Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “Who did?” Arborn asked, confused. He was acting half-drunk, though she knew he’d had far less wine than her over the last few days. “And what did they do?”

  “Someone -- someone extremely powerful -- cast a spell, presumably over the entire town of Vorone,” she answered, her throat sore and hoarse. “A love spell. No, more properly a lust spell. And it’s . . . ongoing,” she said, as she tried to look up from an old man skillfully pleasuring a naked young woman with his mouth on a bench in the corridor. The lass appeared as properly enchanted at the attention as the old coot was at the opportunity. “There really is no other explanation,” she said, simply.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Arborn asked, sternly. “Which of our enemies?”

  “Silly boy, this was not the work of an enemy. On the contrary, this is the work of a goddess. Ishi, herself.”

  There was a long silence as they trudged down the corridor. “Really? Ishi? The Narasi love goddess?”

  “Isn’t she the Kasari love goddess, too?”

  “Depends on the Kasar,” he grunted. “But as much as we have one, we use the Narasi pantheon.”

  “Well, she’s here, in Vorone, in person, and she’s taken an especial interest in the affairs of this court. Literally,” she said, as she heard another chorus of moans.

  When she looked, despite herself, she saw an eager old dame, naked as the day she was born, entertaining a man who could have been her husband (but who was not) and a lad young enough to be her son (which Pentandra hoped against) simultaneously in the doorway to the main hall. The old woman displayed both enthusiasm and skills few might have suspected. Pentandra forced her eyes up to the ceiling before she continued walking. She had the strangest feeling she could do better than the woman, if she were in the same position . . .

  Stop it! some part of her brain screamed at her. She’s winning when you do that!

  “Winning what?” Pentandra asked herself out loud.

  “What?” asked Arborn, dully.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Pentandra said, sagely. Then she tripped over the ankle of a young man who was cuddled up with another young man, and found herself sprawled between them.

  “Quick!” she yelped. “Get me up!”

  “Are you hurt?” Arborn asked, alarmed.

  “I will be if they wake up! Do you see the size on that one?” she asked, pointing incredulously. “I thought it was part of his costume, at first! I’m no expert -- well, actually, I am -- but that young fellow has some talent!”

  “We . . . we need to . . . get out of here,” Arborn decided, as he looked from the lust-stricken face of his wife to the overly blessed young man. “Quickly,” he agreed. He stooped down and picked up Pentandra in his oak-like arms and carried her away as if she were a toy.

  “You’re . . . so . . . strong!” she said, admiringly, as she gazed at his bicep in a daze.

  “Pentandra,” he gasped, and not from the burden of carrying her. They had arrived at the main hall . . . and discovered where all the servants had disappeared to.

  A writhing layer of bodies littered the floor from one end of the hall to the other. Clothes, pillows, tapestries and linens had been strewn everywhere, and the naked limbs of dozens of people were arrayed upon them as they sought the pleasures of the bed in a mass.

  “Huh,” Pentandra said with a single guffaw. “Now this is a party!” she said, shaking her head in awe. “If I knew that the Alshari celebrated Spring like this—”

  “Where can we go? A temple of Trygg?” Arborn asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. It occurred to her that for a straight-shooting Kasari boy, the raw display of carnal lust on a wholesale level would be more than overwhelming. Even after their lusty experiences of the last few days.

  “Silly boy,” Pentandra sighed exhaustively, wrapping her arm around his big neck. “Trygg can’t help with this. She’s a mother goddess. This was caused by a sex goddess. But don’t worry,” she added, drunkenly. “In my expert opinion, a goodly portion of those ladies out there have a chance of being in that condition, come the morn. Except for that one,” she said, pointing out a stringy-haired skinny girl who was making the most astonishing face. “You can’t get pregnant that way,” she assured, as the girl looked up blankly at her. “Trust me!”

  “Then . . . where?” the big, half-naked ranger asked, confused, as if the world were ending and he was seeking refuge. “Where can we be . . . safe from this . . . from this?” he asked, desperately, gesturing to the orgy underway.

  “I don’t know if we can, Husband,” she said apologetically, biting her lip. How could you escape your own libido? Especially when he was so damned cute when he looked helpless, like a little boy who just needed a little attention . . .

  “Pentandra! Stop it!” he reproved. “Think!” he demanded. “Where can we go -- what can we do -- to be protected from this?”

  Pentandra really did try to stop her libido from ruling her mind, for a moment, and tried to focus on something – anything – to force that. Unfortunately her eye landed on a particularly intriguing quartet attempting a particularly difficult position. She felt her concentration slip away, to be replaced by envy.

  “Why under heaven would you want to miss a party like this?” she asked, suddenly of the opinion that an orgy was just what Pentandra needed, despite the painful protests her busy loins were already making.

  “Because . . . because this is . . . wrong,” Arborn said, shaking his head. “This is dangerous. A distraction. There could be . . . enemies . . . goblins . . . dragons . . .” he said, trailing off as a woman of around thirty years sauntered by, her plump buttocks beckoning everyone in range for their attention.

