Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (119 page)

Pentandra could not accept that.  “If Alurra was raised here, it seems like this place is perfect for her to continue her studies here.  For as long as she is able,” she added, a nod to the old woman’s mortality.  She certainly seemed spry enough; Pentandra was tempted to summon Everkeen to examine the woman’s health.  But that would be rude . . .

“Oh, she will,” Antimei assured her.  “For this shall be your home - one of your homes - after I am dead.  In fact, you will build a magnificent tower over this very spot, one of the most elegant in the city.  A fitting residence for one so powerful and important.”

“You mean that Anguin will allow Carmella to build the city she and Minalan envision?”

“Allow?  The duke shall insist.  This remote mount will eventually become the mighty fortress city known as Vanador, the City of Magi.  You will be among its rulers.  It shall persist long after Vorone and Tudry fall.  It shall be a mighty refuge in the north, one of the last fortresses standing against the enemy.  It shall become a symbol of Duke Anguin’s majesty and help re-establish Alshar as a united power, once again.  And this modest croft shall be at the center of it.’

Pentandra stared at the old woman, trying to absorb the enormity of what she was saying.   It promised so much, it was so unbelievable, yet Pentandra had not been able to fault one of her predictions.  She could tell the crone was speaking the truth without recourse to a spell.  She stared at her for a long while, her brow becoming increasingly furrowed.

“You know . . . I could really grow to despise prophecy,” Pentandra finally said, torn between candor and politeness.  The admission amused Antimei.  

“Oh, you will, my dear.  As have I, for thirty years or more.  I fully see why the Censorate repressed it so brutally.  But as I have had no choice in the matter myself, I have tried to make the best of things.  I left my husband and children behind, escaped to the wilderness, and lived in a glorified hole in the side of a hill, all because I felt that my visions were more important than my happiness.”

“And were they?” Pentandra asked, caught off-guard by the old woman’s casual admission.

“Oh,
gods
no!” Old Antimei said, in a low voice.  “Had I the opportunity to do it over again, I would gladly have presented myself to the Censorate to have my
rajira
burned from my mind, even at the risk of living as an imbecile.  I would have been a happy imbecile, surrounded by my family.  

“Instead I am a bitter old woman in a hole, preparing to die, regretful that I missed the life I was supposed to live,” she said, wistfully.  “But if I am to have made that sacrifice, I want it to have meaning.  That is why I have sorted and recorded my visions for the last thirty years,” she said, pulling a thick folio from behind her back in the chair.  “Every prediction and foresight I’ve had, as best as I can understand it.  My life’s work: a woefully incomplete history of the future, in poorly rendered verse,” she said, with great deal of understated pride in her voice.  

“So . . . how does it end?” Pentandra asked, in a hushed tone.

“Oh, that would be telling,” Old Antimei chuckled.  “But what ending would be sufficient for your tastes?  That is the question.  Lady Pentandra, I have gotten to know you since before you were born, through my visions.  Most of what I learned of you I did not put in the book.  Indeed, most of my visions were not included, as many were confusing or incomplete past the point of usefulness.  So I know, in a way, what is going through your mind.  What challenges you face, what terrors haunt your soul.”

“If you cannot tell me the conclusion, then perhaps . . . some hints at particular stories?” she asked, anxiously.  “Clearly you know . . . something about what happens to Alya and Minalan.”

“I know a great many things about them, yes,” Old Antimei murmured, pouring them each more tea.  

“Is Alya going to die?” Pentandra whispered.

“We are all going to die . . . eventually,” Antimei said, philosophically.  “But Alya will not die for some time.  Nor will she remain as she is.  But that is all I can tell you, to give you hope.  And coming to the subject of the Spellmonger and his lady, I must impress upon you, Pentandra, that Minalan must never know about my prophecies.  He will learn of them, in time, but the longer you can delay that fateful hour, the better.  Once I entrust them to you, you must conceal them from him utterly, no matter the cost.  The Spellmonger must proceed with the illusion of free will, at least for now.”

“Would not informing him of the prophecies, thus interrupting them, not grant him true free will?” Pentandra countered.

Old Antimei shook her head.  “We can play the game of causality from now until the seas rise, my dear, but you must trust me on this.  Minalan will be most effective this way - and everything depends on him.”

“He’s the one who defeats Sheruel,” Pentandra guessed.

“That is the least of his accomplishments - nor will he be entirely responsible for that tainted victory,” Antimei pronounced.

“But Sheruel
is
defeated,” Pentandra said, seeking assurance.

Antimei frowned.  “There are victories and defeats on both sides,” she said, shaking her head.  “Does Sheruel suffer his share? Indeed.  Will it be worth the tragedy to come to defeat him?  Perhaps.”  She stared at Pentandra for awhile, studying her.  “You know, I could really get used to despising people questioning my prophecies,” she announced, irritated.

“Well, what use are they if they cannot be used to guide our actions?” Pentandra asked, sipping her tea and studying the old witch in return.  “Did you produce this tome for your own amusement?”

“I produced it precisely to be a useful guide for action,” Antimei argued.  “But merely thrusting it on someone and expecting them to contain the wisdom to actually be guided by it in a helpful way would be disastrous.  The temptation to ‘read ahead’ and try to out-plot the millwork of fate is just too strong.”

“So how did you resist it?”

