“You realize that no matter how perfect it is, it will never be enough,” Arborn commented, unhelpfully, while Pentandra was setting the table.
She had imposed on Bircei to serve and attend for the evening, but she wanted to see to the details of the place settings personally. She was counting on the castellan’s smooth manner to reduce any comments her mother might have about the servants - one of her favorite points of criticism. Bircei was no Remeran, but he understood how to serve properly and maintain protocol. Having her inexperienced maid or her blind apprentice trying to serve would have been a disaster.
Bircei also had the benefit of understanding the nature and gravity of the situation in ways that completely escaped her husband.
“Well of course not,” Pentandra shot back as she replaced the large magelight over the table with four smaller ones in the corner of the room. Indirect lighting provided a more casual mood, she decided. “No matter what I do, it will be wrong. Its how I am wrong that is important.”
Arborn looked confused. “Important to whom?”
Pentandra looked up at her husband sharply. She realized that he possessed only the vaguest of ideas of what was about to happen -- the subtle interplay, the oblique references to years of past history and remembered slights, the insidious need to please and defy at the same time.
“You didn’t have any sisters, did you?” she guessed. Then she realized she knew almost nothing about her husband’s family, and life growing up.
Did I marry a stranger? part of her mind suddenly asked, throwing the rest into turmoil.
Pentandra summoned her Will, developed through years of disciplined magical meditation, and forced herself to postpone the painful speculation and emotional tempest that question would inevitably inspire. She just didn’t have the capacity for it right now. One catastrophe at a time, she warned herself.
“Actually, I have two half-sisters, but they’re much younger than I am,” he admitted. “I grew up with two younger brothers.”
“Well, right now you are about to see the brutal result of years of pent-up matronly guilt and emotional history amongst the noble class,” she warned. “I’m going to get savaged for the temerity of wanting to live my own life, and she’s going to get smothered in guilt for years of neglect and emotional warfare.”
Arborn looked to Bircei as the castellan adjusted the place settings, and the thin man nodded sadly. “I really don’t think it will be that bad,” Arborn suggested, hesitantly. “What could she possibly find fault with?”
She stifled a mad giggle. “Would you like the list alphabetically, or in order of importance?” Pentandra challenged. “Everything I’ve ever done since I was a child will be on the table for discussion,” she predicted, her voice quivering. “Every imagined slight, every embarrassing story, every awkward moment will be turned into an ‘endearing’ tale designed to belittle me.”
“I did have the fortune of escorting the lady to her quarters,” Bircei ventured. “She seems a . . . formidable woman.”
“She can’t be that bad,” Arborn said, trying desperately to gain control of the situation.
“Oh, she makes the ‘courtiers’ around this mildewy old place look like kids in temple classes!” Pentandra said, hands moving to her hips of their own accord. “There is no social situation that she cannot dominate, no conversation that she can’t turn to her own purpose, no compliment that isn’t wrapping an insult!”
“Pen, I’m sure she won’t be that bad with me there,” he ventured, cautiously.
“You? Oh, you are going to be the main topic of conversation,” Pentandra said, angrily. “How you are an ‘illiterate barbarian’ from a ‘forest tribe’ that I’ve ‘surrendered’ myself to purely because of your virility and sexual prowess!”
Arborn looked confused. “Other than the fact I speak nine languages and read six, what’s wrong with that?”
Pentandra’s head felt like it was going to explode. Luckily, Bircei came to the rescue.
“If I may, my lord, what my lady means to say is that, according to her mother’s ideas of proper social positioning, your rank amongst the Wilderlords is unlikely to overcome her misgivings about your origins. Nor is your rank amongst your own people,” he added, sympathetically.
Arborn looked at Bircei thoughtfully. “So tell me, based on your brief meeting with the woman, can you imagine any man of any rank or position that would satisfy her requirements for a son-in-law without complaint? And your candor is appreciated,” he added. Arborn disliked the double-talk and obfuscation implicit in court life, but he was starting to understand it.
“My lord, in my candid opinion, the lady would find fault with Luin the Fair himself as a son-in-law,” Bircei declared, emphatically. “But the servants should not gossip.”
“Then if all paths are equally cursed, take the one that’s easiest on your feet,” he advised his wife. “Pentandra, you’re a successful woman in your own right. Don’t let her cloud your judgment with anxiety before she even arrives.”
“She’s been doing that since I was born!” Pentandra exploded. “Nothing is good enough for her! And the moment she brings up my sister--”
“I will do my best to avoid such unpleasantness, my lady,” Bircei assured her. “There are all manner of strategies servants employ to steer the conversations of their betters. In such an intimate setting, there should be ample opportunity for that.”
“Thank you, Bircei,” she sighed. “Arborn, you have just enough time to dress before she arrives, and the food starts coming up from the kitchen. We have sufficient wine?” she asked Bircei.
“Why do I need to dress?” Arborn complained. In truth, he was clothed in his dark green tunic and Kasari mantle, and looked as neat and handsome as ever. But it was entirely the wrong appearance for the occasion, for far too many reasons than she had time to explain.
