Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “But nothing about . . . Ishi. Or Trygg. Or Antimei. Or the prophecies,” Alurra warned.

  “Not a word,” she promised. “Minalan’s the only one who might believe us, anyway, at least about the goddesses. And no one needs to know about the prophecies,” she said, automatically clutching the Prophecy Stone around her neck.

  She had only assayed the stone once, so far, finding a very clearly-worded message intended, ironically, for the ears of the Spellmonger. One of her purposes tonight was to find a way to relay it to him without spilling deeper secrets. It would be tricky, but then he was merely a man. And a grief-stricken one at that.

  If anyone needed the solace of prophecy right now, Minalan did. The last several times she had communicated with him, either by Mirror or mind-to-mind, had depressed the hell out of her . . . and she was supposed to be glowing with goofy joy all the time, right now.

  “Drink the mead,” she said, aloud.

  “What?” Alurra asked, alarmed.

  “Oh. That’s the prophecy I’m supposed to give the Spellmonger tonight. ‘Drink the mead’.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I have no idea. Which makes it a perfect test of prophecy. Apparently Minalan will know what it means. And that means something, if it’s the first prophecy in the book.” It was, too. For whatever reason, the enchantment Antimei had laid on the Library Stone would not reveal another stanza of itself until Pentandra delivered the first to its proper destination.

  She could tell already that this prophecy thing was going to be annoying.

  “Yeah, Antimei talked like that a lot,” Alurra said, critically. “Try to be confident when you deliver it,” she suggested. “No one likes a half-assed prediction.”

  “I will keep that in mind, Apprentice,” Pentandra sighed. “What I fear is the news that Tyndal and Rondal bring back from Enultramar. His Grace authorized them to . . . well, advance his interests in the region, at Midsummer,” she said, diplomatically. “As well as find some weakness among the rebels. Anguin is suddenly very interested in the possibility of recapturing Enultramar before his uncle can get a proper fleet assembled.”

  “A fleet of . . . ships,” Alurra supplied. “Those are the big boats.” The largest boat she’d ever put her hands on was a rowboat, and the idea of a craft large enough to hold a hundred men was something she had a hard time appreciating. Despite the problems it caused, Pentandra was growing to like and even appreciate Alurra’s innate skepticism.

  “Yes, the big boats,” Pentandra agreed. “If Anguin can take his entire duchy on his own, he will have established his legitimacy to rule beyond anyone’s doubt.”

  “And how are we involved in that?”

  “Minalan’s former apprentices, Sir Rondal and Sir Tyndal, have made several trips there. They’ve also made quite the mess, by all accounts. They want to tell us what they found. I want to talk about the Alka Alon. Carmella wants to talk about the Anvil. Terleman just wants free drinks, I think.”

  They arrived at the Spellmonger’s Hall, that familiar old house she and Arborn had called home, along with a rolling roster of guardsmen, Kasari, and the occasional corpse. Pentandra reflected, as she passed through the snowflake that still adorned the door, that as miserable as she had often been at the time, those had been some exciting times.

  The rest of the group was already waiting in the hall, gathered around the fire against the chill of the approaching autumn. Minalan sat near the center, his mantle draped about him and a large silver flagon in his hand. He looked somber, which, she had to admit, was somewhat of an improvement since Greenflower.

  Next to him were Tyndal and Rondal – who seemed to grow more impressive every time she saw them. Both boys were simply but elegantly dressed in Enultramar-style doublets and hose, though both carried their fancy mageblades on their backs in ornate scabbards as well as Kasari daggers on their belts. They looked hale and even jolly, she noted, though their former master’s mood was contagious.

  Nearby Carmella was sitting quietly with the tea she favored, unless she felt like drinking for effect. She wore a simple smock-like tunic under her mantle, man’s trousers, and a delicate-looking mageblade of her own was at her hip. But she looked content, confident, and almost happy – far different from the fretful girl Pentandra had met at Alar, so many years ago.

  Terleman was sitting on one end of a bench, playing dice with Azar in the relaxed style of soldiers awaiting orders. Next to them in a far more comfortable chair was Astyral, garbed in white and looking pleasantly serene as he smoked his pipe and drank his wine. On the other side of him sat Master Cormoran, the old weaponsmith whose trade had boomed since his association with Minalan. Lastly was Taren, the brilliant thaumaturge and warmage Minalan had appointed to oversee the magically contaminated estates at Greenflower, after Dunselen and Isily had been removed forcibly.

  Taren, of all of them, looked almost as bad as Minalan. His eyes were wide but bleary, as if he had not gotten much sleep. Where once only a wisp of beard had graced his chin, his face was covered with hair, long untended. His clothes were rich enough, affecting the style of the Castali aristocracy, a long surcoat over his tunic and hose, but the look on his face told a story of disquiet and anxiety that she was reluctant to inquire about.

  She didn’t get the opportunity. As soon as she arrived, Carmella embraced her, showed her to a chair, and parked Alurra behind her.

  “Good, we’re all here,” Rondal began, authoritatively addressing the room. “I’m sure you are all curious why we called this meeting,” he said, grinning. He clearly enjoyed the attention and suspense he was creating, something Pentandra had never suspected about the lad.

