Court Wizard

Book 8 Of The Spellmonger Series

Kindle Edition

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © 2016, All Rights Reserved

Dedicated To Toni, Michele, Linda, Laurin, Deborah, Wendy,

Lisa, Ashley, Hannah, Kirsten, Morrigan, and Shelby:

The Smith Women,

the strongest women I know.

Contents

MAPS

Prologue

1. The Witch in the Wilderlands

2. The Fair Maid of Vorone

3. The Goddess In The Garden

Chapter One              Return to Vorone

Chapter Two              Husband And Wife

Chapter Three              A Duke’s Curiosity

Chapter Four              A Thaumaturgical Baculus In Duke Anguin’s Court

Chapter Five              Interview With A Courtier

Chapter Six                            The First Great Council

Chapter Seven              Troubled Times

Chapter Eight              A Nest Of Rats

Chapter Nine              The Tumultuous State Of The Duchy

Chapter Ten                            Count Marcadine

Chapter Eleven              Show Horses & Work Horses

Chapter Twelve              The Woodsmen Of Vorone

Chapter Thirteen                  The Politics Of Alshar

Chapter Fourteen                            The Council Of Vorone

Chapter Fifteen                            The Letter From The Queen

Chapter Sixteen              The Office Of The Court Wizard

Chapter Seventeen              Battle By Moonlight

Chapter Eighteen                            Lady Pleasure

Chapter Nineteen                            The Dangers Of The Divine

Chapter Twenty                            Trouble Brewing

Chapter Twenty-One              The House Of Flowers

Chapter Twenty-Two                            Ishi Incarnate

Chapter Twenty-Three                            Wheat & Iron

Chapter Twenty-Four                            A Goddess At Court

Chapter Twenty-Five              A Conspiracy Unmasked

Chapter Twenty-Six              Dowager Countess Shirlin

Chapter Twenty-Seven                            An Interloper In Court

Chapter Twenty-Eight                            Plots & Preparations

Chapter Twenty-Nine              A Spell On Alya

Chapter Thirty              The Woodland Masque

Chapter Thirty-One              A Plague Of Passions

Chapter Thirty-Two              The Crypt of Murvos

Chapter Thirty-Three              Ocajon the Nemovorti

Chapter Thirty-Four              The Conclave

Chapter Thirty-Five              The Midsummer Raid

Chapter Thirty-Six                            The Magewar

Chapter Thirty-Seven                            Lady Amendra

Chapter Thirty-Eight              Dinner With Mother

Chapter Thirty-Nine              Pentandra’s Report

Chapter Forty              Attack On The Palace!

Chapter Forty-One                            The Ungrateful Undead

Chapter Forty-Two                            A Hole In The Hall Of Heralds

Chapter Forty-Three              The Grotto of Antimei

Chapter Forty-Four                            Answers Over Breakfast

Chapter Forty-Five                            Debate With Bezmiol

Chapter Forty-Six                            Pentandra Confronts The Alka Alon

Chapter Forty-Seven              The Grace of Trygg

Chapter Forty-Eight              Taking Down A Goddess

Chapter Forty-Nine                The Council of Vorone

Chapter Fifty              Aftermath

Maps

Prologue

1. The Witch in the Wilderlands

Old Antimei the witch coughed at the sudden rush of cold that disturbed the comfortable atmosphere of her cozy croft when her apprentice returned from the village market.  It was early in the season, yet, but already the ground was covered with snow and the streams crusted with ice.

That did not bode well, the witch knew.  It would be a harsh winter for the scattered folk of the Alshari Wilderlands, she could feel it in her old bones.  Old Antimei didn’t know how Alurra, her apprentice, was able to contend with the chill, even with a heavy cloak that was too large for her, but she seemed unconcerned by the cold. The girl was carrying a big willow basket full of supplies, which was a welcome sight.  There were still a few folk in the village who had enough to trade.  The raven on the girl’s shoulder flapped his wings and croaked a greeting to the old woman, who smiled and whistled a welcome in return.

“Sorry I was late, Antimei, but the roads are thick with ice!” the teenage girl said dramatically as she set the basket down on the floor and shook the snow off of her mantle.  “The bridge over the creek to Tolindir was near covered.  Why won’t they build a cover over it?” she complained.

Clearly, it was time for a lesson in wisdom.

“Who is this ‘they’ you are referring to, Alurra?” chuckled the old woman from the comfort of her chair.