“I have six bottles of a sweet, hardy red from His Grace’s Gilmoran estates,” the castellan reported, “as well as a bottle of Cormeeran dessert wine. There will also be a bottle of the spirits in the buttery,” he added, “for medicinal purposes. For the servants,” he added.
Drinking spirits during a dinner function was a gross violation of custom. Pentandra appreciated Bircei’s foresight. She wasn’t exactly fond of drink, the way Minalan and Terleman were, but tonight she anticipated needing as much liquid courage as she could find. “And Lord Arborn, I have laid out your clothes for the evening on your press,” he added. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Pentandra vowed to double what she was paying the man. He’d just eliminated a painful conversation and potential argument with her husband.
Arborn sighed. “I shall do my best,” he vowed, in Narasi, instead of Kasari. Then he went to get dressed.
“Pardon me for saying, my lady, but I think your anxiety over your lord husband is misplaced,” Bircei offered. “Lord Arborn seems more than capable of handling anything the gods put in his path.”
“He’s never had my mother in his path before,” Pentandra sighed. “That woman could teach dragons how to intimidate.”
Amendra appeared with her maid at the door of the office at the precise time specified, looking stern and judgmental despite the gaily-colored yellow Remeran gown she wore. Arborn met her, looking positively intimidating in his preselected finery. The fine woolen tunic of dark green was cut in the simple Wilderlands style, but was well-fitted to Arborn’s muscular frame. It was tastefully embroidered at the neck and sleeves, and the bright white linen undershirt that peeked out had tiny lilies, the Kasari symbol, stitched in a slightly darker white for a subtle but elegant effect.
Bircei had chosen well. The black leggings and hall slippers he wore accentuated his well-developed calves. Instead of the full Kasari cloak, he had chosen a short black half-cloak, pinned with a striking eagle-shaped brooch that added just a touch of barbaric splendor to the outfit. The ornate leather belt, on which he wore a jeweled dagger she’d never seen before, was heavily tooled and gild
ed in places. On his brow he wore a simple silver circlet.
It was the best blend of sophisticated court garb and homage to Arborn’s Kasari heritage that she could have asked for. Pentandra didn’t even know her husband had such clothes in his press -- sparking another pointless emotional discussion with herself about her inadequacies as a wife -- but she was impressed and pleased with the result.
Even Amendra was unable to criticize his appearance on their first meeting, though she inspected him as thoroughly as an old horse in the market.
“Mother,” he began, politely and respectfully, “it is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“You must be Arborn,” she said, her eyes falling on him like a heavy rain. “Big fellow, aren’t you?” Pentandra, standing behind him, held her breath. It was a trap.
“And I see where Pentandra gets her radiant beauty,” he said with a charming bow. “Come, be welcome in our home.”
“Polite,” Amendra grunted, as she took his arm and let her son-in-law escort her up the stairs. Of course she could not be satisfied without criticism, but she felt compelled to obscure it, saying to herself -- and Pentandra -- an old High Perwynese proverb instead, in the dead language itself: “A fair face and good manners obscures intent”.
Pentandra was about to whisper something back, but Arborn beat her to it. Replying in the same language -- flawlessly pronounced -- he quoted “Where there is no advantage, there is likely no duplicity”, one of the famous sayings of Archmage Derendi.
That made Amendra’s eyebrows go up. Not only had he called her out on her attempt to shame him, he had done so with a diplomacy that had revealed his scholarship and understanding, not to mention his knowledge of Imperial history and literature.
One point for Arborn, Pentandra told herself.
When they sat down to the first course, all bets were off.
The dinner itself was exquisite. Bircei (with Pentandra’s financial backing) was able to coax an enticing repast out of the court’s kitchens, starting with delicious white bread and a selection of Wilderlands cheeses, complimented by some seasonal fruit just coming into ripeness. The porridge course featured small bowls of a delicious wheat and barley with honey and dried berries, served with tiny fingerling sausages fried to a delicious golden brown.
The first meat course was a brace of fat pheasants stuffed with onions, bacon, and barley and served with roasted honeyed carrots. The second was an incredibly well-seasoned herb-wrapped loin of pork baked into an amazing crust of bread with more mushrooms than Pentandra thought possible, oozing with juices and filling the air with its inviting aroma. Lastly, the dessert course featured an amazing three-sectioned pie with apples, cherries, and blueberries warring for culinary attention.
Pentandra didn’t remember tasting a bit of it afterwards.
The initial conversation was cordial enough - well-wishes, a toast to their meeting, a belated toast to Trygg to bless their union, even a few good-natured jokes. But before the porridge arrived, Amendra began her dissection.
“I cannot help but feel saddened by not attending my daughter’s nuptials,” she offered, in her best Not-Angry-But-Deeply-Hurt voice.
“The Kasari marriage rites are a religious mystery,” Arborn explained. “Usually they happen in private, and the families celebrate the new union afterward. Since there is often no idea of who the young people will have paired up with, it would be confusing to try to invite family to the actual ceremony.”
