“I do not like you going into danger,” Arborn said, quietly.
Pentandra looked up sharply. “Nor do I like you going into danger – but we live in a dangerous world, my husband. You are not going to be able to protect me from it completely, no matter how you might wish to. Nor am I able to protect you from it, either. This is an arcane matter, and it is my duty as a High Mage to see it through. And this is a personal matter, and as such it is my duty to my friend Alya to be there to support her.”
“You aren’t planning on just . . . rushing in, are you?” he asked, having seemingly given up on the idea of stopping her from participating.
“Of course not. Minalan is smarter than that. He has Lorcus scouting the castle they’re staying in, in Greenflower, and once he gets back with a report they’ll formulate a plan of attack. And hopefully it will be something more sophisticated than rushing in.”
“Minalan is sneaky,” Arborn conceded.
“Not nearly as sneaky as your wife, and I’ll be assisting in the mission plan,” Pentandra said, pausing to give him a brief kiss. “But he needs my help. The idiot fractured his witchsphere in battle, and he’s operating without access to his accustomed power stream.”
“This seems like an awfully large response to a simple infidelity,” Arborn pointed out. She’d filled him in on the details of Isily and Mask’s conspiracy, including the strain they’d inflicted on Minalan. Arborn had a lot of respect for the Spellmonger, and he was genuinely angered to hear him treated so poorly. But he still did not approach the matter as a mage.
“This is not about infidelity,” Pentandra objected. “This is about treason. Minalan captured Lady Mask in the process of robbing his castle with confederates from the Enshadowed. They left her behind, of course, but Minalan persuaded her to confess the nature of her relationship to Baroness Greenflower. The two are, in fact, co-conspirators against the realm. Therefore this is about treason,” she repeated.
“Then why not invoke His Majesty’s assistance in this?”
“Because the only thing Rard can do is look at the Arcane Orders and tell us to handle it. Which is what we’re doing – but without his involvement.”
“Which helps preserve the independence of the Arcane Orders,” Arborn reasoned. “If you go to the crown first, then it demonstrates your subservience to it as a matter of precedent.” Arborn might have been a ‘tribal barbarian’, as her mother’s latest letter had said, but he had an intensely intelligent mind, and knew Narasi law like a lawbrother. She’d often thought he would have made a magnificent adept, had he been blessed with rajira.
“Exactly,” she sighed. “It sounds like you are beginning to understand the politics of court, my husband.”
“Aren’t you proud of me?” he asked, affecting his goofy, boyish grin as he kissed her.
“Saddened for you,” she sighed, returning the kiss. “You were so innocent, once. Now you’re headed down the inevitable path toward jaded cynicism.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” he asked, one last time. “I’m certain Jerics can lead the men until I return . . .”
“This is magi business, not Kasari business, dear husband,” she said, shaking her head. “Not even Alshari business. No, this is a real, honest-to-gods Magewar, the first one since the Magocracy fell. As much as I would value your strong arm and your sword protecting me, in truth I would spend more time worried about protecting you from the arcane than you would protecting me from the mundane.”
“I . . . understand,” he sighed, resigned. “Where exactly are you going?”
“First, to Sevendor, to plan,” she answered, breaking their embrace. “Thence to a small castle in Greenflower barony, in the Castali Riverlands,” she said. “Someplace called Salaisus.”
*
*
*
When Pentandra returned from Salaisus a few days later, she was drained beyond all accounting.
The aftermath of the Battle of Salaisus Castle was brutal, and word of is result quickly spread through the magi running the kingdom’s Mirror array. The Magewar of Greenflower had taken one night, and a brutal toll on the Spellmonger.
Though victorious, the battle with Isily and her foolish old husband Dunselen had required a high price. Alya was utterly catatonic, now, her mind shattered by her role in destroying Isily’s powerful lacis of enchantment. Though it had also shattered Isily’s mind and slew Dunselen in the blast as well, by some miracle (and Pentandra had her suspicions) the Baroness of Sevendor was alive . . . but maimed. Alya was unresponsive to all but the most basic stimuli. Though Minalan had summoned the best magical healers in the kingdom to come diagnose her, their conclusions were not good. Despite the fading hope he placed in them, Pentandra was certain that they would not be helpful.
