Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (127 page)

“What is it?” he asked, confused, one hand on his knife.  “Trouble?”

“Just in my heart,” she admitted.  

“Your heart?”

“It’s terribly encumbered,” she explained, casually, as she began untying the stays to the gown she’d worn for several days straight.  In a surprisingly short amount of time it became a puddle of cotton and linen at her feet.  Spreading her arms slightly, she presented herself to her husband.  “That’s better,” she breathed.  

“You’re
naked!
” Arborn observed, blushing slightly.  
What a dear, dear man
, she thought.

“Nothing
escapes the notice of a Kasari Ranger,” she teased.  “What are you going to do about it?”

As it turned out, Arborn knew exactly what to do about it.

*

*

*

That evening the four of them dined on two delicious pheasants Arborn shot in one of the meadows, and then plucked and prepared himself.  Pentandra didn’t like to admit it, but when it came to cooking, her husband was better at it than she was.  Luckily, she reflected, as she devoured the delicious fowl, she had other talents to make up for it.  After their absence and their dramatic reunion, neither one seemed able to keep their hands off each other, despite the presence of her mother, her apprentice, and a slumbering witch in the corner.

Pentandra was also gratified at the time her mother was spending with Alurra.  Pentandra thought it was simple boredom, at first, but when she caught her mother muttering something about “only grandchild I might get from her”, she realized the real reason behind her interest.  

As caustic as her mother could be, Pentandra knew that she would help refine Alurra’s courtly skills, if she spent enough time with her.  The blind girl eagerly gave her mother a tour of the entire region around the croft, and even prepared a picnic.  On the morning of the second day since their arrival, she led Amendra six miles to the nearest village with a market day, and returned with a gracious plenty of supplies they couldn’t glean from the wilderness.

While they were gone, Pentandra immolated the stinking bodies of the draugen and the Nemovort, after allowing Everkeen full reign to analyze the two for posterity.  Pentandra’s spell made quick work of them, leaving only a pile of ash as testament by nightfall, when Alurra and Amendra came home.

Pentandra had to admit that the few days she had without responsibilities - and with her husband - were glorious, compared to normal life.  They should have taken a break and enjoyed themselves months before, she realized.  The stress of the job and the new home had been telling, and that stress seemed to evaporate up here in the highlands.  The scenery, the enchanting aroma of grass and wildflowers mixed with fresh air, the beautiful birds and animals, butterflies as large as pot lids, the quiet of the country after the noise of the palace and the city . . . all seemed to conspire to relax her and make her enjoy herself.

It was exceptionally hard to manage, she realized, at the end of the first day.  Even a few glasses of wine didn’t seem to help calm the incessant voices in her mind, reminding her of all she had to do.  Despite knowing that her predecessor was in charge of her office, her friends were watching the Duke, and that everyone she loved was safe, she could not shed the sense of anxiety that was gnawing on her.

It took an impromptu picnic directed by Arborn for her, her mother, and Alurra (Antimei was still asleep) on the crest of the Anvil to give her some sense of why.

Her husband had proposed the hike after breakfast on the second day, in the absence of anything more pressing to do.  Kasari hiked like Remerans drank, so Pentandra knew that refusing was not something she could do lightly.  

Amendra, of all people, packed up a small luncheon in a basket (including, Pentandra noted, three bottles of Bikavari Red from her pavilion’s stores - Remerans liked to drink like Kasari liked to hike, Pentandra reflected).  Pentandra was shocked - she had not seen her mother prepare a meal for herself in living memory.  

Indeed, a few days of simple country life (in the most decadently-appointed magical pavilion imaginable) had altered Amendra’s mood, her daughter noticed.  She had become a little less fussy and a little more matronly, in the proper sense.  Perhaps it was her association with Alurra, whose simple and (usually) wholesome perspective was contagious, that was to blame; or perhaps it was Amendra’s need to care for the sightless apprentice, whether she needed it or not, that contributed to the shift.  But this was the most human Pentandra had seen her mother in years.

It only took an hour to walk the long, meandering game path Arborn chose as the easiest route to the top.  The day was bright, and while it promised to be hot later in the afternoon the cool northern breezes kept the sun from being oppressive, even this late in the summer.  Alurra seemed to know the path, and apparently used a small flock of starlings as her eyes to navigate the stony course.  Amendra (having a nip of spirits from a flask to keep her nerves steady) had borrowed a floppy straw hat from Antimei’s coat rack and perhaps the simplest dress her daughter remembered her ever wearing.  

Arborn came last on the path, ensuring no one strayed, as a good Kasari hike master does.  But he spent the short journey in relaxed laughter, trading suggestive jokes with Pentandra all the way up the hill.  He carried his sword and his bow and quiver, but the weapons stayed in their cases.  

The summit of the Anvil proved elusive, but they settled for a lovely spot in the center of a broad meadow on the midsection of the hill.  Alurra was familiar enough about the place to tell them all about the foxes, the birds, the snakes and the other animals who made it their home.  

Pentandra found it interesting that her experience of the place did not have the same awe as the rest of them.  She realized that Alurra had never really experienced the view from the top of the Anvil, the beautiful rolling ridges in the distance framing hectares of fertile Wilderlands meadows and forests.  To her apprentice, this magnificent place was just another meadow, albeit higher than the ones near her mistress’ croft.  

Then she realized something else.

