Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (133 page)

“Are we
there
yet?” Alurra burst out, irritated, as they trudged along.

“You know very well how long it takes to get there,” Pentandra chided.  “Lucky, have you been feeding this girl poor information?” she asked the crow.  Despite her initial reluctance at seeing the thing as anything but a living instrument for the girl, she had slowly come to realize that the stupid bird actually had the barest hint of a personality.  

“He wants to fly there, already, and be done with this stupid walking.  It’s night time!  Time to sleep!” she mocked her bird.  “What are you crazy humans doing now?”

“Going to meet the Spellmonger, if you must know, Lucky,” Pentandra replied.  “Special meeting.  Very secret.  Only high-ranking magi, their apprentices, and select fowl are permitted.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Alurra yawned.  “Why can’t the Spellmonger have a
breakfast
meeting?”

“He usually has a reason for what he does,” she said, with false confidence.  In fact, since Alya had lost her mind, Minalan’s behavior was growing more and more suspect.  Banamor, Dranus the Sevendori court wizard, and even Olmeg, Minalan’s Greenwarden, had contacted her separately about their concerns.  There were many people worried about him, Pentandra at the top of the list.  “Ostensibly, we’re discussing the upcoming Sixth Annual Spellmonger’s Trial, and what obstacles we’ll throw at the participants this year.”

“But you’re
lying
about that,” Alurra prompted in her blunt, matter-of-fact style.  Pentandra swore she would beat an appreciation for subtlety into the girl if it was the last thing she did.  “What are you
really
discussing?”

“I don’t know, precisely,” Pentandra admitted.  “All I know is that Tyndal and Rondal want to address . . . call it the Inner Council of Magi, those of us who were at Boval Vale during the siege.  It has been awhile since we’ve met in person, for that purpose, but it’s about time.  I have much to tell them about the Alka Alon, for instance, and the capabilities of Korbal’s new slaves.”

“But nothing about . . . Ishi.  Or Trygg.  Or Antimei.  Or the prophecies,”  Alurra warned.

“Not a word,” she promised.  “Minalan’s the only one who might believe us, anyway, at least about the goddesses.  And
no
one needs to know about the prophecies,” she said, automatically clutching the Prophecy Stone around her neck.  

She had only assayed the stone once, so far, finding a very clearly-worded message intended, ironically, for the ears of the Spellmonger.  One of her purposes tonight was to find a way to relay it to him without spilling deeper secrets.  It would be tricky, but then he was merely a man.  And a grief-stricken one at that.

If anyone needed the solace of prophecy right now, Minalan did.  The last several times she had communicated with him, either by Mirror or mind-to-mind, had depressed the hell out of her . . . and she was supposed to be glowing with goofy joy all the time, right now.

“Drink the mead,” she said, aloud.

“What?” Alurra asked, alarmed.

“Oh.  That’s the prophecy I’m supposed to give the Spellmonger tonight.  ‘
Drink the mead
’.”

“What does it mean?”

“I have no idea.  Which makes it a perfect test of prophecy.  Apparently Minalan will know what it means.  And that means something, if it’s the first prophecy in the book.”  It was, too.  For whatever reason, the enchantment Antimei had laid on the Library Stone would not reveal another stanza of itself until Pentandra delivered the first to its proper destination.

She could tell already that this prophecy thing was going to be annoying.

“Yeah, Antimei talked like that a lot,” Alurra said, critically.  “Try to be confident when you deliver it,” she suggested.  “No one likes a half-assed prediction.”

“I will keep that in mind, Apprentice,” Pentandra sighed.  “What I fear is the news that Tyndal and Rondal bring back from Enultramar.  His Grace authorized them to . . . well, advance his interests in the region,” she said, diplomatically.  “As well as find some weakness among the rebels.  Anguin is suddenly
very
interested in the possibility of recapturing Enultramar before his uncle can get a proper fleet assembled.”

“A fleet of . . . ships,” Alurra supplied.  “Those are the big boats.”  The largest boat she’d ever put her hands on was a rowboat, and the idea of a craft large enough to hold a hundred men was something she had a hard time appreciating.  Despite the problems it caused, Pentandra was growing to like and even appreciate Alurra’s innate skepticism.  

“Yes, the big boats,” Pentandra agreed.  “If Anguin can take his entire duchy on his own, he will have established his legitimacy to rule beyond anyone’s doubt.”

“And how are we involved in that?”

“Minalan’s former apprentices, Sir Rondal and Sir Tyndal, have made several trips there.  They’ve also made quite the mess, by all accounts.  They want to tell us what they found.  I want to talk about the Alka Alon.  Carmella wants to talk about the Anvil.  Terleman just wants free drinks, I think.”

They arrived at the Spellmonger’s Hall, that familiar old house she and Arborn had called home, along with a rolling roster of guardsmen, Kasari, and the occasional corpse.  Pentandra reflected, as she passed through the snowflake that still adorned the door, that as miserable as she had often been at the time, those had been some exciting times.  

The rest of the group was already waiting in the hall, gathered around the fire against the chill of the approaching autumn.  Minalan sat near the center, his mantle draped about him and a large silver flagon in his hand.  He looked somber, which, she had to admit, was somewhat of an improvement since Greenflower.

Next to him were Tyndal and Rondal -- who seemed to grow more impressive every time she saw them.  Both boys were simply but elegantly dressed in Enultramar-style doublets and hose, though both carried their fancy mageblades on their backs in ornate scabbards as well as Kasari daggers on their belts.  They looked hale and even jolly, she noted, though their former master’s mood was contagious.