  “The fact is, Tyndal and I have been scouting some very interesting things down south,” he continued. “We went, firstly, to rescue Master Minalan’s apprentice, Ruderal. That was because he helped rescue us and the Kasari when we were seeking that stupid idol in the Land of Scars and stumbled across the expedition attempting - successfully, unfortunately -- to locate and free the ancient evil known as Korbal the Demon God.

  “But while we were down there,” he continued, “we also encountered an enterprising family of very classy thieves and shadowmagicians.”

  “Shadowmagic?” Minalan asked, skeptically. Isily had been a shadowmage, a specialist in the magic of optics and obfuscation which had made her such an effective assassin. And such a damnably difficult opponent.

  “Relax, Master,” Tyndal assured him. “These folks have been practicing their art quietly for over five hundred years, since the Magocracy. So quietly that no one remotely suspects that their very normal noble family is secretly looting the great houses of Enultramar for generations with their craft. They’re quite good,” he said, admiringly. “But utterly goat-shit crazy, in an endearing sort of way.”

  “It sounds like you made friends,” Terleman chuckled.

  “Rondal almost made a family,” smirked Tyndal, enthusiastically. “But that’s a story for another time. The important thing is, while we were enjoying the hospitality of our new friends, we discovered a few things we felt would be of interest to the group at large. For one, our new friends are surprisingly loyal to the Ducal House, and are more than willing to assist us in terms of intelligence gathering and the like, if we ask them nicely.”

  “Good friends to have, then,” approved Azar.

  “Yes, indeed. During our second foray, in fact, they helped us break into the Tower of Sorcery. I believe you are familiar with the place?”

  “The actual palace of the Alshari Court Wizard,” Pentandra supplied. “An ancient tower stuffed full of all sorts of amazing wonders, few of which are understood anymore. And I hear the bathing facilities are decadent,” she added. “Not that I’m covetous.”

  “You should be,” Tyndal agreed. “I’ve seen them, they’re spectacular. But when our friends helped us get in, we discovered that the three highest remaining Censors left in southern Alshar have taken possession of three witch
stones and were occupying the Tower. And not just for the baths.”

  “They are at the center of the alliance that is keeping the south united in rebellion,” Rondal added, helpfully.

  “Not the baths, the Censors,” Tyndal corrected.

  “Explain,” Terleman instructed.

  “The main council that is currently in control of the south is made up of landowning Coastlords in the fertile vales and plantations, led by the Count of Rhemes; the Sea Lords, who have never liked the Ducal house much to begin with, the Brotherhood of the Rat, who provides intelligence and clandestine services for the council, in return for unrestricted exploitation rights of the slums across the land, and a few highly organized pirate fleets, including the former navy of Farise, who are screening the ducal fleet,” Tyndal explained. “The Censors in the Tower of Sorcery are coordinating between the pirates, Sea Lords, and the council,” he finished. “They’re keeping the seaward lanes open for the fleet, and closed to anyone they don’t like.”

  “More recently, they’ve been raiding closer and closer to Farise,” Rondal picked up. “This summer they were so brazen that twice they braved the harbor itself, and raided ships under the nose of the Royal fleet. Not their finest performance,” he added, critically. “But that, apparently, was merely a test of their defenses. Because the Censors have designs on Farise.”

  “That’s . . . not good,” Terleman grunted. “Ishi’s tits, that’s not good at all. If we lose Farise—”

  “Then we lose the trade routes to Unstara, the islands, and everywhere else in the Shallow Sea . . . “

  “Oh, it’s more than that,” Rondal assured him. “With Enultramar and Farise to anchor them, so to speak, the rebel and pirate fleets will be able to range much, much farther east. Alternatively, if the alliance between the rebels and the pirates holds, then the Alshari ducal fleet could raid the kingdom’s coastlands with impunity.

  “But that’s beside the point,” continued Tyndal. “The real point is that the insidious mind behind this alliance isn’t human. It isn’t even alive, technically.

  “Thanks to the unchecked greed and ambition of the Brotherhood of the Rat, Sheruel’s servants have been hatching plots like giddy schoolgirls for years, now. They don’t seem to have immediate designs to attack or conquer the region, but they are using the hells out of it. For what, ultimately, we aren’t sure . . . but when the undead started to appear, we quit worrying about the finer points of the plot,” he said with a shudder.

  “The climax of their plan - or at least part of their plan - was the capture of Princess Rardine,” Rondal continued. “It seems like a pretty sad ploy, on the surface - who wants a princess that no one wants to marry? But those of you who know the dear lady like we do,” he said, glancing at Tyndal, “understand her true value.”

  “Her head is full of Royal secrets,” guessed Carmella.

  “Close enough,” agreed Tyndal. “If they squeezed her, the juice would be worth the effort just in the damage it could do the Kingdom. And while I bear no especial liking for Her Highness,” he said, with open contempt, “her capture imperils us all.”

