Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “I guessed parts,” the blind girl admitted, through a mouthful of apple.

  “But she was aware that we would have to resort to the smallest of treacheries to see our job done,” the witch continued. “I knew that she could not identify where this croft was located on a map, or be forced to lead anyone here. To use her to get you to visit me was a challenge. To do so without inviting the attention of the Necromancer too soon was much harder.”

  “How did the Nemovorti know about Alurra?”

  “I do not know, precisely,” admitted the witch. “And I have seen no vision concerning it. But I suppose that Korbal has recourse to prophets of his own,” she guessed.

  “The gurvani are familiar with prophecy,” Pentandra nodded, recalling the one about Gurkarl that had spared the goblin’s life.

  “Prophecy is rare among the Alka Alon, but appears with stressing regularity among humans. Sheruel rules a sizable human population, so I would imagine that Korbal recognizes the resource they are and is trying to benefit from it. If he has foreseen a tithe of what I have, he understands the difficulties ahead. And his pursuit of Alurra across the Wilderlands demonstrates that he appreciates the value of my book,” she added, with a hint of pride. “If only to destroy it, and keep it from being deployed against him.”

  Pentandra considered carefully. While that was preferable to the idea of spies at court in Vorone, it also suggested that the contest ahead would not be as simple or as straightforward as it had been in the past.

  Korbal’s ambitions and talents were sophisticated, when placed next to the gurvani’s. His lieutenants were powerful, his plots clearly more devious than the goblins. If he found some way to harness the thousands of human slaves under the Shadow other than as sacrifices and foodstuffs, the danger from the Necromancer was going to be greater than that posed by the Dead God.

  “So why can’t Minalan know about any of this?”

  Old Antimei closed her eyes. “Because, as strong as the Spellmonger is, he suffers from his own weaknesses. Believe me, this way is preferable to telling him about my gift. Else you would see tragedy unfold on a scale undreamt of.“

  “Yet you trust me,” Pentandra reasoned.

  “Ah, but you are a woman,” Old Antimei replied. “You are not so quickly moved to action before wisdom has had a chance to steep.”

  “I don’t think you’re giving Minalan enough credit,” Pentandra said, more to disagree with the old witch than out of conviction. “He’s about the wisest man I know.”

  “Yet still a man,” Old Antimei countered. “He acts, and acts from passion, when he should wait and abide. He is the right man to lead the defense of our people, make no mistake. But he cannot do it alone and unaided. Nor can he be trusted to make the right decisions, when the time comes. Only by ensuring he knows just enough,” Old Antimei said, emphasizing the point with two of her wrinkled fingers, “can we help him stay on the path.”

  “And what path is that?” asked Pentandra,

  “The one that prevents human extinction on Callidore,” Antimei said, casually. “Would you mind passing the butter?”

  The conversation continued, with Alurra mostly remaining silent as the two older women verbally dueled. Every time Pentandra seemed to have righteousness and confidence on her side, Antimei seemed to be able to dismiss her concerns with her abiding knowledge in the unfolding of events.

  But over the course of the meal, she did come to understand several important things about her foreseen role in the future. Among them was the certainty of the City of Magi being founded on the site of the Anvil.

  Old Antimei was more than certain about it – she had a huge folio of drawings of her visions of the city she had sketched over the years which she eagerly pulled out and showed to Pentandra.

  “I have spent the last several years assembling this,” the old witch informed her, proudly. “Every scrap of my visions about the great city, in addition to my own notes about the geography of the place, the plants, the animals, the magical currents. Thirty years, I have walked these lands. Between what I have seen and what I have been shown, this is what will come to pass, here. After your friend Carmella is done with the place,” she added.

  “It’s . . . beautiful,” Pentandra had to admit, after she leafed through the first few pages.

  The sketches promised broad boulevards, sturdy walls, and a fiercely defiant tower proudly protruding over a massive complex of fortifications that extended well into the vast grotto below. A large moat encircled the entire town and castle, spreading out into a large lakeshore to the west of the citadel. The broad slope descending to the east was the heart of the town, with its own wall and defenses, though large gardens and parks seemed to be designed into the plan.

  The entire complex could hold tens of thousands, she realized. Even more, when you added in the villages and estates that were dotted around the perimeter of the outer wall.

  Vanador, when it was complete, could house half of the Wilderlands in safety.

  Then she came to a rough map that was even more exciting to her – a detailed accounting of the location of natural flows of arcane energy. While irionite was the most efficient means to gather magical power, those magi who lacked it usually generated their own energy for their spells, or sought some convenient natural flow to tap into. While it was nowhere near as abundant a power as irionite, having such streams of natural power to rely on was helpful regardless.

  The Anvil, it seemed, was replete with such flows. Antimei’s surveys indicated strong currents of elemental magic, natural concentrations of arcane energy that had built up over time like magical sediment, and the best access points for the ones she had identified. According to the “final map” the witch had drawn, most of those access nodes were the sites of impressive-looking buildings in the future.

