Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  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 mage, 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 and 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 perfor
med 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 handsome 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.

  “This is the place,” Pentandra said, unnecessarily, as they approached the brightly-colored hall. The yard was littered with discarded flowers and cast-off clothes, as well as the passed-out human remnants of the previous few days’ activities. They moved carefully around the clusters of lovers still actively engaged, more in fear of being enchanted to join them than for fear of disturbing them, and made their way inside.

  There were no guards, and Pentandra did not expect to see any servants, but the young woman with the unfortunate features she remembered accompanying Baroness Amandine at court was there - Elspeth, she recalled - and was surprisingly unaffected by the spell.

  “It’s the Court Wizard!” she announced, lazily, as she recognized them both. “And this is the Master of Wood. And oh, what a master of that wood he is, I’m guessing. Come to pay a call on our lady, I expect?” she added, knowingly.

  “Is she at home?” Pentandra inquired politely, as if she was making a simple social call on a goddess in disguise and not completely naked under a stolen nun’s habit while standing in a busy whorehouse.

  “She is,” the girl conceded. “She’s been expecting you. Two days ago.”

  “We were . . . distracted,” Pentandra said, lightly. The girl looked from her to Arborn’s shirtless chest.

  “I bet you were!” she giggled. “He’s dreamy!” she said with a critical eye, her eyes gleaming unnervingly. “Goddess! Did he come to you like this or did you have him carved out of redwood?” she asked with undisguised envy. Arborn shifted his feet uncomfortably.

  “Is the Baroness around?” Pentandra repeated, impatiently. She did not like the way the girl was staring at her husband.

  “In her chambers, second floor,” the girl said, still staring unwaveringly at Arborn. He started to shift even more uncomfortably at the attention. It didn’t take much encouragement to pull him away from the girl’s frank inspection of his physique. Pentandra, for her part, had to restrain the urge to slap her freckled face for her temerity.

  Arborn was hers, damn it!

  The journey up the stairs was eventful, as there was a steady stream of traffic going up to the rooms, and plenty of couples who were either waiting impatiently for their turn or who had decided against waiting and were acting their passions out on the stairs. They were all but oblivious to a nun and a half-naked Kasari. Indeed, she could tell that she was not the only “nun” in the brothel. Pentandra followed the clerk’s directions until she found the right chamber.

  Lady Pleasure was, in fact, taking luncheon on the balcony overlooking the garden, but she was not alone. On the floor in front of her chair was a woman being robustly serviced by a pasty, potbellied middle-aged burgher . . . or at least that’s what he looked like to Pentandra.

  “Ah, Pentandra, so lovely to see you,” Lady Pleasure called to her from across the backs of the copulating couple. “And this must be your famous husband . . .”

  “Stop,” Pentandra commanded, simply.

  “He’s so much more . . . more, than I’d heard,” the disguised goddess said, admiringly. She looked at Arborn as if he were on special in a market stall and sipped her wine. “Yes, I can see why you’re enchanted by him. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, inside and out. I really did you a boon by arranging your pairing. Though I quite wonder if you are worthy of him—?”

  “Ishi, stop!” Pentandra repeated, a little more emphatically.

  Instead the goddess rose and approached Arborn with obvious interest, ignoring the lovers in front of her as if they were a couple of dogs. “His strength is obvious, of course, as is his beautiful face . . . but who would suspect it hides such an intellect? Or that his strong breast hides a heart with such compassion? Truly, my dear, you do not deserve a specimen as fine as this!”

  “Ishi, damn it, STOP IT!” Pentandra nearly screamed. That got the goddess’ attention.

  “Stop what, my dear?” she asked, amused at the outburst.

  “The spell that’s turning the entire town into a giant brothel!” she snarled. “This is no party; this is a plague!”

  “It’s more than even that,” Ishi countered, calmly. “Nor is it any idle whim. “

  “So this is your doing?”

  “Of course!” she asked, laughing derisively. “Who else could do this? In truth the roots of this undertaking were planted at Yule,” she confessed, slyly. “My Maidens’ first outing in my service. We prepared for a week for that, and made some mis-steps. But that’s when the initial spell was cast. Everyone who took my blessing with the sprig of mistletoe and spruce was affected,” she said, supremely pleased with herself. “It was the promise of a bountiful and fruitful year, and this is where that promise is kept!”

  Part of Pentandra had to admit the elegance of that kind of spell. Few human magi had the sophistication or the foresight to use magic that way, but Ishi had both the patience of a goddess and the divine capacity to produce it.

  Bitch.

  “You . . . purposefully turned Vorone into one big orgy?” Arborn asked, skeptically.

  “Well of course!” Ishi said, rolling her eyes. “Spreading happy and indulging desire are what I do! Don’t worry, virgins were not affected, nor were those of . . . deviant nature. Mostly,” she smirked. “Some of the strangest ones are my biggest devotees. Not something I can help, poor dears. But for the rest of you, you’re getting a good hearty dose of pure divinely-inspired pleasure.”

  “But why?” Arborn asked, as if the goddess’ blessing was a punishment.

  “Part whim, part whimsy, and part fulfillment on my promise to the Spellmonger to help,” Ishi answered, returning to h
er chair. “I didn’t expect the effect to last this long, but then planning isn’t my strong suit,” she dismissed.

  “And how is this helping?” demanded Pentandra, staring at the woman on the floor in front of her, who seemed about to climax. “Apart from pushing up the birth rate?”

  “Isn’t that enough? Well, if you need further justification, you may consider this little blessing a protective spell.”

  “Protective of what? Indulgence?” Pentandra snorted. “Good taste?”

  “No, my sweet,” the goddess said, patronizingly. “This effect is a manifestation of the pure procreative, reproductive Life Force, through my auspices. Every act of pleasure happening now acts like a pebble in the pond of Vorone, adding to the erotic turbulence of the Life Force. That has mystical consequences, besides being one hell of a party. One of which,” she reasoned, “is making the environment suddenly terribly inhospitable to those who find the overwhelming presence of the Life Force a challenge.” She said it expectantly, as if she wanted the mage to figure something out.

  That got Pentandra’s attention, quickly. “What kind of challenge?” she asked, her foggy mind racing.

  When dealing with different aspects of magic, the idea of the Life Force was a common element in certain studies, Pentandra knew. It was generated with the reproductive energies of a species – love and birth, mostly, but also mundanities such as eating and drinking. Nor was it mere theory, there were practical applications for the intelligent mage.