“That sounds like a terrible way to run a culture,” Amendra said. “How do the Kasari arrange to conserve their wealth, if they do not make marriage alliances?”
“The Kasari aren’t farmers, Mother,” Pentandra tried to explain. “They don’t own land, individually, they work it communally. Marriage alliances don’t matter when there is no land to conserve and distribute among heirs. The Kasari marry based on compatibility, suitability, and . . . luck,” she added. “It’s a fascinating culture.”
“I have no doubt.” Amendra said, though her answer left realms of doubt about other things implied. “I’m certain your sister would have hated that manner of selecting a husband.”
“She would have done well, actually,” Pentandra considered, remembering the weeks of training she’d endured with the other outsiders to the closely-held Kasari way. “She’s a much better cook than me, and doesn’t mind needlework. She would have ended up with a raptor, I have no doubt. That’s the highest rank of the Kasari tribes,” she explained.
“I’m sure she’s more satisfied with her current husband than she would have been drawing lots for one,” Amendra said, with a great deal of judgment. “He’s building her a new villa. For her and the new baby,” she added, with a note of triumph to her voice.
“She’s pregnant again?” Pentandra asked in a whisper. Though her heart fell through the floor and her anxiety level rose significantly at the news, she found herself squealing uncontrollably and embracing her mother over the news. “Trygg’s blessings! When?”
“She announced it right before I left Remere,” her mother said, smugly. “She must be . . . eleven, twelve weeks along, now? Doing well, according to the priestess,” she added. “Her husband is pleased as a pirate.
“But that does beg the question . . . now that I’m about to be a grandmother again, when can I expect that rare pleasure from my younger daughter?”
“More wine, my ladies?” Bircei interrupted, expertly. “The next course is arriving, may I clear this away-- oh, dear!” he said, as he accidentally dropped the bottle. Pentandra noted that while the earthenware bottle shattered, neither shards nor droplets of the dark red wine splattered the guests. It was a most expert accident she’d ever seen. She resolved to give the man a bonus.
“Clumsy churl!” Amendra swore, inspecting her bright yellow garment for damage. “Ishi’s tits! I swear, they must pull you people right out of the mines and forests!”
While Bircei offered abject apologies, the time it took to repair the damage, clean up the mess, decant another bottle and pour, and then serve the pheasants was enough to occupy Amendra and distract her from the question she let hang in the air. By the time they were eating again, Arborn was inquiring about their estates in Remere.
That didn’t eliminate the question, and Pentandra knew it. Amendra had purposefully inflicted the social awkwardness, knowing that it would gnaw on Pentandra and spark a later discussion -- or argument -- with her husband. She didn’t need to pursue it that night. Just the kind of nasty trap Pentandra had been wary of. And one Arborn would not even recognize.
But while she was musing, her mother had continued on her verbal rampage, finding some means of segueing a discussion of the family estates into an entirely embarrassing tale of Pentandra as a child in the bathtub, and how she had treated a favorite toy most inappropriately.
She feints towards my womb, then strikes me in my vagina, she observed to herself while the shock and horror of what her mother was saying washed over her. She’s really an adept, in her way, she had to admit.
Thankfully, Bircei kept the wine flowing . . . and she noticed that her mother’s cup was never empty. Despite a few disparaging remarks about the vintage, she was absorbing it eagerly enough. Hells, Pentandra thought bitterly as she and Arborn laughed over the story, she’s enjoying this!
“So why don’t you give me a tour of the rest of the Court Wizard’s office, while we await whatever that incredible smell is?” Amendra proposed.
“Uh, apart from my bedchamber and the clerk’s quarters, this is about it,” Pentandra had to admit. “There’s actually a dependent estate with the office, a few miles out of town, but we haven’t had time to visit it yet. But from all accounts it’s just as inadequate as this.”
“It is not Pentandra’s doing,” Arborn chimed in. “Vorone was ever but a temporary respite from the oppressive heat of the south, and was not designed for prolonged use as a ducal capital. There were just enough facilities built here to contend with the essential busi
ness. Once the south is restored, as many in court favor, her quarters will be considerably improved.”
“I would speak with His Grace about this, if I were you,” Amendra pronounced. “It is not proper that someone with your rank suffer with such inadequacies.”
“Times are hard, Mother,” Pentandra said, a little more sternly than she intended. “The restoration is not yet a year old. It takes time and effort to re-create the architecture of a duchy from scratch. Resources are hard to come by. And this is, for the moment, adequate for my needs.”
“Yes, I suppose you need a bedchamber more than a laboratory for the work you do,” she said, casually, as she took another sip.
Arborn did not pick up on the remark, but it stung Pentandra deeply and even Bircei winced. Her mother had always had a perverse fascination, even pride, with her study of Sex Magic, but she’d also cultivated a well-known disdain bordering on horror for the social scandal implicit in such work.
Pentandra’s face burned. Then her mother compounded the dig, glancing ever-so-briefly at Arborn. “And I see you’re well-supplied with material, for the moment.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 79
