High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “That is just like her,” Penny fumed, her eyes narrowing to slits as she contemplated Grendine and thoughts of regicide. “All right, this is not a disaster,” she said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself. “Because I will not allow it to be. Alya, to my quarters, now. I’ll have Dilva run a bath, and while you’re bathing I’ll start on the dress. We’ll have to go with slippers, but—you,” she added, as she ushered Alya out of our chamber, “you just wear your formal robes of office. You can’t mess that up.”

  “But Penny,” I pleaded. “What did I . . . this is just dinner,” I pointed out. “Not even a full court—”

  “This is your wife being presented at Royal Court,” Penny corrected me sharply. “Alya is the wife of the Spellmonger, the Lady of the Mageland of Sevendor. She must look the part,” she said, defiantly. “To do otherwise would shame her as a noblewoman and make a mockery of her in public!”

  “So what is the Lady of Sevendor supposed to look like?” I asked, but they were already gone.

  Come to find out, she looks stunning.

  I don’t know how precisely they pulled it off, but when Alya came downstairs from our quarters when our carriage arrived, she was resplendent. Her hair had been trimmed and braided with silver cord and piled into an elaborate style, a simple circlet of silver at her brow. She wore the glowing emerald I’d given her on a chain around her neck. Her gown . . . I don’t know where Pentandra found it. It wasn’t hers. Penny and Alya aren’t even close to the same size. But it was gray and green and if fit her like a glove. She had shed some weight since Almina’s birth, and the gown hugged those curves in some interesting places.

  She was displaying far more cleavage than I’d thought possible, even after nursing a baby. Someone highly skilled had applied her cosmetics, leaving her lips blood-red and her eyes fascinatingly painted. Her summer mantle was of silver cloth, and pinned with a silver snowflake at her throat. She wore elegant cloth slippers of the same gray as the dress.

  But Pentandra was not satisfied with Alya merely being beautiful – the Lady of Sevendor was the wife of the Spellmonger, and some manifestation of that special position had to be evident. So she enchanted Alya’s circlet so that it appeared that she was walking around in a constant snowfall.

  Out of the corner of your eye you would see the flakes appear over her head and then float lazily to the floor, where they vanished. To make it even more compelling, she added a spell that made the air in a bubble around Alya noticeably cooler, cool enough so that you could see your breath. I’m sure that was a welcome relief to Alya – that dress looked warm, and it was early summer. It was an impressive feat of illusion and thermomantics, and the over-all effect was breathtaking.

  I wore my formal robes as head of the Arcane Orders, although I swapped the silly hat for a little cap-of-maintenance circlet that matched Alya’s. Where Pentandra procured them on such short notice was as great as the mystery of Alya’s gown. I chose my dark green woolen mantle with the Snowflake of Sevendor stitched upon its back, a gift from Yule. Instead of letting my sphere levitate behind me, I affixed it to the end of my ostentatious-looking staff-of-office, where it glowed the same tone as Alya’s emerald. I also wore an elaborate snowstone pendant, one Master Guri had given me to replace the one we’d used to help slay the dragon. We looked like a matched set.

  “You . . . look beautiful!” I said, truthfully. “Ishi’s precious lips, I’m glad I’m married to you!”

  That was the right thing to say for once, Min, Pentandra agreed, mind-to-mind.

  If I can learn Alka Alon, I can learn about women, I countered as I offered Alya my arm.

  Don’t count on it, she said, discouragingly.

  “You look very lordly,” Alya said, looking serene. Far too serene.

  Calming spell, Pentandra added. She requested it. To soothe her jitters. I figured that was a safer bet than liquor.

  Thank you, I replied. For everything, Penny. Thank you.

  It was fun, she admitted. Like being sisters, almost. If I didn’t happen to hate my sister. I gave her a quick course in court etiquette, we covered proper forms of address, and I explained how she should behave to best reflect on you.

  That covers a lot of territory, I said, as I helped Alya into the splendid carriage we’d hired for the occasion.

  I was concise. Brutally so. She’s not invulnerable, but she won’t act like a country peasant from the Alshari Wilderlands, which is what she was most afraid of. Just . . . treat her gently. This is a lot to ask of her.

