Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The old witch who lived in the hidden croft was well-supplied. Under that turf roof there was a treasury of herbs and roots the old hedgewitch had collected, dried, and stored against need. Huge bundles of fresh herbs she’d harvested from the meadow hung from the rafters at the moment, and there were dozens of small homespun linen bags around them full of previous years’ harvest, Pentandra assumed. A rack of drying parchment reeds and stringrass was next to an amazing pile of Nature’s cast-offs, everything from empty tortoise shells to nightweb tines to discarded stag antlers. Another shelf held minerals she’d collected from around the place over the years.

  Old Antimei had made a very cozy living space at one end of the place, complete with overstuffed chair, table, small kitchen and buttery, and a large iron cauldron where she plied her stock-in-trade. The old woman was dressed in a faded working smock of homespun, though she had sturdy shoes and a thick cloak hanging on a peg near the door. Though the croft was artificially cool in the permanent shade, it was still high summer, and the air was hot outside and in.

  Alurra proved to be out harvesting a few things for their supper, Old Antimei assured her, as they settled into the living area of the croft with a pot of tea.

  “So, how has my girl done, away off in the big city?” Old Antimei asked with an instant familiarity only the aged could be excused from.

  “Well enough,” conceded Pentandra, who was anxious to discuss a thousand other things before her apprentice. But she was a guest in Antimei’s home, and the laws of hospitality required that she indulge her hostess. She propped Everkeen up against the wall behind her chair and settled in. No need to be uncivilized.

  “We are still experiencing difficulties with the challenge of mastering first year materials,” she said, sticking to the professional language she was now used to, “but we’ve made some recent gains by using jute thread on soft cotton. She understands the basic alphabet and first two sets of thaumaturgical runes, now, which is more than she did when she arrived. We’re working on simple words. But it’s . . . challenging.”

  “As I suspected it would be,” the wizened old woman nodded politely, looking like a diminutive noblewoman perched in her ragged chair. “She has a good head on her shoulders, but it is inclined toward laziness.” Despite her rustic condition and a layer of the thick Wilderlands brogue in her voice, Antimei spoke with intelligence and education.

  “I am hoping these help,” Pentandra said, suddenly, remembering the pouch Minalan had brought her at her request. “They’re from Sevendor, the Spellmonger’s home. He calls them ‘Library Stones’. When you read a book while holding one, the information in the book is transferred to the stone, where anyone who uses it subsequently can read it. At least, that’s how I understand it. I was planning on testing it on Alurra when we were attacked at the palace.”

  Antimei’s lips drew tight. “Yes, I am sorry I could not provide a better warning or more assistance against those . . . abominations. But I had to walk a very thin line about what to say, and about what to keep hidden. It’s an occupational hazard,” she dismissed. “One I’ve gotten very good at.” She picked up the bag and let the stones tumble into her lap. “Ah! I’ve been waiting for these!” she said, pleased.

  “I understand the implicit dangers in prophecy,” Pentandra continued, sipping her tea and ignoring the stones. “But I am curious about just when you began having . . . visions of me.”

  “Oh, long before you were born, girl,” Old Antimei assured her with a chuckle and a wave of her bony hand. “When I was just a new-made journeyman myself, back in Inmar, in the Great Vale of southern Alshar. Beautiful place, in its day. But I began having visions of the proud, pretty young Court Wizard I see now in the flesh for the first time before your parents even met, my dear.”

  Pentandra found that idea troubling in many ways, but she stopped herself from asking the volley of questions the answer inspired. Instead she tried to focus on the matters at hand.

  “If your insights and your visions are so important to the unfolding of things,” she continued, carefully, “then why have you not made the magical community aware of them?”

  “Who is to say I have not?” asked the old woman, raising one eyebrow. “When Master Terleman and his mates first heard of the irionite in Boval, how do you think they heard about it? When it was vital that Minalan select Sevendor for his home, who do you think – through subtle magics – influenced him to make that choice?” she asked, smugly.

  “All this I have done and more, in the service to our mutual cause. I have been watching events unfold for you and your friends since before they existed,” boasted the old woman. “I have paid careful attention, and considered the importance of every act and every action.”

  “And yet we are entirely ignorant of your existence,” countered Pentandra.

  “My existence would have been tragically short, if the Censorate ever got wind of me,” Old Antimei pointed out wryly. “I needed Minalan to topple the old order of things and for you to design the new order, before I could even whisper of my abilities. That took . . . time.”

  “Thirty years of it, apparently,” Pentandra said, chewing her lip.

  Old Antimei held up the larger of the two library stones. “You think this could help our lass? And don’t speak to me as if I’m ignorant,” she said, precluding the simple explanation Pentandra was preparing. “I was an Adept-class mage, in Inmar. Licensed and warranted.”