Nearby Carmella was sitting quietly with the tea she favored, unless she felt like drinking for effect.  She wore a simple smock-like tunic under her mantle, man’s trousers, and a delicate-looking mageblade of her own was at her hip.  But she looked content, confident, and almost happy - far different from the fretful girl Pentandra had met at Alar, so many years ago.

Terleman was sitting on one end of a bench, playing dice with Azar in the relaxed style of soldiers awaiting orders.  Next to them in a far more comfortable chair was Astyral, garbed in white and looking pleasantly serene as he smoked his pipe and drank his wine.  On the other side of him sat Master Cormoran, the old weaponsmith whose trade had boomed since his association with Minalan.  Lastly was Taren, the brilliant thaumaturge and warmage Minalan had appointed to oversee the magically contaminated estates at Greenflower, after Dunselen and Isily had been removed forcibly.  

Taren, of all of them, looked almost as bad as Minalan.  His eyes were wide but bleary, as if he had not gotten much sleep.  Where once only a wisp of beard had graced his chin, his face was covered with hair, long untended.  His clothes were rich enough, affecting the style of the Castali aristocracy, a long surcoat over his tunic and hose, but the look on his face told a story of disquiet and anxiety that she was reluctant to inquire about.

She didn’t get the opportunity.  As soon as she arrived, Carmella embraced her, showed her to a chair, and parked Alurra behind her.

“Good, we’re all here,” Rondal began, authoritatively addressing the room.  “I’m sure you are all curious why we called this meeting,” he said, grinning.  He clearly enjoyed the attention and suspense he was creating, something Pentandra had never suspected about the lad.

“The fact is, Tyndal and I have been scouting some
very
interesting things down south,” he continued.  “We went, firstly, to rescue Master Minalan’s apprentice, Ruderal.  That was because he helped rescue us and the Kasari when we were seeking that stupid idol in the Land of Scars and stumbled across the expedition attempting - successfully, unfortunately -- to locate and free the ancient evil known as Korbal the Demon God.

“But while we were down there,” he continued, “we also encountered an enterprising family of very classy thieves and shadowmagicians.”

“Shadowmagic?” Minalan asked, skeptically.  Isily had been a shadowmage, a specialist in the magic of optics and obfuscation which had made her such an effective assassin.  And such a damnably difficult opponent.

“Relax, Master,” Tyndal assured him.  “These folks have been practicing their art quietly for over five hundred years, since the Magocracy.  So quietly that no one remotely suspects that their very normal noble family is secretly looting the great houses of Enultramar for generations with their craft.  They’re
quite
good,” he said, admiringly.  “But utterly goat-shit crazy, in an endearing sort of way.”

“It sounds like you made friends,” Terleman chuckled.

“Rondal almost made a
family,”
smirked Tyndal, enthusiastically.  “But that’s a story for another time.  The important thing is, while we were enjoying the hospitality of our new friends, we discovered a few things we felt would be of interest to the group at large.  For one, our new friends are
surprisingly
loyal to the Ducal House, and are more than willing to assist us in terms of intelligence gathering and the like, if we ask them nicely.”

“Good friends to have, then,” approved Azar.

“Yes, indeed.  During our second foray, in fact, they helped us break into the Tower of Sorcery.  I believe you are familiar with the place?”

“The
actual
palace of the Alshari Court Wizard,” Pentandra supplied.  “An ancient tower stuffed full of all sorts of amazing wonders, few of which are understood anymore.  And I hear the bathing facilities are
decadent,”
she added.  “Not that I’m covetous.”

“You
should
be,” Tyndal agreed.  “I’ve seen them, they’re
spectacular.
 But when our friends helped us get in, we discovered that the three highest remaining Censors left in southern Alshar have taken possession of three witchstones and were occupying the Tower.  And not just for the baths.  

“They are at the center of the alliance that is keeping the south united in rebellion,” Rondal added, helpfully.

“Explain,” Terleman instructed.

“The main council that is currently in control of the south is made up of landowning Coastlords in the fertile vales and plantations, the Sealords who have never liked the Ducal house much to begin with, the Brotherhood of the Rat, who provides intelligence and clandestine services for the council, in return for unrestricted exploitation rights of the slums across the land, and a few highly organized pirate fleets who are screening the ducal fleet,” Tyndal explained.  “The Censors in the Tower of Sorcery are coordinating between the pirates, Sealords, and the council,” he finished.  “They’re keeping the seaward lanes open for the fleet, and closed to anyone they don’t like.”

“More recently, they’ve been raiding closer and closer to Farise,” Rondal picked up.  “This summer they were so brazen that twice they braved the harbor itself, and raided ships under the nose of the Royal fleet.  
Not
their finest performance,” he added, critically.  “But that, apparently, was merely a test of their defenses.  Because the Censors have designs on Farise.”

“That’s . . . not good,” Terleman grunted.  “Ishi’s tits, that’s not good
at all
.  If we lose Farise--”

“Then we lose the trade routes to Unstara, the islands, and everywhere else in the Shallow Sea . . . “

“Oh, it’s more than that,” Rondal assured him.  “With Enultramar and Farise to anchor them, so to speak, the rebel and pirate fleets will be able to range much, much farther east.  Alternatively, if the alliance between the rebels and the pirates holds, then the Alshari ducal fleet could raid the kingdom’s coastlands with impunity.