Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  They quoted (and, more frequently, misquoted) laws from the Book of Duin to justify their actions. Their entire defense revolved around “We were defending our lands!” They began indignantly enough, as if the entire affair was a purposeful slight against their inflated sense of importance, but as Father Jodas’ team of prosecuting monks put question after question to them, their indignity died, replaced with defeat.

  It quickly became clear to them that Sir Helden’s caustic attitude, Sir Oacei’s defiant tone and Sire Gand’s pomposity were doing nothing to impress the court. As the questions got more specific, covering their sworn duties to the Duke, they realized that they were going to be found guilty. The Duke was not nearly as forgiving to a fellow nobleman under those circumstances as they had anticipated.

  He said as much in his judgment.

  “If you gentlemen are so ardent to fight and defend Alshar, then we can find a better role for you than mere manor lord,” Duke Anguin pronounced. “I was with those marchers, for a time. They posed no threat to the Realm, rendered it a tremendous service, and the Spellmonger in whose charge they were had my complete authority to proceed. As you gentlemen were told. Yet you persisted in the face of this.

  “While Trygg knows we need good lords to rule the people for us, you three knights have betrayed that trust by your actions. I will permit you to retain your nobility and your knighthood if you will each volunteer for two years’ duty in the Iron Band. Otherwise you may surrender your titles and your spurs and serve only one year. What say you?”

  The choice seemed unappealing to the men, but without discussion amongst themselves they came to a consensus, and elected to keep their titles and extend their stay in the Penumbra.

  “A good decision,” Anguin nodded, solemnly. “You have one week to turn over your affairs and report to Brother Caudel at Castle Defiant. Failure to do so will merit outlawry,” he added, as the Ducal Reeve led the men away. Outlawry was a serious matter, the sort that no noble wanted to contend with. It meant that anyone - even the lowliest serf or spud - could kill you without fear of justice.

  “Our two cases, and we weren’t even called,” Arborn whispered a frustrated sigh. “Are all Narasi courts like this?”

  “This was a model of efficiency, for a change,” Pentandra whispered back. “Those earlier cases had been lingering on the docket for years.”

  “Just seems a waste, to me,” Arborn sniffed. “I could have been doing . . . all sorts of other things.”

  “Court is supposed to be boring,” Pentandra reminded him.

  She tried to remind herself of that fact a few moments later, when – to the astonishment of the entire hall – a cloaked and cowled figure was escorted to the center of the court, facing the throne, his hands bound in front of him.

  “His Grace calls Lord Marfanth of Duers to answer for charges of treason!” the deep-voiced herald bellowed. The entire room came awake at the mention of the word.

  “Read the charges,” Duke Anguin urged his herald, grimly.

  “Lord Marfanth of Duers stands accused of aiding rebellion in the duchy,” the herald said, simply. “Call Lawfather Jonas to read the complete charges.”

  The old monk stood, his eyes clear and bright, and cleared his throat as one of his assistants brought the appropriate scroll to him. He read a few words and then looked up at the prisoner and back, before beginning to relay them to the court.

  “Lord Marfanth is the lord of the domain of Duers, near the northern bank of the Poros,” Father Jonas explained. “His late liege, Baron Lincei, called his banners during the first outbreak of the emergency as his liege, the Duke, ordered. Yet Lord Marfanth begged off appearing in person, citing illness, and sent less than half of his required muster to his liege. Though Duers has been assessed nine lances, the contingent from the domain that reported to Baron Lincei was less than twenty men, all peasants, militia of an inferior sort. It was surmised at the time of muster that Lord Marfanth simply emptied his dungeons and drafted his troublemakers to fulfill the smallest portion of his muster.

  “When Baron Lincei fell that summer, Lord Marfanth seized two of his neighbors’ estates from their widows and began ruling his lands in his own name. When called to account for his actions by the heirs to his peers, he attacked three of them with his forces and took a third estate in an illegal and undeclared war, in violation of the Laws of Duin. A fellow vassal, Sire Culyn, took issue with his behavior and challenged Marfanth in front of witnesses to appear before the Lord Steward of the Realm for judgment. Lord Marfanth instead set upon the knight and his squires from ambush, slew them, and took his holding. He was heard to declare at the time that he would never follow any Castali lord, and that the only legitimate government was in Falas, not Vorone.”

