Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (116 page)

“You have the Lady Pentandra’s recommendation, and she enjoys my highest trust.  If you are willing, I appoint you a Marshal of Alshar.  Your commission will be in place by dawn.  Will you accept this commission?”

“Yes, Your Grace!  It would be my honor!” Terleman nearly barked in his eagerness.

Anguin nodded, his eyes tired but resolute.  “Then as my Marshal, I command you to select two strongholds of the enemy’s within the Penumbra . . . and
destroy
them.  
Utterly.
 Use magic, and . . . make a statement,” he said, sternly.  “To have my realm attacked is an outrage.  To have my
palace
attacked is unforgivable.”

“It would be a rare and special honor, Your Grace, to make war on your behalf,” assured Terleman with a bow.

“Your Grace,” Sir Vemas said, alarmed, “Forgive me, but should not so great a matter be discussed with your advisors?”  

“My . . .
tenders
, you mean?” Anguin grinned, revealing his boyishly handsome smile.  “Count Angrial and Father Amus are my advisors, Constable.  I am the
duke
.  As cautious as they would have me be - and rightly so - if I cannot prove to my people that I can defend them, or at least take vengeance when I am attacked, then I lose their support.  If you are worried that this might stir up the gurvani, I might point out that they are already stirring, if the dispatches are to be believed.  And with these new undead, and this Necromancer using a folk tale as a mask, I feel that I have every justification to make this command.”

“And the consequences, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, carefully.

“No doubt there shall be some,” the lad said, after a moment’s thought.  “I look forward to seeing what they might be.”  His tone indicated that he was through discussing the matter.  “Besides, it will give my
darling cousin
something to complain about . . . other than the workmen frantically attempting to repair my palace.  She is due to arrive in a few short weeks, you know,” he reminded them.

“Perhaps Your Grace should reconsider your troop deployment in that case,” Terleman said rolling his eyes.  “You may need them against Rardine.”

“Is she not arriving with but a small guard?” Sir Vemas asked, confused.  “You expect an army?”

“No, but His Grace may find the comfort in such force,” Terleman pointed out.  “The Princess is not known for her kind and compassionate nature.”  

Terleman had worked with the royal family for the last few years, as he’d overseen the response to Gilmora and the establishment of the Iron Ring.  He was one of the most respected warmagi in the kingdom as a result, but he had also seen far more of the personalities of the royal house than most.  

“I’m not certain just
one
army would suffice,” quipped Anguin.  “While I appreciate your concern, Marshal, I think I shall have to bear my cousin’s company without an armed force at my back.  But if she should arrive as you are returning from the Penumbra, for instance, victorious in your retribution . . . well, it would certainly demonstrate that I actually
rule
in Alshar, and not just reign here.”

“So it would, Your Grace,” agreed Terleman.  “I shall contact the other magelords and begin coordinating our efforts.  From what I understand, the Tudrymen could use the practice, and the Megelini Knights are always eager to spill blood.”

“See it done,” nodded Anguin.  “Lady Pentandra, can you tell me why there was a small festival of angry corpses rummaging through the palace at such an indecent hour?”

“The short answer, Your Grace, is that they were searching for someone who they believe will be instrumental in their war against us.”

“Assassins?”

“Kidnappers, actually,” Pentandra corrected.  “They sought out my apprentice, that blind girl you may have seen around, the one with the crow on her shoulder.”

“Ah, yes,” Anguin nodded.  “Alurra, if I am not mistaken.  Pretty,” he added.  “Why is
she
so important?  And if she is,
where
is she?”

“It is difficult to explain, and not all details are clear to me yet, Your Grace, but from what I can determine her first mistress, a hedgewitch in a remote location even I do not know, has knowledge that the Necromancer feels would be valuable in his efforts against us.  I believe that the Midsummer raids were, in part, designed to provide a distraction for this search.”

“A witch?  Your apprentice?  My lady, there seems to be
much
you have not told me,” Anguin said, reprovingly.

“Pardon, Your Grace, but events have been unfolding quickly, and much of this I have only recently put together,” she apologized.

“But the importance that Korbal places in Alurra’s capture is not small, Your Grace,” Terleman reminded him, gesturing to the pile of rubble in the middle of the hall.  “He sent his most powerful servants to acquire her.  In doing so, he revealed his desires.  If we find that girl first and keep her safe, we thwart their plot.”

“Which brings us back to the question of
where
this apprentice is, at the moment,” Anguin said, sounding the smallest bit irritated.  More curious residents of the palace, some in nightrobes, were filling into the Hall of Heralds to witness the unexpected destruction.

“I . . . I sent her away,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily.  “When things looked dire and I couldn’t protect her, I instructed Everkeen to do something about it.  It must have used an Alka Alon songspell and accessed the Ways,” she proposed.  “I know not where, precisely, Alurra is.  I just know that Everkeen thought she was safe, there.”

“So you know that this girl is vital to the plans of our foes, and you just sent her into . . . oblivion?” Anguin asked, confused.

“I was rushed,” Pentandra pointed out, a little irritation creeping into her own voice. “I was facing two Nemovorti and around a dozen
draugen
--”

“
Draugen?
” asked Anguin, even more confused.

