Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “Oh, Threnny?” Lady Pleasure dismissed. “We’re old friends, now. Actually, I’ve known her around court and around town for years. Once she learned about how I . . . introduced Countess Shirlin to some of the deeper mysteries during the Wildflower Festival -- and believe me, they got really, really deep! – in front of half the court, her tone softened. She might be a dried-up old dishrag, but she’s a loyal Alshari noblewoman of an ancient and distinguished house who could not stand that Shirlin woman. Which indicates an impressive amount of taste,” the hidden goddess admitted. “Shirlin has kept to herself since then, if you’ve noticed.”

  “I hadn’t,” Pentandra confessed as she gratefully rounded the corner that led to her office. “I’ve been a bit busy with arcane affairs,” she reminded the madame. Then she stopped. Why would Lady Pleasure be bringing her up? “Why? What has she done, now?”

  Lady Pleasure smirked, the amused goddess peeking through the countenance of the baroness like sun through the clouds. “Oh, she proposed – in open court the other night, no less – that His Grace ban prostitution outright in Vorone. She was looking right at me when she said it, too,” she mused, indulgently.

  “The temerity of some people!” Pentandra said, partly in jest.

  “She also proposed that he make a public offering to Huin and Luin to beg their forgiveness for the ‘horrific events’ of the spring. Lastly, she recommended that His Grace seriously embark on a course to secure a bride at the earliest possible moment,” she reported with obvious relish. “She recommended Lady Maronina, eldest daughter of Count Harle of Lemey, in southern Castal. She is six years His Grace’s senior and has a face like the back end of an ox,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Gods, what did Anguin say?” Pentandra asked, despite herself. She hated gossip. When she didn’t love it. This, however, was important gossip, as it involved a threat to the political stability of the court.

  At least, that’s what she told herself.

  “His Grace very graciously declined,” Lady Pleasure reported, smiling. “Our lad is not so green as to be tempted by the charms – and I use the term with the utmost convenience – of a Castali bride. Not when he’s experienced just a taste of what the Wilderlands has to offer,” she said, confidently, as she glanced at the matching brunettes walking behind them. “When the old bat had the nerve to debate with him, thankfully Father Amus came forward and declared that His Grace would seek no wife until the realm, such as it is, was secure. And that he had sworn a solemn oath to Huin, Duin, and Luin to that effect.”

  “Ouch!” Pentandra winced, good-naturedly. A Duke could not lightly back away from a vow made so publically. That would put a stop to the murmuring about marrying the lad off – for a few months, anyway, Pentandra knew. She could easily appreciate the utility of the move to Grendine, as it would have saddled a potential weak rival with feudal obligations and alliances that would have bound him more closely to Castal. “Well, that should end her tenure here, then. How did she react?”

  “Poorly. But graciously. You might want to have someone keep watch on those two maids of hers,” the goddess suggested. “I don’t know if the Queen will decide to push her agenda, but if she does those two maidens are the instruments through which she will, not the old biddy.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Pentandra asked, quietly, as they came to the doorway of her office.

  “Because I really am trying to help,” Ishi insisted, through Amandice’s mouth. “I want nothing more for this realm to survive and thrive. To do that it needs intelligent, capable ministers like you. Ministers who are informed. More informed than you. While you are watching for the arcane realm, I am defending the social and political. When we work together, His Grace rises, the fortunes of the duchy rise, and we all benefit.”

  “So this means that we are . . . at truce?” Pentandra asked, pausing a moment with the madame before she went inside.

  Before Ishi could answer, a familiar voice cut through the air in an accent unfamiliar in these northern halls.

  A voice that sent chills of horror, regret, and fear down Pentandra’s spine.

  One of the last voices she ever expected to hear under these circumstances.

  One of the voices she prayed furiously was a mistake of her ears.

  “Pentandra anna Benurvial! It’s about time you wandered into your own office! To think I came all this way to see you only to find you off wiping that Narasi boy’s arse, again!”

