Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (136 page)

Vanador would be built.  According to Antimei’s direction . . . and prediction.

But before the remote hillside could be transformed, there was much left to do, she knew.  And now that the palace at Vorone was an ashen ruin, it was all the more pressing that a suitable stronghold be prepared.  Visiting the site undetected would become very difficult, presently.  But Pentandra needed answers now, and this was the one place she could find them.

It took a while for her to find the path up to the croft – Antimei’s original wards of obfuscation were still intact, and she required Everkeen’s help to locate the correct path.  She was gratified to find her spellbinding undisturbed.  No one had entered the croft since she’d sealed it.

Once inside, she lit a magelight and looked around at the room that had been the home of the greatest witch in the Alshari Wilderlands for thirty years.  It was humble and practical, with just a splash of decoration to keep it from being oppressive.  The shelves and rafters were still stuffed with herbs and roots valuable to her trade . . . but the witch who had practiced it was never returning here.

This was Pentandra’s legacy, now.

She did not come for simple herbs, though.  She was here for answers.  Answers the Prophecy Stone did not offer her.

Three prophecies had come out of it now, since the dragon attack on the palace.  She’d delivered or acted on every one, but while useful, in some way, the verses the stone offered her were tantalizingly vague and incomplete.  Pentandra needed more, especially now.

She debated with herself for a few moments before realizing that if she was not intending to do this, she wouldn’t have started out on the journey to begin with.  She was committed, like it or not, and she alone would suffer the consequences of her folly.

Pentandra crossed the room to study Antimei’s uncomfortable chair.  The old witch had sat in it religiously, like a throne, Pentandra had learned from her apprentice.  She rarely left it unless she was out gathering herbs or seeing the rare client.  Pentandra sat there herself, while she was debating with the Nemovort.  It was hard on her back and rump, and the thought of sitting there now, with three tiny babies in her womb already pressing for space, sounded masochistic at best.

Instead, Pentandra removed the three layers of blankets and quilts that lay over the chair.  Once gone, it was a simple matter to lift the rough plank of wood on the seat and reveal the thick book of parchment concealed below.

It had to be the chair, Pentandra had realized, months ago.  The only place in the croft she’d not searched thoroughly.  When she sat there, astonished at how uncomfortable it was, she’d puzzled out both the reason and the location of the Book of Antimei. 

With one final deep breath, she was about to open the book when she heard a voice clearing itself behind her.

“Are you
certain
you want to do that, Daughter?” asked Trygg the Mother Goddess.

“I thought you had banished yourself, after helping Antimei, Mother,” chided Pentandra, not looking up from the book.

“I nearly have,” the All-Mother conceded.  “But somehow I figured that one of my children was getting into mischief.  Call it a mother’s intuition,” she added with a chuckle.

“I
need
this book, Trygg,” Pentandra insisted.  “Even with all the dangers implied, it was brought to me for a purpose.  I cannot ignore that.”

“So what is so pressing about the future that you must see it revealed before its full time?” the goddess asked. 

“Do you need a list?” demanded the court wizard.  “Have you not been paying attention?”

“Oh, I’m aware of the need,” the goddess nodded.  “I was curious why you felt compelled to violate all you know about prophecy and fate.”

“Because I’m about to be a mother . . . thanks to you!” Pentandra accused, putting a hand over her abdomen. 

“Actually, Arborn had far more to do with it,” Trygg laughed.  “But I’m sure being in proximity to me played a role.”

“Which I can appreciate,” Pentandra nodded, evenly.  “But –
goddess!
– triplets?  Did you
have
to bless me so damn much?”

“Believe it or not, that wasn’t me,” Trygg confessed.  “Oh, I’m responsible for the conception, no doubt about it.  I always
am.
  But such a thing as triplets . . . unless you are of the Valley Folk, that is a rarity beyond me. 
Highly
improbable,” she supplied.

“Highly . . .
improbable,”
Pentandra repeated, her mind retracing her steps.  “Damn . . .
her!”
she burst out, a moment later.  “Sister Saltia gave me a blessing before I left to pursue Alurra,” she spat.  “A blessing . . .
from Ifnia!
  As if I didn’t have
enough
divine attention in my life!”

“That
would
make sense,” Trygg nodded.  “Identical triplet girls are
highly
improbable.  Only a strong dose of luck makes them happen.”

“Well, Arborn is
thrilled,
” Pentandra said, sourly, “though he will have to suffer with a wife as big as a barn for most of the next year.  He’s already sewing their first little Kasari neck cloths.  He doesn’t have to pass three babies out of his vagina, so he’s enjoying the process,” she said, darkly.

