Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (104 page)

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.  But 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. 

“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 realized 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!”