“Oh, gods yes,” Alurra assured her, sadly. “I cried and cried when she told me that part of the story!”
“It wasn’t any gods-damned story, girl! I was there myself!” Pentandra nearly snarled. Alurra looked stricken, and Pentandra instantly regretted snapping. She had gotten a dozen hours of sleep in Sevendor at the Chapterhouse, but she barely felt it. “What did Old Antimei tell you about Greenflower?” she continued in a more reasonable tone.
Alurra apparently didn’t take the outburst personally – probably a practiced skill, when dealing with the results of prophecy, Pentandra realized.
“Greenflower was very, very important,” Alurra assured her, gravely. “More important than you realize. I . . . I can’t say much,” she continued, struggling, “but as sad as it is, Mistress, please understand: it had to happen.”
“My friend had to lose her mind?” Pentandra demanded, wondering what kind of sick jokes the gods were playing with them now.
“She did,” Alurra said, heavily. “It’s part of the story. The big story,” she emphasized.
“So if you knew that Alya was going to . . . to . . .”
“Be maimed?” supplied Alurra.
“Yes, if you knew that, why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you let me know so I could . . . oh. You couldn’t,” Pentandra realized, “because Alya being wounded is . . . responsible for other things, right?” she asked, hesitantly.
Alurra nodded solemnly. “It plunges the Spellmonger into despair,” she replied, reluctantly. “Really, really bad. But it also motivates him,” she added, hopefully. “When . . . stuff happens later, it is his need to restore his wife that drives him.”
“Drives him where?” Pentandra demanded.
“I . . . that might be too much of the story, for now,” Alurra said, uncertainly.
“Damn it, Alurra, what is the use of prophecy if it can’t be used to help?”
“But it was!” protested Alurra. “If you hadn’t gone with the Spellmonger to Greenflower, like Lord Arborn wanted, then things would have been much, much worse. So I spoke with him,” she said, with just a trace of smugness, “and suggested that it would be a good idea for you to go.”
Pentandra just glared at her apprentice. She was angry, at both the ancient prophetess she’d never met who seemed to know more about her life than she did, and at the young girl who so casually discussed the fates of her friends. Part of her was thankful the girl could not see the face she was making, while another part wished she could. The very idea that this . . . this urchin felt obliged to interfere with her husband . . . !
Then she calmed herself, putting herself in Alurra’s position for a moment.
The poor girl had been entrusted with information far beyond her abilities and experience, and was doing the best she could in a strange and complicated situation. It must have been hard enough to leave the rustic existence that was all she had known behind and make the journey to Vorone – blind, at that. But then to have placed herself in the charge of an unknown woman with only the barest of assurances that everything would work out . . . well, in her position, Pentandra wasn’t so sure she could have been as calm as Alurra, at her age.
She heaved a great sigh. “It’s not your fault,” she said, as much to herself as to her apprentice. “It was a . . . it was an impossible situation. If Alya hadn’t done what she did, we might all be dead now. Yet if I had known what she was going to do . . .”
“That’s the problem with prophecy,” Alurra said, heavily, “when you know the whole story, the parts you hate are sometimes the most important parts. Lady Alya needs to be . . . to be . . . shattered, right now,” she said, though it pained her to speak the words. “And the Spellmonger must be despondent, if things are going to play out right.”
“Any hints about what happens next?” Pentandra asked, cagily.
It was Alurra’s turn to heave a great sigh, as they entered the palace gates. “I think you’re about to find out,” she said, as Lucky’s head suddenly shot up.
Ahead of her – waiting for her – was the Dowager Baroness Amandine. Lady Pleasure.
Ishi.
She was wearing a cunningly-made emerald green gown cut in a southern Alshari style (and popular two generations before amongst their Cormeeran forebears) which complimented her golden hair perfectly. Three of her Maidens – well, two, not counting the bucktoothed girl, Elspeth – were behind her, waiting.
Waiting for Pentandra, as it turned out.