  If I could keep her away from the vicious old bitch, I would.

  You can’t, agreed Pentandra, Nor should you try. That would be unfair to Alya. Being the Spellmonger’s wife, the Lady of Sevendor means she gets to meet royalty and dine at the palace and tell all her friends all about it. She gains status from her association. She can’t be protected from it, nor should she. Don’t worry about her. Once I explained the basics, she caught on quickly. Mostly she’ll talk about her dress, her lovely home, and the horrible siege of Boval Castle. She’ll know what to do.

  Penny . . . just what did you do to her? I asked.

  What? Nothing permanent. Trust me, she urged. Now go have a good time.

  “Were you talking to Pentandra?” Alya asked me, when it was clear I was aware of my surroundings again.

  “Uh . . . yes, she was filling me in about how she prepared you for the banquet tonight. Quite remarkable,” I said, pointing at an imaginary snowflake as it fell through the carriage. Ayla smiled brilliantly. Too brilliantly. Pentandra had used a glamour spell. No one who wasn’t a mage would know it, but Alya’s smile was artificially captivating. I smiled in return, but not for the same reasons.

  “You can only imagine,” she sighed. “It was a wonder, Min, the way she ordered three serving maids – three! – to tend to me. One on my face, one on my hands, one for my wardrobe. All the while she was casting spells and ordering two more servants to fetch things for her. And she was teaching me court manners, or at least enough to fake my way through the evening.”

  “You can trust Penny’s instincts,” I nodded. “Just restrain yourself.”

  “Restrain myself?” she asked, confused.

  “Try not to be too beautiful. I could stand the resentment from the ladies of the court, but I’d really prefer to avoid any duels with the gentlemen of the court, if I could.”

  She blushed at the compliment. I think. The glamour and the cosmetics were obscuring it, but she looked adorable.

  “I will not fail you, my husband,” she assured me, as we rumbled across the cobbles toward the palace.

  The palace entrance was grand, festooned with dozens of banners declaring the nature of the massive structure. We were allowed to enter the southern gate and were led to a hall at the rear of the tower. The Fletcher’s Hall, it was called, a stately stone building appended on to the fortress. If it once was a legitimate fletcher’s hall, I don’t know, but it carried the archery motif throughout the décor.

  It was a large hall, not as large as the audience chamber but perfect for those cozy affairs with less than two hundred guests. The thrones had been placed behind a table on a dais at one end of the hall, with trestles set up surrounding it for guests. Behind a screened gallery a band of musicians played quietly. Royal guardsmen in crimson cloaks stood watch in armor and halberds, two for each entrance. A small fire burned merrily on the huge hearth at the opposite end from the head table, more for cheer than for heat – it was plenty warm.

  The guests had already begun to arrive when Sir Festaran led us into the great hall, as Pentandra had instructed him to. She’d explained that including a trusted retainer or vassal as a servingman was universal practice at such events. Each guest or couple would have a servant to see to their petty needs for the evening, including ensuring that we got back into our carriage no matter how inebriated we became.

  I’d chosen Sir Festaran for his loyalty and his ability to keep a sharp eye open and his mouth shu
t. He’d been trained for such service since he was a lad – qualities I was desperately hoping Tyndal and Rondal would develop while they were away training. Festaran spoke with the herald on duty at the door and we were announced.

  “Their ROYAL MAJESTIES announce the presence of Magelord Sire Minalan called the Spellmonger, Lord of the Mageland of Sevendor, Head of the Arcane Orders, Marshal of Alshar and Castal, and his lady wife, Alya, Lady of Sevendor!”

  We walked into the room to some polite applause and some murmuring as people began to notice Alya’s gown. We were technically early. Only about half of the guests had arrived. I sent Festaran to find us wine and we stood around and looked pretty until I saw an old friend I wanted to introduce to Alya, one of the few people at court I could actually stand on a personal level.

  “Count Salgo!” I called, as the kingdom’s chief soldier entered from the palace door.

  “Master Minalan!” he called back, shooting me a genuine smile under his mustache. “And this vision of Ishi is the Lady of Sevendor we’ve all heard so much about?”