Pentandra hadn’t taken part in the actual fighting; instead she supported the attack by handling the wards and other passive spells that allowed the attack to proceed . . . yet the battle had taken its toll on her. She felt as if she had jogged her way back here from the Riverlands, not slipped through the cracks of reality to find herself back in that nasty old tomb. Luckily she did not have to go back to Murvos’ temple so frequently in the future, having begged a Waystone from Minalan’s store to install at the palace.
Alurra met her outside of the gloomy place and helped her walk home. Her apprentice looked quite different now than she had just a few months ago. Her hair was brushed and plaited, and she wore a sturdy brown gown as the townswomen did, though in place of an apron over it she wore her apprentice’s baldric. Lucky was perched on her shoulder and a brace of hounds accompanied them all the way back to the palace.
Pentandra told her the entire story on the way, omitting only the roles of the gods in the tale. Alurra listened thoughtfully, nodding the entire time.
“Yes,” she agreed, when Pentandra’s tale wound to a close, “just like Antimei said would happen,” she said, sadly.
“What?” Pentandra said, stopping in the street and grabbing Alurra’s shoulder. “Antimei knew about Greenflower?”
“Oh, gods yes,” Alurra assured her, sadly. “I cried and cried when she told me that part of the story!”
“It wasn’t any gods-damned story, girl! I was there myself!” Pentandra nearly snarled. Alurra looked stricken, and Pentandra instantly regretted snapping. She had gotten a dozen hours of sleep in Sevendor at the Chapterhouse, but she barely felt it. “What did Antimei tell you about Greenflower?” she continued in a more reasonable tone.
Alurra apparently didn’t take the outburst personally – probably a practiced skill, when dealing with the results of prophecy, Pentandra realized.
“Greenflower was very, very important,” Alurra assured her, gravely. “More important than you realize. I . . . I can’t say much,” she continued, struggling, “but as sad as it is, Mistress, please understand: it had to happen.”
“My friend had to lose her mind?” Pentandra demanded, wondering what kind of sick jokes the gods were playing with them now.
“She did,” Alurra said, heavily. “It’s part of the story. The big story,” she emphasized.
“So if you knew that Alya was going to . . . to . . .”
“Be maimed?” supplied Alurra.
“Yes, if you knew that, why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you let me know so I could . . . oh. You couldn’t,” Pentandra realized, “because Alya being wounded is . . . responsible for other things, right?” she asked, hesitantly.
Alurra nodded solemnly. “It plunges the Spellmonger into despair,” she replied, reluctantly. “Really, really bad. But it also motivates him,” she added, hopefully. “When . . . stuff happens later, it is his need to restore his wife that drives him.”
“Drives him where?” Pentandra demanded.
“I . . . that might be too much of the story, for now,” Alurra said, uncertainly.
“Damn it, Alurra, what is the use of prophecy if it can’t be used to help?”
“But
it was!” protested Alurra. “If you hadn’t gone with the Spellmonger to Greenflower, like Lord Arborn wanted, then things would have been much, much worse. So I spoke with him,” she said, with just a trace of smugness, “and suggested that it would be a good idea for you to go.”
Pentandra just glared at her apprentice. She was angry, at both the ancient prophetess she’d never met who seemed to know more about her life than she did, and at the young girl who so casually discussed the fates of her friends. Part of her was thankful the girl could not see the face she was making, while another part wished she could. The very idea that this . . . this urchin felt obliged to interfere with her husband . . . !
Then she calmed herself, putting herself in Alurra’s position for a moment. The poor girl had been entrusted with information far beyond her abilities and experience, and was doing the best she could in a strange and complicated situation. It must have been hard enough to leave the rustic existence that was all she had known behind and make the journey to Vorone – blind, at that. But then to have placed herself in the charge of an unknown woman with only the barest of assurances that everything would work out . . . well, in her position, Pentandra wasn’t so sure she could have been as calm as Alurra, at her age.