“He’s happy,” Trygg agreed.  “As are you, Daughter.  Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Well, having Mother go back home was nice,” she conceded, “and having Ishi give me a rest . . . but my best friends are a vegetable and morosely depressed, and a dragon kind of burned my home to the ground.  But apart from that, yeah, I’m
deliriously
happy.”

“Sometimes it takes perspective to appreciate, properly,” Trygg agreed.  “Despite the tragedy at the palace, you live, as does your husband.  And soon you will have a family of your own to worry about.”

“Already worried,” Pentandra assured her.  “I’m certain you’re aware of the . . . I hesitate to call it prophecy, but the counsel I received from a certain oracular nun in the Castali Wilderlands a year or so ago?”

“Yes, I am aware of it,” sighed Trygg.  “I thought you might be dwelling on that.”

“How could I not?” snapped Pentandra.  “Trygg, you of all the gods know I have devoted my life to my Art, my work, and my studies.  I have sought high office and successfully changed the course of history.  I am the second most powerful mage in the Kingdom, and perhaps the first powerful, until Min’s sphere is repaired.

“Yet when the gods had the chance to give me direction . . .”

“You were not compelled to ask,” reminded Trygg, quickly.

“How could I not?  How could I resist the temptation?  Any more than I could resist the temptation of this book?” she demanded. 

“Did you find her words that disturbing?” the goddess asked, curious.  “Most would have cherished them for their power and simplicity.”

“No doubt,” Pentandra grumbled.  “But ‘most’ is not ‘me’.”

Trygg looked at her sympathetically.  “Daughter, is it so awful, what she said?”

Pentandra snorted.  “I’m
sure
you overheard it,” she ventured.  “And if not awful, it was at least . . .
insulting
.  ‘
Great power and authority, position and title, wealth as you require/yet spells and gold do not hold the gifts that you truly desire/Greatest of wizards, your wisdom is vast, mighty the city you’ll build/But motherhood alone, not the rebirth of Vorone, is where you shall be most fulfilled.
’”

“So what’s wrong with
that?
” asked the goddess of motherhood.

“I’ve spent my entire life building a career in academic magic, restoring a duchy, and changing the face of history . . . but you think being a
mother
is somehow more important?”

“Well, I
am
biased,” agreed Trygg.  “But looking beyond that, why do you find that insulting?”

“Because I am
more
than a mere mother,” Pentandra said proudly.

“You are not a mother yet,” warned the goddess.  “And when you are, at last, I think you will discover that your attitude is . . .
misplaced
.”

“You think I’m going to find personal fulfillment in wet nappies and chewed nipples?” Pentandra asked, incredulously.

“I think you’re going to find fulfillment in creating three new,
unique
human beings who are destined to change the world as much, or more, than their mother,” countered the goddess.  “It is your greatest challenge and greatest responsibility, as a woman.  There is no higher calling.”

“We shall see,” Pentandra said, guardedly.  “But I am tending toward skepticism on this one.”

“I’m rarely wrong,” the goddess observed.  “I’m a
mom.”

“I don’t care,” Pentandra snapped.  “This was
not
how I planned things to work out!”

“I think you’re familiar with the old saying about the plans of men and the designs of the gods?  Sorry, your womb is your destiny.  One of them.  But your most important one, I think.”

“So all that I am, and all that I have built – will build – means
nothing
, compared to being a mother?”

“From your perspective . . .
yes
,” she agreed.  “You may save thousands of children – millions – but the time and energy you invest in your children will be among your most cherished moments in this life.  When put in the balance against all you think you hold dear, you will find yourself willfully willing to reject all that you think you are in favor of being the mother you know you are.”

“That sounds like a depressing bit of prophecy,” she said, sourly.

“That’s the reality of motherhood,” Trygg shrugged.  “No one said it wasn’t problematic.”

“I’m really starting to get tired of prophecy,” she lamented, not for the first time.

“Then put that book away, and go live your life without it,” suggested Trygg.  “That is what Antimei did.  She’s much happier, now.”

“That’s not in my nature,” Pentandra finally admitted.  “I have the capacity.  I think I can read this and not let it affect me.”

“I think you are
completely
deluding yourself,” Trygg replied, smiling.  “But do it – or not – as you wish.  In the end, it does not change the facts.  You are going to find motherhood far more rewarding – and challenging – than you ever did mere politics or magic.”

Pentandra looked at the cover of the book, and then looked up at the goddess . . . only to find her vanished. 
So, she’ll leave the decision up to me, whether or not I open the book . . . and bind myself to the fates.  Without so much as a word of advice.  Bitch.

With a deep sigh, and a comfortable pat on her growing tummy, Pentandra opened the great leather-bound volume and began to study the mysteries therein.

It may not have been the wisest course of action, she knew, but it was her nature.
 

The End

Look for the exciting continuation of the Spellmonger Series

in Book 9:
Shadowmage

You may always contact the author at [email protected]