Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  The feeling started as a seed in her head, but quickly worked its way lower. She could witness its effect on the entire court, a sprouting of desire and arousal in everyone who heard the music. It was powerful, overwhelming, uncontrollable, an irresistible wave of erotic energy that seemed to saturate everything.

  Pentandra looked up toward Ishi’s face. The masquerading goddess looked supremely beautiful . . . even with that maniacal smile on her face.

  This, Pentandra realized, was the culmination of her efforts. This was what Ishi had been planning.

  Unleashing the primal nature of sexuality with the power of divine magic on an unsuspecting town.

  “Arborn,” she said, as she realized that there was no reliable thaumaturgical counter to theurgic magic, “we need to leave!”

  “Leave? That was fun!”

  “We need . . . we need to get back to our chamber,” she said, as she felt the warmth of desire invade her loins. Arborn looked incredibly desirable now, she realized. He grinned boyishly. “Now!”

  “I was really hoping you would suggest that, Wife,” he smiled, taking her arm and pulling her close to him.

  “It’s not what you think,” she gasped, as the dancers broke up, unaware that they – and the entire palace – had been enchanted. “There’s a spell . . . sort of. We need to get somewhere . . . whew! We need to get somewhere private. Quickly.”

  Already couples were seeking each other out. Romance was not merely in the air, it was suffocating the affair. More than one pair had started kissing passionately in alcoves, corners, or even in the middle of the room without much regard for rank, position, or propriety.

  “What about His Grace?” asked Arborn worriedly.

  “I don’t think he’s in danger,” Pentandra considered, as she searched the room for the Duke. He was sitting in a corner, a maiden in his lap and three more around him. She couldn’t see his hands. Or theirs.

  “No, he’s in good hands,” she admitted, then giggled at the joke. Far more than she would have under normal circumstances. It was subtle, but then subtlety was Ishi’s stock-in-trade.

  “Then . . . what is happening?” Arborn asked, confused. She shuddered as a wave of pristine desire washed over her anxious soul like a comforting wave at the ocean shore. Ishi’s perky nips, he was a handsome man!

  Pentandra felt her knees go weak, as well as other physiological effects less evident to casual observers. She glanced around the ballroom wildly, seeing courtiers and maidens in various stages of seduction . . . and each scene seemed to warm her own desires yet further. She had never realized how well-built Count Salgo was for a man of his age, for instance, but the way he had that maiden hoisted in the air, upside down, more than proved his virility and strength. Damn!

  When she noted how even small, reedy Count Angrial ‘s eyes were particularly attractive, Pentandra knew that they were powerless. She wasn’t remotely attracted to the Prime Minister, but when she saw him with a petite little blonde Maiden on his knee, she was overcome with jealousy and desire.

  Countess Threanas had discarded her mask and was now pressed up against a support column, a courtier’s nose buried in her bosom and his hand snaked far up her skirts. It may well have been the first such invasion of that quarter in decades, but the Minister of the Treasury was arching her back and purring like a kitten.

  Something was decidedly afoot, magically speaking.

  “I’m not sure,” Pentandra said, grabbing a hold of his arm – his big, muscular, brawny arm – and pulling. “But we need to get out of here, now! Whatever it is, it’s going to be big, it’s going to be confusing, and if I had to guess. . . it’s going to get really sticky!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Plague Of Passions

  The aftermath of the Wildflower Festival’s signature fete, the Woodland Masque, saw a town plunged into a mesmerizing period of hypereroticism, thanks to Ishi’s divine intervention.

  Though she had pledged to the Spellmonger to be on her best behavior, to Ishi “best behavior” was a relative thing, Pentandra reflected, as she felt herself – and nearly everyone around her – become affected by the compelling wave of magical energy. It happened over the course of a short time, but the effects were felt everywhere - far beyond the Stone Hall, far beyond the palace. The entire town of Vorone was blanketed by Ishi’s design, it was said by the sages, later. Few of the clergy could explain the phenomenon any other way.

  It was as if all of Vorone had become drunk with love and lust and suffered a plague of passion.

  Not everyone was affected equally, Pentandra was able to piece together later when she investigated the phenomenon critically. She felt compelled to, as a matter of professional interest as much as in fulfillment of her duties as Court Wizard. For weeks afterwards she collected information on the four-day orgiastic excesses that came to be known in Vorone ever after as Ishi’s Night.

  While some were overcome with an irresistible erotic compulsion almost instantly, for others it was a more gradual onset. Still others found themselves unaffected until they witnessed something that inspired the madness, or simply found themselves suddenly overcome for no reason.

  Pentandra collected reports of husbands and wives who had enjoyed years of marriage together and did not seem overcome suddenly find themselves tearing off their clothes in the middle of the street and rutting with a passing stranger. Conversely, she also heard tales of couples who had been at the brink of marital war suddenly find themselves passionately engaged in the most intense erotic episodes with their tortuous spouses.

  It wasn’t everyone. But it was a significant enough portion of the population was to cause widespread mayhem – and there were plenty of townsfolk who, while not directly affected, saw an opportunity to fulfill long-held desires with neighbors and friends, employers and employees.

