Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “That seems a terribly regressive perspective from someone like you, my lady,” Countess Shirlin sniffed, critically.

  “Someone like me?” Pentandra asked, surprised. She was on her guard for the inevitable social attack, if she was not willing to immediately support Countess Shirlin’s attempt to build consensus - this was likely it.

  “Someone from a distinguished and ancient house such as yours,” the woman clarified, with an attempt at diplomacy. “One where the rules of propriety are traditionally observed. I’m certain your ancestors would be . . . upset by your attitude. But perhaps it has been your more recent acquaintanceships that have colored your perspectives on what is proper and what is not,” she added with the slightest sneer.

  The thinly-veiled reference to Arborn and his barbaric heritage did more than irritate Pentandra – she nearly summoned Everkeen and punished the woman arcanely. But she understood politics well enough to know that burning the Queen’s clandestine representative to a cinder over a mild insult was likely to get her gossiped about in the wrong quarters.

  “Well, Excellency, while I’ll just have to muddle along with my damaged perspective, I think it’s important that you make the acquaintance of the palace ladies,” she said, in a friendly manner. “Viscountess Threanas holds a weekly gathering, which is in two days’ time. I’ll ensure you get an invitation,” she added.

  “You’ll ensure that I will get an invitation?” asked Countess Shirlin, amused and irritated at the same time at the thought that Pentandra had more influence with such things than she.

  “It really isn’t a problem,” Pentandra said. “In fact, I believe another new face will be there: Dowager Baroness Amandice. She’s a local noblewoman who has been appointed by Duke Anguin to coordinate the Spring Wildflower Festival. Delightful woman,” Pentandra assured. “I’m sure the two of you will get along like sisters!”

  *

  *

  *

  Later that day Arborn contacted her by Mirror. Not the big Mirror array she’d spent weeks setting up and tuning, in a small shop across the street from the palace, but the private one she kept stored in her baculus.

  Pentandra had almost forgotten the impressive gift Minalan had given her at her wedding reception – not just her baculus and a new case for her witchstone. He’d made her a small but powerful spell using a Sympathy Stone that allowed two people to communicate across long distances, with a couple of bowls of water or the like to act as the mechanism. What was said over one half of the stone would be relayed instantly to the other.

  Arborn rarely used the device unless he was going to be unexpectedly delayed and needed to inform his wife. It wasn’t that he was afraid of magic, as some suspect the Kasari all were, but that he preferred to limit his use to when absolutely necessary.

  This time the need was pressing. On his way back from discussing things with the wild tribes, he and his men had been overtaken by . . . something.

  “I knew not what it was, at first,” he told her over the spell. His voice was distant and tinny, as if he was at the bottom of a rain barrel, but she could hear him clearly. “It lead two squadrons of gurvani cavalry, but it was human in form.”

  “Human . . . in form? But not in . . . ?”

  “You would understand if you saw it,” Arborn decided. “He was their master, there was no doubt. But he did not . . . act human. Little things. Like his eyes glowing, and his skin flaking off. But it was a human body, human voice. Just no human heartbeat. Or human mind.”

  “How could you tell that?”

  “When I stabbed him in the chest he didn’t fall down,” Arborn said over the device, dryly. “That was my first hint.”

  “That’s pretty decisive,” she agreed, crossing her arms uncomfortably.

  “It was undead,” he pronounced. “Only not like the normal undead I’ve seen. It had intelligence, wit, and moved with incredible alacrity. There’s more,” Arborn added through the tiny enchantment. “More I thought you needed to know. While we dueled, and my men had at his companions, we spoke.”

  “That seems awfully friendly with a bad guy,” Pentandra pointed out.

  “There was some cursing involved, I promise,” Arborn grinned, despite himself. But then it faded. “As we fought he taunted me, in particular. He wanted me to know that the Kasari had failed, and that Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens was loose on the world and plotting his revenge. I had to point out to him that the Kasari were never in charge of his security.”