  “Particularly since it was orchestrated by the Censors, for their own gain and enrichment. Partially to punish Rard for his ruling against their order, and partially to support the rebellion, they arranged to have her transferred to certain agencies inland . . . for a substantial sum.”

  “Why not trade her themselves?” asked Astyral. “If the south truly wants to be independent and forever separate from the Kingdom of Castalshar, then this seems like their golden opportunity to negotiate for that.”

  “Perhaps . . . if that was their aim,” agreed Rondal, apologetically. “But the rebels have been infiltrated to the point where their original aims have been subverted to those of their new puppet masters. Thanks to the Brotherhood, Her Highness has apparently been moved far, far into the interior where she will be safe from rescue.”

  “How safe?” Azar asked.

  “Funny you should ask,” Tyndal answered. “We’ve been there before. Beautiful place, once. Anthatiel. The City of Rainbows? It has another name now, though. Olum Seheri. City of the Dead.”

  Carmella looked appalled. “You mean that poor girl is locked up in that hell hole? Surrounded by goblins and worse?”

  “These days, it’s mostly ‘worse’,” Tyndal agreed. “For those who are unaware, the place has been given in fief to Korbal. He has been re-embodied, or whatever you call it, and has been stuffing the enneagram’s of his fanatical followers into a variety of former criminals from human lands. They’re called—”

  “Nemovorti,” Alurra and Pentandra said in tired unison. “We’ve known about them for awhile, remember?”

  “I’m just making sure we are all reading from the same scroll,” Rondal soothed. “In any case, Korbal and Company are taking over the planning of Sheruel’s enterprises, using his lieutenants to direct the legions, and his necromancers to supply them with new horrors with which to torment us. The pirates – led by Pratt – sold her to the Censors who in turn sold Rardine to the Brotherhood, who in turn sold her to Korbal’s agents. We know for a fact she is being held at Olum Seheri, presumably to drain her of her precious knowledge like a glass of ale.”

  “And that, my friends and colleagues, is a really, really unfortunate development,” Tyndal continued. “For if they can discover all of Rardine’s many, many secrets, they will have the means to shatter our society long before their legions roll across the frontier.”

  “That’s what you called us here to tell us?” Terleman demanded. “This could have been said in a dispatch!”

  “Not . . . entirely,” conceded Rondal. “There is more. More we did not want to commit to writing. Information that is especially pertinent to the good folk of the Alshari Wilderlands. We have every reason to believe, based on our explorations, that if the evil bastards in Olum Seheri get their way, we are going to become their new workshop.”

  “What do you mean?” Master Cormoran asked, cautiously.

  “We Alshari get to bear the brunt of their experiments in exterminating humanity,” Tyndal explained. “And from what we learned, some of their ideas are fiendish. Truly fiendish. Particularly if they discover the whereabouts of a certain ancient Alka Alon arsenal full of nasty magic, which is high on their list of goals. They want to unleash those on us, first, and then the Alka Alon. And then the rest of the world.”

  “We knew that, too,” Pentandra said. “Arborn and Ithalia have been scouring the Wilderlands for months, searching for the Aronin’s daughter, Ameras. Who I suppose is now the Aronin. She’s also the last one who knows the whereabouts to the arsenal. And she’s lost.”

  “Lost and hunted by undead and very living Enshadowed,” agreed Minalan, speaking for the first time. His voice was low and hoarse, and filled with pain.

  “Who are having just as much difficulty as everyone else in locating her, from what we can tell,” Astyral agreed. “They have searched all over, too. Wherever the little minx has scampered off to, it’s really well hidden. So that’s good.”

  “Just where are you getting your information?” Terleman asked the two young knights magi.

  “Funny you should ask,” Tyndal said, actually laughing. “You see, while we were down there anyway, we decided it would be fun to see just how much we could screw with the Brotherhood and their allies. I mean, two handsome, powerful young knights magi on a secret mission of mercy and vengeance . . . well, how could we resist?”

  “We arranged some skullduggery,” Rondal agreed. “We gave the Rats a bit of cheese they just could not resist. And while they were chasing our bait, we were tracking them.”

  “A couple of dozen bodies later,” Tyndal picked up, “we figured out who was actually calling the shots, locally. And we put him in a situation where he felt unappreciated by his employers.”

  “And marked for death,” Rondal added. “When we gave him the opportunity to come with us, thus preserving his life, he bec
ame quite agreeable to the idea of a change of allegiances.”

  “You . . . kidnapped . . . a Rat?”

  “Actually,” Rondal said, smugly, “We rescued a Spider. Lords and ladies, may I present Master Merimange the Spider. The man who sold the Princess.”

  While Tyndal was speaking, Rondal uncovered a wrapped up bundle in the corner. Underneath the cloak that obscured him proved to be a small, spindly-looking man who bore a striking resemblance, somehow, to an arachnid. He was frozen in place.

  “Master Spider is under a spell at the moment – he is paralyzed, and in a magical coma, to protect us from his inevitable betrayal. But behind those beady eyes of his are every plot and plan the Brotherhood has been involved with for years. Every agent, every contact, every shipment, every enterprise – he knows it all.”