She heaved a great sigh. “It’s not your fault,” she said, as much to herself as to her apprentice. “It was a . . . it was an impossible situation. If Alya hadn’t done what she did, we might all be dead now. Yet if I had known what she was going to do . . .”
“That’s the problem with prophecy,” Alurra said, heavily, “when you know the whole story, the parts you hate are sometimes the most important parts. Lady Alya needs to be . . . to be . . . shattered, right now,” she said, though it pained her to speak the words. “And the Spellmonger must be despondent, if things are going to play out right.”
“Any hints about what happens next?” Pentandra asked, cagily.
It was Alurra’s turn to heave a great sigh, as they entered the palace gates. “I think you’re about to find out,” she said, as Lucky’s head suddenly shot up.
Ahead of her – waiting for her – was the Dowager Baroness Amandine. Lady Pleasure.
Ishi.
She was wearing a cunningly-made emerald green gown cut in a southern Alshari style (and popular two generations before amongst their Cormeeran forebears) which complimented her golden hair perfectly. Three of her Maidens – well, two, not counting the bucktoothed girl, Elspeth – were behind her, waiting.
Waiting for Pentandra, as it turned out.
“Ah, our illustrious Court Wizard!” Lady Pleasure announced in syrupy tones. “Returned from the Magewar, victorious!”
“Lady Pleasure,” Pentandra said, pointedly, “in the last week I’ve had a major conference, repelled a widespread attack on the duchy, and helped my Order eliminate a traitor. As much as I’d like to play courtier at the moment, I must warn you my patience and fortitude are as worn as your bedclothes.”
“Oh, but of course!” the baroness clapped, ignoring the barb. That didn’t bode well, Pentandra noted. “That is entirely why I have sought you out!”
Pentandra did a double take. “To irritate me apurpose? Because—”
“No, no, no, you silly dear!” Lady Pleasure nearly sang. “I sought you out to honor you! I am holding a feast in your honor at the palace, to thank you for your quick and heroic response to the recent attacks. I spoke with His Grace just an hour ago, and he is entirely in favor of the idea. Once I pointed out that you and your brave magi were instrumental in throwing back the gurvani hordes, he—”
“There weren’t any hordes,” Pentandra said, sharply. “It wasn’t a full-scale invasion, they were merely testing our defenses.”
“And you demonstrated just how stout they are, which is a feat to be honored!” insisted Lady Pleasure. “My dear, if we do not stop the world and force it to honor the achievements we women make, then soon it would be all too easy for men to dismiss them altogether,” she said. Then she added, in a more serious tone, “And considering the great sacrifices and effort you have devoted to this duchy, I think such an honor is the least the duchy can do you in return.”
“I am guessing that His Grace agreed to the honor because you said you’d pay for the entire thing?” Alurra said, unimpressed by the goddess in human form. Pentandra smirked at her apprentice’s impertinence despite the rudeness of the comment.
It made sense. With the budget as badly strained as it was, after the unexpected attacks, the only way Viscountess Threanas would approve of a lavish celebration not tied to a pre-existing holiday was if it was paid for already. And by all accounts the House of Flowers was doing well. Sister Saltia had mentioned that their tax payments to the burghers’ reeve had been far more than anticipated. Regardless of her other failings as a deity, Ishi knew how to run a whorehouse.
“Well . . . yes,” admitted Lady Pleasure, frowning. “But that should in no way detract from the need of the court to honor one of its most loyal and effective officers. And Duke Anguin agreed wholeheartedly,” she added, pleased.
Of course, Pentandra realized, with the two cute-looking brunette whores flanking her, Lady Pleasure could have proposed wholesale castration of the entire court and Anguin would have at least listened attentively.