Though once she was known as the Witch of the Wilderlands, the greatest hedgewitch in the north, she rarely left the chair, these days.  She knew she would remain there for some time to come.  “That rickety bridge serves to cross a creek to no one but me, now.  Who would spend the time and money to repair it in these dark days?”

“Antimei!” Alurra said, snorting indignantly.  “You are the greatest witch in the northlands!   They should be honored to help you!”

Once they were, Antimei recalled.  Once the common folk of the Wilderlands, from the Pearwoods to the Mindens, made their way to Tolindir, or Marsin, or Doss, and let it be known that they needed the Witch . . . and Antimei would mysteriously appear, as if she had known they needed the great witch’s help.

Usually, because she did.

“Again with this mysterious ‘they’!  Child, I haven’t had a real client in a month and a half, and won’t for another, now that the snows have set in.  Tolindir village is the last of the three I used to serve, and it is barely there, anymore.  Six families left?  Seven?  And a few freeholds? They could barely get the harvest in, let alone waste time on an old bridge to nowhere.  Is that the ‘they’ you speak of?”

“Well, then the lords should do it, then!” the teenager fumed, impatiently, as she unpacked the basket.

“The Wilderlords are gone, Alurra,” Antimei said, her voice becoming serious.  “There were few enough of them to begin with, before the war.  Now they’ve all died.  Or been taken.  Or fled beyond care.”

“But it’s dangerous!” she said, with all the drama a thirteen-year-old girl could produce.

“No, Sweeting, it’s a defense.  While that rickety bridge may be treacherous to human feet, it can be dashed quickly enough to keep the goblins out, at need.  They hate to get their feet wet.  And wouldn’t, for the prize of one skinny old woman and one scrawny apprentice in their soup pot.”

Alurra shuddered involuntarily.  Her parents had been taken or slain by the goblins four years ago, when their savage warrior bands burst out of the distant Mindens and pillaged their way across the Wilderlands.  That dark time still haunted the girl, and with good reason.

The Wilderlords who were pledged under Duin to defend the people had rallied bravely to the banner call.  Tolindir Village had sent twenty bowmen to the call in the party of Sire Grendei, who claimed the remote hamlet.  None had returned.  A week after their menfolk had marched away, the first wide-eyed refugees from beyond the river arrived.  They told of horrific fights against a bloodthirsty enemy, and encouraged everyone to take what they could carry and flee before they had to face the angry gurvani.

Some of the Tolindiri took heed, and left for the south or the east.  Others scoffed at the idea of the goblins even finding the tiny hamlet.  People who knew where it was had a hard time finding it, ran a local jest.

A week later, the first gurvani raiding party descended on the remote region in the night.  The hamlet of Marsin was sacked, its folk led away in chains to the west.  Doss had been burned to the ground, the folk there slaughtered.  In Tolindir village, the largest in the domain, the gurvani burned a third of the cots, enslaved sixty of the freemen, and torched the manor house when some poor folk tried to take refuge there.

That was the raid which had made Alurra an orphan – and worse.

In the horror of that fateful night the terrified little blonde girl had encountered one of the foul goblin shamans in the midst of casting some powerful spell with his accursed witchstone.  Whether her latent Talent for magic had anything to do with it or not, Antimei didn’t know – but something had gone wrong.  The flare from his spell had burned out her eyes, the faces of her parents being led away by ropes around their necks the last sight she ever saw.

Not everyone had perished or been taken that night.  The once-robust community of three hundred had dwindled to a scant hundred people who tried to carry on their lives as best they could.  When families had been torn asunder by death and despair, the brave folk of the Wilderlands consolidated their kin and their cattle and continued to live.  In fear, in tears, but they continued to plow and sow and harvest and the herds.  They looked after the orphans of their dead neighbors as if they were their own slain children.

One such mended family had taken poor Alurra in.  Only ten years old, the blind girl had been put to work in the kitchen and the yard, doing what chores a blind girl could do on a freeholding.  She’d collected eggs, swept, snapped beans, plucked chickens, scaled fish, and done laundry with increasing skill for a few years.

It was a shame, everyone said behind her back.  Such a pretty girl, and so smart and well-tempered.  But her eyesight was a handicap it would be difficult to overcome in the rough life ahead of her.

In better times they would have sent the girl south with a nun to one of the temple houses for the blind and forgotten about her.  But there were few priests walking circuits anymore, and nearly every human temple and shrine within the range of the goblins’ reach had been turned into a ghastly mockery of itself, often with the shredded, tortured remains of the former pilgrims turned into macabre mockeries of worship in their ruins.

