Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (120 page)

She was unhindered by magical bonds, she knew - her opponent underestimated her resilience, or the old witch was just generally unskilled at skullduggery.  Everkeen was only a few feet away - she could feel its presence, and the power in its witchstone, without opening her eyes.  Though her thoughts were still too foggy to concentrate enough to summon help, mind-to-mind, she had more than enough focus to contend with one old woman and her apprentice dupe.

Pentandra gathered her strength, thought through her plan until she was confident, and when she was ready . . . she sprang.

Summoning Everkeen to her hand with a pull on its store of knot coral was simple - a powerful psychokinetic tug would pull the powerful tool out of her enemy’s reach and control.  After that, restoring her protections and her other enchantments would be elementary.  And then she could get to the bottom of Old Antimei’s betrayal.

With a final deep breath, she pushed herself suddenly to her feet, pulling on Everkeen and extending her hands to prepare her spells of wrathful vengeance.  An unexpected war cry erupted from her throat as she sprang into action . . .

. . . and then transformed into a strangled cry of confusion as everything went terribly wrong.

Everkeen did, as she intend, fly through the air toward her left hand . . . but while she was not bound thaumaturgically in any way, someone had thoughtfully tied a bit of yarn to her wrists and attached it to the couch upon which she’d been sleeping.  It wasn’t nearly strong enough to act as a real restraint, but it was quite sufficient to arrest any sudden movements . . . like calling her baculus to her hand.

Unfortunately, her psychokinetic tug on Everkeen had worked perfectly.  But when the silver rod came flying toward a palm that was delayed by yarn, Pentandra’s face helpfully intervened.  Right about the time her feet hit the floor . . . and struggled unexpectedly with more yarn.  After being smacked in the forehead with her own tool, Pentandra sprawled forcefully into the rushes covering the hard-packed earthen floor of the croft.  It was far harder than she would have guessed.

“Good morning, Sweeting!” came Antimei’s melodic voice through the constellation of stars Pentandra was seeing.  It seemed completely unconcerned - either that Pentandra had just tried to attack her, or that she had nearly gotten a concussion doing so.  Pentandra was not certain which one troubled her more.  Indeed, Antimei’s voice seemed completely unconcerned with much at all.  “I was wondering when you’d stir.  Once you’ve untangled yourself from that, you’ll find a chamberpot under the couch.  I expect you’ll need it.  I slowed your metabolism, but I’m sure your teeth are swimming by now.  Kettle’s on -- I’ll go call Alurra, and we’ll have breakfast in a bit.”

Pentandra didn’t know whether to be grateful for the consideration or angry at the presumption.  How could this woman frustrate and irritate her in ways previously discovered only by her mother?

She took a deep breath, feeling defeated - by yarn - and accepted her defeat.  Clearly Antimei did not mean her any immediate harm, or her throat would be cut.  Best to cut her losses and contend with the situation at hand, not the one that would inspire panicked mayhem.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, her mouth painfully dry.  It was the first meaningful question she needed answered.

“This is the dawn of the fourth day,” Antimei said, soothingly.  “Any longer and you risked serious dehydration.  But you’re no worse for wear - as is your pretty rod,” she added, admiringly.  Pentandra managed to snap the yarn that bound her wrists so tenuously, and cradled the baculus in her arms.  

It had to be the lingering effect of the drugs. Or her imagination.  But the damn thing actually seemed to feel embarrassed.  

“Why . . . how . . .?”

“Prophecy,” the old witch said, casually, as she set three cups on the table.  “You could say I saw it coming.  And how to contend with it.  It does have its uses, even if it is a pain in the arse most days.”

“But that still doesn’t answer--”

“Breakfast, Sweeting.  You must be starved.  I will be happy to answer all of your questions during breakfast,” she said, glancing down at the disheveled Court Wizard.  “There’s a basin and towel over there.  I expect you’ll want to wash your face, too.  Back in a bit,” she said, hurrying away with far more energy than Pentandra had seen in the old woman.  Perhaps she gains her power through humiliation, she considered.  That had been a running theory regarding her mother for some time now.

Pentandra was grateful for the moment of privacy, not only to marshal her resources but also to take advantage of the amenities.  Old Antimei had been quite right about her bladder, and washing the dust and dirt from her face seemed to restore her.  By the time the old woman returned, bearing a basket of cakes from some outdoor oven, hunger had replaced embarrassment and ire in her heart.  

She could always kill the witch after breakfast, she reasoned.

“Alurra’s on the way,” she informed Pentandra, as she set the basket down on the table.  “I had her gather some late-season fruit.  You picked a good time to make the journey - late summer is the most beautiful time of year, here.  There are wild fruit trees that line the streams on the northern side, and the blackberries are just thick, two weeks before Midsummer.”

“You just lured me here under false pretenses, poisoned me, stole my equipment, and now you want to talk about berries,” Pentandra said, taking a deep breath.  Then she paused.  “Is that honey?”

“Wild, yes,” Old Antimei said, pleased to continue the discussion about food, and not her guilt.  “I collect it myself.  I use a spell to put them to sleep, then take what I need.  It is entirely delicious,” she added with a smile.  “One of the few benefits of living in the Wilderlands.  There’s butter, too -- Goody Ylespa brought it by yesterday.  I helped birth her eldest daughter’s firstborn, just after Midsummer.”

“Ah, the life of a busy hedgewitch,” Pentandra said, sarcastically.

“It’s not a bad life,” Antimei considered.  “Not at all the life I envisioned for myself, but then we rarely get that, thank the gods.  Though in my case, I would have enjoyed seeing my children grow up,” she added, wistfully, as she poured the tea.  Pentandra eyed the beverage suspiciously.  “Sassafras,” Antimei promised.  “I’m done poisoning you, for the moment.”