  “It accesses the mind at the level of memory,” reasoned Pentandra, “and goes far beyond the visual cortex, so I’m hopeful it will finally allow her to read. She doesn’t need physical eyes for her mind to be able to ‘read’ what is in the stone . . . in theory. The larger one has already been seeded with elementary magical texts, thanks to a young wizard named Gareth. And a few books of poetry - I think the young man was in love, when he read them.”

  Old Antimei smiled, fondly. “That’s so sweet! I’m certain Alurra will enjoy them, once she is able to master the art. She is a good girl, and a very smart girl. A quick wit and excellent humor,” she said, approvingly.

  “Who were her parents?” Pentandra felt compelled to ask.

  “No idea,” Old Antimei said, shaking her head. “She was just a tyke when she showed up at the nearest village with a bunch of other refugees from the west bank. I was the only one interested in taking on a skinny little blind girl. I could tell she had rajira, though – there are ways you can tell, before menarche, if you are observant enough. Her parents were Wilderlords, I’m assuming, or yeomen. She was wearing decent clothes when she came here. Shoes, even. She could barely talk, but she was no peasant. She knew her name, but not much beyond that. Apart from that, I have no idea.”

  “Well, you managed to turn her into a fine young woman,” Pentandra complimented. “She’s done amazing work in Vorone. Not only has she learned a few manners and some basic thaumaturgy, but she’s been a pure help when it comes to our struggle against organized crime.”

  “The Brotherhood of the Rat,” sighed Old Antimei, darkly. “Yes, unfortunately, you have not heard the last of them. You may have driven them from Vorone, but they still will vex you for years to come, I’m afraid.”

  “Getting them dislodged from Vorone was a start,” Pentandra pointed out. “Now that folk can do business in peace, without the Rats taking every third penny, coin is flowing through the town again.”

  “That is the least of their intrusions,” Antimei said, frowning. “They have aspirations only a few are aware of. Which makes them particularly vulnerable to the agents of the Necromancer, now that he has taken an interest in them.”

  “How so?”

  “They have exploited that vulnerability, both in Vorone and much deeper, away in Enultramar. ‘Tis a pact most foul, the one that has been made against us. Sheruel lends them gold, magic, and power. They will come to rue the day they made such a dark bargain,” she predicted. “but that will not be soon enough for us. Until then, they will prove one of your mos
t steadfast foes, even after the Necromancer has fallen. You should consider speaking with young Rondal and Tyndal about their experiences in Enultramar with the Rats in the south. You may find them instructive.”

  “I will be certain to do that,” Pentandra promised. “What do you foresee next for Alurra?” she asked, lightly. Surely the old oracle would give her a few hints.

  “A lot of study,” chuckled the old witch. “It will take a few days, but I think you will find she will soon be able to read decently enough, with proper prompting. Of course, that is just the beginning of her training, but I leave that in your capable hands,” she said, sipping her tea.

  “But . . . but you are her Master,” Pentandra said, frowning. “If she is most used to your guidance, then she should continue her studies here.”

  Old Antimei patted her knee kindly, but her laugh was rueful. “My dear, I am old. My name was not given to me lightly. I will not live long enough to see her training completed. That is why you were chosen.”

  “But why did you choose me?” she asked. “Of all people to teach magic to a blind waif from the Wilderlands—”

  “I said you were chosen,” Antimei interrupted, sharply. “I did not say I chose you. On the contrary, I merely foresaw how events have unfolded. And will continue to unfold, long after I am gone.”

  Pentandra could not accept that. “If Alurra was raised here, it seems like this place is perfect for her to continue her studies here. For as long as she is able,” she added, a nod to the old woman’s mortality. She certainly seemed spry enough; Pentandra was tempted to use Everkeen to examine the woman’s health. But as a guest, that would be rude . . .

  “Oh, she will,” Antimei assured her. “For this shall be your home – one of your homes – after I am dead. In fact, you will build a magnificent tower over this very spot, one of the most elegant in the city. A fitting residence for one so powerful and important.”

  “You mean that Anguin will allow Carmella to build the city she and Minalan envision?”

  “Allow? The duke shall insist. This remote mount will eventually become the mighty fortress known as Vanador, the City of Magi. You will be among its rulers. It shall persist long after Vorone and Tudry fall. It shall be a mighty refuge in the north, one of the last fortresses standing against the enemy. It shall become a symbol of Duke Anguin’s majesty and help re-establish Alshar as a united power, once again. And this modest croft shall be at the center of it.’

  Pentandra stared at the old woman, trying to absorb the enormity of what she was saying. It promised so much, it was so unbelievable, yet Pentandra had not been able to fault one of her predictions. She could tell the crone was speaking the truth without recourse to a spell. She stared at her for a long while, her brow becoming increasingly furrowed.

  “You know . . . I could really grow to despise prophecy,” Pentandra finally said, torn between candor and politeness. The admission amused Old Antimei.

  “Oh, you will, my dear. With a burning hatred. As have I, for thirty years or more. I fully see why the Censorate repressed it so brutally. But as I have had no choice in the matter myself, I have tried to make the best of things. I left my husband and children behind, escaped to the wilderness, and lived in a glorified hole in the side of a hill, all because I felt that my visions were more important than my happiness.”

