Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (107 page)

“That’s . . . that’s fantastic,” Pentandra said, as her mother left.  Her mind was spinning.

All summer long.
  And it was only past
midsummer.

Princess Rardine was due this autumn.

There were undead skulking about Vorone.

The duchy was just attacked by gurvani.             

The first Magewar in four hundred years had been waged and won, with disastrous consequences.

And there was a mischievous, devious goddess doing her best to upset her.

Pentandra put her forehead down on her desk for a moment, letting the cool of the wood absorb the heat from her suddenly-pounding brow. Then she sat up, looked absently into space . . . and poured herself another glass of wine.

All the way to the brim.             

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dinner With Mother

“You realize that no matter how perfect it is, it will never be enough,” Arborn commented, unhelpfully, while Pentandra was setting the table.  

She had imposed on Bircei to serve and attend for the evening, but she wanted to see to the details of the place settings personally.  She was counting on the castellan’s smooth manner to reduce any comments her mother might have about the servants - one of her favorite points of criticism.  Bircei was no Remeran, but he understood how to serve properly and maintain protocol.  Having her inexperienced maid or her blind apprentice trying to serve would have been a disaster.  

Bircei also had the benefit of understanding the nature and gravity of the situation in ways that completely escaped her husband.

“Well
of course
not,” Pentandra shot back as she replaced the large magelight over the table with four smaller ones in the corner of the room.  Indirect lighting provided a more casual mood, she decided.  “No matter what I do, it will be wrong.  Its
how
I am wrong that is important.”

Arborn looked confused.  “Important to
whom?”
             

Pentandra looked up at her husband sharply.  She realized that he possessed only the vaguest of ideas of what was about to happen -- the subtle interplay, the oblique references to years of past history and remembered slights, the insidious need to please and defy at the same time.  

“You didn’t have any sisters, did you?” she guessed.  Then she realized she knew almost nothing about her husband’s family, and life growing up.  

Did I marry a stranger?
part of her mind suddenly asked, throwing the rest into turmoil.

Pentandra summoned her Will, developed through years of disciplined magical meditation, and forced herself to postpone the painful speculation and emotional tempest that question would inevitably inspire.  She just didn’t have the capacity for it right now.  
One catastrophe at a time
, she warned herself.

“Actually, I have two half-sisters, but they’re much younger than I am,” he admitted.  “I grew up with two younger brothers.”

“Well, right now you are about to see the brutal result of years of pent-up matronly guilt and emotional history amongst the noble class,” she warned.  “I’m going to get savaged for the temerity of wanting to live my own life, and she’s going to get smothered in guilt for years of neglect and emotional warfare.”

Arborn looked to Bircei as the castellan adjusted the place settings, and the thin man nodded sadly.  “I really don’t think it will be that bad,” Arborn suggested, hesitantly. “What could she
possibly
find fault with?”

She stifled a mad giggle.  “Would you like the list alphabetically, or in order of importance?” Pentandra challenged.  “
Everything
I’ve ever done since I was a child will be on the table for discussion,” she predicted, her voice quivering.  “
Every
imagined slight,
every
embarrassing story,
every
awkward moment will be turned into an ‘endearing’ tale designed to belittle me.”

“I did have the fortune of escorting the lady to her quarters,” Bircei ventured.  “She seems a . . . formidable woman.”

“She can’t be
that
bad,” Arborn said, trying desperately to gain control of the situation.

“Oh, she makes the ‘courtiers’ around this mildewy old place look like kids in temple classes!” Pentandra said, hands moving to her hips of their own accord.  “There is
no
social situation that she cannot dominate,
no
conversation that she can’t turn to her own purpose,
no
compliment that isn’t wrapping an insult!”

“Pen, I’m sure she won’t be that bad with me there,” he ventured, cautiously.

“You?  Oh,
you
are going to be the
main
topic of conversation,” Pentandra said, angrily.  “How you are an ‘illiterate barbarian’ from a ‘forest tribe’ that I’ve ‘surrendered’ myself to
purely
because of your virility and sexual prowess!”

Arborn looked confused.  “Other than the fact I speak nine languages and read six, what’s wrong with that?”

Pentandra’s head felt like it was going to explode.  Luckily, Bircei came to the rescue.

“If I may, my lord, what my lady
means
to say is that, according to her mother’s ideas of proper social positioning, your rank amongst the Wilderlords is unlikely to overcome her misgivings about your origins.  Nor is your rank amongst your own people,” he added, sympathetically.

Arborn looked at Bircei thoughtfully.  “So tell me, based on your brief meeting with the woman, can you imagine
any
man of
any
rank or position that would satisfy her requirements for a son-in-law without complaint?   And your candor is appreciated,” he added.  Arborn disliked the double-talk and obfuscation implicit in court life, but he was starting to understand it.

“My lord, in my candid opinion, the lady would find fault with Luin the Fair himself as a son-in-law,” Bircei declared, emphatically.  “But the servants should not gossip.”

“Then if all paths are equally cursed, take the one that’s easiest on your feet,” he advised his wife.  “Pentandra, you’re a successful woman in your own right.  Don’t let her cloud your judgment with anxiety before she even arrives.”