“I didn’t,” Antimei confessed.  “I went into self-exile instead, removing forever the means to take action . . . until now.  Knowing the rise and fall of mighty kingdoms means nothing, when you are living as a hermit in the wilderness.  But the time has come for knowledge and power to converge, and with the help of the gods overcome the tragedies ahead.  Cookie?” she asked, passing a plate towards Pentandra.  She took one - they were delicious.  She reflected amusingly on the folklore surrounding the wisdom of accepting baked goods from strange witches deep in the forest, but continued her questioning.

“So . . . you want me to train your apprentice,” Pentandra said, ticking each point on her fingers, “you want me to take over this croft when you die, and you want me to be privy to your secret book of prophecy because I can actually do something about it.  But you don’t trust that I won’t try to do too much, and mess with the unfolding of events.”

“That’s a well-stated summary,” Antimei conceded.

“Then how do you propose to get around this little problem?  Have me swear an oath?”

“At one time, I thought that might be necessary,” agreed Old Antimei.  “But even an oath administered by a goddess can be broken.  I wouldn’t recommend such a course, but it can happen.  If you are given free will and are limited only by your own conscience, you will eventually succumb to the temptation.  The only reasonable thing - and the only thing fair to you - is to remove that temptation forever from your grasp.”

Pentandra snorted.  “I am eager to learn how you propose to do that.”

“Why, you have brought me everything I needed,” Antimei said, gesturing to the Library Stones.  “I have considered the matter for decades, now, searching for the answer.  And that answer is magic in nature.  I have been preparing for this for years, but never had the power to see to fruition.”

“What do you mean?” Pentandra asked, confused.  

“As Talented as I am, and as educated as I am, and as practiced as I am, there are still limits to what a poor country hedgewitch can do without irionite.  But foresight gave me the inspiration I needed.  Now you are here with exactly what is needed to craft my spell.” Pentandra began to have some doubts about the old woman at that point, though she tried to dismiss them as mere eagerness for the prospect of a witchstone.

“I cannot hand out witchstones,” Pentandra said, carefully.  This was not the first time she’d been approached about such things - she had her share of obsequious and demanding magi corner her at the Conclaves, while she was Steward, and attempt to secure one of the coveted stones.  She told Antimei the same thing she told them.  “The Spellmonger, alone, is empowered to determine who is worthy of such a thing.”

That made Antimei chuckle.  “Well, ‘worthy’ might be a strong term, considering how the two enemies you faced in the Magewar got their stones.  But you are correct, Minalan decides who gets the witchstones.  And rightly so.  Someone must decide, and keep order.  He is more decent than most.  But I do not beg for a stone, my lady.  I do not need to.  I merely need to borrow one, and you have brought one for that purpose.”

Pentandra was immediately alarmed, although she tried not to show it.  “Such a jest about the treasures of a guest is in poor taste, according to the laws of hospitality,” she said, slowly and deliberately.

“So it would be, if it was a jest,” Antimei countered, coolly.  “But I intend to borrow the power of your own stone to fuel my spell.”

Pentandra fingered the back of the ring on her right hand.  “I cannot imagine a circumstance in which I would permit that to happen without my permission.  Nor can I see granting that permission.”

“Oh, you needn’t, my dear,” assured the witch.  “Once you’ve been poisoned, you will likely have very little say in the matter.”

“Poisoned?” Pentandra demanded.  She stood up suddenly and summed Everkeen.  The baculus appeared perfectly in her palm, the silver and weirwood cool against her palm.  The acorn on the head of the rod flared into life with a belligerent-looking blue ball of lightning.  “You would not dare!”

“But dare I did,” said the witch, sweetly.  “Half an hour ago, when you first arrived.  A neurotoxin.  Derived from two plants.  One was in the tea.  The other in the cookies.”  She directly into Pentandra’s eyes.  “I didn’t have any cookies.  But you should start feeling them any time now.”

With alarm, Pentandra realized that she already was.  It was getting increasingly difficult to keep her arms raised with Everkeen in hand, and her knees suddenly felt weak.  Too weak to even support her weight, anymore.  And her eyelids were heavy . . .

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she heard the witch say, as she tumbled to the dirt floor of the croft.  “This is just the way things
ha
d to be.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Answers Over Breakfast

Pentandra fell into a helpless slumber that seemed to last for an eternity.  As she felt the numbness quickly spread up her arms and legs from her fingers and toes, she did not have time to even call for help or instruct her baculus before she passed from consciousness. With a feeling of betrayal and outrage, her eyes closed and she slept.

Her dreams were a chaotic mix of fears and hopes, with a pervading sense of frustration and panic.  Her family, friends, foes, and passing strangers all made appearances, none of which made sense to her.  And for some reason Lady Pleasure always seemed to be somewhere in the background, laughing, leering, and pleasuring herself or others to taunt Pentandra.

When at last her eyes opened under her own control, it was early morning, according to the sunlight that made its way through the cracks in the rafters.  She cautiously reached out her attention and determined that her amulet containing her witchstone was still around her neck.  Reaching still further, she was able to detect Everkeen close at hand.  As well as someone else.

I can wait here, patiently, and prepare some subtle trap, she debated, or I can spring into action and lay waste to everything around me.  She weighed the merits of both courses of action while pretending to be asleep, and after allowing her ire at her betrayal fade in preference to wisdom, she formulated a plan somewhere between the subtle and the vengeful.