“How so?” Pentandra asked, icily. This did not bode well.
“I am in the sworn confidence of . . . certain parties,” he said, his jaw clenched, “and those parties are wary of the Arcane Orders.”
“You . . . what?” All sorts of unlikely scenarios erupted in Pentandra’s mind at the admission. Was Arborn working for their foes? The Southern rebels? Queen Grendine’s sinister Family?
“It’s the Alka Alon,” Arborn said, quickly, anxious to pacify her. “You have to understand, the Alka Alon and the Kasari have worked together for centuries. In many ways we are their eyes and ears in the wilderness. We have protected and aided each other countless times.”
“And the Arcane Orders threaten that?”
“There are many Alka who are mistrustful of human beings, even the Kasari. Especially magically Talented human beings. The history of the Magocracy wasn’t exactly benevolent, when it came to relations with the Alka Alon,” he pointed out.
“Agreed. But there isn’t a Magocracy, anymore,” Pentandra responded, coolly.
“But from the Alka Alon’s perspective, that was only a few years ago. Most of them still remember the Magocracy, personally. And many see human magi as a dangerous threat – as dangerous as human gods.”
“Granted,” she nodded, curtly, if defiantly. “We also have saved a whole bunch of people – human and Alkan – from certain death. Does that count for nothing?”
“I am not defending their attitude,” Arborn said, holding up his hand, “I’m just reporting it. They are wary. And concerned that the Arcane Orders will delve too deeply into matters that do not concern you.”
Pentandra snorted, angrily. “Like rushing in to assist an ally under attack, when no Alka Alon would?”
“That has been mentioned in your favor,” Arborn agreed. “Indeed, it is the main reason for the softening of their stance. The Alka Alon have humanity’s interests in mind. But I am still cautious about sharing their secrets overmuch.”
“I am your wife, and no longer a leader in the Arcane Orders,” she reminded him, stiffly. “You may elect to tell me or not, as you desire, my husband.”
Arborn stared at her for many moments in the light of the tiny magelight before he sighed. “I met with Ithalia and a small squadron of her kin. Only briefly, but long enough to hear news. News about Ameras, the heir to the Aronin of Amadia.”
Pentandra knew a little about the mysterious figure. Minalan had met her once. A young Alkan who was the only daughter of one of the wisest of the Fair Folk, who had disappeared at the very beginning of the goblin invasion.
Pentandra still didn’t understand why she was so important – her family had ruled one tiny little stronghold in the Mindens, a few hundred Alka at most. They had to abandon it after the Dead God had taken over the rest of the valley. Most of the other inhabitants had found refuge with their kin in the Kulines, but for some reason the entire Alkan Council were almost panicked because this one Alkan girl was missing.
“Was she found? Was she dead?”
“She was not found, and she seems to be alive, by the report,” Arborn said, quietly. “She was seen in the far northeast, where few of even my people venture. At least that’s what is suggested. Ithalia was checking with me to see if there was any news from human lands. That’s why she needed to see me, specifically. Ameras is supposedly keeping company with a human High Mage.”
“A High Mage?” Pentandra asked, curious. “Who?”
“That isn’t known. And it was why Ithalia wished me to discretely inquire of my loving wife, to see if my contacts at the Arcane Orders could provide a clue, without arousing alarm. But that is the second sighting of her in two years. When all the world is searching for her. It is as if she doesn’t wish to be found.”
Pentandra chewed her lip in the darkness. “That’s part of what I don’t understand – why all the interest in one Alka Alon princess? What is so special about her? Is she the heir to a lost dynasty or something?”
Again Arborn was silent for an unnaturally long time before he answered.
“The term ‘Aronin’ means ‘guardian’. Her family not only guarded the molopor of Boval Vale—”
“And not terribly well,” Pentandra blurted.
“They weren’t expecting an abomination to crawl out of a hole with a bloodthirsty horde, no,” Arborn said, sourly. “But the Aronin was also charged with the task of being the custodian of a great armory. An arsenal containing weapons from the ancient wars between the Alka Alon – weapons so dire that they were gathered and sequestered away by common assent at the end of the struggle to keep them from being used casually ever again.”