  Pentandra glared at Baroness Amandice as she struggled to breathe. No. Not here. Not now.

  “A truce?” she snickered. “More or less.”

  Ishi watched Pentandra’s face with the interest of an artist watching her art be revealed. Did she not realize the duchy was in crisis? That I just returned from a conference? That I just returned from a successful Magewar? I thought she wanted to help!

  Taking a deep breath, and giving one last hateful look at Baroness Amandice, Pentandra plastered a smile across her lips and stood a little straighter before she turned to face the doorway.

  “Why hello, Mother!” she said, as cheerful sounding as she could manage. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lady Amendra

  Pentandra stared at the woman who had given her birth, standing in the shabbily grand office that was hers by virtue of her hard-won and well-earned position, and felt herself crumble inside. It was as if twenty years of her life were stripped away in a second, and she was five-years old.

  Not that her mother was terribly imposing in appearance. While slightly taller than her father, Amendra anna Benurvial still had the slender build and mild stature of most Imperial-descended Remerans; that was reflected in her dusky features and the long black ringlets that cascaded from under her yellow silk headscarf. The kind of headscarf a proper Remeran noblewoman wore.

  But Amendra’s presence was not constrained by her physical presentation. Her dark yellow traveling gown and bright scarlet mantle seemed out-of-place among the darker, more woodland-oriented colors of the palace, a contrast that served to make her more prominent in the halls of the palace. The cluster of servants and retainers at her back, the small stack of baggage around their feet augmented her position, as it was designed to.

  But it was the eyes that truly commanded attention. Amendra had famously beautiful eyes, large, bright, and perfectly formed. They were compelling and demanding, and she used them with the mastery of an adept. She’d inherited enough of the look that her own pretty eyes were a trait Pentandra had traded upon often enough. But on her best day, neither Pentandra or her sister had a tithe of Amendra’s blazing eyes. It was as if they naturally demanded the attention of every other eye in the room. And then, once her eyes had your attention, Amendra’s real weapon emerged: her voice.

  But as Pentandra stared helplessly at her mother, she noted something else about those eyes, something that startled her: they were filled with genuine worry and concern as much as judgment. While that would not diminish the row to come in the slightest, she knew, Pentandra did have a sudden and unexpected flash of sympathy for the woman.

  She had not really seen her since her cousin’s wedding, more than two years ago, and she had been sparse and terse with her correspondence since. Of course, considering their last few conversations, “sparse” and “terse” was likely a good idea when it came to speaking with her mother.

  “Well, is my daughter going to embrace me,” she asked, patiently, as she raised her arms, “or must I make an appointment through your secretary?”

  Pentandra obediently gave her mother a hug, and received a matronly kiss on her forehead as she had as a child. Her mother felt small and a bit frail, in her arms, though her figured was far curvier than Pentandra’s. When she stepped away to look at her, she realized that she was starting to age, despite the deft use of cosmetics and glamours.

  “Mother, what are you doing here?” she asked, trying to sound pleased. Not shocked and horrified, she realiz
ed belatedly. Pleased, she reminded herself.

  “I was invited,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “Not by you, of course, Pentandra, but I did receive an invitation to honor your service. As I was not too far from Gilmora, anyway, it only took a few days to get here once I received word.”

  “But how did you . . .?”

  “I was traveling to see your Great Aunt Ardra in Barrowbell,” she explained. “Your father’s message caught up with me there. It seems an invitation to a feast in your honor was sent by this gracious woman, Baroness Amandice through those magic Mirrors,” she said, bowing her head respectfully. “Orisorio was kind enough to ensure it got to me in a timely manner. It was an important occasion, he thought,” she said, casually. “He wanted your family to be represented, and I was closest. Not like a wedding or anything, but something professionally important.”

  “Mother, I—”

  “I think we will have plenty of time for . . . catching up,” Amendra said, with exaggerated lightness. “But I’ve just ridden in the most devilish coach across a wasteland of Wilderlands roads, and if I don’t find some corner to throw myself into soon, I may just faint.”

