“I doubt it,” Pentandra sighed. “I know the Kasari have a very noble perception of the Alka Alon, and I won’t even deny that it’s justified, upon occasion. But they are no more perfect than we are, despite their longevity and storied wisdom. Indeed, if one studies the histories of our peoples one quickly concludes that the Alka Alon are just as prone to temptation as we are. They usually just take longer to act on it,” she admitted. “Why do you think Ithalia was so eager to assist you, my husband? She wants to know where the arsenal is as badly as Korbal’s minions.”
“That . . . that may be true,” Ithalia said, looking surprisingly guilty. “But without it, we have little hope of defeating the powers that array against us! Can you not see that?” she pleaded.
“I can see that our Alkan friends have – once again – underestimated their humani allies,” chided Pentandra. “Answer me honestly: from what you know of the Council’s deliberations, did they expect Minalan and the rest of us magi to hold out as long as we have?”
“Well, no,” admitted the beautiful emissary. “It was, at best, a temporary measure. But then he surprised us with his resilience and dedication. Our experience with humani warrior-princes has been . . . disappointing.”
“But Min isn’t merely a warrior-prince,” countered Pentandra. “Even less am I. We are magi. We are educated, and, compared to our fellows, more adaptable to changing circumstances. We have proven our loyalty and our worth. We must be included in future discussions as the Council decides just what to do about this problem it has allowed to be inflicted on us all.”
“I shall relay your message immediately, my lady,” Ithalia agreed, reluctantly. “Should you not consult with Master Minalan about such things, first?”
“I have my own mind, and I speak as the Court Wizard of Alshar,” Pentandra said, flatly. “Minalan has his agenda, I have mine. And we are of like minds on this matter,” she added. “He understands, as do I, that without Alkan assistance – real assistance, not merely a trunk of cast-off toys and worn-out heirlooms of your ancient wars – then our hopes evaporate. We are allies in this fight, or we are not. The time for half-measures passed the moment that Korbal was re-awakened.”
“I shall see it done, my lady,” Ithalia repeated. “Shall I transport you back to Vorone, before I go make my report?”
“I can manage that,” Pentandra answered, smoothly, “just as soon as Antimei awakens. But I again thank you, personally, for the kind assistance you have shown me and my husband. The draugen were more robust and numerous than I anticipated, and your bow was a welcome remedy.”
“I bid you farewell, then,” the Alkan maiden agreed, reluctantly. “And please - as you discover the truth behind your prophecies, do consider passing along anything that might aid my quest.”
“If I think it will help,” pledged Pentandra.
The Emissary took her leave after that, once her fellow arrived with Amendra, who had been kept at a safe distance from the draugen hunt on the mountain. From the expression on his all-too-human face, it appeared that the Alkan guards were just as soured by her mother’s complaining as Arborn. They seemed eager to be gone, once she was safely in Pentandra’s custody.
“Well, I suppose as a hole in the side of a mountain, this isn’t too bad,” Amendra began, critically, the moment she arrived. “Was this the home of those awful draugen?”
Alurra looked scandalized.
“No, Mother, as you know very well,” sighed Pentandra, pulling herself to her feet. “Nor will you be required to stay here. I can take you back to the palace, if you like –”
“When my daughter needs me?” she asked, scandalized.
“Then settle in,” Pentandra suggested. “We’ve got at least three to four days until Old Antimei is awake, rested and protected. And while I doubt they will return, there’s no guarantee that the draugen and their masters won’t be back, repeatedly, as long as we live. So we need to just settle down and enjoy a couple of days of country living in this beautiful place, and hope that Korbal doesn’t get wind that we slaughtered his agents for a few months.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Grace of Trygg
Of course Amendra objected to spending even one night in the dusty, dark croft, but when her daughter pointed out that it was several hours yet until dawn and that there was no guarantee that all of the draugen had been destroyed, she settled in for the night with a minimum of curses.
Pentandra was just happy to curl up inside Arborn’s big arms under his thick woolen cloak for a few blissful hours. She had missed him for days, far more than she had ever thought she would. But his presence filled an aching hole in her heart, she realized. His smell, the sound of his snores, the feel of his massive arms encircling her protectively under his cloak all conspired to rob Pentandra of her cares and worries for a few hours of respite.
The next morning, her mother managed to dash that feeling entirely before breakfast.
The stream of complaints about the accommodations and the simple Wilderlands fare Alurra cheerfully prepared went on until Pentandra considered taking her mother back to Vorone regardless of her wishes.
Then Pentandra remembered one of the other wedding gifts she had received from Minalan. Her magical pavilion.
Triumphantly, while her mother and husband stood and watched, she summoned the pockets in her baculus until she produced the free-standing, dainty pavilion Minalan had packed away in a magical pocket appeared. Then she released the bed, bathtub, and other homey accoutrements that most would see as luxuries in the field. She conjured a basket of good wines, another of exotic foods, and then had Alurra put clean new linen sheets on the bed.