  “Clearly, or he wouldn’t be out,” Pentandra praised. The Kasari might be considered barbarians by the rest of the duchy, but when they committed to a course of action they did it well.

  “Exactly,” Arborn nodded. “We do things right. Or at least better. In any case, he told me that Korbal was free and gathering his forces. He’s working directly with the goblins and Sheruel, too, from what that thing said. And there’s even worse news. He’s specifically hunting and capturing Alka Alon. For purposes unknown. But if I was a wagering man, I’d consider the fact that this . . . thing in a human body was clearly not human. In fact, it spoke like an Alkan more than a man.”

  “If the gurvani are kidnapping Alka Alon, I’m guessing it’s for sacrifice, not for any particular attachment to them.”

  “I figured something as sinister,” nodded her husband in the tiny piece of thaumaturgical glass. “But in case I do not make it back, I wanted somebody to know.”

  That was one of the first times Arborn had ever voiced doubts over his own survival. From the casual way he did it, Pentandra was concerned.

  “What do you mean? Of course you’ll make it back!” she chided. “You’re just a few dozen leagues away.”

  “That depends on whether or not we encounter another one of . . . those. Or anything else vicious. The Timber Road is littered with bones, and there are bandits and worse traveling its length. Bandits and goblins are easy to contend with, but that undead . . . he was powerful. He was fast. He was strong. It took everything we had to slay him,” he confessed, guiltily.

  “Arborn!” Pentandra said, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Unwounded,” he assured. “But tired. I just thought you should know this. From what he said, there will be many more like him, soon. Indeed, they may already be within the bounds of Vorone,” he predicted.

  “That doesn’t bode well,” she agreed, pursing her lips. “I will inform Minalan, at least. He should know. And he’ll tell the Alka Alon, if they don’t already know. We might be responsible for Sheruel, in some weird way, but Korbal is an Alkan problem.”

  “Not if he makes himself our problem,” her husband countered. “I’m serious, Penny, that thing went toe-to-toe with five Kasari raptors and nearly won. If Jerics hadn’t bound his legs when he did we’d all be dead. But perhaps not permanently. This thing roused his companions, gurvan and hound, after we’d slain them once already,” he reported, darkly.

  “I really hate undead,” Pentandra said with a shudder.

  She tried not to get excited by the fact that that was the very first time Arborn had ever called her “Penny” as opposed to “Pentandra”. She didn’t know why she thought that a milestone, but it was. “By all accounts, historical and legendary, Korbal was a master necromancer.”

  “And now he’s ensconced in one of the most powerful Alkan fortresses ever built, guarded by dragons, able to unleash his experiments on us at will,” sighed her husband. “And reach out four hundred leagues from his base deep into the Alshari Wilderlands.”

  As grim as the news was, this was the most substantive conversation Pentandra had gotten from her husband in weeks, even when he was home. After she signed off, wishing him a safe – safer – journey, she immediately contacted Minalan, mind-to-mind, to tell him.

  That’s when she found out her former boss and long-time friend was getting himself involved in a magewar with the former Ducal Court Mage of Castal, Magelord Dunselen.

  Pentandra had little respect for the
old man – he was a theoretician and bureaucrat more than a practical adept. But he had been willing to be bribed into cooperation with a witchstone during a critical time, a few years back, and after the Battle of Timberwatch and the lifting of the Bans on Magic he had retired, re-ennobled, to his family estates in Greenflower.

  That’s when he started using his nascent power to try to re-take his family’s legacy by force. He’d been fairly successful at it, too, Pentandra knew. Dunselen’s rise had caused her a great deal of grief while she was the Steward of the Arcane Orders. Within just a year he had re-conquered a good portion of his lost legacy . . . but he had also stirred up substantial anti-mage sentiment among the nobility which Pentandra had struggled to counter.

  Apparently Queen Grendine was just as concerned about a wayward High Mage as she was about a disobedient, unwed nephew, and so she had encouraged Dunselen to marry one of the ladies of her court to calm him down.