  “You deny my right to the coronet?” Anguin asked, surprised.

  “Your father was a proper Duke of Alshar,” the voice came from the cowl. “You are a Castali puppet.”

  There was a dark murmur through the court at the defiant temerity of the lord. Many reached for the hilts of their swords at the words. Anguin accepted them calmly, raising his hand for quiet.

  “This is not an uncommon fiction,” Anguin announced in a loud, strong voice. “The idea has spread that my father, may the gods bless him in the afterlife, sat upon this seat legitimately, while I – his first-born legitimate son – have somehow stolen it. If my father was a proper Duke of Alshar, then as his only male heir I, too, and the proper Duke of Alshar. No matter what alliances or allegiances I have undertaken. Lord Marfanth, if I am not a legitimate duke, who then rules with legitimacy in Alshar?”

  Marfanth tossed his head, throwing back his cowl. His face was covered with vicious bruises and abrasions. “The only real government in this duchy is in Falas,” he said, arrogantly. “This? This is a farce! A boy on a chair with all of you pretending that he’s in charge! He’s no duke! Can’t you see? He’s only pretending, and you are all pretending along with him!”

  “Silence!” commanded Lawfather Jonas, a deep frown on his face. “You will keep your tone respectful in front of this court!”

  “Court?” scoffed the prisoner. “This is a rabble, not a court! Castali lackeys and idiot Wilderlords in exile, mercenaries and adventurers, thieves and corrupt priests – that’s what you have brought to rescue Vorone, Anguin. You might pretend to be a duke, and they might go along with it, but you are no duke!”

  “Enough,” Anguin said with disgust in his voice. He was visibly trying to control his emotions. “We shall see if I am a duke or a pretender. The Duke has capital authority in cases such as this, and though you have been given every opportunity, you have denied my rank and my authority at every turn.

  “More, you visited insults on me and my noble courtiers. I may not live in Falas, but if this is the attitude of the Falai to my rule, I daresay I think I prefer Vorone . . . and as a Duke it is my prerogative to select my own capital.

  “So as a Duke, in my own capital, I recognize your treason with my own ears. You, Lord Marfanth, are hereby stripped of your lands and your titles. Your estate is forfeit to the Coronet, as a result of your treason. And I sentence you to death at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  The powerful words in the young, shaking voice did little to affect the vitriol Lord Marfanth apparently felt in his soul. He scoffed at the pronouncement of his execution, and chuckled at being stripped of both nobility and patrimony.

  “Death? You don’t have the courage!” spat Marfanth. “See if you can find someone willing to execute me – I have powerful family in Falas!” he reported, viciously. “When they retake this province, it won’t be my head on the gate. When they strike down the false Castali puppet and replace you with a proper—AAHHHHHHGH!” he finished in a scream, as flames burst from the hem of his robe and quickly consumed him. The sudden eruption of fire in the middle of the hall alarmed everyone in court, and a few blades were drawn against custom at the fire.

  For his part, Marfanth realized t
o his horror what was happening as Azar took a step forward, looked casually into the dying man’s burning, bruised face, and then finished the spell with a word that completely consumed the prisoner and stopped his agonized screaming. In moments the burnt body smoldered on the floor and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke filled the air.

  Everyone was staring at Azar, who seemed unconcerned by the attention, at first. Then, realizing that he had an audience, he turned and surveyed the shocked faces of the assembled.

  “Oh,” he said, finally. “I just figured I would take care of that for you, Your Grace,” he assured. “I suppose I should ask for permission, next time.”

  “That would be wise,” Anguin said, faintly. His face was white, as were several others. Except for Father Jodas, who glared darkly at the warmage for his temerity. The rest of the court was ashen. Few had seen the full power of a warmage that close before, much less felt the heat of a burning man on their faces or smelled the strange odor of the result.

