Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  Pentandra briefed Minalan about details of the palace takeover, and what obstacles to their success she thought they faced. I think we took everyone by surprise, she concluded. That might just give us the breathing room we need to secure the capital without Royal interference.

  Well, that’s the key, agreed Minalan. The longer Anguin can maintain power in Vorone, away from his uncle’s influence, the more likely he’ll survive his ire. If Grendine decides that Anguin is running counter to her plans, she’ll just send in some pretty little maid with murder in her heart and end him. That’s going to be a lot easier when he’s the untested heir sitting uneasily on the throne. Once he builds up a political consensus behind himself in the Wilderlands, and re-establishes his administration as vital to the management of the duchy, he’ll be a lot more protected. Get the locals to accept him and prove loyal to him, and even Grendine will have to think twice before killing him out of hand without courting rebellion.

  Since the news probably won’t arrive at Castabriel for another few days, we should be able to start that process before she interferes, then, Pentandra agreed. He could have as much as a month before she will be able to react to what he’s done. That should give us enough time to shore up some political support. But . . . just how do I go about ensuring the local nobles support him?

  Persuade them that it’s because he’s all they have, Minalan said, wisely. The King only needs the Alshari Wilderlands so that he can claim sovereignty over three duchies – he has little interest in spending more in time or treasure on them than he has to. New royal palaces take a lot of both. Rard doesn’t have any further interest in the Wilderlands, after that, so if they are threatened it will take a long time to even bring it to his attention. Anguin, on the other hand, is willing to stake his fortunes to their own. Or at least that’s what I can tell, Minalan confessed. If they support him, he will, in turn, try to support them. Not the least by the legitimacy his reign gives them.

  And if I am unpersuasive?

  Then bribe them, Minalan sighed, tiredly. That’s the only way things really get done in a feudal system, anyway.

  Chapter Four

  A Thaumaturgical Baculus In Duke Anguin’s Court

  The town of Vorone awoke the morning of Yule to the expected tolling of temple bells at dawn . . . and the unexpected – and unbelievable – news that the Duke had returned to the palace in the night. It seemed like some Yule miracle, the kind that come from fairy tales and old stories. Most dismissed the news as soon as they’d heard the first rumor. Vorone had seen too many such fictions for the dispirited populace to take such optimistic whispers seriously any more.

  But when the first worshippers began their pre-dawn trudge through the snow toward the Temple ward, their devotion was rewarded with the sight of tough-looking armored mercenaries, pikes in hand, guarding the palace gates and all of the entrances. Each bore a blue baldric bearing a simplified badge of the anchor and antlers: the badge of the ducal house.

  A few brave souls tried to ask the Orphan’s Band men for news. Despite orders against it, someone talked. When the servants unlucky enough to have drawn holiday duty arrived at the palace and were turned away, the castellan said enough to them to fuel the rumor. They quickly took it back to their homes, markets, inns, and taverns preparing for the festival, spreading it to every corner of the town by the time the sun was over the horizon.

  The rumor was just too fantastic to be believed: the Orphan Duke had returned in the night with an army behind him, and slain the wicked Baron Edmarin in his bed. Many scoffed in disbelief at the outlandish tale, while others seized on it with a desperate hope. The talk over their breakfast and beer was of little else. The wise dismissed it as a wishful rumor.

  But as the day aged and folk gathered at temples and shrines for the later morning holiday services, the official news was announced at every temple gathering: Duke Anguin II had taken up residence at the palace. By noon, when the services were over and the traditional reveling had begun, tangible signs of the truth were seen. It stunned Vorone.

