Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Celebrate? I was reluctant to expose my husband to the withering criticism I expected – rightly, I see,” Pentandra added, coolly. “After what I had to endure to convince him to marry me, I didn’t want to ruin my marriage prematurely by showing him the kind of family he was marrying into.”

  “You didn’t want me to ruin your marriage, you mean!” her mother said, acidly.

  “No, my marriage is my responsibility,” Pentandra replied, calmly. “If it fails, it will be because of what I have done or not done. And as such, I thought that the wisest course of action was to learn how to live with my husband before exposing him to the vitriol I expected from his new in-laws.”

  “Live with him?” scoffed Amendra, drinking the dark Cormeeran lustily. “Pentandra, if my marriage has taught you nothing else, it should teach you that you don’t have to live with a man in order to have a successful marriage,” she said, sagely. “Trygg’s holy twat, if I had to live with your father every day, there would be blood,” she said, shaking her head at the idea.

  “And you count that as a successful marriage, Mother?” Pentandra asked, pointedly.

  “We are not peasants, Pentandra!” Amendra scolded. “In our social position we marry to continue the line, support the institution of the family, and conserve assets. We cannot let such clutter as love and romance and misguided ideas of happy peasant families distract us from that.”

  “And we are not noblemen, Mother!” Pentandra shot back, harshly. “We’re magi who have been pretending to be nobility for four hundred years! Now that things have changed, we magi will decide our own society, thank you very much!”

  “And that society includes barbarian chieftains and . . . other exotic alliances?”

  Pentandra thought about the goddess masquerading as a madam down on the Street of Perfume, the blind girl with the troubling secret stumbling around the palace, the quirky little nun of the goddess of gambling who was running her fictitious criminal organization’s underground lending operation – at a profit – and the odd Kasari assassins who eschewed their tribe’s reverence for life for the opportunity to skulk around Vorone and shoot people in the darkness.

  “Yes, Mother, it does. Everyone from the Alka Alon to gurvani traitors to Karshak builders to wild tribal warriors to illiterate Alshari Wilderlords . . . our world is changing, and we must do what we can to protect it. With the assistance of who we can find. That’s made all the more difficult when these . . . exotic allies of ours encounter the prejudiced, bigoted, and ignorant opinions of our nobility. Which might explain to you why I was reluctant about introducing you to my husband!”

  “We . . . can be a bit judgmental,” Amendra conceded. She’d made her point, and was ready to strike from a different direction. “But the very idea of a daughter of mine having to convince anyone to marry her, when they should be willing to kill for the privilege, is—”

  “It wasn’t Arborn’s inclination that I had to overcome,” Pentandra interrupted. “It was his devotion to duty, and obedience to the laws of the Kasari. Many raptor-ranked Kasari men, and especially their rangers, don’t ever marry, or marry very late in life, if they’ve survived the harshness of that vocation. Arborn made himself an exception, which did him no favors among some of his people. It was not a welcome pairing to many Kasari, and I did not want to compound the discomfort by showing him just how judgmental my own people were.”

  “What?” Amendra asked, scandalized. “Do they not realize who you are?”

  “To them, I am merely another non-Kasari,” Pentandra explained. “My rank and position means nothing within their tribe. My ability to practice magic means nothing. Social status? Wealth? Family? Title? They mean nothing. I still had to go through the same rites that every adolescent Kasari girl must, just to be considered. And even then there were no guarantees that Arborn would select me. I count myself fortunate I was able to overcome my own sheltered upbringing and manage the basics of domesticity that every peasant girl seems to master before she bleeds.”

  “Pentandra, that’s servant’s work!” Amendra dismissed. “So what does this young man bring to the marriage?” she asked, after a few moment’s thought. Pentandra was certain she could imagine all of the nosy questions she had discarded in favor of this one – as intrusive as it was. Asking about her husband’s resources was Amendra’s idea of verbal restraint.

  “A kind heart, a strong arm, a keen eye, and a devotion to your daughter that is unmatched,” Pentandra said, proudly.

  That did not impress her mother. “Hmmph. So, no holdings to speak of? No estates? No treasury?”

  Pentandra gave an exasperated sigh. “Mother! The Kasari do not measure things like that! They grant rank and position in their society based on achievement, merit, and competence, not wealth!”

  “Barbarians,” sighed the Remeran woman, amused. “No sense of—”

  “One of those barbarians is now your son-in-law, Mother,” Pentandra reminded her, sternly. “And imagine what he would think if he heard you speaking of his people like that!”

  “I mean no offense,” Amendra said, unconvincingly. “I merely want what is best for my daughter. When we invested in your education, we anticipated something more than a kind heart and a strong arm for your dowry.”

  “I have more wealth than I can spend in this life,” Pentandra dismissed. “Between my inheritance, my stipend here, and what I earned as Steward of the Arcane Orders, coin is not a problem for my marriage. I have more than enough to support us both, when needed. Nor is Arborn destitute, in Narasi terms. He is the Master of Wood for the duchy, you know – and the duchy with the most wood. There is a stipend involved, as well as other remuneration.”

  “At least he has a job,” sighed her mother, after a few moments’ consideration. “He’s not . . . tattooed or anything, is he? Ritual scarification?”