Alurra was Tolindir Village’s problem.  The surviving villagers hoped that, perhaps in a few years, if she survived, she could be married to some poor fellow with a bigger heart than head.  Working a freehold was hard work, and it required sight; everyone knew that.  But perhaps there was a hard worker who was willing to overlook her faults.  She was a comely girl, after all.  Surely Ishi would be gracious enough to provide a good man with an unfortunate face to match her.

But then one night her fate changed again when Alurra woke in her borrowed bed, screaming, her sightless eyes streaming with tears.  She had a dream, she insisted, a horrible nightmare about an endless army of goblins that streamed out of the west.  Her descriptions were so vivid, so terrifying that they had brought her out of a dead sleep.  Her dream alarmed the other children instantly, and many of the adults who feared another attack on Tolindir more than anything.

Some began to murmur that the girl was possessed by some malicious spirit.  Perhaps, it was whispered, it would be better to lead her away into the forest and leave her fate to the gods.

But wiser, more compassionate heads prevailed, and Old Antimei was summoned from her hidden croft.  She was, after all, the authority on such things, and her wise judgment would appease the hearts of many. The hedgewitch was ready to make the nearly six mile walk into the village when the two lads they sent arrived, surprised to find her packed and waiting.

She’d known she was going on a trip.  She had foreseen it.

Antimei examined the girl in front of the others, as tradition demanded.  She rarely practiced that kind of magic anymore, but once learned the most basic spells always returned as strong as before.  Her arcane inquiry only confirmed her prophecy: the blind girl had rajira arising in her spirit, and it would be a strong Talent.  She would be of magekind – and not a minor power, either.  Though her blindness would make instructing her challenging, Antimei had a duty to train her.  There was simply no one else who could.

She was destined to take up the task.  She had foreseen it.

Antimei agreed to take charge of the girl on the spot, calmly informed the village that the army she’d seen would pass them by as it streamed toward the southlands along the Timber Road, and that all was well.  Her words calmed a great many, and the grateful people packed Alurra up and provided her with simple gifts before she went.  Antimei had not mentioned the river of ice, or the dragons, or the desperate struggle to come.  For the people of Tolindir village there was safety . . . for now.  That was all they really cared about.

For two years and more Alurra had lived here in the croft with her.  She had lectured the girl constantly on her new craft, and found her both intelligent and engaged.  Having already accepted the reality of her blindness, accepting the novelty of magic seemed easier to her than in most neophytes.  After making her at home in the croft, Antimei ushered the girl through the painful process of adjusting to her Talent.  It had seemed an endless psychic crisis as the Talent re-made her nervous system into its eventual form, but the pain and suffering involved in the process had brought them close together in a short time.

At first Antimei had been perplexed about how to proceed with Alurra’s training, since without sight the girl could not read, or use magesight.  Many spells required magesight to even begin, and without vision Alurra could not learn magic the way that Antimei was prepared to teach it.

But where there is will, there is possibility – and magic always found a way, her experience told her.  At first she read aloud to the girl and explained the words along the way.  She shaped sticks into the form of letters and runes and let the girl hold them and feel them until she knew them in her heart. It was a long, slow process, but Antimei was persistent.  Eventually she had to find new methods of explaining concepts that would have been best seen by eye.

That’s when Alurra’s Talent intervened.  The girl began waking from strange dreams where she was a raccoon, or a racquiel, or a wolverine, a mouse, a faun, a rabbit or a raven.  It became clear to Antimei that Alurra was bilocating.  She had the rare beastmaster ability as part of her natural Talent . . . and that began to affect how she learned magic.

Teaching her apprentice to do consciously what her subconscious mind did was easy, compare to teaching her to read with sticks.  Antimei worked with her until she mastered the art of bilocation at will, and experience the world from their perspective . . . and with their eyes.  Using her animal companions, Alurra could “see” again, within limits.

Within weeks she was able to tame a young raven to ride on her shoulder and “see” the world on her behalf.  She learned how to easily slip behind the eyes of mice, chickens, turkeys, and songbirds that haunted the croft.  Alurra’s awareness of the world expanded significantly.

But though she could now navigate the croft no matter how often Antimei re-arranged the furniture, none of the creatures Alurra had mastered could look at a page of text and read.  It wasn’t a matter of vision – the animals could see the parchment, see the contrast between black and white . . . but none of them had the capacity to understand it.  Alurra remained illiterate.