“Ah, our illustrious Court Wizard!” Lady Pleasure announced in syrupy tones. “Returned from the Magewar, victorious!”
“Lady Pleasure,” Pentandra said, pointedly, “in the last week I’ve had a major conference, repelled a widespread attack on the duchy, and helped my Order eliminate a traitor. As much as I’d like to play courtier at the moment, I must warn you my patience and fortitude are as worn as your bedclothes.”
“Oh, but of course!” the baroness clapped, ignoring the barb. That didn’t bode well, Pentandra noted. “That is entirely why I have sought you out!”
Pentandra did a double take. “To irritate me apurpose? Because—”
“No, no, no, you silly dear!” Lady Pleasure nearly sang. “I sought you out to honor you! I am holding a feast in your honor at the palace, to thank you for your quick and heroic response to the recent attacks. I spoke with His Grace just an hour ago, and he is entirely in favor of the idea. Once I pointed out that you and your brave magi were instrumental in throwing back the gurvani hordes, he—”
“There weren’t any hordes,” Pentandra said, sharply. “It wasn’t a full-scale invasion, they were merely testing our defenses.”
“And you demonstrated just how stout they are, which is a feat to be honored!” insisted Lady Pleasure. “My dear, if we do not stop the world and force it to honor the achievements we women make, then soon it would be all too easy for men to dismiss them altogether,” she said. Then she added, in a more serious tone, “And considering the great sacrifices and effort you have devoted to this duchy, I think such an honor is the least the duchy can do you in return.”
“I am guessing that His Grace agreed to the honor because you said you’d pay for the entire thing?” Alurra said, unimpressed by the goddess in human form. Pentandra smirked at her apprentice’s impertinence despite the rudeness of the comment.
It made sense. With the budget as badly strained as it was, after the unexpected attacks, the only way Viscountess Threanas would approve of a lavish celebration not tied to a pre-existing holiday was if it was paid for already. And by all accounts the House of Flowers was doing well. Sister Saltia had mentioned that their tax payments to the burghers’ reeve had been far more than anticipated. Regardless of her other failings as a deity, Ishi knew how to run a whorehouse.
“Well . . . yes,” admitted Lady Pleasure, frowning. “But that should in no way detract from the need of the court to honor one of its most loyal and effective officers. And Duke Anguin agreed wholeheartedly,” she added, pleased.
Of course, Pentandra realized, with the two cute-looking brunette whores flanking her, Lady Pleasure could have proposed wholesale castration of the entire court and Anguin would have at least listened attentively.
She was about to protest when she realized it was futile. Ishi was determined to “honor” her, and as miserable as she felt after the events at Castle Salaisus, she was too aware of the need of the people to honor those they saw as heroic. No matter how unheroic they might feel.
“Fine,” she finally said, irritated beyond belief. She began walking toward her office, desperate to get home and in her own bed. “I’ll be honored to attend. When is it?”
“In a week – enough time to have a new gown made, if you like,” Lady Pleasure told her, as she fell into step next to her, her attendants falling in behind. “And you really should consider it,” she said, giving Pentandra’s gown far too much of her attention. “I’ve hired a band of musicians from Wilderhall, too, and of course my Maidens wil
l be happy to serve,” she added. “I just think it’s criminal that all of these sword-swinging warmagi get all the credit when it’s your thoughtful planning and flawless execution that got them to the battlefield in the first place!”
“That sounds lovely,” Pentandra said, unconvincingly. “Be certain to let my office know when precisely it starts.” It was unlikely that she could find a good excuse to not attend a banquet in her own honor, but then Pentandra always prided herself on her creative approach to social problems. “And if you could invite a few friends from Sevendor, who were helpful.”
“I don’t think . . . I don’t believe Minalan will be able to attend,” Lady Pleasure said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He is dealing with the consequences of that little war in Sashtalia, or wherever, this week. But I will extend an invitation to your other professional colleagues and interest parties, if you’d like.”
