Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  The summit of the Anvil proved elusive, but they settled for a lovely spot in the center of a broad meadow on the midsection of the hill. Alurra was familiar enough about the place to tell them all about the foxes, the birds, the snakes and the other animals who made it their home.

  Pentandra found it interesting that her experience of the place did not have the same awe as the rest of them. She realized that Alurra had never really experienced the view from the top of the Anvil, the beautiful rolling ridges in the distance framing hectares of fertile Wilderlands meadows and forests. To her apprentice, this magnificent place was just another meadow, albeit higher than the ones near her mistress’ croft.

  Then she realized something else.

  “According to the plans that Antimei showed me,” she said, looking around and getting her bearings, “this is about the place where the wall separating the town from the citadel stands. Will stand,” she corrected. The great gate of Vanador.” She sketched out the thing in her mind, with mental precision born of years of magical study. Amendra shuddered, as she spread out the blanket for their meal.

  “It unnerves me when you talk about such things,” she said, shaking her head as she sat and began unpacking the food . . . and the wine. “This is a barren hilltop in the middle of nowhere. Who is to say it won’t remain so for the next thousand years?”

  “Antimei,” Alurra said, apologetically. “She knows. She’s known about this city since . . . since forever. It will be beautiful and strong, a true city of magi,” she said, dreamily, as she settled onto the blanket. “Built by the magi, defended by the magi. There will be schools, and great manufactories, smithies and workshops, list fields and racetracks, temples and inns . . .” she said, waving her arms around a bit as she described the proposed grandeur.

  “That’s not proper,” Amendra said, shaking her head. “I don’t know much in this world, but I’m familiar with my husband’s craft. Is not prophecy proscribed, Pentandra?”

  “It was, under the Censorate,” she agreed, rummaging through the basket for the cheese she’d seen before. “The Arcane Orders are trying to take a more lenient approach. But yes, the dangers of prophecy are well-known. It took the dedication, commitment, and sacrifice of someone like Antimei to prophesy without attracting the kind of chaos that usually accompanies the practice. I’m still angry about how she did it,” she admitted, finding the elusive ball wrapped in an oilcloth, “but I cannot fault her plans. It was the only way that her work could be used, without inviting mayhem. I cannot wait to see how she has constructed her spell,” she confessed.

  “I still don’t see the point,” Amendra insisted, cutting an apple in half and carefully laying one side in front of Alurra. “Why know the future? It will happen soon enough, won’t it?”

  “The information in those prophecies could be invaluable in our struggle against the darkness, Mother,” Pentandra explained. “They concern us all, and the Forsaken, and a great many other things. Hints from the gods, if you will. Good prophecy gives we mortals just enough information to suggest a course of action or aid us along the way. Poor prophecy indicates the scope of grand events, and demands our participation. Bad prophecy incites the fears and anxieties over the outcome of events, driving us to fulfill them out of a sense of destiny, not free will. It’s a nuanced thing,” she suggested.

  “No wonder the Censorate prescribed it,” Amendra sneered. “You say that this Antimei is more than a mere hedgewitch?” Amendra may not have been Talented herself, but her entire family was steeped in the traditions of the Remeran magi. She had a low opinion of unregistered and un-credentialed practitioners based on their social standing alone.

  “She is. From what I understand, she was a Practicing Adept in the south before she fled for the obscurity of the Wilderlands.”

  “She had a husband,” Alurra added, sadly, “and two children. She had to leave them behind, lest the Censors take revenge.”

  “Well, that I can almost understand,” Amendra nodded. If her mother shared her husband’s understanding of his craft, she also shared his professional fears. “If those checkered bastards were on my trail, I might decide to flee to someplace pretty like this.”

  “But apart from the technicality of a few years’ dues, which as Court Wizard it’s my prerogative to waive, there’s no reason why Antimei could not return to private practice. She’s a credentialed mage. She hasn’t broken any rules.”

  “And from what you are telling us, this will eventually be a prime place for a spellmonger’s practice,” Arborn noted.

  “Oh, leave the poor old lady alone!” Amendra unexpectedly said. “Hasn’t she sacrificed enough? She was prepared to die, from what Alurra tells me, and handed you the keys to the future. She’s lived in a dirt hole for most of her lifetime. Worse, she’s missed her children growing up,” she said, with unexpected emotion. “How could you possibly ask her to keep laboring, after all of that?”

  “Perhaps we can ask her what she desires when she awakens,” proposed Arborn, reasonably enough. But Amendra, for some reason, would not abandon her defense of the witch.

  “I know what she desires! I know what any woman in her position would desire, after such a sacrifice. Dear All-Mother Trygg, Matron to the World, save her from such a bleak fate!” She added dramatic emphasis by spilling a libation of wine on the ground with all the solemnity of a priestess at service. “After what she has done, after what she has given up, she deserves to lay aside her burdens before she dies!”

  “Trygg’s grace is grand,” Pentandra said, automatically, feeling like she was a girl in temple school again for a moment. She even sloshed out some wine from her cup in a token offering. “But life is rarely fair, Mother. That’s one of its blessings. And be careful how you invoke the gods,” she added. “Sometimes getting your prayers answered is worse than being ignored.”

