Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Go on,” Arborn said, clearly confused.

  “Well, of all the simple rituals used to invoke the gods and goddesses, one of the oldest involving Trygg, and most universal, is a plea at the full moon made by a mother, a maiden, and a crone: the three phases of womanhood.”

  “Ah, I see,” Arborn said, smiling. It was obvious that he didn’t. “Alurra was the maiden, your mother was the mother, and you are worried that you were the crone?”

  “It’s not a matter of perception, my husband,” she said, even more gently. “This is a sacred rite, a holy prayer from all womankind to their patroness. I am not concerned that Trygg mistook me for an old woman,” she said, a little irritated at the thought. “Besides, according to my sister’s last letter, my mother started menopause last year.”

  It took a little while, but Arborn’s mind began to churn. “But, that . . .” he began, and stopped.

  “That’s right,” Pentandra assured him, resigned. “My mother was the crone. Alurra was the maiden. Which makes me . . . the mother.”

  “But you aren’t a mother,” Arborn said, again stating the obvious.

  And, in this case, incorrect.

  “I’ve done the math in my head,” Pentandra told him, the words tumbling out of her lips faster than she could keep track of them. “I was out for three days, without barrenroot tea, and then had another two days . . . near to the full moon. And in case you’ve forgotten our little tryst the other day, I can show you the scrape on my left knee from the occasion.”

  She stared at him, his face reflecting his thought process. She waited patiently.

  And then there it was.

  The sudden, sharp shift in his demeanor and his attitude. He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed.

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “You can’t fool Mother Trygg,” Pentandra sighed. “You can’t fake the necessary elements of that summoning with mere symbolism – she won’t stand for it. It all has to be authentic. Although apparently it can be accidental and that’s perfectly all right,” she sneered. “I missed my tea five days in a row . . . at the worst possible time,” she finally told her confused husband. “Or the best, if you want to take that perspective. But one way or another . . . we’re going to be having a baby. I’m pregnant.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Taking Down A Goddess

  A week later, the croft of Old Antimei left far behind them, Pentandra and her family were back in the palace. And she was back attending another weekly staff meeting with the Prime Minister.

  The journey home had been simple. After securing the croft and spellbinding the door with Everkeen, Pentandra used the Alkan Ways to bring them back to her office, where she had secured the Waystone Minalan had given her . . . and vomited an impressive fountain upon her arrival. That might not have been so embarrassing if Master Thinradel had not been in the office, catching up on her paperwork on her behalf. The old mage took the brunt of the colorful burst, but had the gracious good humor not to be upset by it.

  In fact, he and Rondal had taken charge of the office of the Court Wizard and managed to keep the business of the office moving. To the extent that she could not, in good conscience, make excuses of overwork to avoid regular meetings like this one. She arrived back at the palace just in time for the weekly staff meeting the Prime Minister held in the Game Room. As exhausted as she was, she had a duty to attend, she knew, and report on her office with the rest of the ministers.

  She listened with rapt attention as Terleman gave a personal account of the slighting of the enemy castle at Langreden and its subsequent destruction. She was even moved when he described some of the more noble things Anguin had done on his way to and from the enemy keep, bringing aid and comfort to the rescued slaves and prisoners they found within.

  Both castles ordered razed, the new magical Marshal informed them, had been utterly destroyed as the mission called for. Neither would be a suitable base against them in the foreseeable future. Better, Terleman said, grinning profusely, the surprise attack caught the goblins off-guard, and thousands had been slain in the abbreviated raids. The few survivors of the onslaught were told exactly why the Duke of Alshar had taken his vengeance and sent back into the Penumbra to report.

  There hadn’t been any direct response from the goblins about rift in the “treaty” yet, but Pentandra expected something like that soon. While the Midsummer raids had been bloody, they hadn’t been comprehensive. They certainly hadn’t been worth the cost of two large keeps.

  “But the destruction was impressive,” Terleman continued, after assessing the diplomatic repercussions and demonstrating he was more than just a good battlefield strategician. “And the defenses were negligible, in both cases. The 3rd Alshari Commando lived up to their reputation as professionals, and I can attest that the Alshari Regulars who rode and marched with them are much better soldiers because of it.”

  The former mercenary unit had been drafted by Count Salgo to support the duchy had eagerly accepted the task of destroying Langreden, he reported. They had behaved as consummate professionals as they encircled the keep, posted pickets and patrols, and assisted the human population to escape while the gurvani inside the keep gasped for breath in their beds.

  It was a bloodthirsty tale made even worse by some of the goblin “artwork” encountered along the way. That was the Orphan Duke’s first exposure to the depravity of the foes he faced. He came back from the Penumbra a different man, after what he had seen.

  “The 3rd Commando is scheduled to return today, with the bulk of the army,” the warmage concluded. “They should be hitting the Street of Perfume immediately afterwards . . . assuming that the duchy can pay them on time for their work?”

  “I . . . I think so,” confessed Sister Saltia, chewing her lip and fidgeting with her dice. “This was an expensive month, though . . .”