  “Not to mention unintended pregnancy, infidelity, and acute embarrassment,” Pentandra said, struggling to maintain a coherent thought that didn’t involve satisfying her urges. “No, you’re right, Husband, there is something amiss . . . something . . . magnificently . . . amiss . . .” she railed off, as two young men followed the older woman into the erotic fray.

  “Damn it, Wife!” Arborn growled, dropping her to her feet and catching her shoulders. He forced her to look him in the eyes. “We have a crisis, here! A magical crisis! And you’re the bloody Court Wizard!” he snarled.

  Arborn never swore. Not unless he was under duress. That, alone, sobered Pentandra up a bit.

  “I am,” she nodded. “I really am. I’m the bloody Court Wizard!” she declared, resolutely, staring into the mass of rutting humanity in the great hall. She stood, cleared her throat and addressed them in a voice just under a shout.

  “I am Pentandra of Fairoaks! I am the bloody Court Wizard! I am a powerful magi, and we are all under a spell! And you people should be paying more attention to me!” she wailed to them, her arms outspread and her lip pouting. “Why aren’t you paying all of your attention to me?” she lamented, when she wasn’t mobbed by adoring admirers.

  “Damn it, Pentandra!” Arborn yelled angrily, grabbing her so firmly by the shoulders that her toes lifted off the ground. His fiery eyes bored into hers, and she could see something akin to panic within.

  “Ishi’s tits, you’ve got muscles!” she said, reverently, her eyes wide.

  With a wordless groan, Arborn grabbed a nearby stool with his toe and pulled it to him. In seconds he was sitting down, and Pentandra felt herself being pulled over his knee. It took just an instant for her to realize what was happening, and then disbelief, shock, and surprise overtook her capacity to protest. She felt her skirt get thrown to the side, and for just a moment the cool air of the hall surrounded her.

  Then Arborn’s mighty palm cut the coolness with a blinding hot sheet of fire across her buttocks. She was surprised and startled by the slap, so embarrassed and mortified at being treated like a child or a wayward wife, she made no sound . . . until the second blow landed. The squeak she emitted then turned into a squeal as he paddled her bare arse relentlessly in front of a hall full of people.

  The pain a
nd the sound cut through her foggy mind, but after a dozen applications of his calloused, tanned hand on her smooth skin even the pain receded as a new kind of pleasure began to overtake her. There was no shelter from his relentless aggression, no place she could find a serenity that didn’t involve her loins.

  Unless . . . there was a chance, one chance, one place she could think of where, perhaps, the insidious effects of this spell were possibly less effective. Through the pain and the heat and the shock, she could nearly grasp the idea. But then the heat from her bottom merged with that in her loins, and the thought receded. She was nearing the point of senselessness.

  Arborn halted just in time.

  Or, perhaps, not quite soon enough. In moments he pulled her into his lap and crushed her against his chest, his lips desperately seeking hers. She felt her body being pushed around masterfully until she was bent over the stool.

  “W-wait!” she managed to gasp out as her husband shrugged out of his jerkin. He stopped, his shirt half-off.

  “What?” he asked, his eyes dazed. Such beautiful eyes. So dark and mysterious, under such a proud brow. She could get lost in those eyes, she knew, lost for the rest of her life . . . come what may. In a palace or in a hut, she would follow those eyes wherever they led, she knew in her heart of hearts.

  Those eyes . . . she was helpless against their seductive power. They were mysterious curtains that concealed the most complex of souls, the perfect veil to the sophisticated combination of barbarian warrior and enlightened philosopher. She could spend the rest of her life finding a way into the limitless expanse beyond those beautiful eyes and count herself a fortunate woman.

  Even now, as his unshaven face was contorted with animalistic desire, his eyes bespoke a universe of fascination that drew her to him with the power of magic. Whatever idea she’d had while he was spanking her was gone.

  “Don’t tear my shift, if you can help it,” she said, huskily. “It’s from Cormeer.” Then she turned back, put her head down, and surrendered herself to the raging storm of desire around her.

  *

  *

  *

  The next thing she remembered was half-carrying Arborn, while he half-carried her, through the deserted gates of the palace. He had lost his shirt, but retained his leather breeches and boots. She had lost all of her clothing, including her Cormeeran shift, and wore only the amulet that contained her witchstone around her neck . . . but had had the foresight to blindly borrow something from the growing pile of clothes around the edge of the Great Hall before she went outside.

  It proved to be a nun’s habit, which drove Pentandra into an uncontrollable gale of laughter. Even stoic Arborn had to grin as she shrugged on the oversized, shapeless gown.

  “If you find me attractive in this,” she said, tugging a stray lock of hair out of her face, “then I foresee a long and lustful union ahead of us.”

  “Good news, then,” he snorted, and led her through the front gates.

  “You’re joking, right?” she demanded, as she gestured at the sack-like garment. “You’d do me in this?”

