Pentandra snorted. “I am eager to learn how you propose to do that.”
“Why, you have brought me everything I needed,” Old Antimei said, gesturing to the Library Stones. “I have considered the matter for decades, now, searching for the answer. As it works with prophecy, the more I searched, the closer to the answer I came. And that answer is thaumaturgic in nature. I have been preparing for this for years, but never had the power to see to fruition. Until now.”
“What do you mean?” Pentandra asked, confused.
“As Talented as I am, and as educated as I am, and as practiced as I am, there are still limits to what a poor country hedgewitch can do without irionite. But foresight gave me the inspiration I needed. Now you are here with exactly what is needed to craft my spell.”
Pentandra began to have some doubts about the old woman at that point, though she tried to dismiss them as mere eagerness for the prospect of a witchstone.
“I cannot hand out witchstones,” Pentandra said, carefully. This was not the first time she’d been approached about such things – she had her share of obsequious and demanding magi corner her at the Conclaves, while she was Steward, and attempt to secure one of the coveted stones. She told Old Antimei the same thing she told them. “The Spellmonger, alone, is empowered to determine who is worthy of such a thing.”
That made Old Antimei chuckle. “Well, ‘worthy’ might be a strong term, considering how the two enemies you faced in the Magewar got their stones. But you are correct, Minalan decides who gets the witchstones. And rightly so. Someone must decide, and keep order. He is more decent than most.
“But you mistake me: I do not beg for a stone, my lady. I do not need to. I merely need to borrow one, and you have brought one for that purpose.”
Pentandra was immediately alarmed, although she tried not to show it. “Such a jest about the treasures of a guest is in poor taste, according to the laws of hospitality,” she said, slowly and deliberately.
“So it would be, if it was a jest,” Old Antimei countered, coolly. “And you would be correct, if you were a guest. But you became a client as soon as you crossed my threshold, and as such are not protected under the laws of hospitality. I intend to borrow the power of your own stone to fuel my spell.”
Pentandra fingered the back of the ring on her right hand. Everkeen was behind her, and she could summon it to her hand in the blink of an eye. “I cannot imagine a circumstance in which I would permit that to happen without my permission. Nor can I see granting that permission.”
“Oh, you needn’t, my dear,” assured the witch, confidently. “Once the poison you took takes effect, you will have very little say in the matter.”
“Poison?” Pentandra demanded. She stood up suddenly and summoned Everkeen. The baculus flew swiftly to her palm, propelled by the knot coral within, the silver and weirwood cool against her skin. The acorn on the head of the rod flared into arcane life with a belligerent-looking blue ball of lightning. “You would not dare!”
“But dare I did,” said the witch, sweetly. “Half an hour ago, when you first arrived. A neurotoxin. Derived from two plants. One was in the tea. The other in the cookies.” She stared directly into Pentandra’s eyes. “I didn’t have any cookies. But you should start feeling them any time now.”
With alarm, Pentandra realized that she already was, and probably had been for some time. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep her arms raised with Everkeen in hand, and her knees suddenly felt weak. Too weak to even support her weight, anymore, she realized, startled. And her eyelids were suddenly as heavy as anvils . . .
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she heard the witch say, as she tumbled to the dirt floor of the croft. “This is just the way things had to be.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Answers Over Breakfast
Pentandra fell into a helpless slumber that seemed to last for an eternity. She felt the numbness quickly spread up her arms and legs from her fingers and toes. She did not have time to even call for help or instruct her baculus before she passed from consciousness. With a feeling of betrayal and outrage, her eyes closed . . . and she slept.
Her dreams were a chaotic mix of fears and hopes, with a pervading sense of frustration and panic. Her family, friends, foes, and passing strangers all made appearances, none of which made sense to her. And for some reason Lady Pleasure always seemed to be somewhere in the background, laughing, leering, and pleasuring herself or others to taunt Pentandra.
When at last her eyes opened under her own control, it was early morning, according to the sunlight that made its way through the cracks in the rafters. She cautiously reached out her attention and determined that her amulet containing her witchstone was still around her neck. Reaching still further, she was able to detect Everkeen close at hand.
As well as someone else.
I have a choice: I can wait here, patiently, and prepare some subtle trap, she debated, or I can spring into action and lay waste to everything around me.
She weighed the merits of both courses of action while pretending to be asleep, and after allowing her ire at her betrayal fade in preference to wisdom, she formulated a plan somewhere between the subtle and the vengeful.
She was unhindered by magical bonds, she knew – her opponent underestimated her resilience, or the old witch was just generally unskilled at skullduggery. Everkeen was only a few feet away – she could feel its presence, and the power in its witchstone, without opening her eyes. Though her thoughts were still too foggy to concentrate enough to summon help, mind-to-mind, she had more than enough focus to contend with one old woman and her apprentice dupe.
Pentandra gathered her strength, thought through her plan until she was confident, and when she was ready . . . she sprang.
