“Mother!” Pentandra protested, automatically.
“What?” Arborn asked, confused. Bircei winced again painfully.
Amendra continued to speak, like a runaway cart on a busy town street. “Nothing at all like that boy, Minalan -- sorry, Baron Minalan,” she corrected herself with a slight smile. “Now that was a studious boy. I always liked him. When Pentandra brought him to the family estates, back during her tenure at Inarion, it was so adorable the way he followed her around like a puppy, terrified that we’d be at his door with spears and a noose if we found out he was topping our daughter. As if she hadn’t humped half the servants into oblivion already . . .”
“Mother, you disliked Min the moment you met him, and told him so to his face!” Pentandra accused. She did not register the stricken look on Bircei’s face, or the growing tide of confusion on Arborn’s. She stared relentlessly into her mother’s barely-wrinkled eyes.
“Oh, we had a talk, certainly,” she admitted. “At the time it looked like a poor match -- you had such potential back then, my dear! But then we couldn’t have known about his ambitions, back then, could we. The Narasi are usually so blatant in their pursuit of power, but he’s handled his rise with the subtlety of a Remeran. In a few short years he went from a knight with a single estate to a baron of incredible wealth and power. Two children, too, from what your father says,” she added. “Now that’s a man who understands ambition.”
“And who do you think helped him get there?” Pentandra demanded. “If it wasn’t for me, Min wouldn’t have half of the successes he’s had!”
“Yet what have you gotten for it?” her mother shot back.
Too late, Pentandra realized the trap she’d fallen into.
“A fancy title for a crappy post? A position in a laughingstock of a court, pretending to rule an entire duchy? You could have been by his side, sharing in the wealth and power and position. Instead you were beaten out by a peasant wench with the stink of cowdung on her shoes. One who gave him heirs while you were taking his messages in Castabriel! Really, Pentandra, you had a perfect opportunity and you let it slip through your fumbling fingers! I raised you better than that!”
“Mother, you as much as forbid Minalan to pursue me! Not to mention that I wasn’t interested in him that way! I was a working woman, with a career ahead of me! The last thing I wanted to do was get married!”
“And he took that seriously? Or did he just find a better match?” her mother dared to say. “You were there in that castle alone with him, when he’d just handed you irionite -- I’m no mage, but I know what that means! And then you screwed him for days, by all accounts, and still got left with nothing. What, by Ishi’s abundant blessings, is sex magic for if you can’t manage to get one half-witted Narasi spellmonger to commit to you?”
“We were there with his pregnant woman,” Pentandra pointed out, forcefully, “and I’m sorry if our impending deaths didn’t make him out to be a terribly bright marriage prospect! Or if the four hour -- not four day -- sex magic ritual we used to save everybody’s lives wasn’t the height of romance, with thousands of terrified peasants marching past, including his pregnant woman! But if I wasn’t interested in marrying Minalan then, why did you think I’d be--
“It broke my heart, when she told me that she was going to his wedding,” Amendra told Arborn, sadly. “She was so close, and she could have done any number of things to repair the situation. Instead she saved his entire wedding party. She loaned them her personal barge for their honeymoon. And slunk back to Castabriel like . . . like a dismissed maid!”
“. . . to take up the second highest and most important magical post in the Kingdom!” Pentandra sputtered. “And be a member of the royal court!”
“And where did that get you?” Amendra asked dismissively, looking around at the palace she clearly did not find palatial enough.
“Married,” Arborn finally spoke. “To me. My lady, as delightful as this pie is, and as pleasant as this evening has been, the palace bells have rung. If you are to enjoy the palace’s famous matins in the morn, it might be best if you retire.”
“Why would I want to attend matins?” Amendra asked, confused. The dawn service was usually the province for the most devout . . . or the most desperate for divine attention.
“Why, to pray to Trygg to find it within her divine grace to grant you the son-in-law you feel you deserve,” he said, quietly, as he rose. “Or the daughter that you clearly desire. I hope you can find both, in your stay in Vorone. May I escort you back to your quarters?” he asked in a formal tone that was nonetheless commanding.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Amendra said, her lips tightly pursed. “I find myself overcome with the joy and delight at my reunion with my daughter after so long a silence, and am afraid my age has given me little energy for late nights . . . and intimate discussions. If you would fetch my mantle,” she asked, pointedly. Arborn nodded, and made his way to the bedchamber where it was stowed.
The moment he was out of earshot she turned to Pentandra. “Despite what you might think, I find him entirely adequate for you, dear. And exceedingly polite. You managed that, at least,” she said, with a crooked smile.
“Mother, this discussion is not over,” Pentandra hissed.
“Of course not, dear,” Amendra assured her. “It’s just after midsummer -- I figured I would stay through Luin’s Day, at least, and see you settled in, here. Your sister won’t be due until late autumn, and I do dread enduring a Remeran summer with a pregnant woman in the middle of constructing a new home. Not when my other daughter is in such dire need of my attention.”