  “He’s perfectly acceptable at the court of a sitting duke, Mother!” Pentandra said, her jaw clenched. “If His Grace sees no issue with having him at his table, I do hope you can find it within yourself to extend him the same courtesy.”

  “A mere duke is not a choosy as your mother, Pentandra!” Amendra corrected. “If I seem circumspect about your new husband, perhaps it is because I was not afforded the opportunity to make his acquaintance in the usual manner,” she pointed out.

  Pentandra had little to defend herself with on that. In Remere, as in most places, weddings were family oriented. After all, a wedding was as much the union of two families as it was two people, and all the more so when it united the interests of two houses. To turn her back on all of the hallowed traditions and social obligations usually involved in two families getting to know each other before the event had deprived her mother of much-needed intelligence.

  But then another part of her mind chimed in, pointing out the obvious. “Mother, had I thought you would have given him a fair hearing and an honest, objective assessment, instead of inspecting him like an old horse who has gone out of fashion, I might have. But as it was I had to make my own choices and my own decisions – something I’ve grown comfortable with, over the years. Surely you can appreciate that.”

  “Not at the expense of your family, Daughter,” she said, flatly, as she sipped more wine. “I had no problem with your profession – half of my family are adepts. We always expected you would marry within your craft, before your friend the Spellmonger shook up the social order. But now that your options have opened . . . you choose a barbarian from the far side of the world? When you could have married into nobility?”

  “I am married into nobility, Mother!” Pentandra said, flatly. “Arborn was ennobled before we got here!”

  “Oh, surely, but he’s a noble in name only if he has no holdings, no treasury,” Amendra dismissed. “And yes, I do know you have your own money – remember, my mother and aunt granted you quite the legacy when they died. But a woman who has to support her husband . . .” she said, shaking her head sadly.

  “Oh, Ishi’s saggy tits,
Mother, I don’t have to support a fellow officer of the court!” Pentandra spat angrily. “Nor do I have aspirations of being landed nobility! I’m a magelord, for Trygg’s tears, I don’t need to be a baroness!”

  “Well, it couldn’t hurt!” Amendra declared. “What happens if your fortunes change, and you and your husband are dismissed from service? How will you eat, then?”

  “Well, I’ll just have to fall back on the fact that I’m the second most powerful mage in the world and my barbarian husband’s ability to construct an entire civilization out of two sticks and a bit of rope! Honestly, Mother, you haven’t been worried about my upkeep since I left for Alar – why does it concern you so now?” she demanded, hotly.

  “Because when you went to Alar, you were just a girl! Now you are a grown woman who went off and got married . . . without even telling me!” her mother exploded.

  “How about you actually meet my husband before condemning him?” Pentandra challenged, quietly, after a moment of reflection. “Perhaps you will be less angry if you see the man who compelled me to give up my lifelong obsession with rebellion against my mother and actually consider marriage!”

  When put like that, Amendra had a difficult time finding an argument. She calmed, visibly, at the idea. “Is this husband of yours in the palace? Or does he sleep in the trees?”

  “Only when he’s in the field,” Pentandra replied, calmly. “And yes, he is in the palace, or was the other day. He’s still healing from . . . well, it’s a rough job,” she said, lamely. “He’s around. How about we have dinner in my chambers tonight? Then you can decide for yourself if I’ve made my usual horrible mistake and ruined my life or not.”

  “I look forward to the opportunity,” her mother said, haughtily, as castellan Birsei knocked quietly on her door. He stuck his head in cautiously – which bespoke uncommon good sense on his part.

  “My ladies, Lady Amendra’s suite is ready,” he reported, dutifully. “Sir Antinon has agreed to lodge you in the Hawking Room,” he said, pleased.

  Pentandra nodded – she’d have to thank the Chamberlain in person, for that. The Hawking Room was usually reserved for visiting religious dignitaries, diplomatic ambassadors or nobles of rank. Needless to say it was empty at the moment. “That will be fine, Birsei. Have the drudges take my mother’s luggage there, and see that it is well-supplied – on my account,” she added.

  “What a thoughtful and generous gesture,” her mother said, her tone unconvinced. “If this nice young man will escort me to my quarters, I feel the need to refresh myself before dinner,” she announced.

  “Please ensure my mother has adequate supplies for a bath, Birsei,” she instructed. “I’ll see you this evening, Mother. Oh . . . and just how long were you planning on staying?” she asked, lightly.

  “Oh, since your sister and your father are preoccupied, I figured I’d stay through the end of the summer,” she replied casually as she stood. “I’ve never been this far north, and I’ve always been told that this is the prettiest part of natural Alshar.”

  “That’s . . . that’s fantastic,” Pentandra said, as her mother left. Her mind was spinning.

  All summer long. And it was only past midsummer.

  Princess Rardine was due this autumn.

  There were undead skulking about Vorone.

  The duchy was just attacked by gurvani.

  The first Magewar in four hundred years had been waged and won, with disastrous consequences.

  And there was a mischievous, devious goddess doing her best to upset her.

  Pentandra put her forehead down on her desk for a moment, letting the cool of the wood absorb the heat from her suddenly-pounding brow. Then she sat up, looked absently into space . . . and poured herself another glass of wine.

  All the way to the brim.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dinner With Mother

  “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. It’s 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. She felt sorry for him, for what he was about to witness.

  “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.