  “The Trygg I know would try to ease her suffering,” Alurra added, her young voice seemingly out of place amongst the discussion of adults. But there was wisdom in her words beyond her immature speech. “If a woman’s suffering, Trygg is supposed to sooth it. If she’s sorrowful, she’s supposed to take away her cares. If she’s in pain, Trygg takes the pain,” she said, reciting the teachings of the mother goddess’ clergy she’d learned at Vorone. “If Trygg could do that for Antimei, it would be a blessing. She seems happy enough, most times, but sometimes she gets melancholy. I know it’s about her lost children and husband, but there isn’t anything anyone can do about that,” she finished, sadly.

  “It also seems poor repayment for such noble service to tear up her home,” Arborn pointed out. “To make a city, however beautiful, out of this place seems a crime against the spirits that dwell here.”

  “Antimei long ago came to terms with being the last to enjoy this place in natural beauty,” Alurra informed him. “She appreciates it. But she knows it must be sacrificed. She’s like that,” she added, a little gloomily.

  Their mood descended a bit discussing the poor witch, but then the brightness of the day (and an unexpected explosion of butterflies) distracted them for a few hours. When the sun began to overcome the coolness of the breeze, they started down the path again, Pentandra pointing out where prominent landmarks in a phantom city would someday come to be.

  They were troubled when they returned to the croft to find the little door open. Pentandra knew for a fact that it had been closed when they left - she’d been the one to close it. Arborn immediately drew his blade, and Pentandra summoned Everkeen, nearly at the same time.

  There was, indeed, an intruder within: an older woman, tall and graceful, in a simple but elegant gown of deep green. Antimei lay where they’d left her, on the rough couch, still peacefully snoring while the woman watched over her. She had the regal bearing of a queen, Pentandra noticed, though Everkeen went into near conniptions when it tried to assess her, magically. The only time it had responded like that before . . .

  “Oh, shit,” Pentandra whispered, realizing the trut
h of the matter.

  Why did her life have to get so complicated?

  “Who are you?” barked Arborn, who had little of Pentandra’s understanding of the metaphysical world. “How did you get in here?”

  “The door was unlatched,” the woman said, calmly.

  “Put the blade away, my husband,” Pentandra said, her shoulders sinking. “This guest is no threat. In fact . . . am I wrong to think we summoned you?”

  The woman smiled, pleased. “You have it exactly, Daughter. I have come as bidden, to do as asked.”

  “Who asked? To do what?” Alurra said, furiously, as she confronted the woman. “What have you done to Antimei?” she demanded.

  “I have done nothing, yet,” the woman assured her, calmly. “But I shall, according to your desires. This one requires my attention,” she said, gesturing to the snoring old woman.

  “Who . . . is this?” Amendra asked, confusion in her voice. “What’s happening, Pentandra?”

  “Mother . . . meet the Mother Goddess. Trygg All-Mother. We were . . . we were just talking about you,” she said, blushing.

  The woman smiled. It had a similar power as Ishi’s smile, but instead of inviting seduction and indulgence, it radiated understanding and pure motherly love.

  “So you were. Which is why I’m here. I was properly invoked, on a full moon, under an open sky, by a mother, a maiden, and a crone to succor one of my faithful.” Among Trygg’s other responsibilities in the Narasi pantheon, Trygg was the patroness of witches.

  But the physical manifestation of the goddess was not what overcame Pentandra - it was the implication of her words.

  She swallowed, her body shivering uncontrollably. “What shall you do with her, Mother?” she asked, formally. While she could be a complete bitch to Ishi, this was the Mother Goddess. Best to keep a civil tongue, she decided. Especially now.

  Of course the obvious escaped her husband. The most adept Kasari ranger in the Wilderlands blundered past the ramifications of the goddess’ explanation and wanted answers.

  “What do you intend on doing with her?”

  “No more than what I was asked to. I will return her to her original home, where she will awaken in one of my temples. She will reunite with her husband, who never remarried, for a few brief years. She will see her children again, and be introduced to her grandchildren. She has, indeed, earned a respite from her long exile, and thanks to your invocation, she will now enjoy it.”

  “You . . . you’re going to take Antimei away?” Alurra asked, suddenly tearful.

  “She has but a few more years left to her, my sweet,” the goddess pronounced, gently. “Not many, but a few. But your time with her is over, I’m afraid. When she awakens she will be far, far from here.”

  Alurra did not find much solace in that, and ran to her teacher, eyes filled with tears. Pentandra stared at the woman, who seemed as serene as . . . well, as a goddess.

  “Won’t that prohibit her from teaching me how to use the . . . prophecy stone?” she asked, hesitantly.

  “She made it simple for you, Daughter. Merely access it, as you would another library stone, and the prophecy you are intended to know will be the only one which you may study,” she explained. “That way you cannot be tempted to examine the entirety of her work.”