  “If you don’t keep walking, you’re going to find out,” he gasped, shaking his head. His hair danced delightfully around his tanned brow. “I never thought a human being could endure so much . . . desire!”

  “We’re not naturally built to,” Pentandra agreed, clinging desperately to her academic background to fight the tide of her own desires. “Sexuality is supposed to be an occasional thing, not a constant! Not that I don’t enjoy a good-”

  “And you say Ishi herself is the origin of this?” he asked, struggling to focus as he passed a middle-aged matron taking on all comers at a pie stall a block from the palace. He tried to avert his eyes, in vain. Pentandra closed hers and pushed his back until they were past the spectacle.

  “Damn, right, the misbehaving bitch!” she snarled, trying to stare at the flags on the street. “This is her idea of some sacred joke, or divine retribution, or some twisted scheme she alone is aware of!”

  “And she’s this . . . Lady Pleasure?” he asked, the words sounding comically foreign from his mouth. She tried to stifle a giggle.

  “You are adorable!” she cooed. “Yes, she’s that whoremonger, Baroness Amandice! The one from the masque, who organized the festival. We’ve . . . had words.”

  “Where . . . where does she live?” Arborn asked, as an utterly naked lad strutted by, justifiably proud of what Trygg had blessed him with on his birth.

  “The House of Flowers, on the Street of Perfume,” she supplied, automatically. Good brain, she praised. Eyes front!

  “Let’s stop and get a horse,” he decided, as if struggling through a haze, and headed for the stables. Pentandra watched him intently as he walked away from her. She really liked his leather riding trousers, she decided. And his muscular back. And--

  “Let’s walk,” Arborn said, suddenly, after peering inside the dark stable for a moment.

  “What?” Pentandra demanded. “It’s two miles, at least! Why?”

  “Let’s walk,” he repeated, more firmly. Then softened. “You really . . . really don’t want to get a horse right now,” he said, with the intensity of prophecy. “Trust me.”

  “Why not?” she asked, confused.

  “They’re . . . occupied,” he said, his face blushing hotly under his stubble.

  “They’re . . . what?” she asked. It took her a few moments to understand what he was trying, in his bashful Kasari way, to tell her. When she did realize what he was implying, her eyes went from shock to intrigue to horror to fascination. “Oh, Ishi’s rotten twat, you must let me see!” she said, eagerly. “In the interests of science!”

  “We’re walking,” Arborn insisted, grabbing her arm firmly and directing her away from the obscene stable.

  “Were they standing on stools, or . . . ?”

  “Pentandra!” Arborn said, sternly. “This is not the time!”

  “Professional interest!” she protested.

  “Not the time,” he repeated, dragging her away.

  They made poor time moving through the city’s cobbled streets, partially because Pentandra had neglected to grab a pair of shoes and partially because most of the town seemed infected with the powerful spell. Along the way they saw all manner of acts of love and pleasure being performed openly, without regard to modesty, some of which had devolved into the most extreme pursuits.

  At one point they stopped to assist a poor woman who had somehow had a glass bottle lodged in a place it was not designed to go. The desperation in the woman’s eyes was enough to allow Pentandra to concentrate just enough to magically melt a hole in the bottom of the bottle, releasing the accumulated vacuum that held it in place. The woman gratefully thanked her afterwards, and promised to be more careful in the future.

  “I . . . never thought I would witness . . . that,” Arborn confessed, as they continued toward the Street of Perfume.

  “Under the circumstances, I’m surprised we’re not seeing more of that sort of thing,” Pentandra said, as they avoided a small orgy in progress in the doorway of a chandler’s shop. “When sexual desperation hits, fueled by the force of divine magic, I’m actually surprised that the Voroni are being this restrained. Of course, he looks fairly restrained,” she added, as they passed a young man who had been tied to a post, naked, save for the bull’s mask he wore. Two girls and an older man were doing wicked things to his exposed parts, but the young man, for his part, seemed entirely at peace with his predicament.

  They found themselves on the proper street by mid-morning, stopping only once to rest Pentandra’s sore feet. The dreamy quality of the spell still enveloped them, and was even stronger the closer they came to the House of Flowers, but through Arborn’s strength of will and Pentandra’s understanding of the situation they were able to maintain their focus . . . mostly.

  At one point Pentandra had to grab his thick arm and drag him away from a stall where two girls in their teens were attempting to persuade h
andsome passers-by to join them. She could see the allure – both girls were very pretty, though not as well-groomed as the Flower Maidens. The fact that both nubile young women were completely naked and making what sounded like completely reasonable suggestions was so enticing that it challenged even the ranger captain’s iron willpower.

  The Street of Perfume was a riotous orgy, the erotic epicenter of the ongoing spell. Pentandra could feel it, even without Everkeen in hand. Men and women ran naked or half-dressed through the street in pursuit of their passions, and once they found a willing participant they indulged in their whimsies on the spot. The closer they came to the House of Flowers, the thicker and more extreme the activity became.