Still Antimei persevered.  The good-natured girl developed a mastery of some forms of the Art, while remaining almost ignorant of other aspects.  For every cantrip she easily mastered, there were five she could not even attempt, unless her rajira found a way around the component of sight.  Antimei tried her best to adhere to the standard Imperial Magic course of study, but neither her inclination nor her disability could give Alurra the discipline to adhere to it.  She had become, by default, a Wild Mage.

That didn’t really bother Antimei.  It wasn’t like there were many Censors wandering around in the Alshari Wilderlands, and even less since the war.  That was entirely the reason she had come here in the first place.

Figuring out exactly what to do with the perplexing girl was becoming a pressing issue.  Old Antimei was old, and she had no illusions about how much strength there was left in her body . . . or just when she would pass from this world.  The girl learned what magical theory she’d been capable of teaching her and was learning how to manifest that power without the benefit of sight largely on her own.  After two years of work Alurra could slip her consciousness into dozens of creatures, now, allowing her awareness beyond what mere human sight could provide. And her understanding of what she was experiencing was growing admirably.

Alurra was becoming a decent apprentice, but it was time to prepare her for her greater purpose.  That did not include succeeding her as the next hedgewitch of Tolindir Village.  Antimei regarded her carefully as she began feeling her way around the small kitchen to prepare their supper.  The old witch heaved a great sigh.

“My girl, it is time that you learned of how and why I came here, to this beautiful land, so far from my home, my life.”

“Antimei?” Alurra asked in surprise, her hands clutching unconsciously at her apron.  “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Alurra,” she assured.  “Leave that, for now.  Put the kettle on and let me tell you about one of my Gifts.”

“I . . . I know about them, Antimei,” Alurra said, quietly, as she took a seat on the low wooden rack covered with a tick that passed for a couch in the dusty croft.  “You have the Gift of Prophecy.  Which I must never, never speak about.”

“That is correct, Sweeting.  Just as you can easily force yourself into the mind of most creatures, I, too, have a gift that most other magi lack.  In my case it is more curse than gift, because it is the forbidden gift of prophecy.  Even before our ancestors conquered the Magocracy prophecy was forbidden.  Foretelling the future is a professional sin, and always has been.  Never you forget that.”

“But why?” Alurra asked as she set the kettle onto the fire without seeming to pay attention to it.  Thanks to her raven friend, Lucky, she knew precisely where the tiny fireplace was, and where the iron hook was positioned.  “What’s so wrong about telling the future?”

“When we issue prophecy, we bind ourselves to Fate,” explained the hedgewitch, after a moment’s thought.  “When we say what will be or what will not be, we surrender the ability of free will . . . and will is the most potent tool of the mage.  Rarely are prophecies heeded in a useful way – quite the contrary.  Usually they do nothing but condemn us to tragedy and misfortune.  Few have the wisdom and wit to hold them close, ponder them, and use them wisely.”

“Do you?” asked the girl, taking her accustomed seat on a stool.

“Oh, Luin’s Staff, no!” cackled the old woman, absently petting the old gray cat who shared her croft, Widdy, as it wandered by.  “Nor do I have the power to affect great change.  No, I have spent more than thirty years in the Wilderlands constantly foreseeing what will come to pass . . . and telling no one.”

Alurra frowned.  “What’s the point of that?  Why bother, if no one knows?”

“It’s not that no one knows, Sweeting, it’s that no one knows . . . yet.  Unlike most oracles cursed as I am, I knew what had befallen me, and did not seek to aggrandize myself through the power of prophecy, as so many of the ignorant do.  My Talent was proscribed.  I kept it to myself.  Every vision, every prescient dream.  I kept quiet about it and thought about it until I thought I understood it.  Then I wrote it down.”

“You did?” Alurra asked, intrigued.  She had a fascination with the power of reading, and often fingered the pages in the seventeen volumes in Antimei’s precious library with longing.  “That explains all those hours beating parchment reeds I did this autumn.  Where?”

“Oh, I was quite careful,” confided the old woman, smiling wickedly.  “I wrote in verse, one leaf at a time.  I hid it betwixt the pages of that book of Alka Alan poetry, so that it looked like a translation, not a prediction.  When I had the page complete, front and back, I hid it away in a . . . secret place and started the next one.  When I had a hundred, I bound them and hid them in a yet more secure place.  No one but myself knows its location,” she said, patting the arm of the chair smugly “I’ve seen every night of my life for thirty-two years.  Like an endless tapestry woven one thread a night.  Yet I cannot recall every inch of every strand,” she admitted.