  “We never did recover the actual book,” Arborn agreed. “Now it is lost forever.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Pentandra said, shaking her head. “If it is known that the book is gone, then so will the allure of it to our foes. Is Trygg spirits away Antimei before she can reveal where she hid it, then it will be safely beyond our reach.”

  “Well spoken, Daughter,” praised Trygg. “You display wisdom and insight.”

  Pentandra was stunned - and galled - that she had just received more of a complement form the Goddess of Motherhood than she ever had from her own mother’s lips.

  I suppose Mother is just more judgmental, she decided.

  “My time here grows short. But I wished to let you know what had become of the woman, so that you would not worry.”

  “What is to happen to her?” Amendra finally asked in a hushed tone.

  “As I said, I will return her to her home, where she will live out her remaining years in comfort, surrounded by her family. And her legacy . . . that falls to the two of you, now,” she said, meaningfully. “This croft, and the city around it to come, will be in your charge. May you keep that charge as faithfully as Antimei kept hers.”

  “Goddess,” Pentandra said, a sudden thought occurring to her, “if I could persuade you to visit Master Minalan the Spellmonger, he--”

  The Goddess of Marriage and Children held up her hand abruptly. “I am aware of the gift the magi have for the gods,” she said, calmly, “but it is not yet my time for that gift. Be assured, we will meet again, Daughter, though I will likely not remember. But the day comes when I shall persist even as Ishi, Briga, and Herus now do,” she promised.

  “And . . . you will aid in our fight?” Arborn asked, in a low but respectful voice. “And what about . . . Ishi?” he asked, in a near whisper.

  “I already am,” she assured. “As you will see when you return to Vorone. I have . . . taken steps to check the power that Ishi has raised there . . . without upsetting the good that she has done. Between my efforts and your own, Daughter, come Yule the Goddess of Love will no longer trouble Vorone more than she usually does. She has other work to do in other places, and she should not have tarried as long as she has.”

  “That is a relief,” Pentandra said, nodding. “I thought we might never get rid of her.”

  “Does she not keep away the undead?” Amendra asked. Pentandra was surprised she kept track.

  “She has done all she can, to ward the city in her girdle. I shall lend my aid as well, but there are limits what we can do through intermediaries,” she warned. “The defense of Alshar shall be left to the magi. Once you embark on the construction of this city, fair Vanador, you will take measures which will ward it effectively against them. Until then, you must continue to battle them as you find them.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” Pentandra murmured.

  “The gods give you the help you need, not the help you want,” Trygg instructed. “And even then it’s likely to not be what you were seeking. We do what we can,” she shrugged. “We leave the rest to the bravery and cunning of our mortals.”

  “So you’re just going to whisk her away?” Alurra asked, tearfully.

  “Well, ordinarily I’d bring my gilded coach drawn by a matched team of peacocks,” the goddess said, drolly, “but I was in a hurry.”

  Alurra sighed. “I guess that’s all right, then,” she said, missing the sarcasm.

  The goddess stood from Antimei’s old chair. “But it is time for us to depart, now. Fear not, she shall be well-tended, Daughter,” she assured Alurra, as she reached down and touched the old woman’s hand. “Peace be on you, about your teacher, Daughter. And know that you will see her again, once, before she passes. Blessings on you all . . . particularly you, Daughter,” she added to Pentandra with a certain look. In a flash the goddess and the old witch both vanished, leaving four very confused mortals in their wake.

  Pentandra slumped into the chair so recently occupied by the buttocks of a goddess and begged Arborn for a glass of wine. Her husband poured one for each of them while Amendra escorted a weeping Alurra outside to bathe her face in the spring.

  “It’s not every day you meet a goddess,” her husband remarked as he handed the glass to Pentandra. “You magi live interesting lives.”

  “Two in one year,” she nodded, taking a prodigious sip. “I wish I could say I feel as blessed as I technically am.” She put her hand over her abdomen as she held out her half-empty glass for another charge.

  “Don’t concern yourself, my wife,” Arborn soothed, rubbing her shoulder expertly before sitting on a stool next to her chair. “Meeting a goddess is supposed to be overwhelming.”

  “
What? Her?” Pentandra asked, dully, referring to Trygg. Her scent still hung in the air, an enchanting blend of apples, honey, and something indefinable. Goddess boob sweat, perhaps? “No, no, that was wonderful, in its way. I’m just still reeling from what she told me.”

  “Told you?” Arborn asked, surprised. “Did I miss something in the conversation?”

  “Evidently,” Pentandra said, wryly, setting down her glass and taking his hand. “In my studies of the rites of love and procreation across the Five Duchies and beyond – sorry, no way to separate the two – I became familiar with all of the profoundly female goddess. Ishi, of course, in all of her manifestations, but plenty of others. Briga. Tanta. Osana. And, of course, Trygg, Mother of Gods and Men.”

  “Go on,” Arborn said, clearly confused.

  “Well, of all the simple rituals used to invoke the gods and goddesses, one of the oldest involving Trygg, and most universal, is a plea at the full moon made by a mother, a maiden, and a crone: the three phases of womanhood.”