  Then a few discrepancies caught her eye. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

  “That’s the village of the Iron Folk,” she reported. “That won’t come to pass for a while, yet. Over there is where the tribes of River Folk will settle, the region that will come to be known as ‘Wilderhole’. And here is where the Alka Alon will build their beautiful spire, next to the Mewstower. Your spire will be here, on the northwestern corner of the mountain, and rise nearly to the summit of the current mound.”

  “And this palace, here? That’s the Duke’s?”

  “No, the Duke shall reside in the citadel, proper,” old Antimei said, shaking her head. She stretched out a bony finger and circled an area near the gate, taking up a portion of the town’s south east corner. “That is the Spellmonger’s estate, Vanahall.”

  “Which, in itself, suggests a great deal,” Pentandra said, thoughtfully “You do realize that an astute reader will be able to fathom out a great deal of future events, based on these?”

  “Which is why they are strategically incomplete,” agreed Old Antimei, sweetly. “I only left the things I knew wouldn’t affect the course of events. But if it amuses you to speculate on the inner meaning of the number of public privies or the location of the weaver’s guild, my sweet, by all means, indulge yourself,” she conceded, amused.

  Pentandra didn’t challenge the witch – she had greater confidence in her ability to ferret out the truth than Old Antimei’s ability to conceal it.

  Instead she closed the folio and thanked Old Antimei profusely for her efforts, promising to forward them to Carmella at the first opportunity. She tucked them away into a magical pocket in Everkeen for later study. She planned on making a very thorough review of the documents before she gave them over to her friend.

  “But that brings us to more pressing matters,” Old Antimei said, suddenly frowning. “We don’t have much time. I—”

  “You keep saying that,” Pentandra pointed out. “What do you mean by it? And if you say ‘prophecy’, I may have to turn you into something unnatural.”

  Old Antimei took a deep breath and looked pointedly at Alurra, who was clearing away the dishes with the
nominal help of the puppies.

  “I mean, Sweeting, that danger is closing in,” she admitted. “I have been putting it off long enough, but time is short, now, and I cannot avoid it any longer. The fiends who are hunting Alurra – and me – have located us, despite my best efforts. There are three Alkan Way points within twenty miles of here – yes, child, I’m aware of them, how could I not be? You came through the nearest, did you not? That one has been heavily warded. The other two only lightly so. One of them has been used by our foes this morning, just before you awakened.”

  “What?” Pentandra asked, startled. “I thought this place was safe!”

  “Safe from robbers and goblins,” snorted the witch, “but we’re dealing with the ancient undead, here. Creatures who are inherently magical. And not in the delightful, wonderful sort of way,” she added.

  “I know, we’ve met,” Pentandra said, dryly, as her mind worked furiously. “We have to get out of here, then!”

  “That will be . . . difficult,” Old Antimei said, regretfully.

  “No, it won’t,” Pentandra said, boldly. “Perhaps your prophecies were incomplete, but I have learned how to use the Alkan Ways. More, I can use them right here, right now, to take the three of us away!”

  “No, my dear, I’m afraid you cannot,” Old Antimei said, sadly. “I have foreseen this day for over thirty years. My body lying on the couch, lifeless, the daughter of my heart sobbing over me, and the champion of humanity standing nearby . . . keeping one of the undead from despoiling my corpse,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’ve seen it more than I’ve seen rainbows.”

  Pentandra fumed. Now was not the time to go limp in the face of adversity, just because of a few little prophecies. She knew well from the lore how frequently prophecy went astray, was misconstrued or completely misunderstood. Indeed, that seemed to be the standard way they appeared in history and folklore.

  But if Old Antimei said she saw her lifeless body on the couch, and was convinced that it was her destiny, then there was no reason, to Pentandra’s mind, that she couldn’t be just as mistaken as the figures of legend.

  “No one dies tonight,” she decided.

  “My sweet, that is not up to you,” Old Antimei said, gently. “I am at peace with this. So is Alurra. We have known this day is coming for years, now. It is our fate. You cannot change it.”

  “The hell I can’t!” Pentandra stated, forcefully. “How much time do we have?”

  Old Antimei squinted. “Perhaps twenty minutes. No more than thirty. But . . . I beg you not to try to escape this fate. I have come to terms with it,” she assured both her and her terrified-looking apprentice.

  Pentandra scowled. “If you are quite set on staying here to die, I will not run away. If nothing else, you are a subject of His Grace, Anguin II, and I have a duty as Court Wizard to protect you. And if you will not allow me to summon the Spellmonger, who may be of dubious use at the moment, then you will have to trust me that I can contend with this situation.”

  Alurra looked concerned. “Mistress, pardon me for saying, but the last time you met these undead . . .”

  “I’ve met them twice, now, and both times I survived,” she pointed out. “More, I learned. Now, if you two will stop telling me I can’t do the job I know full well I can and actually help me, perhaps we can teach Fate a lesson about free will!”

  “Pentandra, I warn you, nothing good ever comes of challenging prophecy!” Old Antimei said, sternly. Alurra looked stricken, as the two women she respected most in the world fought.