  “My wife Alya,” I agreed, glad that he was the first face we’d encountered. I genuinely liked Salgo. He was far less concerned with his own ambitions than the security of the Kingdom, and I admired that in him. Alya gave him a delightful bow and called him by his proper title before inquiring as to his thoughts on the prospects of invasion this summer.

  “Damned if I know,” he admitted, gruffly. “If the bastard doesn’t, I don’t know why. We’re disorganized and in chaos. Two good legions and he could walk away with the whole region, until we can get more troops into place. But they’re just raiding and slaving. It’s like they’re playing with us. I’ll feel a lot better when we get the new commando units deployed.”

  Alya continued to be charming with her questions until Salgo excused himself, professing a high opinion of my wife.

  “How did you manage to do that?” I asked.

  “I just listen when you talk about the war,” she shrugged, prettily. “Since you obsess about it, it’s pretty easy to pick up some things. And apparently it doesn’t take much to convince someone you know what you’re talking about.”

  “Thank the gods for that,” I nodded, impressed. “That’s what I base my career around.” Festaran returned and handed us each a goblet with a dark red.

  “That’s Cormeeran wine!” he whispered excitedly. “They had a whole keg of it in the buttery! Real Cormeeran wine, opened up for everyone like it was common slop!”

  “Enjoy it sparingly. Keep your wits about you,” I cautioned in a similar whisper. “Go see if you can overhear anything of interest. I’ll call you as I need you.”

  “Magelord? Are you the Magelord?” came an older female voice from behind me. I turned warily.

  “I am,” I agreed, “at least one of them. Magelord Minalan of Sevendor. And my wife, Lady Alya of Sevendor.”

  “Oh, I know all about you, both of you!” she assured me. She was an older woman, in her forties, perhaps, whose hair was fighting a losing battle with age using a fortune in dye. She was still a handsome woman, dressed in a gown of russet and cream, her necklace and circlet studded with garnets. “I am Lady Durella, Vicountess of Palorin. I’ve heard so much about you,” she insisted, “I think you’re fascinating!”

  “Just what in particular intrigues you, Viscountess Durella?” Alya asked, smoothly curling into my arm.

  “Why . . . how dangerous it must have been! And how romantic! The two of you in that castle under siege, all alone—”

  “There were nearly five thousand people within those walls,” Alya corrected. “We were hardly alone. Indeed, it was hard to find any time alone in Boval Castle.”

  “And then to escape so cunningly, and rise so quickly!” she said, clapping her hands together gleefully. “It’s like a story out of legend!”

  “It’s not over yet,” I reminded the lady.

  “Oh, I know! That’s what makes it so exciting! I know we don’t have time to talk tonight, with all of this bother, but you simply must come by my house – Palorin House, in the Northgate, simply everyone knows where it is.” I didn’t know much about Castabriel, but I knew that Northgate was one of the wealthier portions of town, all burghers and nobles’ townhouses. “We’re having a game of pins on the lawn, or some silliness, you really must attend luncheon, Lady Alya, could you?”

  “Why of course, I’d be honored. Minalan will be tied up with the Order’s convocation for a few days and I figured I would get in a visit to the market, but—“

  “Oh, I can arrange the whole thing!” Durella insisted. Before we knew it, Alya was not just playing pins on the lawn, whatever that was, she was at the center of a shopping expedition.

  I saw Master Hartarian – Magelord Hartarian, now, I’d heard – across the room. He’d recently been granted estates in Wenshar for his service. The former commander of the Censorate of Magic seemed to finally be adjusting to life outside the order, if his manner was any indication. Now that he was the Royal Court Wizard, he’d traded his military armor for courtier’s robes, and he almost looked comfortable in them. He also looked older and more tired than last I’d seen him. When he saw me he started to cross the room to speak when someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him aside.

  Most of the guests were ministers and deputy ministers of various sorts, the upper administration of the kingdom’s affairs. Then there were senior nobles, visitors of high rank (barons and above) who had business in the capital and merited an invitation to the palace. Lastly there were a group of foreign dignitaries, including ambassadors from Vore and Merwyn, as well as distant Unstaro, merchants from Farise, important artisans and priests, favorite lords and ladies of the court, knights of repute, and a few oddities included to keep the festivities interesting.