  “Sorry, Your Grace, but you did say at the earliest opportunity,” Azar pointed out, apologetically. “Should I have waited?” he asked, innocently. “I should have waited,” he decided. “My mistake.”

  “No mistake,” Anguin decided, grimly. “Sentence was pronounced. There is no appeal from a final judgment against a vassal when a duke charges him with treason. I was going to hold a public execution and make an example out of him, but . . .”

  “Your Grace, I think a sufficient example has been made by the Magelord,” Father Jonas said, quietly but irritated. “Though – properly – a man should have time to shrive his soul and make arrangements for his family. Before he is taken by the Duke’s executioner. His official executioner,” he added.

  Azar realized that he may have overstepped his authority, and possibly alienated the monk who had devoted his significant spiritual life to the pursuit of justice. Pentandra was afraid for a moment that the warmage would turn his famously impetuous ire loose on the rest of the court, starting with the clergyman. She prepared to summon Everkeen in response.

  Instead the warmage cleared his throat as he stood over the smoldering corpse. “Let there be no doubt that the magelords of Alshar know their proper liege, are his loyal retainers, and will not tolerate disrespectful language to His Grace!” he called, loudly. “Any further treasons will be met with similar ferocity!”

  With a last look around at the stunned faces, he retook his seat next to Astyral. If the Gilmoran magelord was bothered by his friend’s sudden and decisive actions, he didn’t show it. Two guardsmen dragged the corpse away, leaving a trail of ash and blood behind on the floor, while the herald closed the criminal proceedings of the court.

  Pentandra was relieved at that. She hadn’t relished the idea of testifying anyway, and she wasn’t particularly happy with the way Azar had handled himself, though he couldn’t disagree with the results. Sitting through a few minutes of special recognition and awards was easy by comparison, and the hour was already growing later than she’d prefer.

  That’s when she heard the herald boom out her name: “Lady Pentandra, Wizard to the Court of Alshar! Come forward and be recognized!”

  Pentandra stumbled out of her seat in a daze, wondering what Anguin had planned for her – probably wanting to invoke her assistance in the new keep he wanted to build next to the palace.

  Instead he presented her with the deed to a small estate seven miles upstream from Vorone, ‘in appreciation of her valuable efforts to pacify the criminal element of the city,” the herald read.

  “My lady Pentandra, since you first arrived in support of my ascension you and your husband have been powerful aids and allies in my struggles,” Anguin said, not reading from anything. “Your adept and subtle use of magic has already been a great boon to the duchy in the few weeks you have held your position, and the town of Vorone in particular thrives better because of it. Please accept this small token of our appreciation in the hopes that it will give you further means to improve our realm.”

  Pentandra took the folded parchment gingerly in her hands, bowing and thanking the Duke while the herald called the next courtier – Count Salgo – for a similar gift

  Pentandra returned to her seat in a daze. Arborn embraced her happily and asked to look at the deed after she sat.

  “Where is Wythland?” Arborn asked. “I haven’t heard of it before.”

  “It’s . . . I have,” Pentandra admitted. “According to this, it’s about seven and a half miles downstream on the southern bank of the river. It looks small but cozy,” she decided, looking at the map included with the deed.

  “When did you hear of Wythland?” Arborn asked, his brow furrowed.

  “I . . . I heard of it this morning,” she recalled. “Alurra mentioned it, I think, this morning. I hadn’t heard of it before then,” she admitted.

  “Wait, Alurra knew . . . that you would be given . . . this estate in particular?”

  “Alurra didn’t,” Pentandra decided. “But her mistress, this Antimei, apparently did. Which supports the idea that she dabbles in prophecy.”

  “It sounds as if she’s beyond dabbling,” Arborn observed. “Perhaps you should consider taking this apprentice,” he suggested.

  “I’m considering it,” she agreed with a whispered sigh.

  The court proceedings had included similar awards of small local estates for another four or five loyal retainers, and then finally some ceremonial presentations to the court.