  “Draw on our reserves if you have to,” Terleman counseled, “but don’t forget to pay your soldiers. They don’t like that,” he added, casually.

  “Besides, we’ll be getting a lot of that back from taxes,” pointed out Lawfather Jodas. “Ever since Lady Pleasure organized the bordellos, receipts from that quarter have been higher and easier to collect.”

  “Who would have guessed that our whorehouses are our most valuable commerce?” mused Sire Lonsel, the ducal reeve in charge of overseeing such things. “Lady Pleasure’s ladies of pleasure paid for nearly a third of the palace’s operating expenses last month.”

  “Then by all means, pay the men,” agreed Count Angrial. “His Grace will return from the field in but days - he wishes to visit some of his vassals in the region,” he explained. “The last thing he needs to see when he gets within sight of the city gate is a riot of unpaid mercenaries.”

  “They aren’t mercenaries,” reminded Sir Antinon, the castellan for the palace. “They took service directly with the Duke, not for coin. They are the duke’s soldiers, now. Hells, a third of them have already recruited peasant families from the refugee camps and are striking out towards their new holdings before winter. Damn right we should pay them!”

  The program to install strong lords in abandoned or ruined estates, in the form of 3rd Commandos, had been highly popular among the common folk as the refugee camps worried at the prospect of another brutal winter.

  While plenty of the Commandos had spent their swearing-in bounties on booze and women, there were plenty of non-commissioned and low-ranking officers who were more drawn by the prospect of agricultural prosperity. Instead of swords and armor, they were purchasing plowshares and wagons. With the subsidies (small as they were) the Duchy was providing, thanks to the ambitions of the mercenaries there was a good shot that come next spring she wouldn’t have to beg and steal the grain for planting for everyone else.

  “Which begs the question of how we are to afford to both make our basic expenses and pay for the forces which protect us,” Pentandra said, studying the air. “They’ve already been granted lan
d they can’t yet visit or invest in. If we are to pay them for action, too, we soon might bankrupt the treasury.”

  “Which likely means we will not have enough to renovate and repair the palace, much less build this new keep where the barracks is. Which makes the giant castle northeast of the troubles everyone is talking about building a distiller’s dream,” grumbled Sire Masten, Master of Works.

  “That’s a long-term project, if it’s even approved,” Terleman pointed out.

  “One which we cannot begin to afford,” Viscountess Threanas observed.

  “One which we cannot afford not to build,” Terleman countered. “Tudry, Vorone, Megelin - none of them are strong enough to stand against the foe. Yet that enemy will eat away at the domains around them, until there is nothing left. If they do not have someplace else to strike, someplace hardened and defended, they will defeat us. If not this year, then in a decade.”

  “That’s how long such a big town would take to build!” Threanas argued. “Especially out in the wilderness, hundreds of leagues from the nearest town or supply routes!”

  “You’ve spent a few days on the proposed site, Pentandra,” Terleman persuaded. “What can you tell us of it? Is it as defensible as they say?”

  “In my inexpert opinion? Completely. The land around it is fertile and empty, well-wooded and supplied with meadows. It sits on the far side of the central rivers, which provide a natural barrier. There is an iron mine near at hand, and plenty of water. The rocks of the Anvil provide natural and compelling defenses on their own, and when aided by human imagination and a liberal dose of magic they may yet withstand the attack of a dragon.

  “But it will be costly,” she agreed, looking at Viscountess Threanas. “Costly in treasure and manpower. Yet I do not see a better option. We build it and escape defeat, or we don’t, and save money for our shrouds.”

  “That is not exactly a persuasive argument, with our coffers bare!” snorted Threanas shot back. “Unless we can get the King to subsidize it . . .”

  “If the Duke approves this, it shall be a Ducal project,” declared Angrial, far more forcefully than his reedy voice suggested. “Lady Pentandra, it has been suggested that the magi may be able to mitigate the cost of this through utilizing magic - is that true?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she answered, imagining Carmella drooling over the book of plans she had in her baculus. “We can lessen a great many costs. And use less labor. And likely finish far faster than a mundane working crew might.”

  “Then I will recommend this course of action,” Angrial decided, unexpectedly. “If we cannot keep the undead out of the palace in Vorone, then we may well just have to secure a new palace. If there are costs associated with this project - and I know there will be - then they shall be paid by the Duke, alone.”

  “Aren’t we expecting a boon of taxes and fees from this joust, coming up?” asked Lawfather Jodas, as Father Amus arrived and quietly found a seat. “Between that and the whores’ fees, that should be a surplus, unless I’ve figured wrong.”

  “It is unlikely the tournament shall proceed,” Father Amus announced to all, regretfully. “I have just come from the Mirror array. According to the Royal Palace at Castabriel, it is doubtful that Her Highness shall tour Vorone this autumn.”

  “Oh, Ishi’s tits!” moaned a voice from the back of the room. Pentandra was surprised to see such a negative reaction . . . and then remembered the man as one of the lordlings responsible for orchestrating the event. “Is he trying to drive us all out of business?”