“But you wrote it down,” Alurra prompted.  “If you wrote it down, shouldn’t you be able to remember?”

“Imagine it raining, with every drop a prophecy: a face I may know, may come to know, or may never meet, going through their journey unaware of my witness.  Sometimes I see strangers at the most mundane of tasks.  Sometimes great nobles, kings even, or powerful magi, doing things and saying things in a jumble. Each raindrop is like a moment of someone else’s life . . . and my book is the bucket I’ve collected them in, after distilling them down to what I think is the truth of the matter.  That does not mean that my perspective is correct.  Prophecy is a . . . devilish Gift.”

“I . . . I’m not sure I understand,” confessed Alurra, as Widdy jumped into her lap.  The old cat claimed the spot as if it was his by divine right and settled into a ball.  Alurra began petting him automatically.  To do otherwise was to risk his displeasure and his claws.

“I wrote down very select incidents, in as helpful a context as I could, while disguising it in verse from the eyes of the ignorant,” Antimei conceded.

“So who is supposed to read them?  Have you seen that?”

“Of course.  Indeed, the day draws near when I will turn over my entire life’s work and count my vocation fulfilled.”

“When will that be?” asked her apprentice uneasily.

“Not until the end of this story,” promised the witch.  “Make the tea?”

“What story?” asked the girl as she unceremoniously dumped Widdy to the floor.  He landed indignantly, and immediately began cleaning himself in front of the fire as if that had been his plan all along.

“The story we are both in, Sweeting.  We and a great many others.”

“I do like stories,” said Alurra carefully, as she used a rag to grab the handle of the copper kettle.  “When they have happy endings,” she added.

“All good stories do,” agreed Antimei with a sigh.

Her own story had not been as happy as she’d have wished, but then again it had not been entirely unhappy, either.  “And no good story ever comes to an end.  Not really.  There is always some before, and a great deal afterward that happens.  Those become their own stories, with their own endings.

“But this story that we’re in, Sweeting. I’ve foreseen it since before you were born.  I haven’t always understood it, until recently, but I think I’m finally beginning to, here at the end of my life.”

“What happens?” demanded the girl as she added leaves to the pot and set it down to steep.  She hated it when Antimei talked about her own death so matter-of-factly, but the girl had to get used the idea.  “And what are you talking about?  You look plenty hale!”

“A great many things will happen: death, betrayal, victory over great odds, bravery, cowardice, treachery—”

“Love?” interrupted the girl eagerly.

Antimei smiled fondly.  She remembered what it was like to be a maiden, all those years ago.

“Love?  More love than you can possibly imagine, in more ways than you can conceive.  The story is all about love: love of the land, love of a man, love of every sort.  Good love, bad love, love in all of its confusing aspects.  An embarrassment of love.”

“That sounds unwieldy,” frowned the girl.

“Love is never neat and tidy,” she chuckled.  “That’s what I tried to explain to an initiate of Ishi, once, long ago.  Love is messy, sticky, and ugly as it is joyous, enriching, and sublime.  Love makes strong men weak and weak women suffer.  Love always dices with death and despair.”

“Well gosh, you make it sound so appealing!” Alurra said, irritated.

“Love, you silly girl, is a beautiful thread that can bring warmth and strength when woven into the tapestry in the proper proportions . . . but in great wadding hunks it becomes as oppressive and bulky as a bale of wool in the woof.  Love . . . love is a very complicated thing,” she finished.

She felt a hypocrite, speaking of love – she, who had abandoned her beloved husband and cherished children over thirty years before, to seek peace and solitude – and safety - in the wilderness.

Yet not a day passed when she did not long for them with an aching heart.

Once Antimei had been in love.  And her name had not been Antimei.  She was once happily in love, and married to a good man who was devoted to her with all of his heart.

That love had produced three children in the precious years after their wedding.  They both had successful practices in Inmar, a prosperous town in southern Alshar.  They lived in a sprawling townhome in the artisans’ quarter, and attended temple services with their neighbors.  Their children were born strong and healthy.  Everything had been going well for her when the first bout of compelling prophecies began invading her dreams.