She was about to protest when she realized it was futile. Ishi was determined to “honor” her, and as miserable as she felt after the events at Castle Salaisus, she was too aware of the need of the people to honor those they saw as heroic. No matter how unheroic they might feel.
“Fine,” she finally said, irritated beyond belief. She began walking toward her office, desperate to get home and in her own bed. “I’ll be honored to attend. When is it?”
“In a week – enough time to have a new gown made, if you like,” Lady Pleasure told her, as she fell into step next to her, her attendants falling in behind. “And you really should consider it,” she said, giving Pentandra’s gown far too much of her attention. “I’ve hired a band of musicians from Wilderhall, too, and of course my Maidens will be happy to serve,” she added. “I just think it’s criminal that all of these sword-swinging warmagi get all the credit when it’s your thoughtful planning and flawless execution that got them to the battlefield in the first place!”
“That sounds lovely,” Pentandra said, unconvincingly. “Be certain to let my office know when precisely it starts.” It was unlikely that she could find a good excuse to not attend a banquet in her own honor, but then Pentandra always prided herself on her creative approach to social problems. “And if you could invite a few friends from Sevendor, that might be helpful.”
“I don’t think . . . I don’t believe Minalan will be able to attend,” Lady Pleasure said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He is dealing with the consequences of that little war in Sashtalia, or wherever, this week. But I will extend an invitation to your other professional colleagues and interest parties, if you’d like.”
“That would be grand,” she dismissed. Nothing sounded worse to her than being forced to stand up and bear the acclaim Ishi was attempting to brand her with . . . but then she wasn’t a freelance sex wizard anymore. She wasn’t even a senior bureaucrat.
No, she was the Court Wizard of Alshar, and she had a social and official responsibility to fulfill.
What made it worse was that none of her male colleagues would understand the devious nature of Ishi’s proposed celebration. Men saw such honors plainly, and accepted them for what they were, independent of context.
But in a struggle between women, honor and praise were but two arrows in the feminine quiver. Ishi, damn her, was forcing social prominence on Pentandra in a way that, while elevating her and bringing her notice, would also attract the resentment and ire of the other ladies of court regardless of how they felt about either of them.
Pentandra had never taken the position of court wizard for self-aggrandizement, though plenty of other wizards had in the past. She neither wanted nor craved glory and acclaim. Bu
t she could not refuse the gracious offer of Lady Pleasure or the honor she and the court apparently wished to bestow on her, regardless of how badly she wanted to. She might feel like a complete failure as a court wizard, but she couldn’t allow that to communicate to the rest of the court.
No, standing there in unbearable silence while Lady Pleasure extolled her supposed virtues to the crowd was a duty she had to perform, Pentandra knew. As painful and humiliating as it would be to her, personally, (which Ishi would find gratifying, she knew), such official recognition meant just too much to her subordinates, not to mention her allies in the greater court. Being honored so early in Anguin’s reign promised much for the other women of the court, and she could not let them down by trying to dodge the honor. Regardless of the personal cost.
Nor could she allow the warmagi who had volunteered to leave the comforts of the Conclave to plunge into danger unexpectedly in the middle of the night to go un-honored for their service . . . and she would ensure that this stupid event was focused on their efforts, not hers. She had merely coordinated the response – they had risked life and limb defending the duchy.
“I would be delighted to attend,” Pentandra finally said, sounding far less than delighted as she mentally counted the steps between here and her bed. “Really, really delighted.”
Lady Pleasure, of course, ignored the sarcasm and took her words at face value. “Oh, I am so happy to hear that, Lady Pentandra!” she said, clapping her hands together. “I shall construct the most enchanting entertainments, I promise!”
“I am curious how you got Viscountess Threanas to go along with this,” she said, a thought suddenly occurring to her. She knew that the Minister of the Treasury held a strong antipathy for “Lady Pleasure” and her blatant manipulations of court. She couldn’t see the two women coming to terms on whether the sun was hot or the rain was wet, much less “honoring” Pentandra.
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