“That’s just the kind of weapons we need against the Dead God!”
“We know,” Arborn said, grumbling. “Indeed, it was toward just an occasion as this that the weapons were put away in the first place. Only now that they are needed, the only person who knows where they are is lost to us. As is the location of the armory.”
“Wait, the Aronin was the only one who knew?”
“That was his purpose,” Arborn agreed, grimly. “To protect not just the armory and how to open it, but even its location. Only he and the members of his line know the secret. He guards not just its location and entry, but keeps the conscience of when and how it is used. Which means Ameras is the last one with that knowledge.”
“Oh. Well that explains the interest, then,” Pentandra conceded. “And why the Alon want to keep it quiet from the Arcane Orders. But why do they want to involve you, directly?”
“All of the Kasari rangers look to me,” her husband said, softly. “I am their captain. I directed a few fellows to go investigate. But that is a dangerous, wild land. It may be many months before I hear anything. And I am married to a High Mage noted for her discretion.”
“Well, I am gratified that you explained it to me,” Pentandra sighed. “I promise not to misuse the information. Honestly, if we’re going to win this war, humans and Alka are going to have to start trusting each other!”
“That depends on the humans,” Arborn said, rolling onto his back and staring at the canopy overhead. “That depends on the Alka Alon. That was the other thing she was warning me about. There is a . . . faction of Alka who actively hate humans. And most of the other Alka Alon. An ancient political feud that turned into a generational vendetta,” he explained. “They have been witnessed actively assisting the gurvani.”
“We’ve heard that rumor before,” Pentandra reminded him. “The Enshadowed. So far, the average gurvan hasn’t benefitted much from it.”
“They are now. Ithalia told me of an encounter she had near the borders of the Penumbra. She was attacked by undead.”
“That’s not a terribly complicated spell, if grisly,” Pentandra said, squirming despite herself at the thought of the dark realm of magic. “Even gurvani shamans can do it. The undead don’t last long. And they don’t fight well.”
“These did,” Arborn insisted, quietly. “They fought with twice the strength of a man, were alacritous, and possessed rare cunning in battle. I, too, have faced the living dead in my travels. These were not the usual walking corpses, my love. These were different. Ithalia fears they are but the first works of the Demon God. He is awakened, and at work.”
“And he is actually an undead Alka Alon,” Pentandra finished. “I know, we heard about that. So it’s our good guys and their good guys against our bad guys and their bad guys. I don’t see what the problem is in helping each other.”
“It is happening, but slowly, as suits the lives of –” the big man stopped and yawned before finishing. “—the Alka Alon. My wife, would you be terribly upset if we spent the evening in repose? It’s not that I did not miss you fiercely, but I have been on the road since before dawn—”
“And again dawn brightens the east,” Pentandra said, understandably. “Our happy reunion can wait until morning. Or later. But not much later,” she added. “I’ve missed you more than you can imagine.”
<
br /> Chapter Eighteen
Lady Pleasure
Pentandra did not intended to awaken the next morning until late, but her scant few hours of sleep were interrupted by a breathless messenger from the palace. She hurried downstairs in her robe, no kerchief, her eyes bleary and her heart racing. Would there be recriminations from the bloody night?
As it happened, the message was, indeed, for her to appear before His Grace in court – not for judgment for murder and mayhem, but as a witness for treason.
Anguin had decided to hear the backlog of criminal cases accumulating on his docket, as well as rule in a few civil matters, at a special court after luncheon, while the barons were still in town to bear witness to it. Both she and Arborn were commanded to attend to provide testimony against certain parties. Court dress was recommended.
She tipped the messenger a penny from a jar next to the door, intended for such gratuities, and then put the kettle over the fire. Then she realized she must be sleepy – and heated the water magically, instead.
“Well that settles what I’ll wear, today,” she sighed to herself as the water in the kettle began to bubble as she fed power to it. “I really must get some new clothes, soon!”