  “Antimei, I have no choice. This is not up to you. This is my duty,” she said, in a businesslike tone. “As an officer of the court, as well as a founding member of the Arcane Orders, I took oaths that bind me. In fact . . . in a time of war . . . the Court Wizard has the power to bind, in turn,” she added, craftily.

  The old witch looked thoughtful, and then fearful. “You . . . you wouldn’t . . .”

  “By the power and authority vested in me, Pentandra of Fairoaks, I hereby deputize you as an agent of the Arcane Orders, Alshari district, as authorized by the Royal charter.”

  “You can’t do that!” Antimei protested.

  “Actually, I can,” Pentandra said, serenely. “Your original oath upon certification to the Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar was pre-conditional on your service, if you recall. Ordinarily, that is only used in emergencies like times of war – it’s why Minalan got shipped off to Farise, after graduation.

  “But you are bound as much as he was by your oath,” Pentandra proclaimed. “You can either fulfill it . . . or I am well within my rights, legally, to place you under arrest and remit you to the dungeons of Vorone for the Duke’s judgment. Or the Spellmonger’s, if he Anguin decides to pass it to him. Either way, I’m sure that Fate would have a hissy-fit. Do you agree?”

  Old Antimei glared at her defiantly. “You cannot bargain with Fate!”

  “Hah!” Pentandra snorted, throwing up her hands in frustration. “Screw Fate sideways with a rusty hoe! I’m the godsdamned Court Wizard of Alshar, and I’ll bury Fate in bureaucracy before I let it control my actions!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Old Antimei said, glowering, as she regarded the younger woman. Alurra looked even more stricken. “You court disaster!”

  “Since I was thirteen years old,” Pentandra agreed, smoothly. “Now, will you agree to help me? Or do I take matters into my own hands? If the latter, we can be back in the palace in time for dinner,” she added.

  Old Antimei still glared at her, but Pentandra could feel her mood shift. She finally sighed, disgusted.

  “Fine,” she said with a snort. “You’re in charge, now. Happy? We’re still going to die. I’ve seen it!”

  “No one is going to die tonight,” Pentandra repeated. “Not anyone who didn’t start out dead in the first place.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Debate With Bezmiol

  Pentandra did her best to maintain her calm as she waited . . . but knowing that you were sitting in a tiny, defenseless croft home awaiting the impending arrival of a small army of undead was the sort of thing that produced anxiety in flop-sweat sized waves, and that was difficult to control. She was monitoring Antimei’s wards (crude, but now far stronger, thanks to her “loaned” irionite) with Everkeen in hand to distract herself, but it was only making it worse. She knew what was coming. So she contented herself with sitting in Old Antimei’s deceptively uncomfortable chair, and just . . . waiting.

  Too soon (yet it seemed to take an eternity) she felt the outermost wards go taut, then snap like so many cotton threads.

  The undead had arrived in the vale. It would only be minutes before they got to the door of the croft.

  She glanced over to the couch she had previously occupied, where Antimei’s body now rested. Alurra was holding her hand, her sightless eyes streaming with tears.

  They were ready. At least as ready as they could be, Pentandra decided. The preparations they’d hurriedly made would not stop an army, but then they had not been designed to. She closed her eyes and checked her preparations.

  The second line of wardings snapped. Faster than Pentandra suspected. They encircled the entire mound, more than five miles of circumference, but a quick direction spell had narrowed their point of entry. They were headed in from the northeast, Pentandra saw, which meant that they came in from the Alka Alon Waypoint six miles northeast of here. It also meant that they were moving at a speed just under that of a mounted party, she reasoned.

  “Be ready,” she whispered to Alurra. “They’re here. In the vale. They’ll be at our door in moments.”

  Alurra nodded, closing her eyes tightly against the impending attack and clinging to Antimei’s lifeless hand that much tighter.

  Pentandra knew she would have to call upon all of her courtly skills to bluff her way out of this situation, but not only was she confident in her own abilities to lie with a straight face and affect a properly dismissive attitude, she had contingencies plann
ed in case things went awry.

  Desperate, marginal contingencies, but at least she had a plan.

  All too soon, the final layer of wards broke – the ones that protected the pathway up to the croft. While it was the stoutest of the three bands, wards were at best a subtle defense, the sort of thing that was designed to warn the wizard and subtly discourage trespassers.

  In this case, it was the former use Pentandra had for the spell. The undead pursuing them didn’t seem too terribly prone to subtlety, and the way the wards were crashing down as their enemies went through, Pentandra suspected that at least one Nemovort was leading the attack.

  She began to hear noise outside as animate corpses surrounded the croft, attempting to prohibit escape. She’d expected that. While Pentandra hadn’t been able to do much in preparation, she had added some of the traps and annoying glyphs she’d developed for use in the Spellmonger’s Trial and spread them around the croft before nightfall. She hoped at least a couple of the formerly living would enjoy the same level of discomfort and immobility the contestants in Sevendor had.