  Suddenly, squads of rough-looking Orphan’s Band mercenaries bearing blue baldrics with the ducal badge were everywhere: at the town gates, patrolling the markets and taverns, now, in conjunction with the town guard – few of whom looked pleased with the development. But the most important symbol to all that it wasn’t just the vicious result of mulled wine in excess was the raising of the Ducal banner, the Antlers-and-Anchor, over the watchtower of the palace, instead of Baron Edmarin’s depressing standard. Despite the announcements and the guards and the mercenaries there were plenty who would not believe the news. Until they saw the Anchor and Antlers, flying from the top of the palace’s spire for the first time in five years, and the gibbet containing the corpse of Baron Edmarin. Then they hurried home through the snow to tell their kin of the wonder: the Orphan Duke had returned to set things right in Vorone!

  Those who presented themselves at the palace in the faint hope of appealing for the duke’s clemency, begging a boon, or asking for his intervention as the holiday tradition suggested, were shocked to find an earnest young monk actually taking their names and stories and promising a response at the duke’s convenience. The girls who were wandering through Vorone, distributing sachets of evergreen and blessings on all, were eagerly telling of the handsome young man now in the palace, though none had yet to see him. Spontaneous hymns and bawdy songs of the season, with verses hastily reworked to celebrate Anguin’s return, broke out in taphouses and temples all over the town.

  Within the palace things were just as exciting, though not nearly as festive.

  Most of the previous courtiers-in-residence of Baron Edmarin’s sad little skeleton regime were detained after morning chapel service, and then directed to a special and entirely unexpected ducal audience in the disused Stone Hall. Some of the court had yet to even hear the news, when they were informed; others were skeptical. But if the Duke summoned them, they would go . . . particularly if they did not feel like arguing with the mercenaries of the Orphan’s Band or the armed loyalists of the ducal house.

  Despite very little sleep, Pentandra and the other ministers of the new regime were there in full regalia as the vibrant young duke introduced himself on the morn of Yule. There were plenty of guards there, and plenty of Anguin’s party, armed and prepared for any hint of insurrection.

  The new duke himself wore a simply cut but richly embroidered green tunic in Wilderlands fashion and seemed to be in high spirits as he unceremoniously entered and sat on the throne. Along the way he called out to faces he remembered, and after he was announced and seated he led the court in an impromptu holiday prayer for the souls of his parents.

  It was well-done, Pentandra approved, silently, an adept political move to establish the young sovereign as both pious and respectful of his filial duties. Many faces in court seemed pleased that the new sovereign took such a traditional approach.

  But then he directly addressed the matter of Baron Edmarin, whose body was frozen on display in a gibbet outside the palace. Anguin quietly affirmed that he had found the baron’s advice to be lacking if not treasonous, and the resulting failure of confidence was so dire that he had seen fit to take his life and lands from him.

  It was a pretty way to present and rationalize a murder, part of Pentandra’s mind observed wryly. But it was clear from the reaction of the courtiers that the execution had the desired effect, as they stood staring at the dried blood on the slate floor of the hall: every man and woman there was taking every word the Orphan Duke said seriously, as he addressed them more directly.

  Pentandra could tell the lad had spent more time among monks and books than was usual for an Alshari nobleman. His speech hit all of the essential points she knew he had to cover if he was to control the town. Anguin cogently and eloquently blasted how the business of the realm had been conducted under Baron Edmarin, tacitly agreed to hold the rest of the court blameless for his inept policies, and then demanded loyalty and ob
edience from them with quietly powerful rhetoric as he lectured from the throne.

  The stain wasn’t the only compelling element of the décor in the hall. The dour looking Orphans’ Band mercenaries who had taken over palace security wore full infantry armor, helms, and bore real halberds, not the almost decorative spears the palace guard carried. The palace guard, save the present leadership, was confined to their barracks pending review.

  The Orphans weren’t decorative, they were real soldiers used to blood and death and killing. That had an effect on the mood of the court. The cold, stark old Stone Hall was a depressing enough setting, compared to the festive Yule decorations in town, to focus their attention. Having real soldiers ready to execute anyone at the Duke’s command was foreboding.