  She did not look in the slightest danger of fainting. Rising up and destroying them all, perhaps, but not fainting. There was an awkward silence, as Pentandra’s mind struggled to supply coherent thought to the situation. It seemed unwilling to act. It was still five. It was torn between cowering in girlish fear and wanting the distraction of a cookie.

  “I’ll just leave you two to catch up,” Lady Pleasure said, sweetly. “We mustn’t interfere with such a joyful reunion after so long an absence. That would offend Trygg,” she said, with mock piety. “Come along, girls! Let us seek out the Warlord, to see what we can do to aid the realm. Family is so terribly important,” she added, as her attendants fell into line, each one smiling about the delicious awkwardness their mistress had contrived. “We don’t want to stand in the way of such a cherished visit. We have a feast to plan!”

  As the treacherous madame retreated, Pentandra finally found her tongue. But not for her mother. She had to take control of the situation before it escalated into chaos. “Alurra, please track down Castellan Birsei and have him prepare suitable quarters for Lady Amendra and her party,” she commanded, quietly.

  For once the girl didn’t question her – in fact, she gave her an almost-acceptable curtsey and a “Yes, Mistress!” and ran off. Her mother despised impudent servants more than anything, and even though Alurra was technically not a servant, she had an even lower opinion of apprentices. Alurra’s compliance was gratifying. Even her raven was well-behaved. Pentandra was about to thank the gods for small favor, when she recalled why she was in this position in the first place.

  There were three servants behind her mother who Pentandra recognized from home, surrounded by her baggage. “Leave that here,” she commanded. “I’ll have the castellans remove it to your quarters. Why don’t you three go to the main hall for something to eat? Have it charged to the Court Wizard’s account,” she added. “They won’t give you any trouble. I’ll send word where you can find your quarters,” she promised, shooing the servants out the door into the corridor. “Down this hall, on the left, take a right at the statue of the Maiden of the Havens, and straight until you can smell the food.”

  Once they were gone, she turned back to her mother. “Why don’t we go to my office for a cup of wine while we await Castellan Bircei,” she proposed.

  “That’s the first civilized thing that has been said to me, today, since I arrived in Vorone,” she grumbled, eyeing her daughter circumspectly. “I asked your secretary – I had to ask! – and she looked at me like a drunkard.”

  “In the Wilderlands, wine is usually reserved for evenings,” Pentandra pointed out. “Not at breakfast and luncheon, like in Remere. They drink beer, instead.”

  “How . . . charming,” Amendra said with a delicate shudder, as she entered Pentandra’s office. She stopped and inspected the place by eye, making Pentandra thankful that her mother was not a mage with the capacity for magesight. That would have just given her one more thing to criticize.

  “This is the Court Wizard’s office?” she asked, skeptically. She was clearly unimpressed.

  “For the moment,” Pentandra said, apologetically. “Don’t forget, this is merely the summer palace. It wasn’t intended to be used constantly, so there wasn’t as much emphasis on presentation as there was utility. Please, have a seat while I pour,” she said, leading her mother by the elbow to the chair in front of her desk.

  “No windows,” Amendra pointed out, critically. “Hardly larger than a coach, in here. And you clearly are not beating the maid hard enough,” she sniffed. “Or is dust a cherished Wilderlands tradition, as well?”

  “I’ve put in a request for larger and more functional space, Mother,” Pentandra said, evenly. “The duchy is in a state of flux right now, but it has been noted.”

  “You’d just think that an important post like Ducal Court Wizard would demand something more . . . appropriate,” she sneered as Pentandra poured two silver goblets full of a decent Taro Bikavar red Bircei had discovered in the cellars.

  “Mother, I am here with all of the other great officers of the duchy,” she reminded her. “We all have jobs to do, and the palace is only so large. I’ve got twice the space that the Warlord does. Arborn doesn’t even have an office in the palace, proper. The Master of Wood’s office is in the stockyard, near the stables.”