Amendra was impressed, although an outsider might not have been able to tell that by her frowning. When Pentandra finally finished and gave her mother a tour of the tiny tent, she was even more impressed. After pronouncing it “acceptable” and then drafting Alurra into making it more so, Pentandra was able to catch up on some business.
First she contacted Terleman, mind-to-mind, to assure him of her safety and detail the rescue. The big warmage – and brand new Marshal of Alshar – was on a mission with the Duke himself, leading a thousand 3rd Commandos and a thousand townsfolk militia from Vorone against a strong tower only forty miles away from Vorone . . . and killed everyone in it.
It’s called Castle Langreden - or at least it was five years ago, the warmage explained to her, mind-to-mind. Decent sized castle, overtaken in the early days of the war. It has become a supply depot and forward base, as well as a garrison and cantonment for a couple of thousand goblins. Nothing terribly impressive, but it’s big, it’s close, and it was ridiculously easy to take. With magic, he added.
You did that all by yourself? She asked, skeptically.
Oh, I had help. Tyndal and Rondal came back from Enultramar just after you left. They brought Master Thinradel with them. I suggested that Anguin appoint him your deputy, so he can handle the day-to-day business of the office while you’re off pursuing your errantry.
I am not pursuing errantry! Pentandra nearly yelled back. I had a very important secret mission.
Regardless, I figured Master Thinradel was the best substitute, for a while, and the old man was agreeable. Rondal elected to stay in Vorone and assist. So relax and take your time, wherever you are. We have the office covered.
Thanks, Terl, Pentandra said, gratefully. It really might take a couple of days. But I should also warn you of the undead. They attacked us up here, and if it hadn’t been for Arborn and Ithalia the Emissary, I’m not certain I would have survived. Keep an especial eye out for these undead. They’re powerful and nasty.
Don’t I know it, agreed the warmage, wearily. Thankfully, there was nothing but small black furry guys at Langreden. Well, that’s not entirely true. We also dispatched a pair of siege beasts, looted a supply warehouse, and burned out the homes of their enslaved peasants.
Dear Trygg, why? demanded Pentandra.
To give them no place
else to go, Terleman shot back, clearly unconcerned about practicing that kind of warfare. Most of the slaves were originally peasants to the old manor. They stayed after the invasion and occupation because their home were here. As I expected the gurvani to strike back at this fortress, I figured depriving them of their free labor was an expedient method to making their lives at Langreden more difficult. So was disintegrating their walls, he added, thoughtfully. Now that they have no homes, they’ll make their way south and east and eventually come to a far better life.
If you say so, Pentandra said, skeptical of her friend’s strategies.
The Duke approved, he countered, defensively. He said that if they were not his subjects, then he had an obligation under Duin’s Law to not turn them against their former masters. If they are his subjects, then he had an obligation to rescue them. Either way, leaving them under the sway of the gurvani was a poor strategic risk, so he burned their hamlets and invited them to come live under human lords again.
I guess that makes sense, she agreed, sullenly. She did not like such arbitrary justice and warfare, but she recognized that there was more at stake here than a few peasants. Besides, there was room around the Anvil for thousands to farm.
Beyond that, Astyral, Bendonal and Azar attacked one of the larger gurvani strongholds to the east of the Umbra, he continued. They were more aggressive, more ambitious, and made more of a mess . . . but after tonight, the nearest large base to Tudry will be a hundred leagues from its walls. That’s a good thing by anyone’s reckoning.
If it doesn’t inspire them to break the precious truce, she warned.
They already broke the truce at Midsummer, Terleman reminded her. This is settling up. After this we can go back to the armed peace we’ve been enjoying for a year.
Listen, Terl, could you do me a boon? she asked, sweetly. I’m standing at perhaps the most defensible site in the Wilderlands, and it’s utterly depopulated. Perhaps while you have His Grace’s ear, you could make a recommendation that we consider building a new citadel? You’ve seen Vorone. We had a hard enough time driving off a pack of undead. Just imagine if it was a real goblin legion.
Doesn’t Anguin want to build a stronghold in Vorone? he asked, hesitantly. Carmella won’t shut up about it.
Yes, but that will be more of a symbolic gesture than a practical one, she pointed out. No matter how large the castle, it’s still going to be in a river valley and vulnerable. If we really want to prepare for what we both know is coming, then a far more defensible site is required than Vorone. One remote enough from the gurvani to give the Wilderlands some breathing room.
I’ll mention it, he promised. I like the idea, although it will cost like the dickens to build.
Oh, I know. We’ll use the Hesians to mitigate the cost, but it’s still going to take thousands of ounces of gold we don’t have. Still, better to get started with what we can afford than wait for a pile of gold to land on us.
Pentandra also contacted Minalan, mind-to-mind, although she was unwilling to elaborate on what had kept her out of his head for four days. She simply told him it was court wizard business and he took it at face value. No, Alya hadn’t improved, he reported. He had her moved to a nearby abbey for care, and was wrapping up the loose ends from the regional war that had erupted near his barony.