Her wardrobe was extensive, but most of it was for the sunnier climes of Remere and Castabriel, not the misty dampness of the Wilderlands. She had a gown and mantle she had designated her “standard court robe” for such occasions. For truly high ceremonies, she had something grander . . . but that didn’t eliminate the need for a good seamstress in her future.
“What is the problem, Mistress?” Alurra’s sleepy voice asked from the stairs.
“A lack of tea, at the moment,” she yawned. “But we have a busy day ahead of us, after a busy night. Arborn and I have been summoned to court this afternoon. And I was supposed to move into the palace today,” she sighed.
“I can help with that,” Alurra assured her, as she took a seat on a stool without even feeling for it. Lucky the Raven was on her shoulder, though the black bird seemed every bit as annoyed at the hour as Pentandra. “I can pack things, and get them ready to move,” she offered.
“I really don’t have that much baggage,” Pentandra decided, taking two earthenware mugs down and preparing her morning tea. She stopped, and looked at the blonde girl across the table. “Have you experienced menarche, yet?”
“Huh?”
“Have you had your monthlies?”
“Twice,” the girl said, embarrassed. “I didn’t know what . . . Why?” she asked, curiously.
“A girl your age is too young, yet, for a full strength dose,” she decided, adding only half of the bitter root to Alurra’s cup. “But this is Barrenroot. And some other herbs, but at full strength Barrenroot helps keep your cramping modest, your bleeding light, and it prevents having a baby.”
“Prevents having a . . . how?” Alurra asked, suddenly interested.
“It’s actually a common remedy, if prepared properly. This is my family’s recipe. How it works is . . . well, that’s more herbalism than alchemy, but simply put it affects your feminine energies. I drink it every morning. It keeps me healthy.”
“I guess I do have a lot to learn,” Alurra nodded. ”Antimei started me on herbalism, but we’ve only covered some basic healing herbs.”
“Let it steep for a few minutes,” she suggested. “Then add some honey. The taste takes some getting used to. But easing cramps and not having babies makes it worthwhile.”
Alurra made a face. “You don’t want to have babies? I thought every woman did.”
“So did I. At your age,” Pentandra reminisced. “I thought that’s all women wanted to do: get married and have babies, lots of babies. That’s all my mother, my sister, my cousins, my aunts ever talked about. When I got my Talent, my older sister actually felt sorry for me, because that wasn’t my future. Instead I was thrilled. I didn’t have to get married.”
“But . . . aren’t you married now?” she asked, confused.
“I am – and recently,” Pentandra said, blushing a little at the admission. She had no idea why. Perhaps because she felt her mother’s snort of approval in the back of her mind. “But that was my choice, not a dynastic alliance. Or a commercial bargain. I fell in love, and with the perfect man. That alone is why I agree to wed.”
“And babies?”
“I’ve just been married – give me some time to enjoy it before I’m cured with babies!” Pentandra said, chuckling. Despite herself, she enjoyed the girl’s company. Alurra’s easy smile and friendly manner were easy to fall prey to. “Goddess, I can barely manage breakfast—”
“Oh! Let me get that!” Alurra said, jumping up and moving toward the buttery.
“Can you?” Pentandra asked, curious. She had little idea what capabilities the blind girl had, although she was very intrigued by them.
“Oh, my, yes,” Alurra assured, as she began searching for utensils by touch. The bird looked intently over her shoulder at the table while her hands worked. “I used to make meals for myself and Antimei all the time – I worry, now that she doesn’t have me to look out for her. But I can make breakfast, if you can show me where a few things are.”
“That would be lovely, especially considering that there are a dozen more Kasari in the loft I hadn’t figured on,” Pentandra frowned.
“Oh, Kasari can survive anywhere,” Alurra dismissed. “They’d be fine with a piece of raw hide and a squirrel for breakfast. But I’ll manage something a little more substantial,” she promised.
While Pentandra watched with fascination the sightless girl cooking, they continued to talk and drink their tea in the little kitchen, allowing Pentandra to find out quite a bit about Alurra.