  Lady Isily. Pentandra knew her, back when she was a student at Alar, and they traveled in many of the same circles until Pentandra left for Inarion to pursue research in her obtuse subject, and Lady Isily had joined Duchess Grendine’s court as a lady-in-waiting.

  But that was just part of her departure. A powerful High Mage in her own right, armed with a witchstone given over to bribe Grendine into supporting Minalan’s bid to defend the duchies, Isily was a shadowmage who carried out the bidding of her Queen when someone had to die. She was one of Grendine’s best assassins, and the news of her early retirement and marriage didn’t fool Pentandra one bit about the woman’s motivations. Or her ambitions.

  Nor was Dunselen a harmless enemy. After many years at court, making connections and establishing a network of supporters, Dunselen was the epitome of the old order’s establishment. He had never really liked Minalan, and from what Pentandra could tell from his encounter with the two of them at Chepstan Fair, he had no problem starting trouble for the Spellmonger. Pentandra told her friend as much, mind-to-mind.

  Min, you do realize that he puts your entire family in danger? she warned him. Dunselen hadn’t been the sanest of magi when he’d enjoyed a position at court, and now that he had arcane power, mundane power, and position there was little to keep his ego in check, by all accounts.

  I know. So does she. But . . . right now, all I can do is wait. And prepare.

  Perhaps, she agreed, reluctantly. But it’s disturbing. There’s a lot going on that’s disturbing. Arborn’s folk brought word that confirms that Korbal the Demon God is alive – or at least not completely dead – and well in the Land of Scars. No doubt whatsoever. There have been some troop movements in the Penumbra that have me worried, although it doesn’t look like they’re gathering for a major assault. And Ishi’s avatar has the entire court dangling from a string. If something isn’t done soon, she could push this entire operation into the chamberpot.

  She hated to dump all of her problems on her friend, especially when he was hundreds of miles away and unable to help, but she really didn’t have much other choice.

  What do you need from me? Minalan asked, sullenly.

  Just be here at the Duke’s ball, with Alya, in a mask, and be prepared to do whatever it is you need to do to stabilize the situation. I’m doing the best I can, but the Spellmonger needs to make an appearance.

  I will be there, he promised, heavily. I’ve got one little war to deal with, but there should be plenty of room on my schedule. Shall we plan to stay the night?

  Let’s see how things play out, she decided. You might want to beat a hasty exit. Or you and Alya could stay at Koucey’s guest house – we’ve moved our household to the palace as a show of support, and right now it’s being used as a base for the Wood Owls—

  The who? he asked, interested but confused.

  They’re a group of Kasari who . . . well, they aren’t raptors. But they have a lot of skills other Kasari lack. And far less moral compunctions. Arborn recruited them for me to help crack down on the criminal organizations here. She tried not to sound too pleased about that. Most Kasari weren’t very proud of their miscreants, no matter how talented in the criminal arts they might be.

  So you essentially started your own? he asked, amused.

  It was easier than taking one over, she said, tiredly. She wondered if he was actually judging her or if he was teasing, and decided on the latter. If you want to rule – or help someone rule – sometimes you have to be willing to hurt people and break things. And sometimes life's just better without some people in it, she added, thinking of falsely-accused Master Luthar sitting downstairs in the dungeon.

  Despite feeling the entire affair was somehow wrong, after knowing what he was responsible for she could not think of much argument in favor of keeping them alive. The Wood Owls aren’t cold-blooded killers, but they do what needs to be done. And like most owls . . . they eat Rats. The halls of power are soaked in blood, she added, philosophically, quoting an old Remeran proverb.

  And how fares the Duke?

  He’s holding power, now – barely. The garrison is loyal, now that Count Salgo has taken charge and cleaned it out. First Minister Angrial is surprisingly adept at the art of bureaucracy, it turns out. Our biggest lack is a good master of intelligence. Arborn does a reasonable job, for local issues, but Anguin really needs a professional overseeing the operation.

  How do revenues look? Minalan asked, clearly afraid of the answer.

