very gods.”
“Well, that hardly bodes well,” Count Salgo said, frowning. Pentandra nodded grimly and continued her report.
“We need to prepare ourselves for the fact that Sheruel, as demonstrably terrifying as he is, is not the only evil confronting us anymore. This new threat is armed not only with forbidden Alka Alon sorcery, but apparently has a cadre of powerful undead Alka Alon renegades at their disposal . . . as well as a very alive faction of renegade Alka Alon, known to them as the Enshadowed. They are the fanatics largely responsible for the rise of the traitor warmagi known as Mask and the other human renegade warmagi.”
“I was wondering who was doing that,” Father Amus admitted. “Infiltration and base treason do not seem to be the goblins’ style.”
“It’s not, but the renegade Alka Alon are apparently far more devious, and willing to use our own weaknesses against us,” she agreed, thinking back to all she had learned in the crypt that fateful night. “Mask in particular was been sent to strike at us,” she continued. “She had some special enmity for the Spellmonger--”
“The lad does have a talent for pissing people off,” conceded Count Salgo.
“--but her plans seemed to have involved much more than simple domination of the Penumbra in service to Sheruel. I thought as m
uch last year, when we encountered her on the field and defeated her, but now we know for certain.”
“New intelligence?” Salgo asked, surprised. Anguin, too, was paying rapt attention to her report.
“Even better: we took her prisoner,” Pentandra revealed. “Lady Mask and a group of Alka Alon conspired to rob Sevendor of some of its precious magical items, but she was tripped up and left behind by her comrades. Lady Mask was captured by the Spellmonger and imprisoned in Sevendor. Under his skillful interrogation she has given us some details as to our enemies’ plots.”
“That is fortunate,” Anguin said, eagerly. “I remember you telling me about her. Wicked woman!”
“But willing to talk,” Pentandra pointed out. “Of especial note in her briefing was detail confirming the alliance between the Enshadowed, the renegade warmagi, and this new player . . . Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens.” She knew she sounded a bit dramatic when she said it, but she didn’t anticipate a giggle.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 82