Summoning Everkeen to her hand with a pull on its store of knot coral was simple – a powerful psychokinetic tug would pull the tool out of her enemy’s reach and control. After that, restoring her protections and her other enchantments would be elementary. Then she could get to the bottom of Old Antimei’s betrayal.
With a final deep breath, she pushed herself suddenly to her feet, pulling on Everkeen and extending her hands to prepare her spells of wrathful vengeance. An unexpected war cry erupted from her throat as she sprang into action . . .
. . . and then transformed into a strangled cry of confusion as everything went terribly wrong.
Everkeen did, as she intend, fly through the air toward her left hand . . . but while she was not bound thaumaturgically in any way, someone had thoughtfully tied a bit of yarn to her wrists and attached it to the couch upon which she’d been sleeping. It wasn’t nearly strong enough to act as a real restraint, but it was quite sufficient to arrest any sudden movements . . . like calling her baculus to her hand.
Unfortunately, her psychokinetic tug on Everkeen had worked perfectly. But when the silver rod came flying toward a palm that was delayed by yarn, Pentandra’s face helpfully intervened. Right about the time her feet hit the floor . . . and struggled unexpectedly with more yarn . . . Everkeen’s weight collided with her forehead with a sharp nock before she lost her balance completely.
After being smacked in the forehead with her own arcane tool, Pentandra sprawled forcefully into the rushes covering the hard-packed earthen floor of the croft. It was far harder than she would have guessed.
“Good morning, Sweeting!” came Old Antimei’s melodic voice through the constellation of stars Pentandra saw through the red blanket of pain in her head. She seemed completely unconcerned about her situation – either that Pentandra had just tried to attack her, or that she had nearly gotten a concussion doing so. Pentandra was not certain which one troubled her more. Indeed, Antimei’s voice seemed completely unconcerned with much at all.
“I was wondering when you’d stir. Once you’ve untangled yourself from that snare, you’ll find a chamberpot under the couch. I expect you’ll need it. I slowed your metabolism, but I’m sure your teeth are swimming by now. Kett
le’s on – I’ll go call Alurra, and we’ll have breakfast in a bit.”
Pentandra didn’t know whether to be grateful for the consideration or angry at the presumption.
How could this woman frustrate and irritate her in ways previously discovered only by her mother?
She took a deep breath, feeling defeated – by yarn – and made an effort to accept her defeat. Clearly, Antimei did not mean her any immediate harm, or her throat would be cut. Best to cut her losses and contend with the situation at hand, not the one that would inspire panicked mayhem. She swallowed her anger an tried to be reasonable . . . despite what she was feeling.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, her mouth painfully dry. It was the first meaningful question she needed answered.
“This is the dawn of the fourth day,” Old Antimei said, soothingly. “Any longer and you risked serious dehydration. But you’re no worse for wear – as is your pretty rod,” she added, admiringly. Pentandra managed to snap the yarn that bound her wrists so tenuously, and cradled the baculus in her arms.
It had to be the lingering effect of the drugs. Or her imagination. But the damn thing actually seemed to feel embarrassed.
“Why . . . how . . .?”
“Prophecy,” the old witch answered, casually, as she set three cups on the table. “You could say I saw it coming. And how to contend with it. It does have its uses, even if it is a pain in the arse most days.”
“But that still doesn’t answer—”
“Breakfast, Sweeting. You must be starved. I will be happy to answer all of your questions during breakfast,” she said, glancing down at the disheveled Court Wizard. “There’s a basin and towel over there. I expect you’ll want to wash your face, too. Back in a bit,” she said, hurrying away with far more energy than Pentandra had seen in the old woman.
Perhaps she gains her power through humiliation, she considered. That had been a running theory regarding her mother for some time now.
Pentandra was grateful for the moment of privacy, not only to marshal her resources but also to take advantage of the amenities. Old Antimei had been quite right about her bladder, and washing the dust and dirt from her face seemed to restore her somewhat. By the time the old woman returned, bearing a basket of cakes from some outdoor oven, hunger had replaced embarrassment and ire in her heart.
I can always kill the witch after breakfast, she reasoned.
“Alurra’s on the way,” she informed Pentandra, as she set the basket down on the table. “I had her gather some late-season fruit. You picked a good time to make the journey – late summer is the most beautiful time of year, here. There are wild fruit trees that line the streams on the northern side, and the blackberries are just thick, two weeks before Midsummer.”
“You just lured me here under false pretenses, poisoned me, stole my equipment, and now you want to talk about berries,” Pentandra said, taking a deep breath. Then she paused. “Is that honey?”
“Wild, yes,” Old Antimei said, pleased to continue the discussion about food, and not her guilt. “I collect it myself. I use a spell to put the bees to sleep, then take what I need. It is entirely delicious,” she added with a smile. “One of the few benefits of living in the Wilderlands. There’s fresh butter, too – Goody Ylespa brought it by yesterday. I helped birth her eldest daughter’s firstborn, just after Midsummer.”