  “Nothing so base, I’m afraid,” the Minister of Religion said with a sigh. “According to the Royal Palace, Princess’ Rardine’s private yacht was overtaken and captured by pirates as it left Farise. It ran into the high seas, hoping to evade them, but they were eventually worn down. It is theorized that the kidnappers took her to Enultramar,” he said, darkly.

  “Southern Alshar? Why?” asked Saltia, astonished at the idea.

  “To trade her, no doubt,” answered Father Amus sadly. “The rebels in Enultramar are wealthy. Some of the merchant houses have been accumulating their fortunes since before the Magocracy. They aren’t about to allow their little rebellion to be overthrown by the hated King Rard. Whatever Rard is willing to pay for her ransom, they know that the rebels will likely pay more. And with the Princess in their custody, it is likely to preclude Rard taking direct military action against them, as he is rumored to be planning.”

  “Rard has no business with the rebels!” declared Sire Lonsel, passionately. “That is Alshari territory, and the rebellion is an Alshari internal matter!” Sire Lonsel was particularly invested in the issue, Pentandra recalled. He was the youngest brother of one of the rebels, Baron Daralon of Rhemes, whom he hated. Should Anguin retake the south, there was an excellent chance his elder brother would be deposed and his lands given to faithful Lonsel.

  “The crown doesn’t see it that way,” sighed Father Amus. “If Anguin cannot take back the south, then Rard will try to take it himself with a royal army. And likely keep it for himself and that . . . son of his.”

  “So let us retake it!” Lonsel objected.

  “I will be happy to entertain how to do just that when so many have failed to land at Enultramar before, Sire,” Angrial said, diplomatically. “Indeed, Castal and Remere have lost great navies trying to navigate those wretched channels of theirs!”

  “So let us consider an attack overland,” suggested another courtier - one of Count Salgo’s, men she recalled.

  “And lay siege to a fortress that has withstood all that Castal could bring to bear against it for two years?” snorted Lawfather Jodas. “I am no military man, either, but even I can see that attacking that place with anything less than a dragon and a couple of armies is going to be an exercise in futility.”

  The massive fortress complex that guarded the only real passage between Southern Alshar and the rest of the continent was firmly in rebel hands, it was known. The huge sandstone castle was nearly impregnable, partially underground, and had never fallen to a foe, though the Castali had besieged it more than once.

  “Neither can Rard,” pointed out Terleman. “Not without beggaring the kingdom to do it. Worrying about a race that no one can win is what is futile.”

  “What was the crown’s statement about the kidnapping?” asked Angrial, with interest.

  “Oh, Rard is beside himself with anger,” the old monk reported, glancing at the scrap of parchment in his hand. “He’s vowed revenge in the worst possible way against the pirates of Enultramar and their Farisian confederates. And he has offered the two vacant baronies in Gilmora and her weight in gold to the man who rescues his darling daughter from her fate.”

  There was no doubt in his tone what Father Amus’ opinion of the princess was, nor what should be done about her. He had suffered with her cloying oversight of Duke Anguin for three years, back in Castal, and he had a loathing for the girl that few priests could muster.

  But then, Pentandra reflected, Princess Rardine seemed to be able to inspire that kind of reaction in the people she was around. She almost felt sorry for the poor kidnappers who must have felt that her capture was a boon from the gods. After a few days with her, Pentandra wasn’t certain she’d make it off of the boat.

  “While that’s unfortunate,” Angrial agreed, “it does mean that we can enjoy a lesser amount of scrutiny by the crown this fall. Shall we cancel some of the entertainments? That would save money,” he reminded everyone.

  “Not the tournament,” Pentandra insisted. “It’s supposed to take place in just a few days! There are already plenty of contestants who have traveled for weeks to get here for Anguin’s inaugural tourney. It would be unfair to them and the folk of Vorone to cancel it,” she proposed. “And such things are exceedingly popular amongst the Wilderlords.”

  “The first wagers have already been placed,” added Sister Saltia, whose order was in charge of overseeing the gaming at the tournament. “It would be blasphemous
to cancel the event without just cause.”

  The reedy prime minister considered the points. “The money on preparation has already been spent, and the prize purse is miniscule, compared to that,” he reasoned. “Let the entertainment go on, then. Besides, His Grace is far more fond of watching jousting than doing it,” he reminded everyone.

  Pentandra was pleased. Of all the parts of her plan to go wrong, that one would have been catastrophic.

  Arborn had to make a quick trip to the west, but had returned within a few days no worse for wear. He had no interest in jousting, of course - mounted warfare was not exactly foreign to the Kasari, but they saw little use in fighting an enemy in such a formalized manner.

  But the spectacle of the event was enough to charm the boy out of any tough Kasari veteran. The town filled up with visitors from as far away as Tudry and Wilderhall, competing with the bumper crop of mercenaries now prowling Vorone in service to the duke for lodging.