Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (105 page)

As the treacherous madame retreated, Pentandra finally found her tongue.  But not for her mother.  She had to take control of the situation before it escalated into chaos.   “Alurra, please track down Castellan Birsei and have him prepare suitable quarters for Lady Amendra and her party,” she commanded, quietly. 

For once the girl didn’t question her – in fact, she gave her an almost-acceptable curtsey and a
“Yes, Mistress!”
and ran off.  Her mother despised impudent servants more than anything, and even though Alurra was technically not a servant, she had an even lower opinion of apprentices.  Alurra’s compliance was gratifying.  Even her raven was well-behaved.  Pentandra was about to thank the gods for small favor, when she recalled
why she was in this position in the first place. 

There were three servants behind her mother who Pentandra recognized from home, surrounded by her baggage.  “Leave that
here,”
she commanded.  “I’ll have the castellans remove it to your quarters.  Why don’t you three go to the main hall for something to eat?  Have it charged to the Court Wizard’s account,” she added.  “They won’t give you any trouble.  I’ll send word where you can find your quarters,” she promised, shooing the servants out the door into the corridor.  “Down this hall, on the left, take a right at the statue of the Maiden of the Havens, and straight until you can smell the food.”

Once they were gone, she turned back to her mother.  “Why don’t we go to my office for a cup of wine while we await Castellan Bircei,” she proposed.

“That’s the first
civilized
thing that has been said to me, today, since I arrived in Vorone,” she grumbled, eyeing her daughter circumspectly.  “I asked your secretary – I had to ask! – and she looked at me like a drunkard.”

“In the Wilderlands, wine is usually reserved for evenings,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Not at breakfast and luncheon, like in Remere.  They drink beer, instead.”

“How . . .
charming
,” Amendra said with a delicate shudder, as she entered Pentandra’s office.  She stopped and inspected the place by eye, making Pentandra thankful that her mother was not a mage with the capacity for magesight.    That would have just given her one more thing to criticize.

“
This
is the Court Wizard’s office?” she asked, skeptically.  She was clearly unimpressed.

“For the moment,” Pentandra said, apologetically.  “Don’t forget, this is merely the summer palace.  It wasn’t intended to be used constantly, so there wasn’t as much emphasis on presentation as there was utility.  Please, have a seat while I pour,” she said, leading her mother by the elbow to the chair in front of her desk. 

“No windows,” Amendra pointed out, critically.  “Hardly larger than a coach, in here.  And you clearly are not beating the maid hard enough,” she sniffed.  “Or is dust a cherished Wilderlands tradition, as well?”

“I’ve put in a request for larger and more functional space, Mother,” Pentandra said, evenly.  “The duchy is in a state of flux right now, but it has been noted.”

“You’d just think that an
important
post like Ducal Court Wizard would demand something more . . .
appropriate
,” she sneered as Pentandra poured two silver goblets full of a decent Taro Bikavar red Bircei had discovered in the cellars. 

“Mother, I am here with all of the other great officers of the duchy,” she reminded her.  “We all have jobs to do, and the palace is only so large.  I’ve got twice the space that the Warlord does.  Arborn doesn’t even have an office in the palace, proper.  The Master of Wood’s office is in the stockyard, near the stables.”

“What does a
tree warden
need an office for, anyway?” Amendra complained, rhetorically.  “But that does brings us to my next topic: your . . .
husband
,” she said, solemnly, pronouncing the word with the slightest hiss.

Pentandra swallowed, hard, and realized that she wasn’t breathing.  All of her attempts to control the situation were dashed by that one word.  She tried to rectify that, marshal her resources and respond as an adult woman in her own right, not a naughty little girl whose truancy had been discovered . . . but she found it took effort.  Her mother’s eyes bored into hers, reproving her for
daring
to escape her influence.  As if it were pure folly to suffer under the illusion that Pentandra had
any
idea of how to run her own life.

It was an old story, and one at the root of their relationship.  Pentandra’s older sister was the genuine image of her mother; Cartelendra was, if anything, even more beautiful than her famous mother, and just as lacking in
rajira
.  A goodly portion of Pentandra’s childhood had been spent witnessing Amendra conspiring to arrange the best possible match for her pretty daughter . . . and educating and shaping her into being the best possible match for the highest-ranked husband she could find. 

No effort or expense was spared as Cartelendra learned dancing, singing, reading, and all of the other virtuous arts a man sought in his wife.  Amendra had even hired an older priestess of Ishi to tutor the girls on the Crimson Arts of the bedroom (for which Pentandra was actually grateful, as the woman had taught her
far
more than Amendra could imagine).

Amendra had started to invest the same effort in her second daughter’s future, despite looking slightly more like her father and less like her mother. With Cartelendra’s stunning face and figure as a guide, there was always the chance that Pentandra would be a late blooming flower, she reasoned.  And the girl was unusually bright, the one concession Amendra was happy to repeat when discussing her younger daughter. 

Unfortunately for Amendra, Pentandra developed her
rajira
shortly after menarche, and when the tests confirmed that she was Talented, much of that attention stopped – for better or worse.  As a mage, Pentandra was unable to marry a nobleman, under the Bans.  Or at least it was highly unlikely a nobleman would be attracted to a woman who could not share his title. 

Either way, Amendra’s dreams of a grand wedding, a great match, and a social coup around her second daughter were dashed.  She redoubled her efforts for Cartelendra and mostly ignored Pentandra, as her father eagerly began her magical education.

After that, the two became estranged.  Pentandra plunged into magical studies with her father and cousins, while Amendra focused on her elder daughter.  While Pentandra was pleased to escape the exhaustive lessons on dance, flower-arrangement, and estate management her sister was forced to endure, she was also disappointed in the development.  Cartelendra seemed to not only attract plenty of attention from suitors,  but she had nearly the entirety of her mother’s attention.  Once Cartelendra was officially searching for a husband, Amendra had very little time for her younger daughter.