  Pentandra found that more interesting than the deed to the little country estate she’d been granted. Six young women were presented to the Duke, none of them more than a year younger than he, by some of the senior Wilderlords in attendance. He graciously welcomed them, apologized for not having a proper Duchess at his side at the moment to take care of them, but jokingly mentioned that the position was available.

  That caused a raucous laugh among the courtiers. It also set the stage, Pentandra realized, for the last presentation of the day.

  An older woman, quite beautiful, who Pentandra had never met before, approached the throne with the girls standing in file behind her. Pentandra could swear that she knew the woman; she had a familiar air about her. But as striking as her face was Pentandra also knew she would have remembered it specifically.

  The woman was dressed in a magnificent green gown in a southern Alshari style popular a generation or two before in Falas, but still fashionable in Vorone. Behind her were five maidens, dressed in more revealing versions of the same gown in the same fabric. None could have been more than sixteen.

  “The Dowager Baroness Amandice of Vorone,” announced the herald, “and her maidens beg an audience with the Duke!”

  “Granted,” Anguin said, absently, as his eyes rested on the beautiful girls standing demurely behind the older woman. “I’m afraid I have not had the fortune to make your acquaintance, Baroness,” he said, apologetically. “I am still getting to know the folk of this town again.”

  “We have met, actually, Your Grace,” Amandice said, her voice flowing like honey. “Though you were just a babe at the time. I had the great fortune to be an acquaintance of your late father’s,” she said, lightly. “Before he met your mother. Of course, that was such a long time ago . . .”

  Pentandra was suddenly on alert. Such an admission to the lad was designed to pique his interest, no doubt, and that put her on her guard. Anguin was of an age to be deeply missing his late father’s influence on his life, and Pentandra had noticed an increased interest on his part in his sire’s history in the last few weeks.

  “You knew my father, Baroness?” Anguin said, with undisguised interest.

  “Only in his stalwart youth, Your Grace,” Amandice assured him. “Years ago. A lifetime ago, when I was but a girl no older than my maidens, here . . .”

  “So what brings you back to court today, Amandice?” Anguin said, reluctant to tear his eyes away from the loveliness of the girls. They stood there simply and casually, but despite their stillness the
ir beauty still projected to the court.

  “I wish to beg a boon, Your Grace,” the beautiful matron said, boldly. “In the name of the people, but more importantly, in the name of Love and Beauty.”

  “And what is this boon?” Anguin asked, unable to take his eyes off of the nubile maidens, though he was clearly aware of the trap in front of him. There was a wariness about him that Pentandra was grateful for. This woman was a danger, she knew – anyone who invoked a boon for ‘love and beauty’ had to be scheming. At least the lad was suspicious of those who wished to use him.

  “Your Grace, the people rejoice in the return of the rightful heir to the realm,” she began in a praising tone. “Too long fair Vorone has suffered from neglect, and the spirits of the people are still low.”

  “So what would you suggest, Baroness Amandice?”

  “I beg you to appoint me to oversee the Spring Wildflower Festival, Your Grace,” she proposed, bowing her head with perfect dignity. “With Your Grace’s permission, my associates and I would like to see the town beautified in celebration of your reign. Vorone had no proper time to celebrate your investiture, as we were still in mourning from the deaths of your parents. Give us that chance now,” she asked. “The Festival of Wildflowers is in a few short weeks. It used to be a celebration of the expected return of the Duke and Duchess to Vorone for the summer. Let us use it now to celebrate the unexpected but welcome return of Alshar’s heir!”

  There was an uncharacteristic amount of positive murmuring from the court as the courtiers whispered among themselves. More than Pentandra expected there would be, for such a tame proposal.

  Yet the idea seemed to explode across the room like a spell, and soon nearly everyone seemed enthusiastic about the idea. To Pentandra it seemed a relatively unimportant idea – the town and the Duchy faced much bigger issues than the spirits of the townsfolk – but when Arborn turned to her, his usually stoic demeanor gone and replaced with a (undeniably adorable) boyish grin and said, “You know, my wife, that is a truly useful idea!” Pentandra knew something was amiss. Arborn didn’t get that excited about anything that didn’t involve a month-long journey through the wilderness.