“She’s been doing that since I was born!” Pentandra exploded.  “
Nothing
is good enough for her!  And the moment she brings up my sister--”

“I will do my best to avoid such unpleasantness, my lady,” Bircei assured her.  “There are all manner of strategies servants employ to steer the conversations of their betters.  In such an intimate setting, there should be ample opportunity for that.”

“Thank you, Bircei,” she sighed.  “Arborn, you have just enough time to dress before she arrives, and the food starts coming up from the kitchen.  We have sufficient wine?” she asked Bircei.

“Why do I need to
dress?”
Arborn complained.  In truth, he was clothed in his dark green tunic and Kasari mantle, and looked as neat and handsome as ever.  But it was entirely the wrong appearance for the occasion, for far too many reasons than she had time to explain.

“I have six bottles of a sweet, hardy red from His Grace’s Gilmoran estates,” the castellan reported, “as well as a bottle of Cormeeran dessert wine.  There will also be a bottle of the spirits in the buttery,” he added, “for
medicinal
purposes.  For the servants,” he added.  

Drinking spirits during a dinner function was a gross violation of custom.  Pentandra appreciated Bircei’s foresight.  She wasn’t exactly fond of drink, the way Minalan and Terleman were, but tonight she anticipated needing as much liquid courage as she could find.  “And Lord Arborn, I have laid out your clothes for the evening on your press,” he added.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

Pentandra vowed to double what she was paying the man.  He’d just eliminated a painful conversation and potential argument with her husband.  

Arborn sighed.  “I shall do my best,” he vowed, in Narasi, instead of Kasari.  Then he went to get dressed.

“Pardon me for saying, my lady, but I think your anxiety over your lord husband is misplaced,” Bircei offered.  “Lord Arborn seems more than capable of handling anything the gods put in his path.”

“He’s never had my mother in his path before,” Pentandra sighed.  “That woman could teach dragons how to intimidate.”

Amendra appeared with her maid at the door of the office at the precise time specified, looking stern and judgmental despite the gaily-colored yellow Remeran gown she wore.  Arborn met her, looking positively intimidating in his preselected finery.  The fine woolen tunic of dark green was cut in the simple Wilderlands style, but was well-fitted to Arborn’s muscular frame.  It was tastefully embroidered at the neck and sleeves, and the bright white linen undershirt that peeked out had tiny lilies, the Kasari symbol, stitched in a slightly darker white for a subtle but elegant effect.  

Bircei had chosen well.  The black leggings and hall slippers he wore accentuated his well-developed calves.  Instead of the full Kasari cloak, he had chosen a short black half-cloak, pinned with a striking eagle-shaped brooch that added just a touch of barbaric splendor to the outfit.  The ornate leather belt, on which he wore a jeweled dagger she’d never seen before, was heavily tooled and gilded in places.  On his brow he wore a simple silver circlet.  

It was the best blend of sophisticated court garb and homage to Arborn’s Kasari heritage that she could have asked for.  Pentandra didn’t even know her husband had such clothes in his press -- sparking another pointless emotional discussion with herself about her inadequacies as a wife -- but she was impressed and pleased with the result.

Even Amendra was unable to criticize his appearance on their first meeting, though she inspected him as thoroughly as an old horse in the market.  

“Mother,” he began, politely and respectfully, “it is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You must be Arborn,” she said, her eyes falling on him like a heavy rain.  “Big fellow, aren’t you?”  Pentandra, standing behind him, held her breath.  
It was a trap
.

“And I see where Pentandra gets her radiant beauty,” he said with a charming bow.  “Come, be welcome in our home.”

“Polite,” Amendra grunted, as she took his arm and let her son-in-law escort her up the stairs.  Of course she could not be satisfied without criticism, but she felt compelled to obscure it, saying to herself -- and Pentandra -- an old High Perwynese proverb instead, in the dead language itself:
“A fair face and good manners obscures intent”.

Pentandra was about to whisper something back, but Arborn beat her to it.  Replying in the same language -- flawlessly pronounced -- he quoted
“Where there is no advantage, there is likely no duplicity”,
one of the famous sayings of Archmage Derendi.  

That made Amendra’s eyebrows go up.  Not only had he called her out on her attempt to shame him, he had done so with a diplomacy that had revealed his scholarship and understanding, not to mention his knowledge of Imperial history and literature.

One point for Arborn
, Pentandra told herself.  

When they sat down to the first course, all bets were off.

The dinner itself was exquisite.  Bircei (with Pentandra’s financial backing) was able to coax an enticing repast out of the court’s kitchens, starting with delicious white bread and a selection of Wilderlands cheeses, complimented by some seasonal fruit just coming into ripeness.  The porridge course featured small bowls of a delicious wheat and barley with honey and dried berries, served with tiny fingerling sausages fried to a delicious golden brown.

The first meat course was a brace of fat pheasants stuffed with onions, bacon, and barley and served with roasted honeyed carrots.  The second was an incredibly well-seasoned herb-wrapped loin of pork baked into an amazing crust of bread with more mushrooms than Pentandra thought possible, oozing with juices and filling the air with its inviting aroma.  Lastly, the dessert course featured an amazing three-sectioned pie with apples, cherries,  and blueberries warring for culinary attention.