  Surprisingly good, actually, Pentandra reported, pleased to be able to do so. The Duchy collected nearly twenty thousand ounces of gold in tribute at the Midwinter court. Several old local families who are loyal to the Ducal house have been holding back from paying for the last few years, for fear it would enrich Rard’s cronies. We’re expecting more.

  How are expenses?

  That’s enough to keep us afloat without going back to the temple for more. We’ve only used about half of the line of credit the Order arranged, so far. It’s costing about two-thousand a month to keep the palace and the garrison running, another five hundred for city services. We’re bringing in about six hundred in fees, so this is a big help. We can keep running with what we have for several months without touching the reserve, and we can make payments to the Temple.

  That is a big relief. How is he playing in the hinterlands?

  Are you kidding? The country knights who are left beyond the Penumbra are his biggest supporters. They’re so damned glad that there’s a Duke in the palace again, they could care less what he does. Not that that’s led to a flood of revenue, understand – coin is pretty thin, up here. Most lords pay their tribute in kind, and since trade has fallen so profoundly, that doesn’t help us much.

  Let me think about it, and perhaps I can offer some advice at the ball. We’re doing a lot with enchantment, these days. Maybe we can do something to help.

  Whatever you can do, Pentandra agreed. I’m drowning, here. Just make sure that dealing with Ishi is high on your list. And make sure you tell Alya I’m dying to see her again!

  I will. She’s been . . . I don’t know, just a little off, lately, he observed, troubled.

  She just needs a night of dancing and drinking, Pentandra assured him. Pregnancy is rough on a woman. Give her some fun and she’ll improve. Say at a ducal court function that requires you dress up like a smelly animal . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  An Interloper In Court

  While Pentandra hadn’t been expecting Dowager Countess Shirlin to invade the court, she wasn’t unprepared for the possibility.

  Pentandra wasn’t fond of the social games most women played in competition with each other, but she was very adept at them. Her mother had made certain of that - a woman did not thrive in Remeran noble society (even amongst the magi) unless she knew how to defend herself against the insidious attacks by her rivals.

  It was easy, once you understood the fears and anxieties most women carried, how they presented them to the other women in their sphere . . . and how to exploit them. While Pentandra h
ad always been cautious about how she dealt with other women, particularly in groups, that caution frequently paid a profit in the coin of position as less-adept players of the spiteful game overplayed their positions recklessly.

  She had noted many years ago that when women congregated together they inevitably seemed to slip into roles relative to one another that a wise woman could understand and navigate.

  The woman who always needed to be in charge, for instance, or the woman who needed to complain bitterly about everything were both dangerous allies to cultivate in the cut-throat world of feminine court politics. The former put you in peril by your association, while the latter kept you languishing on the periphery of things, just as tarnished by your alliance as by scandal.

  While that had earned her a reputation as being somewhat standoffish around court, Pentandra didn’t mind one bit. She had no burning desire to be either in charge or the center of attention. She had enjoyed enough of both experiences in her past to know the limits of fulfillment they offered.

  Pentandra wisely allowed Viscountess Threanas to assume the unofficial leadership position of the women of the court without challenge, and she deftly avoided being too closely tied to Coinsister Mereta, who (unlike her coreligionist, Coinsister Saltia) could complain about nearly anything and felt compelled to prove it.

  Social positioning at court was important, Pentandra knew, not because she had a burning desire to be popular; but because she also knew the obstacles she would endure attempting to accomplish anything without at least participating in the often-inane antics of the ladies of the court. Pentandra had long ago figured out that the most powerful position in such unofficial societies was not that of the ostensible leader, but that of a powerful voice in that leader’s ear. It afforded her a goodly amount of influence in the group without exposing her to too much responsibility. Hence her deference to Viscountess Threanas.

  That wasn’t a reflection of her laziness; on the contrary, she had too much to do to get mired in the petty politics of the palace women. And any place where there were more than three women had politics, as her father often said. While it pained her to agree with such a contentious observation, her own experiences bore him out.