He sounded depressed as hell, despite his words, and as close to raw despair as she’d ever seen him. Once she would have chided him about investing so much of his heart with a woman, knowing her own feminine nature well enough to understand the dangers, but now that she herself was in love and wedded it seemed hypocritical.
What would she do if she lost Arborn? she wondered. The thought struck her powerfully, and after she finished filling in Minalan on as much as she felt comfortable telling him, she sought her husband out at the spring under the massive overhang, collecting water.
“What is it?” he asked, confused, one hand on his knife. “Trouble?”
“Just in my heart,” she admitted.
“Your heart?”
“It’s terribly encumbered,” she explained, casually, as she began untying the stays to the gown she’d worn for several days straight. In a surprisingly short amount of time it became a puddle of cotton and linen at her feet. Spreading her arms slightly, she presented herself to her husband. “That’s better,” she breathed.
“You’re naked!” Arborn observed, blushing slightly.
What a dear, dear man, she thought.
“Nothing escapes the notice of a Kasari Ranger,” she teased. “What are you going to do about it?”
As it turned out, Arborn knew exactly what to do about it.
That evening the four of them dined on two delicious pheasants Arborn shot in one of the meadows, and then plucked and prepared himself. Pentandra didn’t like to admit it, but when it came to cooking, her husband was better at it than she was. Luckily, she reflected, as she devoured the delicious fowl, she had other talents to make up for it.
After their absence and their dramatic reunion, neither one seemed able to keep their hands off each other, despite the presence of her mother, her apprentice, and a slumbering witch in the corner.
Pentandra was also gratified at the time her mother was spending with Alurra. Pentandra thought it was simple boredom, at first, but when she caught her mother muttering something about “only grandchild I might get from her”, she realized the real reason behind her interest.
As caustic as her mother could be, Pentandra knew that she would help refine Alurra’s courtly skills, if she spent enough time with her. The blind girl eagerly gave her mother a tour of the entire region around the croft, and even prepared a picnic. On the morning of the second day since their arrival, she led Amendra six miles to the nearest village with a market day, and returned with a gracious plenty of supplies they couldn’t glean from the wilderness.
While they were gone, Pentandra immolated the stinking bodies of the draugen and the Nemovort, after allowing Everkeen full reign to analyze the two for posterity. Pentandra’s spell made quick work of them, leaving only a pile of ash as testament by nightfall, when Alurra and Amendra came home.
Pentandra had to admit that the few days she had without responsibilities - and with her husband - were glorious, compared to normal life. They should have taken a break and enjoyed themselves months before, she realized. The stress of the job and the new home had been telling, and that stress seemed to evaporate up here in the highlands. The scenery, the enchanting aroma of grass and wildflowers mixed with fresh air, the beautiful birds and animals, butterflies as large as pot lids, the quiet of the country after the noise of the palace and the city . . . all seemed to conspire to relax her and make her enjoy herself.
It was exceptionally hard to manage, she realized, at the end of the first day. Even a few glasses of wine didn’t seem to help calm the incessant voices in her mind, reminding her of all she had to do. Despite knowing that her predecessor was in charge of her office, her friends were watching the Duke, and that everyone she loved was safe, she could not shed the sense of anxiety that was gnawing on her.
It took an impromptu picnic directed by Arborn for her, her mother, and Alurra (Antimei was still asleep) on the crest of the Anvil to give her some sense of why.
Her husband had proposed the hike after breakfast on the second day, in the absence of anything more pressing to do. Kasari hiked like Remerans drank, so Pentandra knew that refusing was not something she could do lightly.
Amendra, of all people, packed up a small luncheon in a basket (including, Pentandra noted, three bottles of Bikavari Red from her pavilion’s stores - Remerans liked to drink like Kasari liked to hike, Pentandra reflected). Pentandra was shocked - she had not seen her mother prepare a meal for herself in living memory.
Indeed, a few days of simple country life (in the most decadently-appointed magical pavilion imaginable) had altered Amendra’s mood, her daughter noticed. She had become a little less fussy and a little more matronly, in the
proper sense. Perhaps it was her association with Alurra, whose simple and (usually) wholesome perspective was contagious, that was to blame; or perhaps it was Amendra’s need to care for the sightless apprentice, whether she needed it or not, that contributed to the shift.
But this was the most human Pentandra had seen her mother in years.
It only took an hour to walk the long, meandering game path Arborn chose as the easiest route to the top. The day was bright, and while it promised to be hot later in the afternoon the cool northern breezes kept the sun from being oppressive, even this late in the summer. Alurra seemed to know the path, and apparently used a small flock of starlings as her eyes to navigate the stony course. Amendra (having a nip of spirits from a flask to keep her nerves steady) had borrowed a floppy straw hat from Antimei’s coat rack and perhaps the simplest dress her daughter remembered her ever wearing.
Arborn came last on the path, ensuring no one strayed, as a good Kasari hike master does. But he spent the short journey in relaxed laughter, trading suggestive jokes with Pentandra all the way up the hill. He carried his sword and his bow and quiver, but the weapons stayed in their cases.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 95