She’d shed a river of tears over the decades she’d been away from them.  She had loved . . . but she had not known love in over thirty years.  Kindness, generosity, friendship, these things the Wilderlands folk had for her in abundance.  But love she was denied, the price she paid for her terrible Gift.

When the visions began, she had toyed with the idea of simply hiding them away . . . but they were too compelling.  Soon her clients were seeking her out for her ability to foresee their fates, not to hire her for her ability to intervene in their lives with magic.  Young women sought her out to find out who they might marry, how many children they might have, what the goddesses may have in store for their hopeful lives.  Too often she had told them the truths they didn’t want to hear: a future of abuse, poverty, neglect, illness and death.

One young client in particular had inspired her to run away from her comfortable, beautiful life.

Antimei met with her at a park outside of the convent school at which she was studying, one morning, and agreed (for a substantial fee in silver) to look into the pretty Wilderlands girl’s future for her.  Though she had little control over her abilities, then, she had learned at least how to invoke them in regards to a client’s future.

What she saw in store for the shapely maiden stunned her.  Their fates, she saw, were intertwined in ways she never would have suspected.  And the very act of meeting her had set events in motion that would take decades to come to fruition.  As the visions poured into her mind, the fretful young ingénue sitting next to her started to fidget impatiently.

Antimei’s mouth took over.  She told the girl what she saw: a marriage to a titled baron, bearing a son to a Duke, tournaments, parties, an introduction to court . . . the fulfillment of every girlish dream the foolish tart thought was important.

What she didn’t tell her was how her vacuous life would come to affect the entire Wilderlands . . . and the fate of the Duchy of Alshar itself.  Nor did she mention the entanglements with the divine she foresaw.  Or how they drove Antimei herself away from the life she had so painstakingly built for a much different fate.  But at the conclusion of the interview, Antimei went home, packed her things, gathered a purse adequate for travel, and left without even saying goodbye to her beloved husband and her children.  She’d taken a coach north, tarried a month in Gilmora, then made her way still farther, into the Wilderlands.  Another few weeks at Vorone, where she did some research at the palace and contrived to select a new name – “Antimei” was a pretty one, she decided, and was Wilderlands enough to excuse her funny accent – before she ventured still farther north.  She found a hamlet with an established hedgewitch, and in return for service that winter she learned the simple magics that the common folk needed, so different from the high magic she had practiced in Inmar.  When the snows melted she said her farewells and took to the road, north.

She did not stop until she saw the place in her visions.  Beyond the remotest village she could find, hidden from any who did not know it was there, she found the outcropping and the hollow in the hills that she was destined to make her home in rustic exile.  It was deep in the wilderness, and though fertile and wild the place was uninhabited.

Enlisting the aid of a few lads from the nearest village, Antimei had constructed a croft out of the hollow, roofing the depression in the hill with stout beams of oak and linden before covering them with a layer of sod.  Another year went by, which saw her take a door as a fee for her service as a witch, and as her fame began to spread.  She developed good relationships with the people of the three settlements nearby, particularly the largest.  For twenty years, Antimei performed as midwife, physician, herbalist and spellmonger for the folk of Tolindir village and the smaller hamlets in the highlands.

She did everything a countryside hedgewitch was expected to do to support the lives and livelihoods of the folk within their sphere.  She did everything . . . but prosephy.

Through it all, she did her best to forget her former life while she learned the practice. Yet every night she did her best to recall the faces of her children, the feel of her husband’s arms around her.  It was a great sacrifice that she had made, but it had to be done, and none but her could do it, she knew with certainty.  Now the time was approaching when it would be coming to fruition.  That was the reason she addressed Alurra this morning.

“Before the story properly begins,” she said, as her apprentice settled in, “there is part of it you must know.  A tale of loss and despair that leads to determination and hope.  A story of awful circumstances overcome with the keen intelligence of a woman and the grace of the gods themselves.”

“Well, that sounds good!” Alurra said, cheerfully.  Thankfully her apprentice still had a childlike indulgence when it came to stories.

“It begins only a few days from now,” she announced, indicating to Alurra that this was one of her “special” stories – not the ones that taught lessons or demonstrated morals, or even entertained.  This was one of Antimei’s visions, and it was, therefore, between them alone.  Antimei had never come out and told her apprentice about her gift openly, but the girl was intuitive enough to realize when her mistress was uncomfortable with something.  “It begins when one woman looks out at her town and decides to do something to alleviate the suffering there.”