“According to the plans that Antimei showed me,” she said, looking around and getting her bearings, “this is about the place where the wall separating the town from the citadel stands.  Will stand,” she corrected.  The great gate of Vanador.” She sketched out the thing in her mind, with mental precision born of years of magical study.  Amendra shuddered, as she spread out the blanket for their meal.  

“It unnerves me when you talk about such things,” she said, shaking her head as she sat and began unpacking the food . . . and the wine.  “This is a barren hilltop in the middle of nowhere.  Who is to say it won’t remain so for the next thousand years?”

“Antimei,” Alurra said, apologetically.  “She knows.  She’s known about this city since . . . since forever.  It will be beautiful and strong, a true city of magi,” she said, dreamily, as she settled onto the blanket.  “Built by the magi, defended by the magi.  There will be schools, and great manufactories, smithies and workshops, list fields and racetracks, temples and inns . . .” she said, waving her arms around a bit as she described the proposed grandeur.  

“That’s not proper,” Amendra said, shaking her head.  “I don’t know much in this world, but I’m familiar with my husband’s craft.  Is not prophecy proscribed, Pentandra?”

“It was, under the Censorate,” she agreed, rummaging through the basket for the cheese she’d seen before.  “The Arcane Orders are trying to take a more lenient approach.  But yes, the dangers of prophecy are well-known.  It took the dedication, commitment, and sacrifice of someone like Antimei to prophesy without attracting the kind of chaos that usually accompanies the practice.  I’m still angry about how she did it,” she admitted, finding the elusive ball wrapped in an oilcloth, “but I cannot fault her plans.  It was the only way that her work could be used, without inviting mayhem.  I cannot wait to see how she has constructed her spell,” she confessed.

“I still don’t see the point,” Amendra insisted, cutting an apple in half and carefully laying one side in front of Alurra.  “Why know the future?  It will happen soon enough, won’t it?”

“The information in those prophecies could be invaluable in our struggle against the darkness, Mother,” Pentandra explained.  “They concern us all, and the Forsaken, and a great many other things.  Hints from the gods, if you will.  Good prophecy gives we mortals just enough information to suggest a course of action or aid us along the way.  Poor prophecy indicates the scope of grand events, and demands our participation.  Bad prophecy incites the fears and anxieties over the outcome of events, driving us to fulfill them out of a sense of destiny, not free will.  It’s a nuanced thing,” she suggested.

“No wonder the Censorate prescribed it,” Amendra sneered.  “You say that this Antimei is more than a mere hedgewitch?”  Amendra may not have been Talented herself, but her entire family was steeped in the traditions of the Remeran magi.  She had a low opinion of unregistered and un-credentialed practitioners based on their social standing alone.

“She is.  From what I understand, she was a Practicing Adept in the south before she fled for the obscurity of the Wilderlands.”

“She had a husband,” Alurra added, sadly, “and two children.  She had to leave them behind, lest the Censors take revenge.”

“Well, that I can almost understand,” Amendra nodded.  If her mother shared her husband’s understanding of his craft, she also shared his professional fears.  “If those checkered bastards were on
my
trail, I might decide to flee to someplace pretty like this.”

“But apart from the technicality of a few years’ dues, which as Court Wizard it’s my prerogative to waive, there’s no reason why Antimei could not return to private practice.  She’s a credentialed mage.  She hasn’t broken any rules.”

“And from what you are telling us, this will eventually be a prime place for a spellmonger’s practice,” Arborn noted.  

“Oh, leave the poor old lady
alone!
” Amendra unexpectedly said.  “Hasn’t she sacrificed enough?  She was prepared to
die
, from what Alurra tells me, and handed you the keys to the future.  She’s lived in a dirt hole for most of her lifetime.  Worse, she’s missed her children growing up,” she said, with unexpected emotion.  “How could you
possibly
ask her to keep laboring, after all of that?”

“Perhaps we can ask her what she desires when she awakens,” proposed Arborn, reasonably enough.  But Amendra, for some reason, would not abandon her defense of the witch.

“I know what she desires!  I know what
any
woman in her position would desire, after such a sacrifice.  Dear All-Mother Trygg, Matron to the World, save her from such a bleak fate!”  She added dramatic emphasis by spilling a libation of wine on the ground with all the solemnity of a priestess at service.  “After what she has done, after what she has given up, she
deserves
to lay aside her burdens before she dies!”  

“Trygg’s grace is grand,” Pentandra said, automatically, feeling like she was a girl in temple school again for a moment.  She even sloshed out some wine from her cup in a token offering.  “But life is rarely fair, Mother.  That’s one of its blessings.  And be careful how you invoke the gods,” she added.  “Sometimes getting your prayers answered is worse than being ignored.”

“The Trygg I know would try to
ease
her suffering,” Alurra added, her young voice seemingly out of place amongst the discussion of adults.  But there was wisdom in her words beyond her immature speech.  “If a woman’s suffering, Trygg is supposed to sooth it.  If she’s sorrowful, she’s supposed to take away her cares.  If she’s in pain, Trygg takes the pain,” she said, reciting the teachings of the mother goddess’ clergy she’d learned at Vorone.  “If Trygg could do that for Antimei, it would be a blessing.  She seems happy enough, most times, but sometimes she gets melancholy.  I know it’s about her lost children and husband, but there isn’t anything anyone can do about that,” she finished, sadly.

“It also seems poor repayment for such noble service to tear up her home,” Arborn pointed out.  “To make a city, however beautiful, out of this place seems a crime against the spirits that dwell here.”