Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (128 page)

“Antimei long ago came to terms with being the last to enjoy this place in natural beauty,” Alurra informed him.  “She appreciates it.  But she knows it must be sacrificed.  She’s like that,” she added, a little gloomily.

Their mood descended a bit discussing the poor witch, but then the brightness of the day (and an unexpected explosion of butterflies) distracted them for a few hours.  When the sun began to overcome the coolness of the breeze, they started down the path again, Pentandra pointing out where prominent landmarks in a phantom city would someday come to be.  

They were troubled when they returned to the croft to find the little door open.  Pentandra knew for a fact that it had been closed when they left - she’d been the one to close it.  Arborn immediately drew his blade, and Pentandra summoned Everkeen, nearly at the same time.

There was, indeed, an intruder within: an older woman, tall and graceful, in a simple but elegant gown of deep green.  Antimei lay where they’d left her, on the rough couch, still peacefully snoring while the woman watched over her.  She had the regal bearing of a queen, Pentandra noticed, though Everkeen went into near conniptions when it tried to assess her, magically.  The only time it had responded like that before . . .

“Oh,
shit,”
Pentandra whispered, realizing the truth of the matter.  

Why did her life have to get so complicated?

“Who are you?”
barked Arborn, who had little of Pentandra’s understanding of the metaphysical world.  “How did you get in here?”

“The door was unlatched,” the woman said, calmly.

“Put the blade away, my husband,” Pentandra said, her shoulders sinking.  “This guest is no threat.  In fact . . . am I wrong to think we
summoned
you?”

The woman smiled, pleased.  “You have it exactly, Daughter.  I have come as bidden, to do as asked.”

“
Who
asked?  To do
what?
” Alurra said, furiously, as she confronted the woman.  “What have you done to Antimei?” she demanded.

“I have done nothing, yet,” the woman assured her, calmly.  “But I shall, according to your desires.  This one requires my attention,” she said, gesturing to the snoring old woman.  

“Who . . . is this?” Amendra asked, confusion in her voice.  “What’s happening, Pentandra?”

“Mother . . . meet the Mother Goddess.  Trygg All-Mother.  We were . . . we were just talking about you,” she said, blushing.

The woman smiled.  It had a similar power as Ishi’s smile, but instead of inviting seduction and indulgence, it radiated understanding and pure motherly love.  

“So you were.  Which is why I’m here.  I was properly invoked, on a full moon, under an open sky, by a mother, a maiden, and a crone to succor one of my faithful.”  Among Trygg’s other responsibilities in the Narasi pantheon, Trygg was the patroness of witches.

But the physical manifestation of the goddess was not what overcame Pentandra - it was the implication of her words.  

She swallowed, her body shivering uncontrollably.  “What shall you do with her, Mother?” she asked, formally.  While she could be a complete bitch to Ishi, this was the Mother Goddess.  
Best to keep a civil tongue
, she decided.  
Especially now.

Of course the obvious escaped her husband.  The most adept Kasari ranger in the Wilderlands blundered past the ramifications of the goddess’ explanation and wanted answers.

“What do you intend on doing with her?”

“No more than what I was
asked
to.  I will return her to her original home, where she will awaken in one of my temples.  She will reunite with her husband, who never remarried, for a few brief years.  She will see her children again, and be introduced to her grandchildren.  She has, indeed, earned a respite from her long exile, and thanks to your invocation, she will now enjoy it.”

“You . . . you’re going to take Antimei away?” Alurra asked, suddenly tearful.

“She has but a few more years left to her, my sweet,” the goddess pronounced, gently.  “Not many, but a few.  But your time with her is over, I’m afraid.  When she awakens she will be far, far from here.”

Alurra did not find much solace in that, and ran to her teacher, eyes filled with tears.  Pentandra stared at the woman, who seemed as serene as . . . well, as a goddess.  

“Won’t that prohibit her from teaching me how to use the . . . prophecy stone?” she asked, hesitantly.

“She made it simple for you, Daughter.  Merely access it, as you would another library stone, and the prophecy you are intended to know will be the only one which you may study,” she explained.  “That way you cannot be tempted to examine the entirety of her work.”

“We never
did
recover the actual book,” Arborn agreed.  “Now it is lost forever.”

“That’s a
good
thing,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “If it is known that the book is gone, then so will the allure of it to our foes.  Is Trygg spirits away Antimei before she can reveal where she hid it, then it will be safely beyond our reach.”

“Well spoken, Daughter,” praised Trygg.  “You display wisdom and insight.”  

Pentandra was stunned - and galled - that she had just received more of a complement form the Goddess of Motherhood than she ever had from her own mother’s lips.  

I suppose Mother is just more judgmental,
she decided.

 “My time here grows short.  But I wished to let you know what had become of the woman, so that you would not worry.”

“What is to happen to her?” Amendra finally asked in a hushed tone.

“As I said, I will return her to her home, where she will live out her remaining years in comfort, surrounded by her family.  And her legacy . . . that falls to the two of you, now,” she said, meaningfully.  “This croft, and the city around it to come, will be in your charge.  May you keep that charge as faithfully as Antimei kept hers.”