“Luin’s . . . day?” Pentandra asked, as Arborn returned with her mantle. The harvest festival honoring the god of law, order, and the apportionment of resources and duties was not for weeks.
Right around the time Princess Rardine was due for her inspection.
“That’s right -- unless your sister needs me before then,” she said, casually, accepting Arborn’s assistance with her cloak. “Thank you. Tomorrow I search for proper quarters in town for my stay. This palace looks lovely from the outside, but it’s no better than a second-rate inn. If I am going to look out for my daughter properly, it will be from my own quarters. Good morrow, my sweet. Arborn, I’m ready.”
When the two had left, with Amendra’s maid, Pentandra slumped down in her chair and drained her wineglass. She looked around for more, but Bircei was two miles downriver from her. The castellan abandoned protocol and sat in Arborn’s abandoned chair. The moment that the downstairs’ door closed, he produced a small bottle of Pearwoods brandy, strong enough for medical use, and poured slightly more than half of it in her glass.
“That could have gone worse,” he commented, taking a sip directly from the flask.
“Yes, I suppose it could have,” Pentandra said, dazed, as she took a sip of the strong, sweet liquor. “All things considered, she was on good behavior. Not the best behavior, but--”
“Oh, I have no doubt that she could be quite . . . formidable if she got truly aroused. I assumed she was merely exploring you for weakness.”
“Oh, yes, she’s formulating her strategy for the next engagement, even as she interrogates Arborn for more intelligence. I’m glad you appreciate the situation, Birsei. Not many men would.”
“I have a mother and sisters, my lady. And a wife. And a mother-in-law,” he assured her, with proper gravity, as he continued sipping. “Which brings to mind an issue that, perhaps, you have overlooked.”
She looked up sharply at the castellan. “What?”
“The effect this evening may have had on your lord husband, my lady,” he supplied, with some reluctance. “Some of the topics could not help but be understood, even by someone with Lord Arborn’s . . . noble perspectives,” he said diplomatically. “And some of those subjects nearly any man, noble or common, would find a challenging issue in his new marriage.”
Pentandra considered the idea . . . and realized with some horr
or that the castellan was correct. She had lightly glossed over her tacit admission to dozens of lovers - and the glorification of a former romantic interest -- as well as publicly stated her reluctance toward marriage at all.
“Damn,” she whispered to herself. “You’re right. Arborn is strong, noble, and . . . but he’s not . . . oh, Ishi’s tired twat, I really humped that up!”
“Nothing is beyond repair, with the help of the gods,” Bircei said, philosophically.
Pentandra looked at him again, considering explaining to him how one of the gods, in particular, had helped orchestrate this entire disaster. Not that he would have believed her.
“But from my small store of wisdom, might I suggest that you demonstrate to your mother how happy you are? That, in my experience, blunts a number of stings in such situations. A mother cannot argue overmuch if her daughter has built a life for herself, though she will criticize it relentlessly. And a daughter who is happy with her husband and her life will give her more peace than a string of titles and a dozen domains. Though she would never admit it.”
“No, my mother never would,” Pentandra agreed. “But she’s not the one I’m worried about now, thanks to your observation. How do I repair things with Arborn?”
“Oh, that? If the man possesses the smallest wisdom - and in my experience Lord Arborn is blessed with an abundance - then he will excuse any discussion betwixt mother and daughter as he would two friends drinking in a tavern. By morning’s light, much will be forgotten and more will be consigned to evenings past. Especially,” he added pointedly, “if he’s given cause to remember why he married her.”
Pentandra took the hint. He wasn’t discussing her profound magical abilities. She also took another sip of liquor. It was going to be a long night, she foresaw.
“And I wouldn’t worry about your mother overmuch,” Bircei continued, with increasing familiarity as the flask emptied. “In my experience, no one has more power to bring tortuous embarrassment and turmoil to a mother’s soul than being confronted with her offspring.”
Suddenly, several things clicked in Pentandra’s mind at once.
She realized an answer to several problems, if her suspicions were correct. Abruptly she set her wineglass down and summoned a small bag of gold she had tucked away in a magical pocket in her necklace.
“That’s about three times what I promised you, and then some,” she said, as she put the heavy purse in the castellan’s hand. “After you’ve cleaned up, I want you to deliver a message to the attendant at the Mirror array for me, on your way home.”
“My lady?” Bircei asked, confused.
“I just had the kind of fiendish idea that would make my mother proud!” Pentandra explained. “Thanks to your brilliant insight!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pentandra’s Report
Amendra spent the next few days seeking a suitable residence in town, giving Pentandra a much-needed respite from the constant flurry of challenges. She had a job to do, after all, and as much as waging Magewars and repelling invasions was part of that job, so was making certain that the regular business of the office continued.
She spent much of the next day - after a busy night trying to distract Arborn from the disastrous dinner with her mother -- ensuring that examination schedules were made, the Mirror array was staffed and functional, and that minor requests from members of court were handled or rejected, as appropriate.