  Commerce ground to a halt as the compelling desire to indulge in carnal pursuits overtook pragmatic reason. The market, the day after the Masque, was a wild tangle of limbs and pleasures that kept any real business from being done. Even the whores who poached the place around midday were blocked. No one was paying for sex during Ishi’s Night.

  Convents became temporary houses of pleasure. Monasteries and temples were transformed into lusty centers of sexual excess. Even the most conservative and ascetic sects were afflicted with the plague of passions, causing some among them to break lifelong vows of celibacy.

  Nor was age any barrier – the effect seemed to influence anyone with a healthy and active sexuality, and quite a few who had thought their days of merrymaking were long behind them. Old widows became as randy as maidens, and long-married wives whose looks had succumbed to the sacrifices of Trygg after many children pranced around like coquettes . . . and attracted plenty of erotic attention.

  It was as if a great mist of confusion and sensual indulgence had infected them all like a sickness.

  Neither the powerful nor the poor were spared. Nor was the erotic madness confined to any particular quarter of the town, or associated with diet or consumption of spirits, from what Pentandra could determine. The madness not only managed to pull people out of their long-held roles in society, in some cases it allowed hidden desires to manifest.

  More than one poor soul found themselves erotically experimenting far from their social class, age, or even their gender. Narasi culture was uneasy with homosexuality, in general, but there was just as much of it in Vorone as in any human society. More than one man or woman discovered that their attraction and sexual fulfillment in the arms of someone of the same gender was frighteningly comforting or passionate. And in the many orgies that broke out across Vorone, rarely did the presence of mind to refuse congress simply because it was with a fellow man or woman occur. To many, it was a shock and a surprise. To others, it was the revelation of long-held feelings that lay unexpressed until brought to flower by Ishi’s Night.

  Nor was her own magic a protection against the phenomenon, Pentandra quickly discovered. She summ
oned protective spells as soon as she realized that there was something afoot, after she and her husband retired from the Masque that night. Each warding worked as intended . . . but nothing could stop the irresistible force of Ishi’s unique working.

  The Goddess of Love and Beauty . . . and Sex had dedicated tremendous energies to the process, and it took hold with divine purpose. Once it was active, stopping it was as pointless as shielding your face from a violent storm. While her protections gave her some small comfort, like a hand in front of her face in a tempest, it did nothing to keep her from getting soaked.

  It was a subtle effect, she recalled later. The sort of thing that crept up on everyone, keeping their senses fogged as one small social inhibition after another was shed and overlooked. It seemed completely reasonable for everyone to watch a handsome young guardsman strip off his shirt at the ball and dance lustily for everyone’s entertainment. Fifteen minutes later, when one of the Maidens decided the temperature was too warm for her gown and stripped to her shift, it was accepted as equally reasonable.

  By the time Lady Bertine’s sagging boobs were out, she was hardly the first to bare her breasts or remove their clothes entirely. Though none seemed to rise to her level of enthusiasm, Pentandra noted wryly.

  Walking back to their chambers upstairs above her office was a journey fraught with temptation, Pentandra realized, as being alone with Arborn seemed to demand her entire attention to the exclusion of any other worry. The couple paused repeatedly on the short walk back, engaging and breaking off just shy of fulfilling their desires in the empty corridors. It was an intensely passionate walk, one in which every encounter with someone else – be they servant, courtier, or guardsman – became an exercise in open flirtation.

  When they pulled two of Count Salgo’s men from their mutual embrace in front of her office door, Pentandra knew that resistance to the spell was pointless. Indeed, the more she struggled to maintain her hold on her virtue, the more exciting the prospect of tossing it to the winds became. She could no more elude the power of the spell than she could forego oxygen, she realized. The attempt, her muddled brain insisted, was just as ludicrous. It was in her best interest to cooperate with the spell’s inevitable conclusion.

  Besides, Arborn was right there, she reminded herself, as he led her up the staircase by her hand. She had one of the most handsome and muscular men in the duchy right here in front of her, eagerly disrobing as they made their way toward their bedchamber. She was the undisguised envy of most of the women at court for how devoted he was to her, alone.

  And she was married to him! She was not only entitled to bed this magnificent creature, she was morally obligated to, she reasoned, as his undertunic landed on the top step of the stairs. While Pentandra had always heard that marital sex nearly ceased after a time, a theory borne out by her parent’s miserable union and frequent infidelities, she could think of no more satisfying future than being topped by Arborn’s powerful body every night for the rest of her life. The pure excitement of being married . . . without her mother being involved in the slightest . . . was a potent aphrodisiac.

  She shucked off her slippers as Arborn tossed his boots into the corner. Alurra had her own quarters, now, and they had the chamber entirely to themselves. Not that she would have cared if the Arcane Orders convened a gallery to watch them -- they were past the point of propriety. Pentandra bit her lip hungrily as she watched her husband – her husband! – peeling his hose off as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  She was a master at the science of desire, a scholar of sex and magic . . . and the union of the two in divine strength was frightening to her. She was losing control, she realized. And that was Ishi’s specialty.