“I appreciate the notice,” Pentandra said, coolly.  It wasn’t her usual morning tisane, but it was hot and wet, and when sweetened with honey it felt magnificent on her throat.  “I take it you accomplished all you set out to, while I was . . . napping?”

“That, and more,” Antimei assured her, ignoring her grumpiness.  “I really do appreciate the loan--”

“It wasn’t a loan,” Pentandra insisted.  “You stole from me!”

“And now you have your property returned, no harm done,” the old witch said, as she put two cakes on a board in front of her, and pushed the pat of butter toward her.  “If it is any consolation, the power I . . . borrowed from you was put to great use.  I can see why everyone envies the High Magi, now.  It was like nothing I’ve experienced in a lifetime of practice,” she said, reverently.  “I was able to accomplish feats I had only dreamed of, with access to that power.  And Everkeen,” she said, shaking her head.  “The Spellmonger is mighty, if he can contrive such tools.  Mightier than my visions give him credit for.”

“So what sorcery did you craft with your stolen treasures?” Pentandra asked, carefully ladling the runny white butter over the cakes.  “A particularly effective cure for warts?  A means of correctly predicting who a young girl will marry?  A powerful enchantment against canker sores and gout?” she mocked.

Antimei took it in stride.  “Actually, I created a thaumaturgic latticework imbued with around four thousand individual nodes, and constructed an access mechanism protocol to control distribution and emission of particular items on a periodic basis,” she answered, casually.  “And then built a security frame with hardened arcane challenges to defy tampering.  But that canker sore idea has merit,” she added, with a smirk.

“You did . . . what?  Where?” she asked, looking around the croft with magesight.

“Oh, it’s an encapsulated enchantment,” the witch assured her, using the technical language of thaumaturgy that few village hedgewitches were aware of.  “I embedded it in an object specially prepared for it.  It’s not the sort of thing you leave lying around.  Not if you’re expecting unexpected visitors.”

Pentandra paused her pursuit of important answers, when presented with the problem.  “How does one expect unexpected visitors?” she asked, confused.

“Prophecy,” sighed Antimei, before she began picking at the cake in front of her.

“Of . . . course,” Pentandra agreed, as Alurra returned, leaving the door open to the morning air.  Pentandra had to admit the child looked ecstatic - she was dressed in rustic fashion, as she had been when she’d first seen her.  All that was missing was the wild hair, the layer of dirt, and the crow on her shoulder.  Alurra seemed to be making due with the two puppies that tumbled in after her.

“Lady Pentandra!  You’re awake!” Alurra exclaimed, happily.  “I was starting to get worried!”

“Apparently I am resistant to poisoning,” she said, more coolly than she intended.  A question occurred to her.  “Did you know what would happen, when I arrived?”

The expression on the blind girl’s face transformed from gladness to guilt in an instant.

“Don’t blame Alurra, Pentandra,” Antimei said, sharply.  “Yes, I told her about the . . . unfortunate deception.  I also explained to her that it was necessary, as no practicing adept in their right mind is going to hand their most powerful tools over to a stranger and look the other way for three days.”

“You were quite right about that!” Pentandra said, shrilly.

“Peace,” commanded the witch.  “Eat your breakfast and reflect on the important things, not your own petty embarrassment.  Mighty events are at work, time is short, and if you do not pay attention properly something vital will be missed.”

“Is that prophecy or opinion?” challenged Pentandra.

“It’s bloody good sense!” Antimei countered.  “Something that apparently witches have a bounty of, compared to the High Magi!  I will not apologize for my methods.  I will apologize for the deceit.  But as I said, time is short, and it would have taken weeks to convince you to cooperate.  And we do not have that luxury,” she said, with emphasis.  “Now enjoy one of these apples.  They’ve just started to ripen, and they’re like gold in your mouth.”

Pentandra tried to calm herself, and realized that part of her mood was due, indeed, to her hunger.  After her first cake she was far less angry.  After the second, she was willing to consider being civil to her betrayer.

“You promised to answer my questions over breakfast,” Pentandra ventured, after a moment’s consideration.  “Did you send Alurra to me, knowing what would happen to her -- and me -- including the events that led us here?”

“Yes, Sweeting,” Old Antimei agreed.  “She was unaware of my plan, I suppose--”

“I guessed parts,” the blind girl admitted, through a mouthful of apple.

“But she was aware that we would have to resort to the smallest of treacheries to see our job done,” the witch continued.  “I knew that she could not identify where this croft was located on a map, or be forced to lead anyone here.  To use her to get you to visit me was a challenge.  To do so without inviting the attention of the Necromancer was harder.”

“How did the Nemovorti know about Alurra?”

“I do not know, precisely,” admitted the witch.  “And I have seen no vision concerning it.  But I suppose that Korbal has recourse to prophets of his own,” she guessed.  “Prophecy is rare among the Alka Alon, but appears with stressing regularity among humans.  Sheruel rules a sizable human population, so I would imagine that Korbal recognizes the resource they are and is trying to benefit from it.  If he has foreseen a tithe of what I have, he understands the difficulties ahead.  And his pursuit of Alurra across the Wilderlands demonstrates that he appreciates the value of my book,” she added, with a hint of pride.  “If only to destroy it, and keep it from being deployed against him.”

Pentandra considered carefully.  While that was preferable to the idea of spies at court in Vorone, it also suggested that the contest ahead would not be as simple or as straightforward as it had been in the past.  Korbal’s ambitions and talents were sophisticated, when placed next to the gurvani’s.  His lieutenants were powerful, his plots clearly more devious than the goblins.  If he found some way to harness the thousands of human slaves under the shadow other than as sacrifices and foodstuffs, the danger from the Necromancer was going to be greater than that posed by the Dead God.