The girl was largely innocent, as far as such things went, having lived a sheltered life in her remote village. But she was also clever and observant – if such a term was appropriate for a blind girl.
She seemed to make up the lack of vision with not just animal assistance, but through some natural magical facility that informed her as she worked. Either that or she was an incredibly good guesser, Pentandra reasoned. But before they finished their conversation the girl had managed to put a cauldron full of oats and dried fruit on to boil, and was preparing to make biscuits.
Pentandra found her friendly and personable, a refreshing change from the posturing and positioning at court, or even Arborn’s laconic conversations. Perhaps, she considered, it really was time for her to take an apprentice. She left the girl with instructions to feed the Kasari and start packing up the bedchamber, though she was doubtful she could accomplish that without assistance.
Pentandra left for the palace dressed for court, reasonably washed up and less nervous about the consequences from the night before. A steady spring rain had rolled in at dawn, making the air misty and wet, and causing her to use magic to keep dry. Of course, none of that would matter if she was greeted with armed guards and escorted to the dungeon for murder . . .
She shouldn’t have worried.
As she approached the gate, she noticed the heads of Opilio the Knife and Bloodfinger adorning matching spikes on the gatehouse. Someone had even thoughtfully stuffed dead rats into their mouths, so that the rodents’ hindquarters protruded. That had to be the Constable’s work, she decided. Which meant that the task was approved after-the-fact by the Duke, and wouldn’t cause any official problems.
That eased Pentandra’s mind, at least. It also made her shudder. Having a license to commit murder was a power she had never desired.
Not seriously.
She spent the morning discussing the new staff’s duties with each of them, giving some instruction and some guidance, while trusting them to figure most of the job out on their own. She met briefly with Bircei, to go over some matters of housekeeping in the office before he led her upstairs to her personal quarters.
While they had been professionally scrubbed, they remained every bit as inadequate for her use as they had yesterday. Less than half the size of
her present chamber. But they were hers, by right, as Ducal Court Wizard, and she was damned if she would give them up to live in Minalan’s holiday home.
After giving some instructions to the young castellan, Pentandra took a few moments for luncheon before being summoned to court (which was being held in the East Hall, Birsei informed her) at the noon bell. That’s where she found Arborn, dressed in what passed for Kasari finery, waiting for her.
“What is this about?” Pentandra asked him, after a chaste kiss.
“His Grace wants to run his docket,” explained Sir Vemas, who was passing by. He was in his own court finery, his baldric-of-office over his shoulder. He did not at all look as if he’d run a nasty street fight for most of the previous evening. “Mostly old business. But apparently you two are witnesses in a few cases, so that’s why you were called.”
“Us? What did we witness?” Pentandra asked, confused.
“The treason of Lord Garway of Lotanz, I believe,” Vemas supplied. “The lord of Osbury Keep in Lotanz? Otter’s Point?”
“Oh!” Pentandra exclaimed, remembering the episode.
Last summer, at the beginning of the Great March, the very first Wilderlord the Kasari column had encountered was the one most proximate to their lands – and most vehemently against them. Lord Garway of Lotanz bore little love for their people, considering them savages no better than goblins, and tried to restrict both their right (according to Anguin’s letter of mission) to quarter in his castle or to cross his lands. “I guess I am looking forward to this, then.”
Minalan had adeptly arrested Lord Garway, after some adventure, for the crime of denying the Duke and his sworn marshals – that is, for defying Minalan himself. Pentandra had enjoyed watching Min take care of the unpleasant man, arresting him and having him imprisoned at Tudry, until he was brought to Vorone with the warmagi there. He was charged with rebellion.
Nor was he the only one charged in a case where she and Arborn were required to speak. There was the matter of Sirs Helden, Oacei, and Sire Gand, who had also attempted to halt Minalan’s magical (and ducally sanctioned) march through the Wilderlands that same summer. While Pentandra had not been as involved in that fight, she did have knowledge of the day. And Arborn had been there.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 41