  “What does a tree warden need an office for, anyway?” Amendra complained, rhetorically. “But that does brings us to my next topic: your . . . husband,” she said, solemnly, pronouncing the word with the slightest hiss.

  Pentandra swallowed, hard, and realized that she wasn’t breathing. All of her attempts to control the situation were dashed by that one word. She tried to rectify that, marshal her resources and respond as an adult woman in her own right, not a naughty little girl whose truancy had been discovered . . . but she found it took effort. Her mother’s eyes bored into hers, reproving her for daring to escape her influence. As if it were pure folly to suffer under the illusion that Pentandra had any idea of how to run her own life.

  It was an old story, and one at the root of their relationship. Pentandra’s older sister was the genuine image of her mother; Cartelendra was, if anything, even more beautiful than her famous mother, and just as lacking in rajira. A goodly portion of Pentandra’s childhood had been spent witnessing Amendra conspiring to arrange the best possible match for her pretty daughter . . . and educating and shaping her into being the best possible match for the highest-ranked husband she could find.

  No effort or expense was spared as Cartelendra learned dancing, singing, reading, and all of the other virtuous arts a man sought in his wife. Amendra had even hired an older priestess of Ishi to tutor the girls on the Crimson Arts of the bedroom (for which Pentandra was actually grateful, as the woman had taught her far more than Amendra could imagine).

  Amendra had started to invest the same effort in her second daughter’s future, despite looking slightly more like her father and less like her mother. With Cartelendra’s stunning face and figure as a guide, there was always the chance that Pentandra would be a late blooming flower, she reasoned. And the girl was unusually bright, the one concession Amendra was happy to repeat when discussing her younger daughter.

  Unfortunately for Amendra, Pentandra developed her rajira shortly after menarche, and when the tests confirmed that she was Talented, much of that attention stopped – for better or worse. As a mage, Pentandra was unable to marry a nobleman, under the Bans. Or at least it was highly unlikely a nobleman would be attracted to a woman who could not share his title.

  Either way, Amendra’s dreams of a grand wedding, a great match, and a social coup around her second daughter were dashed. She redoubled her efforts for Cartelendra and mostly ignored Pentandra, as her father eagerly began her magical education.

  After that, the two be
came estranged. Pentandra plunged into magical studies with her father and cousins, while Amendra focused on her elder daughter. While Pentandra was pleased to escape the exhaustive lessons on dance, flower-arrangement, and estate management her sister was forced to endure, she was also disappointed in the development. Cartelendra seemed to not only attract plenty of attention from suitors, but she had nearly the entirety of her mother’s attention. Once Cartelendra was officially searching for a husband, Amendra had very little time for her younger daughter.

  Then Pentandra went away to Alar Academy in Wenshar when she was fourteen. After that the gulf widened.

  Each interaction with her mother after she left for school was fraught with conflict. Every family event she attended brought a stream of harsh criticism from Amendra, until Pentandra found herself living her life almost in defiance of her mother’s ideas about how she should properly conduct herself. Even her area of study had been chosen in part to mortify her mother in the Remeran social circles she found so important.

  But after her sister and her cousins had been successfully married off to good matches, Amendra found herself with one single daughter and too much time on her hands. A few years ago she began corresponding with Pentandra while she was at Castabriel, urging her to look for a worthy husband while she was staying in the new Kingdom’s capital.

  Pentandra had returned each missive with snide comments and joking references to entirely unsuitable suitors, until Amendra gave up in frustration. It was easier to taunt her mother through correspondence than face-to-face, when she did not have to bear the brunt of her displeasure. The last such letter had been four parchment pages detailing what an ungrateful and disrespectful daughter she was, and how Amendra would no longer attempt to assist her.

  That had suited Pentandra fine, at the time. The suitors her mother proposed were hardly worthwhile, to her standards, chosen more for their pedigree or their treasury than their character. She was not the type of woman upon which to base dynastic alliances, she’d pleaded with her mother. She was a career woman with an important position.