  Pentandra watched the spectacle from the dais, behind the throne and off to the side, standing behind the new Deputy Minister of Treasure, Coinsister Saltia. Count Angrial, the Prime Minister, had quietly requested that everyone in the new regime wear “full regalia”, whatever they decided that was, for the occasion. It was vital that Anguin impress the old court with his power, intelligence, and ability to select ministers who would implement his policies.

  Pentandra had hastily donned her official Order robes. They weren’t particularly impressive, but they did actually made her bulky magical necklace look almost proper for a change. Tucked away in the corner as she was, she needn’t have bothered with anything more glamorous. No one was paying any attention to her but her husband.

  She’d made a point of bringing her shiny new baculus along with her to the function - a silvered rod of weirwood, five feet long, a big gaudy ruby-encrusted phallic looking ruby acorn on the end, just barely within the bounds of good taste. Minalan had suggested it – he pointed out that it would provide both a point of distraction as well as a potential weapon, should matters go awry – as handy for duels to the death and peasant rebellions, he’d quipped. Pentandra doubted the thaumaturgical tool would be helpful for anything of that sort, but she found that it gave her something to do with her hands while Anguin was nearly shouting to his supposedly loyal court.

  The baculus was new, the first of several powerful magical tools Minalan and his mad band of enchanters in Sevendor were building lately. She was concerned about his newfound obsession with enchantment – a useful, if boring, discipline – and what was inspiring it. But she couldn’t argue with his results. The baculus was a handsome gift, a rod of extreme power crafted as carefully and adeptly as he could manage.

  It was pretty thaumaturgically, too. It not only seethed with power from the auxiliary witchstone in the head (a powerful extravagance, but she could hardly refuse) and a sophisticated array of spells, it had a kind of phantom inside, thanks to Minalan’s inclusion of an enneagramatic paraclete.

  That confused Pentandra, at first. She was not used to her magical tools having their own opinions, but she was eager to try out the more sophisticated enchantments. Minalan had imbued the rod with the long-dead spirit of some ancient sea creature, or something to that effect, he’d told her. It was supposed to act as an intercessory between her will and the spells within the baculus. It was designed to function as a paraclete that could interpret Pentandra’s wishes and activated the proper spells on her behalf.

  It had other features. It was enchanted to disappear into an interdimensional space that was tied to a moderately-gaudy ruby ring on her right hand, then return to her hand upon command. That meant it was always with her, which was handy. In addition, it had several extradimensional “pockets” attached to it that her friend had already filled with a variety of useful items, with space for more. It was even heavy enough to use as a pretty mean club, if she needed it to be.

  Pentandra felt a little guilty about the rod she’d had since last Autumn. It was a remarkable, priceless gift, but she’d been so distracted by her marriage and her new job she had barely studied it since Minalan had given it to her at the Sevendor Fair. She had been investing her time in studying Arborn, instead.

  But while she held it at court, she could not help but to be drawn into the device’s perceptions. It was irresistible. The ancient enneagram with which Minalan had imbued the rod gave it an intelligence and an awareness that lured Pentandra’s mind to reach out and connect to it, silently, while she stood there in the middle of a crowd during an important ceremony. Anguin’s words faded, and her perceptions of the room and everything else around her shifted as her baculus added its observations to her own.

  There was a moment of confusion and doubt, as her mind naturally resisted the invitation the baculus extended. But when she marshaled herself and willed her own mind into submission, she let the spirit within the rod touch her own until she felt the connection fully and completely. She recognized that the entity within wasn’t seeking to dominate her will, but inviting her to direct it. That seemed a new feature, she realized. Reluctantly, she accepted.

  Suddenly she regarded the room in an entirely different perspective, as the rod evaluated the assembled court with breathtaking magical proficiency and startling complexity. Not only did it use simple magesight, but spells of discernment and perception washed over the entire hall while the rod’s spirit helpfully accumulated and presented the information for her.

  “Interesting,” Pentandra whispered to herself. No one noticed her speak save Arborn, who always seemed to have his eye on her. The rest of the court was focused on Anguin. But considering the wealth of information that the baculus presented her with in an instant, she was surprised she didn’t make far more noise in reaction. The baculus, she realized, was a very keen observer.