“That would be grand,” she dismissed. Nothing sounded worse to her than being forced to stand up and bear the acclaim Ishi was attempting to brand her with . . . but then she wasn’t a freelance sex wizard anymore. She wasn’t even a senior bureaucrat.
No, she was the Court Wizard of Alshar, and she had a social and official responsibility to fulfill.
What made it worse was that none of her male colleagues would understand the devious nature of Ishi’s proposed celebration. Men saw such honors plainly, and accepted them for what they were, independent of context.
But in a struggle between women, honor and praise were but two arrows in the feminine quiver. Ishi, damn her, was forcing social prominence on Pentandra in a way that, while elevating her and bringing her notice, would also attract the resentment and ire of the other ladies of court regardless of how they felt about either of them.
Pentandra had never taken the position of court wizard for self-aggrandizement, though plenty of other wizards had in the past. She neither wanted nor craved glory and acclaim. But she could not refuse the gracious offer of Lady Pleasure or the honor she and the court apparently wished to bestow on her, regardless of how badly she wanted to. She might feel like a complete failure as a court wizard, but she couldn’t allow that to communicate to the rest of the court.
No, standing there in unbearable silence while Lady Pleasure extolled her supposed virtues to the crowd was a duty she had to perform, Pentandra knew. As painful and humiliating as it would be to her, personally, (which Ishi would find gratifying, she knew), such official recognition meant just too much to her subordinates, not to mention her allies in the greater court. Being honored so early in Anguin’s reign promised much for the other women of the court, and she could not let them down by trying to dodge the honor. Regardless of the personal cost.
Nor could she allow the warmagi who had volunteered to leave the comforts of the Conclave to plunge into danger unexpectedly in the middle of the night to go un-honored for their service . . . and she would ensure that this stupid event was focused on their efforts, not hers. She had merely coordinated the response – they had risked life and limb defending the duchy.
“I would be delighted to attend,” Pentandra finally said, sounding far less than delighted as she mentally counted the steps between here and her bed. “Really, really delighted.”
Lady Pleasure, of course, ignored the sarcasm and took her words at face value. “Oh, I am so happy to hear that, Lady Pentandra!” she said, clapping her hands together. “I shall construct the most enchanting entertainments, I promise!”
“I am curious how you got Viscountess Threanas to go along with this,” she said, a thought suddenly occurring to her. She knew that the Minister of the Treasury held a strong antipathy for “Lady Pleasure” and her blatant manipulations of court. She couldn’t see the two women coming to terms on whether the sun was hot or the rain was wet, much less “honoring” Pentandra.
“Oh, Threnny?” Lady Pleasure dismissed. “We’re old friends, now. Actually, I’ve known her around court and around town for years. Once she learned about how I . . . introduced Countess Shirlin to some of the deeper mysteries during the Wildflower Festival -- and believe me, they got really, really deep! – in front of half the court, her tone softened. Threnny might be a dried-up old dishrag, but she’s a loyal Alshari noblewoman of an ancient and distinguished house who could not stand that Shirlin woman. Which indicates an impressive amount of taste,” the hidden goddess admitted. “Shirlin has kept to herself since then, if you’ve noticed.”
“I hadn’t,” Pentandra confessed as she gratefully rounded the corner that led to her office. “I’ve been a bit busy with arcane affairs,” she reminded the madam.
Then she stopped. Why would Lady Pleasure be bringing her up?
“Why? What has she done, now?”
Lady Pleasure smirked, the amused goddess peeking through the countenance of the baroness like sun through the clouds. “Oh, she proposed – in open court the other night, no less – that His Grace ban prostitution outright in Vorone. She was looking right at me when she said it, too,” she mused, indulgently.
“The temerity of some people!” Pentandra said, partly in jest.