That did not even contain the voluminous amount of correspondence that was piling up. Or her apprentice, who needed specialized training.
She was in the middle of answering letters resulting from the recent Conclave (there was always an eruption of business after a convention) when a page from His Grace appeared with a request that she attend him in the Game Room.
Pentandra didn’t even bother to change. His Grace had the usual male blindness when it came to such subtleties as wardrobe, and she just didn’t have the capacity to give it much thought. She grabbed her bag and her baculus and went. Her arse was starting to hurt from the office chair, anyway.
Anguin appeared in good health and excellent spirits when she arrived - if anything, leading a force to relieve the tower bearing his name had given him a victorious glow that Pentandra found endearing. He was in conference with Count Salgo, Father Amus, and an armored knight Pentandra hadn’t met.
The stranger was in his early thirties and clearly a military man by his bearing and raiment. He wore plain, serviceable mail that was nonetheless made of good steel and well-constructed. The sword at his waist was no courtier’s toy. Across his chest he wore a simple leather baldric as the only token of his rank.
“Ah, our Court Wizard, the famous Lady Pentandra!” Anguin said, enthusiastically, as she bowed. “Thank you for joining us. Just a casual meeting to introduce the inner members of court to Commander Kersal of the 3rd Commando. After some negotiations, I think we’ve reached an accord. Sir Kersal is to become the new Master of Arms, under the command of Count Salgo. His men will be tasked with training our folk in defense, organizing and strengthening the militias, and responding to any threats to the realm expediently.”
“That should give me time to raise troops, if needed,” Salgo pointed out. “But if Kersal’s men are doing their jobs, hopefully I won’t have to.”
“A pleasure, Commander,” Pentandra smiled and bowed. The man was not handsome, and his face bore scars from many engagements, but there was no denying his compelling presence. He gave her a curt bow in return.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, my lady,” he said in a low voice thick with the mud of the southern Riverlands. “Indeed, I was at Castle Cambrian. I have heard you were in no little part responsible for the outcome.”
“It was a team effort, my lord,” she assured him, lightly. “And it was only the one dragon.”
“And one goblin army,” he reminded her. “My thanks for your part in that. And I do look forward to working with you,” he added. That was politically important. Traditionally the military had been skeptical of what magic could do, and the long-running rivalry between “grunts” and “sparks” bred mistrust. But there was growing number of knights who were realizing the powerful advantages magic could bring, and were interested in exploring a stronger cooperation between the two.
“And I, you,” she assured. “Commander, it was my impression that the 3rd Commando was rent by political issues - merely my observation from your correspondence,” she added. No need to spook the man. “Yet you seem firmly in command, now. May I ask how that came to be?”
“Simple, my lady: when His Grace’s generous proposal arrived in Gilmora, we discussed it and voted on it, in the style of the Free Companies. Most favored His Grace’s plan, as we were being pressured by the local lords who feared such a mighty army in their midst . . . and grew tired of the demands we were making on their resources,” he admitted. “When we sat in counsel, a call was made for new leadership, and my sword brothers voted for me,” he said, humbly.
“You are a Castali?” she inquired, helping herself to the wine on the table.
“I was raised in Castal, squired to my mother’s brother, Sire Kalastor of Dunnex. But I was born here in Vorone - one reason that my sword brothers favored my leadership.”
“Sir Kersal is the youngest son of the late Baron Edmarin,” Father Amus offered. “He and his father had a strong antipathy. He bears His Grace no ill for his execution.”
“Indeed, he saved me the trouble,” the soldier growled.
Pentandra studied his face. Yes, she could see the resemblance, particularly through the eyes and forehead. Yet this warrior was as far removed from the overfed parasite whose death she’d witnessed that fateful Yule as a tiger was from a tabby. “I hated my father. As long as he lived, I could not return to Vorone. His Grace did me abundant favors by ending his life.”
“Do you plan on contending for his estate?” she asked, hesitantly. That could be problematic. “For, legally, his barony and all of his lands wer
e forfeit upon his execution. It has been already reassigned.”
“I want nothing of my father’s,” Kersal said, defiantly. “I am my own man and have built my own career of arms. If anything, I seek to repair the stain he cast upon my family line. Any fortune I have, I have myself to credit.”
“Well spoken!” Salgo said, enthusiastically. “I recruited Kersal myself; excellent soldier, outstanding command potential. His time in Gilmora has seasoned him well. As Master of Arms, he will provide the coordination of our military defenses. Provide a common point of reference between the traditional feudal military, the local militias we have to train, and the magi.”
“Apropos to that,” Pentandra said, suddenly, “Your Grace -- my lords -- I wish to recommend Magelord Terleman as my . . . military attaché. He was instrumental in coordinating our response to the recent goblin incursions, and he has more experience in the arcane war than anyone but Minalan. Maybe more. He doesn’t have a job at the moment, and he’s willing to come work for us.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 80