  Those first few hours after they left the masque were a blur to Pentandra as they were to everyone else. It was as if they’d entered a bizarre dream at the dance and just never quite woke up. As Arborn led her to their large bed and pulled the canopy curtains open, she shivered as she began unfastening her gown.

  Pentandra and Arborn’s passions were volcanic, each touch and caress filled with urgent intensity. Every shred of resistance to the indulgence faded in her mind as his kisses seemed to leave a trail of lightning from the back of her tiny ears to the curve of her neck. Every protest her rational brain made was instantly overruled by the insistence of her more animalistic nature.

  Arborn, too, was affected by the spell deeply, despite his conservative upbringing – or perhaps because of it. The look of passion in his eye was consuming. He looked at her like a hungry man eyes a fine meal, as if he had been starving for this kind of female attention his entire life . . . and now he was loose in the kitchen. He nearly threw Pentandra on the bed through the curtains and landed on top of her a moment later, naked and seeking.

  She knew that this was a foolish thing to do – capitulate to Ishi’s scheme. But she had no way to resist. Her mind simply could not marshal the discipline needed to overcome the incessant need in her loins. There was, for the moment, simply nothing more important than bedding her husband as thoroughly as she could.

  Ishi’s mandate was clear. She had no choice. Pentandra succumbed to the blissful inevitable.

  But it did not stop with that first ferocious coupling. As soon as they were done they were preparing themselves for the next indulgence of exquisite pleasure and sensual exploration. The sun rose, and Ishi’s Night continued. Throughout the day, and into the twilight, the spell raged on and the Voroni writhed in divine pleasure.

  For two days straight Pentandra kept Arborn confined to their bedchamber and made no secret of why, propriety long ago abandoned. For those two days they explored every facet of their union, including some things Pentandra had vowed to save for a future when the fascination of their youth might fade. Nothing was forbidden during that time. In between frenetic trysts they dozed or napped, but nothing seemed to deter their most powerful sexual urges from resurging again and again.

  But eventually things began to degrade.

  At first Alurra, her maid or the servants would fetch food and wine for them in their enchanted love nest as they replenished themselves. Every time they considered slowing down, taking a break, getting some air, or other excuse to stop their passions, a gleam would overcome one or the other and soon they were back at it again. Time became meaningless, as individual pleasures stretched like eternities for the lovers.

  Pentandra found herself drawing magical power from the experience almost out of boredom, the fourth time around (or was it the fifth?). It wasn’t as if Arborn’s performance wasn’t captivating, or even novel -- but the part of her brain that did magic recognized so much wasted potential around it and began building power almost by instinct.

  It was power without purpose, without aim or focus, but it was a simple task to dip the bucket of her mind into the freely-flowing energy that surrounded them as a natural consequence of their passion. Though she was no longer control of either body or mind, doing such spells seemed easy enough. It almost made part of her feel better that she had some little control in the situation. In more lucid moments she realized the danger they were all in from such a raw expression of magical power, but then her desires would stir and thoughts of danger quickly receded.

  At some point she even summoned Everkeen to try to break herself out of the spell. She was just casting some basic thaumaturgical spells with the baculus when Arborn’s lips met her neck, right there, and his hand snaked around to lay upon her hipbone provocatively, just there.

  A wave of id-fueled energy overwhelmed her senses after that, and her spell failed, forgotten, as she was distracted by Arborn’s many manly qualities. The only part of her brain that seemed interested in magic was the part gathering power from all of the sex she was having.

  A few hours later she awoke from a stupor and found her baculus being employed in a way she doubted Minalan had in mind when he’d designed it.

  Then she remembered who she was thinking about, the shape he’d forged it into, and his gen
eral humor . . . and she burst out in hysterical laughter. Of course he’d intended it to be used that way, at least theoretically.

  After two days the servants stopped appearing. Hunger and thirst - and the dire need for another bath -- forced the newlyweds from their bower and into the real world once again. Pentandra assumed that their absence had been noted, perhaps discussed at court in whispers . . . but in the wake of the tumultuous masque she had been granted some leeway in the performance of her duties.

  She did not expect to see the palace nearly deserted when she woke up . . . nor did she expect to find the few people she did encounter still locked in the throes of passion days after the Masque. But wherever the two of them wandered that’s exactly what they saw.

  With a growing feeling of anxiety in her throat, Pentandra made Arborn purposefully not look at her as they strolled, lest he find her too enticing again and stop the tenuous flow of rational thought she’d grasped with a caress or a kiss. Something was dangerously wrong, here, she knew. Whatever divine sorcery Ishi had been planning was well underway . . . and she barely had the capacity to summon a magelight, much less a credible arcane defense.

  “Oh, Ishi’s saggy, wrinkled tits,” she swore, imagining the goddess’ dugs in just such a condition for one moment of pure feminine anger. “She really did it,” she whispered, as the two of them stepped around a man and woman . . . and another woman . . . entwined in a pile, naked, in the corridor. Without clothing to determine station or status, it was impossible to tell if the three lovers were noble, common, or a combination of both. Once clothing came off, they were all equally as naked as Trygg’s children.