“That’s what the red-eyed undead were referred to by the Nemovorti, Your Grace,” Terleman explained.  

“Aggressive, belligerent spirits from ancient times,” Pentandra supplied, “During the Midsummer raids the dungeon was attacked, and several of the Rats we captured escaped.  Several more of the Crew apparently joined their masters in exile from Vorone.  But their new ally betrayed them by destroying their souls and giving their bodies over to these . . .
things
.”

“As if we needed another monster to contend with,” Anguin said, shaking his head.  “First the goblins, then the hobgoblins, then the great goblins . . . now these
draugen.
 Renegades, bandits, Soulless, Sheruel, Korbal, and all of their merry folk . . . do the gods feel
amused
by what they have challenged me with?” he asked, frustrated and angry.  

“The gods themselves have blessed your reign, Your Grace,” Sir Vemas pointed out.  “Had you not had Ishi’s favor, this night would have gone
much
differently.

“True,” conceded the young duke.  “And for that I am thankful.  However, if this girl is so important, Lady Pentandra, then I do hope you will make securing her a priority,” he suggested, with the weight of command.  “Do what you have to do, but keep her out of the clutches of our enemies.  Use Lord Arborn’s trackers, if you must.  He should be returning any day.”

“I will be gone ere he returns, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed.  “I need but check the state of my office and gather a few supplies before I go.  But I shall not return without a resolution to the matter,” she pledged.

“That’s what I like to hear from my court,” Anguin nodded.  “If only the Spellmonger had been here . . .”

“Oh, he was, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, before she could stop herself.  “He came by the Alkan Ways an hour before the attack.  But he was in no state to assist.  He was overwrought by . . . recent events in Sevendor, and had escaped into drink.  It’s a miracle he actually ended up in Vorone, and not on the far side of the ocean.”

“He’s good at doing magic drunk,” Terleman defended.  “He’s back in my quarters, sleeping it off.  Someone put a soporific spell on him,” he said, his eyes cutting to Pentandra.  “He’s going to be out for . . . a while,” he finally decided.

“He needed it,” Pentandra said, defensively.  “He would have been a liability in this fight, without his orb.  He . . . he hasn’t been the same since Castle Salaisus.”

Anguin nodded, a wince flashing across his face.  He counted the Spellmonger as a friend, and he knew, personally, the pain of grief from such loss.  “Do what you must, Lady Pentandra,” he nodded, gravely.  “But I really don’t need my palace redecorated by a necromancer again.”

*

*

*

Pentandra discovered when she finally returned to her quarters, just before dawn rose over the eastern hills, that the vile-looking Nemovort had been correct about killing a mage.  She had dreaded investigating that since she heard the admission, first wondering if the dead mage was Minalan or Terleman.  It proved to be Harrel, the night manager of the Mirror array, who had been delivering the night’s messages to the office before retiring, when he was attacked by the undead.  

The former spellmonger had acquitted himself well in the fight; he might not have been a warmage, but he had a few spells hung, enough to deter the undead from making a more exhaustive search.  And he had bravely stayed and fought, instead of fleeing, though he’d paid for it with his life.

As sad as that was, after Pentandra made arrangements to have his body removed to a temple for preparation for burial and a crew from the Castellan’s office arrived to start removing debris (the entire front of her office had been destroyed in the battle, mere moments after Terleman had departed with Minalan’s snoring body, she learned later).  The examination room, the waiting chamber and a goodly portion of her private office was now so much broken masonry and kindling.  If she had needed more adequate facilities before, now they were vital.

She was packing and preparing, giving instructions to her maid and her office staff, when her mother showed up unexpectedly . . . and terribly concerned.

“Pentandra!  Thank the goddess you are all right!” she said, giving her daughter an uncharacteristically warm hug.  “What in the name of seven hells happened last night?”

“Whatever do you mean, Mother?” Pentandra asked, eyes narrowed. 
Did the woman not realize that she was working?

“There was a crash so loud it woke me up!”  Her mother had found an expensive townhome across the street from the east wing of the palace.  It was expensive, as local properties went, but compared to Remeran prices Amendra saw it as a bargain.  “The guardsmen at the gate wouldn’t let me in for nearly half an hour, and then I heard that the palace was attacked . . .”

“I am fine, Mother,” Pentandra assured her, breaking the embrace impatiently.  “It was a just few undead.  We took care of it,” she said, casually, as she continued packing what she thought she might need.  

“Just . . . a few . . .
undead?
” Amendra asked, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open.  “Goddess protect us!  Pentandra, in all the years your father has practiced, he’s
never
run into an undead
anything!
”

That’s not what I heard, regarding your marital life,
Pentandra suppressed herself from saying.  

“I’m not a Resident Adept, Mother, I’m a Ducal Court Wizard.  I don’t have clients, I have a liege.  And I don’t deal with challenging cases, I protect and serve the entire duchy with my magic,” she said, hurriedly.  “Even against evil undead.  Sometimes that means beating down undead assassins in the middle of the night.  Sometimes it means placating an irritating goddess.  Mostly it means a mountain of parchment that needs my attention six months ago.  

“But today,” she said, exchanging her second-best mantle for her best traveling cloak, “today it means I go plunging off into oblivion by myself in search of my apprentice . . . and that has become the most pressing need at the moment.”