“Ah, the life of a busy hedgewitch,” Pentandra said, sarcastically.
“It hasn’t been a bad life,” Old Antimei considered. “Not at all the life I envisioned for myself, but then we rarely get that, thank the gods. Though in my case, I would have enjoyed seeing my children grow up,” she added, wistfully, as she poured the tea. Pentandra eyed the beverage suspiciously. “Sassafras,” Antimei promised, with a smirk. “A restorative. I’m done poisoning you, for the moment.”
“I appreciate the notice,” Pentandra said, coolly. It wasn’t her usual morning tisane, but it was hot and wet, and when sweetened with honey it felt magnificent on her throat. “I take it you accomplished all you set out to, while I was . . . napping?”
“That, and more,” Antimei assured her, ignoring her grumpiness. “I really do appreciate the loan—”
“It wasn’t a loan,” Pentandra insisted. “You stole from me!”
“And now you have your property returned, no harm done,” the old witch said, as she put two cakes on a board in front of her, and pushed the pat of butter toward her, as if it made up for the theft and assault on her person. “If it is any consolation, the power I . . . borrowed from you was put to great use. I can see why everyone envies the High Magi, now. It was like nothing I’ve experienced in a lifetime of practice,” she said, reverently. “I was able to accomplish feats I had only dreamed of, with access to that power. And Everkeen,” she said, shaking her head. “The Spellmonger is mighty, if he can contrive such tools. Mightier than my visions give him credit for.”
“So what sorcery did you craft with your stolen treasures?” Pentandra asked, carefully ladling the runny white butter over the cakes. “A particularly effective cure for warts? A means of correctly predicting who a young girl will marry? A powerful enchantment against canker sores and gout?” she mocked.
Antimei took it in stride. “Actually, I created a thaumaturgic latticework imbued with around four thousand individual nodes, and constructed an access mechanism protocol to control distribution and emission of particular items on a periodic basis,” she answered, casually. “And then built a security frame with hardened arcane challenges to defy tampering. But that canker sore idea has merit,” she added, with a smirk.
“You did . . . what? Where?” she asked, looking around the croft with magesight.
“Oh, it’s an encapsulated enchantment,” the witch assured her, using the technical language of thaumaturgy that few village hedgewitches were aware of. “I embedded it in an object specially prepared for it. It’s not the sort of thing you leave lying around. Not if you’re expecting unexpected visitors.”
Pentandra paused her pursuit of important answers, when presented with the problem. “How does one expect unexpected visitors?” she asked, confused.
“Prophecy,” sighed Old Antimei, before she began picking at the cake in front of her.
“Of . . . course,” Pentandra agreed, as Alurra returned, leaving the door open to the morning air.
Pentandra had to admit the child looked ecstatic – she was dressed in rustic fashion, as she had been when she’d first seen her. All that was missing was the wild hair, the layer of dirt, and the crow on her shoulder. Alurra seemed to be making due with the two puppies that tumbled in after her.
“Lady Pentandra! You’re awake!” Alurra exclaimed, happily. “I was starting to get worried!”
“Apparently I am resistant to poisoning,” she said, more coolly than she intended. A question occurred to her. “Did you know what would happen, when I arrived?”
The expression on the blind girl’s face transformed from gladness to guilt in an instant.
“Don’t blame Alurra, Pentandra,” Old Antimei said, sharply. “Yes, I told her about the . . . unfortunate deception. I also explained to her that it was necessary, as no practicing adept in their right mind is going to hand their most powerful tools over to a stranger and look the other way for three days.”
“You were quite right about that!” Pentandra said, shrilly.
“Peace,” commanded the witch, holding up her bony hand firmly. “Eat your breakfast and reflect on the important things, not your own petty embarrassment. Mighty events are at work, time is short, and if you do not pay attention properly something vital will be missed!”
“Is that prophecy or opinion?” challenged Pentandra.
“It’s bloody good sense!” Old Antimei countered, waving her finger at Pentandra. “Something that apparently witches have a bounty of, compared to the High Magi! I will not apologize for my methods. I will apologize for the deceit. But as I said, time is short, and it would have taken
weeks to convince you to cooperate. And we do not have that luxury,” she said, with emphasis. “Now enjoy one of these apples,” she insisted. “I planted their trees from seeds I brought from the south. They’ve just started to ripen, and they’re like gold in your mouth!”
Pentandra tried to calm herself, and realized that part of her mood was due, indeed, to her hunger. After her first cake she was far less angry. After the second, she was willing to consider being civil to her betrayer. Before she killed her.
“You promised to answer my questions over breakfast,” Pentandra ventured, after a moment’s consideration. “Did you send Alurra to me, knowing what would happen to her – and me – including the events that led us here?”
“Yes, Sweeting,” Old Antimei agreed. “She was unaware of my plan, I suppose—”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 90