  “And were they?” Pentandra asked, caught off-guard by the old woman’s casual admission.

  “Oh, gods no!” Old Antimei said, in a low voice. “Had I the opportunity to do it over again, I would gladly have presented myself to the Censorate to have my rajira burned from my mind, even at the risk of living as an imbecile. I would have been a happy imbecile, surrounded by my family.

  “Instead I am a bitter old woman in a hole, preparing to die at the hands of abomination, regretful that I missed the life I was supposed to live,” she said, wistfully. “But if I am to have made that sacrifice, I want it to have meaning. That is why I have sorted and recorded my visions for the last thirty years,” she said, patting the arm of her chair. “Every prediction and foresight I’ve had, as best as I can understand it. My life’s work: a woefully incomplete history of the future, in poorly rendered verse,” she said, with great deal of understated pride in her voice.

  “So . . . how does it end?” Pentandra asked, in a hushed tone.

  “Oh, that would be telling,” Old Antimei chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you. But what ending would be sufficient for your tastes? That is the question. Lady Pentandra, I have gotten to know you since before you were born, through my visions. Most of what I learned of you I did not put in the book. Indeed, most of my visions were not included, as many were confusing or incomplete past the point of usefulness. So I know, in a way, what is going through your mind. What challenges you face, what terrors haunt your soul.”

  “If you cannot tell me the conclusion, then perhaps . . . some hints at particular stories?” she asked, anxiously. “Clearly you know . . . something about what happens to Alya and Minalan.”

  “I know a great many things about them, yes,” Old Antimei murmured, pouring them each more tea.

  “Is Alya going to die?” Pentandra whispered.

  “We are all going to die . . . eventually,” Antimei said, philosophically. “But Alya will not die for some time. Nor will she remain as she is. But that is all I can tell you, to give you hope.

  “And coming to the subject of the Spellmonger and his lady, I must impress upon you, Pentandra, that Minalan must never know about my prophecies,” she insisted, her thin voice growing firm. “He will learn of them, in time, but the longer you can delay that fateful hour, the better. Once I entrust them to you, you must conceal them from him utterly, no matter the cost. The Spellmonger must proceed with the illusion of free will, at least for now.”

  “Would not informing him of the prophecies, thus interrupting them, not grant him true free will?” Pentandra countered.

  Old Antimei shook her head and sighed, sadly. “We can play the game of causality from now until the seas rise, my dear, but you must trust me on this. Minalan will be most effective this way – and everything depends on him.”

  “He’s the one who defeats Sheruel,” Pentandra guessed.

  “That is the least of his accomplishments – nor will he be entirely responsible for that tainted victory,” Antimei pronounced.

  “But Sheruel is defeated,” Pentandra said, seeking assurance.

  Antimei frowned. “There are victories and defeats on both sides,” she said, shaking her head. “Does Sheruel suffer his share? Indeed. Will it be worth the tragedy to come to defeat him? Perhaps.” She stared at Pentandra for awhile, studying her. “You know, I could really get used to despising people questioning my prophecies,” she announced, irritated.

  “Well, what use are they if they cannot be used to guide our actions?” Pentandra asked, sipping her tea and studying the old witch in return. “Did you produce this tome for your own amusement?”

  “I produced it precisely to be a useful guide for action,” Antimei argued. “But merely thrusting it on someone and expecting them to contain the wisdom to actually be guided by it in a helpful way would be disastrous. The temptation to ‘read ahead’ and try to out-plot the millwork of fate is just too strong.”

  “So how did you resist it?”

  “I didn’t,” Old Antimei confessed. “I went into self-exile instead, removing forever the means to take action . . . until now. Knowing the rise and fall of mighty kingdoms means nothing, when you are living as a hermit in the wilderness.

  “But the time has come for knowledge and power to converge, and with the help of the gods overcome the tragedies ahead. Cookie?” she asked, passing a plate towards Pentandra.

  She took one – they were delicious. She reflected amusingly on the folklore surrounding the wisdom of accepting baked goods from strange witches deep in the forest, but continued her questioning.

  “So . . . you want me to train your appr
entice,” Pentandra said, ticking each point on her fingers, “you want me to take over this croft when you die, and you want me to be privy to your secret book of prophecy because I can actually do something about it. But you don’t trust that I won’t try to do too much, and molest the unfolding of events.”

  “That’s a well-stated summary,” Old Antimei conceded.

  “Then how do you propose to get around this little problem? Have me swear an oath?”

  “At one time, I thought that might be necessary,” agreed Old Antimei. “But even an oath administered by a goddess can be broken. I wouldn’t recommend such a course, but it can happen. Just as some divine forces can break prophecy, under the right circumstances. If you are given free will and are limited only by your own conscience, you will eventually succumb to the temptation. The only reasonable thing – and the only thing fair to you – is to remove that temptation forever from your grasp.”