“She also proposed that he make a public offering to Huin and Luin to beg their forgiveness for the ‘horrific events’ of the spring. Lastly, she recommended that His Grace seriously embark on a course to secure a bride at the earliest possible moment,” she reported with obvious relish. “She recommended Lady Maronina, eldest daughter of Count Harle of Lemey, in southern Castal. She is six years His Grace’s senior and has a face like the back end of an ox,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Gods, what did Anguin say?” Pentandra asked, despite herself. She hated gossip. When she didn’t love it. This, however, was important gossip, as it involved a threat to the political stability of the court.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
“His Grace very graciously declined,” Lady Pleasure reported, smiling. “Our lad is not so green as to be tempted by the charms – and I use the term with the utmost convenience – of a Castali bride. Not when he’s experienced just a taste of what the Wilderlands has to offer,” she said, confidently, as she glanced at the matching brunettes walking behind them. “When the old bat had the nerve to debate with him, thankfully Father Amus came forward and declared that His Grace would seek no wife until the realm, such as it is, was secure. And that he had sworn a solemn oath to Huin, Duin, and Luin to that effect.”
“Ouch!” Pentandra winced, good-naturedly. A Duke could not lightly back away from a vow made so publically. That would put a stop to the murmuring about marrying the lad off – for a few months, anyway, Pentandra knew. She could easily appreciate the utility of the move to Grendine, as it would have saddled a potential weak rival with feudal obligations and alliances that would have bound him more closely to Castal. “Well, that should end her tenure here, then. How did she react?”
“Poorly. But graciously. You might want to have someone keep watch on those two maids of hers,” the goddess suggested. “I don’t know if the Queen will decide to push her agenda, but if she does those two maidens are the instruments through which she will, not the old biddy.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Pentandra asked, quietly, as they came to the doorway of her office.
“Because I really am trying to help,” Ishi insisted, through Amandice’s mouth. “I want nothing more for this realm to survive and thrive. To do that it needs intelligent, capable ministers like you. Ministers who are informed. More informed than you. While you are watching for the arcane realm, I am defending the social and political. When we work together, His Grace rises, the fortunes of the duchy rise, and we all benefit.”
“So this means that we are . . . at truce?” Pentandra asked, pausing a moment with the madame before she went inside.
Before Ishi could answer, a familiar voice cut through the air in an accent unfamiliar in these northern halls.
A voice that sent chills of horror, regret, and fear down Pentandra’s spine.
One of the last voices she ever expected to hear under these circumstances.
One of the voices she prayed furiously was a mistake of her ears.
“Pentandra anna Benurvial! It’s about time you wandered into your own office! To think I came all this way to see you, only to find you off wiping that Narasi boy’s arse, again!”
Pentandra glared at Baroness Amandice as she struggled to breathe.
No. Not here. Not now.
“A truce?” Ishi snickered. “More or less.”
Ishi watched Pentandra’s face with the interest of an artist watching her art be revealed.
Did she not realize the duchy was in crisis? That I just returned from a conference? That I just returned from a successful Magewar? I thought she wanted to help!
Taking a deep breath, and giving one last hateful look at Baroness Amandice, Pentandra plastered a smile across her lips and stood a little straighter before she turned to face the doorway.
“Why hello, Mother!” she said, as cheerful sounding as she could manage. “What a wonderful surprise!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Lady Amendra
Pentandra stared at the woman who had given her birth, standing in the shabbily grand office that was hers by virtue of her hard-won and well-earned position, and felt herself crumble inside. It was as if twenty years of her life were stripped away in a second, and she was five-years old.
Not that her mother was terribly imposing in appearance. While slightly taller than her father, Amendra anna Benurvial still had the slender build and mild stature of most Imperial-descended Remerans; that was reflected in her dusky features and the long black ringlets that cascaded from under her yellow silk headscarf. The kind of headscarf a proper Remeran noblewoman wore.
But Amendra’s presence was not constrained by her physical presentation. Her dark yellow traveling gown and bright scarlet mantle seemed out-of-place among the darker, more woodland-oriented colors of the palace, a contrast that served to make her more prominent in the halls of the palace. The cluster of servants and retainers at her back, the small stack of baggage around their feet augmented her position, as it was designed to.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 78