  By the time we were led to our table, about half-way down the hall, the place had filled up to the point where it was difficult to hear the music over the talking. Until Their Majesties arrived. We all stood while they were played in by the minstrels, announced by the herald, and thoroughly bowed to.

  Rard looked regal and dignified, Grendine looked matronly and important. Once seated, they called the court to order and declared that business would occur concurrently with dinner.

  I could find no fault with that, having not eaten much that day. The feast was worthy of a king’s table, too, five courses of surpassing excellence, served by the efficient staff. Still, I noted that Her Majesty had several complaints for the hall steward from the moment she sat down.

  Alya and I had no complaints. We ate with a silver plate between us, rather than a trencher, and each new course that was brought around we devoured. We were seated near to two other noble couples, a baron and baroness from Remere and a lord and lady who owned a large estate in the Castali Wilderlands, north of Wilderhall. Both were pleasant enough, although the baroness seemed as intent on finding fault with the service as the Queen.

  But Alya and I had a good time, enjoying each others’ company despite the surroundings. The heralds ran the court from the high table, waiting for the courses to be finished serving before beginning the next phase of business. Rard and Grendine ate sparingly, I noted, and only rarely spoke to each other.

  They got a fair measure of business done, though. Beginning with a granting of boons, the King took several noble lads into his service as pages or household squires. Grendine accepted a few noble daughters into her court as ladies-in-waiting. The king granted permission for a wedding between two Remeran houses that, I learned from gossip, threatened to create some trade monopolies in the Remeran delta.

  Then we had the cheese course. But even as business was being conducted at the high table, there was much discussion and intercourse between the lower tables. Folk left their seats and wandered around to greet old friends or introduce themselves to notables they recognized, all while the crowns were announcing and making little speeches. Half the time I couldn’t even hear them, not that I would have found it at all re
vealing. After more than a year as a lord, I knew too well how boring and obligatory these occasions could be.

  The second phase of the court involved two knightings, the sons of barons both. That, at least, got the hall’s undivided attention. It’s not often one sees a knight made, and the occasion was met with solemnity. Rard made a gracious speech, knighted them both, struck them, then presented them with spurs and two richly-wrought swords. Their sires came forth and gave them armor and mounts, and they left the hall to the cheers of everyone. No doubt the young idiots would be dead soon from jousting or other pursuits, but they deserved their moment of glory.

  Bread and soup were served instead of a porridge course, and I could not fault the selection: a leek, apple, and bacon cream soup with a crusty little loaf. The business of the realm turned to grants and appointments, and for the next half an hour the herald announced royal gifts of estates and pensions to a dozen different recipients, from chapels in the hinterlands to a retiring gamekeeper. They also announced appointments to various royal offices, some for the first time. Castabriel Town got its first royally-appointed jailor and executioner, for example, and Wallwood Forest got a new head gamekeeper, upon the retirement of the previous one.

  As a surprise, the lord from the Castali Wilderlands who was sitting at our table, Lord Hegvan, was named Lord Warden of the March for his lands, an office that oversaw the defense of the Wilderlands from anyone who really wanted to attack that remote land. Since his lands abutted the Kulines, and the native gurvani there were being stirred up, I could see the logic in the appointment. Young Hegvan was a virile knight of appreciable intelligence, although he laughed like a braying mule.

  The baroness’ words, not mine.

  The fowl course was pigeons stuffed with walnuts, poached in brandy and then roasted, a delicious dish. The king chose that point to honor members of the clergy who had celebrated various milestones and accomplishments. That was when Hartarian wandered over to me.

  “Master Minalan,” he said, quietly, with a bow from the head. “I just wanted to thank you in person for the excellent work with the sympathy stones. Magical communication across the realm, available for a fee? Brilliant. It will scandalize the Censorate, of course, as a blatant misuse of magic, but it makes perfect sense. As does using the chapterhouses to care and tend to the relays.”