“Goddess,” Pentandra said, a sudden thought occurring to her, “if I could persuade you to visit Master Minalan the Spellmonger, he--”

The Goddess of Marriage and Children held up her hand abruptly.  “I am aware of the gift the magi have for the gods,” she said, calmly, “but it is not yet my time for that gift.  Be assured, we will meet again, Daughter, though I will likely not remember.  But the day comes when I shall persist even as Ishi, Briga, and Herus now do,” she promised.  

“And . . . you will aid in our fight?” Arborn asked, in a low but respectful voice. “And what about . . .
Ishi?
” he asked, in a near whisper.  

“I already am,” she assured.  “As you will see when you return to Vorone.  I have . . . taken steps to check the power that Ishi has raised there . . . without upsetting the good that she has done.  Between my efforts and your own, Daughter, come Yule the Goddess of Love will no longer trouble Vorone more than she usually does.  She has other work to do in other places, and she should not have tarried as long as she has.”
 

“That is a relief,” Pentandra said, nodding.  “I thought we might never get rid of her.”

“Does she not keep away the undead?” Amendra asked.  Pentandra was surprised she kept track.  

“She has done all she can, to ward the city in her girdle.  I shall lend my aid as well, but there are limits what we can do through intermediaries,” she warned.  “The defense of Alshar shall be left to the magi.  Once you embark on the construction of this city, fair Vanador, you will take measures which will ward it effectively against them.  Until then, you must continue to battle them as you find them.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Pentandra murmured.

“The gods give you the help you need, not the help you want,” Trygg instructed.  “And even then it’s likely to not be what you were seeking.  We do what we can,” she shrugged.  “We leave the rest to the bravery and cunning of our mortals.”  

“So you’re just going to whisk her away?” Alurra asked, tearfully.

“Well, ordinarily I’d bring my gilded coach drawn by a matched team of peacocks,” the goddess said, drolly, “but I was in a
hurry.”

Alurra sighed.  “I guess that’s all right, then,” she said, missing the sarcasm.

The goddess stood from Antimei’s old chair.  “But it is time for us to depart, now.  Fear not, she shall be well-tended, Daughter,” she assured Alurra, as she reached down and touched the old woman’s hand.  “Peace be on you, about your teacher, Daughter.  And know that you will see her again, once, before she passes.  Blessings on you all . . . particularly you, Daughter,” she added to Pentandra with a certain look.  In a flash the goddess and the old witch both vanished, leaving four very confused mortals in their wake.  

Pentandra slumped into the chair so recently occupied by the buttocks of a goddess and begged Arborn for a glass of wine.  Her husband poured one for each of them while Amendra escorted a weeping Alurra outside to bathe her face in the spring.

“It’s not every day you meet a goddess,” her husband remarked as he handed the glass to Pentandra.  “You magi live
interesting
lives.”

“Two in one year,” she nodded, taking a prodigious sip.  “I wish I could say I feel as blessed as I technically am.”  She put her hand over her abdomen as she held out her half-empty glass for another charge.

“Don’t concern yourself, my wife,” Arborn soothed, rubbing her shoulder expertly before sitting on a stool next to her chair.  “Meeting a goddess is
supposed
to be overwhelming.”

“What?  
Her?
” Pentandra asked, dully, referring to Trygg.  Her scent still hung in the air, an enchanting blend of apples, honey, and something indefinable.  Goddess boob sweat, perhaps?  “No, no, that was wonderful, in its way.  I’m just still reeling from what she
told
me.”

“Told you?” Arborn asked, surprised.  “Did I miss something in the conversation?”

“Evidently,” Pentandra said, wryly, setting down her glass and taking his hand.  “In my studies of the rites of love and procreation across the Five Duchies and beyond – sorry, no way to separate the two –  I became familiar with all of the profoundly female goddess.  Ishi, of course, in all of her manifestations, but plenty of others. Briga.  Tanta.  Osana.  And, of course, Trygg, Mother of Gods and Men.”

“Go on,” Arborn said, clearly confused.

“Well, of all the simple rituals used to invoke the gods and goddesses, one of the oldest involving Trygg, and most universal, is a plea at the full moon made by a mother, a maiden, and a crone: the three phases of womanhood.”

“Ah, I see,” Arborn said, smiling.  It was obvious that he didn’t.  “Alurra was the maiden, your mother was the mother, and you are worried that you were the crone?”

“It’s not a matter of
perception
, my husband,” she said, even more gently.  “This is a sacred rite, a holy prayer from all womankind to their patroness.  I am not concerned that Trygg mistook me for an old woman,” she said, a little irritated at the thought.  “Besides, according to my sister’s last letter, my mother started menopause last year.”

It took a little while, but Arborn’s mind began to churn.  “But, that . . .” he began, and stopped.

“That’s
right
,” Pentandra assured him, resigned.  “My
mother
was the crone.  
Alurra
was the maiden.  Which makes me . . . the
mother.”

“But you
aren’t
a mother,” Arborn said, again stating the obvious.  

And, in this case, incorrect.

“I’ve done the math in my head,” Pentandra told him, the words tumbling out of her lips faster than she could keep track of them.  “I was out for
three days
, without barrenroot tea, and then had another two days . . . near to the full moon.  And in case you’ve forgotten our little tryst the other day, I can show you the scrape on my left knee from the occasion.”