  Seeing people this way was revealing in ways she couldn’t anticipate. With a glance she knew that the duke was excited, a bit chilly, thirsty, nervous, itchy, self-conscious, determined, and committed, all at once. He felt heat in his brow and his throat was getting sore. He feared a general revolt against his usurpation of power more than anything, and his blood was high after killing a man in cold blood to assert his reign.

  He’d also need to relieve his bladder soon, she saw, thanks to the rod.

  That was merely the surface. Had she taken the time to delve deeper, she was certain she could soon learn things about the boy no one else could ever know. The power of the baculus’ discernment was that deep.

  She pulled her focus back from the Duke, and turned it instead on those who supported him. Those upon whom everyone’s fortunes now fared. The new ministers of the court were more complex, lacking the duke’s youthful exuberance, though each of them more than matched him in determination.

  The men wearing the dark blue hooded cloaks Anguin presented his nominal chief ministers on the eve of their journey from Gilmora were nervous, but also deeply committed to the cause, each for their own reasons.

  Count Salgo, an old soldier who looked forward to his new post with special anticipation. His recent dismissal after assisting Duke Rard to become King Rard, and then keep him on the throne, stung. But he also welcomed the opportunity for action in a way only an old campaigner could. He was at the age where most men consider a quiet retirement, but Pentandra saw that glorious death on the field of battle, in support of a noble cause, was what he truly desired.

  The Duke’s cause was just, and his service discomfited the royal family. That alone was enough to lure him. The prospect of crossing swords against the gurvani and their confederates was far stronger an attraction, Pentandra noted. He as a soldier, and the war was in Alshar. Free to roam the realm as he pleased, he went to Alshar.

  Count Angrial, even older than Salgo and far less hale, was as determined in his way as Salgo. Angrial had been an Alshari diplomat at Wilderhall, representing Alshari interests when the dukes were both at their summer capitals. Rarely had that been a major diplomatic need, as both ducal houses saw the summer as a time to hunt, hawk, and joust, and typically postponed formal diplomacy for the winter capitals.

  But Angrial had been skilled enough to use his position at court to help M
inalan persuade Rard to take his army into Alshar against the goblins. Had he not, the gurvani would be at the gates of Castabriel by now, she suspected.

  But Angrial had been ill-served by his advocacy. He’d seen the invited army linger just long enough after the battle to temporarily occupy the Alshari Wilderlands, magically assassinate his head of state and take possession of the heir. By the time Rard’s head bore a crown and installed a loyal lackey as steward, Count Angrial served no one, in particular. And no one was paying his bills anymore.

  That’s where Minalan had found him, drunk and nearly desperate. Pentandra had seen plenty of such men, discards of court who lingered long after their service and mission was expended. Minalan recruited him for the post and position of Ducal Prime Minister, but Pentandra could see that it wasn’t glory and power he sought.

  Angrial was plagued with guilt over what he’d done, sacrificing his lord and his land to save his people. He saw his service to the Orphan Duke as a means of redemption. He’d left the drink behind – he was as temperate as a novice, most of the time – but the desperation clung to him like a shroud, under his practiced court persona. Minalan had arranged for his unexpected rise in position and title as an opportunity to display his management skills.

  Angrial’s zeal for doing just that, in service to his young master, possessed the man. If will alone counted, Angrial could set the Duchy aright by the Feast of Luin. But from the expressions on the faces of many of the older courtiers, Count Angrial was not universally liked – surely there was a history there. The expression on Viscountess Threanas’ face, for instance, was strong enough to curdle milk when she glanced at the new Prime Minister.

  Then there was Landfather Amus, the high priest of Huin and ducal chaplain, who had known Anguin since birth. The head of a peasant’s cult, usually estranged from the nobility, Father Amus had risen to the challenge the gods had given him while the priests of more lofty divinities had given up.