Then Pentandra went away to Alar Academy in Wenshar when she was fourteen.  After that the gulf widened.

Each interaction with her mother after she left for school was fraught with conflict.  Every family event she attended brought a stream of harsh criticism from Amendra, until Pentandra found herself living her life almost in defiance of her mother’s ideas about how she should properly conduct herself.  Even her area of study had been chosen in part to mortify her mother in the Remeran social circles she found so important.

But after her sister and her cousins had been successfully married off to good matches, Amendra found herself with one single daughter and too much time on her hands.  A few years ago she began corresponding with Pentandra while she was at Castabriel, urging her to look for a worthy husband while she was staying in the new Kingdom’s capital. 

Pentandra had returned each missive with snide comments and joking references to entirely unsuitable suitors, until Amendra gave up in frustration.  It was easier to taunt her mother through correspondence than face-to-face, when she did not have to bear the brunt of her displeasure.  The last such letter had been four parchment pages detailing what an ungrateful and disrespectful daughter she was, and how Amendra would no longer attempt to assist her.

That had suited Pentandra fine, at the time.  The suitors her mother proposed were hardly worthwhile, to her standards, chosen more for their pedigree or their treasury than their character.  She was not the type of woman upon which to base dynastic alliances, she’d pleaded with her mother.  She was a career woman with an important position.

Which was the basis of Amendra’s ire today.

Here it comes,
Pentandra steeled herself. 
Keep your mouth shut and just let her talk,
she reminded herself.  That was her father’s only advice for dealing with her.

“When your father told me that your cousin Planus told
him
that you had wed a barbarian tribesman in secret, I’m sure you would have appreciated the look on my face,” Amendra began, evenly.  But the tone was reminiscent of many such lectures she’d endured in childhood, so Pentandra prepared herself for the inevitable ritual of her mother’s displeasure.  “No doubt your purpose was to embarrass and humiliate me by doing something like that.  After all the hard work and endless money we poured into you as a girl, I would think that my daughter would have the sense and decency not to ruin her life on a fantastic whim. 

“After all the other scandals you have inflicted on me,” she said, pointedly, making Pentandra wince at the memories, “I had hoped that this sense of rebelliousness left your spirit.  But it seems you felt compelled to throw yet one more insult in my face.”

Pentandra realized she was waiting for some response.  Despite her pledge to herself to keep things civil, and her father’s advice to just shut up and listen, Pentandra found her emotions rising in her voice as she spoke.  But instead of being upset about Arborn, she was more irritated that her mother felt so involved in a life she had ignored for so long.

“Mother, I did
not
get married out of some sinister plot to embarrass you,” she said, with a trace of disgust in her voice.  “Credit me with some basic intelligence, at least.” 

“You certainly didn’t see fit to include me in your search,” Amendra shot back, the hurt feelings apparent in her voice.  For once, Pentandra didn’t care. 

“That’s because I wasn’t searching for a husband,” Pentandra riposted.  “My purpose was not to find a ‘good match’.  I married for
love
,” she added, knowing as the words fled her mouth that her mother would pounce on them.

“Love!”
she scoffed, predictably.  “What does love have to do with marriage, you foolish girl?  A lovely tumble with a brawny man is one thing, as long as one is properly discrete.  But to pledge yourself to some illiterate barbarian in the middle of the wilderness with some wild, tribal ritual—”

“Mother, not only is Arborn literate, he reads as many languages as I do,” Pentandra said, flatly.  “And he’s not just ‘some barbarian’, he’s a captain of the Kasari rangers, a ranked raptor in his tribe.  That’s the
highest
rank a Kasari man can earn,” she added, proudly.  “And Arborn is among the
most
respected Kasari rangers in the Wilderlands.”

“So you married an
important
barbarian,” Amendra said, snidely.  “I feel
so
relieved.”

“He’s also the Ducal Master of Wood,” Pentandra pointed out, sullenly.  “Does that not count for
anything?”

“It
does,”
admitted her mother, condescendingly.  “I suppose I can mention that, and hope no one asks too many questions.”

“You are
so
gracious, Mother,” Pentandra said, sarcastically.  “What a horrible oversight that we neglected to invite you to our
barbaric fertility ritual
.”

“Was there at least a
priestess
involved?” she asked, her brow wrinkled in concern.

“Most of the Kasari worship the Narasi gods,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.  “Yes, there was a proper Priestess of Trygg officiating.  I can show you the certificate, if you wish,” she added, airily.  “All the parchment is in order.”

“I’m just pleased your husband could sign it,” her mother snorted.  “Penny, why under heaven did you
do
this?” she asked, a tone of lament in her voice.

“Everyone else was getting married,” Pentandra shot back, snidely.  “My mother taught me to conform and blend into society, so . . .”

“You are
so
insolent!” snorted Amendra.  “Where is that wine you mentioned?  I swear this is watered,” she said, looking into the chalice of bold red suspiciously.

Pentandra considered calling for one of the clerks to run up to the buttery and fetch a bottle, but she felt a demonstration was in order. Her mother was impressed by social status and displays of power.  She had yet to see what her daughter could do, now.

In quick succession she summoned Everkeen to her hand, then used it to summon a silver plated tray with two silver wine glasses and a decanter of expensive Cormeeran red.  She’d prepared the wine as a contingency, placing it one of the many useful magical pockets within Everkeen’s extensive thaumaturgic inventory.  The tray appeared on the desk between them, and Pentandra made Everkeen disappear with a flash.