“She sounds like a nun,” reflected Alurra, who had never met a member of the clergy.

“She might have been, once,” chuckled Antimei.  “Though not a serene sister of Trygg or even one of the priestesses of Briga.  No, she was very pretty, once, and was devoted in her heart and soul to the goddess of Love and Beauty, Ishi.”

“Oh, no!” Alurra said, her face twisted in disgust.  “Kissing!”

“Not yet,” promised Antimei.  “Though there may come a time when you do not recoil from that thought.  No, Ishi is in charge of kissing, but in this story her interest is much deeper.  It concerns not a woman’s love for any man, but a woman’s love for the divine manifestation of sexuality.  It is a story born of disappointment, fear, and frustration,” she said, dramatically.

“So where does it start?” asked Alurra impatiently.  She might not have liked kissing, yet, but she loved stories.  Particularly Antimei’s stories, the ones she knew would someday come true.

“It all begins when a woman named Amandice – Baroness Amandice – decides she has had quite enough,” the old witch related.  “And from such small beginnings, much turmoil results . . .”

“Is she our heroine, then, Antimei?  Baroness Amandice?  What a grand name . . .”

“One of them,” the old witch nodded.  “But not every story is divided into heroes and villains, Sweeting.  Real life is more complex than folktales.  Even the valiant face challenges when the gods deign to get involved in human affairs.”

“The . . . gods?” Alurra asked in a hushed voice.  She had a peasant’s understanding of such things, not a trained mage’s . . . but when it came to knowledge of the nature of humanity’s divine protectors, Antimei doubted there was much actual difference.  Theurgy was not her specialty, not by a stretch, but even experts in the field historically had little but speculation and theory.

But there was no mistaking the visions.  When the gods did manifest, they left a distinctive thread in the tapestry of fate.  And the gods had taken a special interest in the Wilderlands since the troubles had started.  She’d seen in her visions how they had helped the Kasari escape over the summer, for instance, and how they had affected the course of the powerful and mighty.  The ripples they made in the fabric of the tapestry of fate were everywhere, now.  The gods were afoot, here in the Wilderlands.  And one in particular would be taking up residence, for a while.

“The gods, my dear,” she agreed.  “The rise of the Dead God has set many paths in motion, and even the gods are bound by their ancient natures.  When humanity is in danger or distressed, we reach forth and summon them to our aid.  Magic of all sorts now abounds in the Wilderlands, thanks to the goblins.  Including divine magic.  Other forces will soon be at play: the Spellmonger even now is doing things that will cause the tapestry of fate to change for years to come.  The Necromancer is rising, and is sure to raise an army of the dead against him, eventually.  But first the Goddess must do her part.”

“The goddess?  Which goddess?”Alurra asked, anxiously.  In many ways, she was the perfect audience.

“One who feels she has something to prove.  A goddess who feels she owes a debt, and desires to repay it in splendid fashion.  Not just repay it, but to prove her worth in the process.

“But before she comes, like all divine manifestations, she must be invoked.  Thankfully, by her acts she will bring the Wilderlands to the brink of destruction . . . and salvation.”

“That sounds . . . interesting,” Alurra frowned.

“Interesting? Indeed.  For never has Ishi the Beautiful manifested in just such a way before.  Never has her power been stronger . . . or her motivations more clouded.  Heroine or villain, she has already set her sights on playing a more robust role in humanity’s fate.”

“Does she not always play such a role?” asked the young woman, carefully.  Ishi was a touchy subject for one so new to womanhood.

“From what her priestesses tell us, yes,” chuckled Antimei, recalling the painted priestesses of the Scarlet Temple of her girlhood home.  “Yet she has decided recently to take a more direct role.  She is in love, you see, enchanted – literally – by the Spellmonger.”

“The Spellmonger?” Alurra asked, her eyes wide.

Everyone had heard of the humble peasant mage who had shaken the halls of power, and – some said – preserved the Riverlands from invasion by stopping the gurvani at Timberwatch.  He had led the Kasari children through the Penumbra and on to safety last year, leaving a trail of magically-constructed forts in his wake.  He had challenged the Censorate and overthrown their oppressive oversight.  Minalan the Spellmonger was a legend in the Wilderlands.

“Aye, the Spellmonger.  Baron Minalan, who has begun to craft wonders the likes of which have never been seen in his faraway mageland.  A mage powerful enough, wise enough, and human enough to win the respect of even the Alka Alon.  A wizard whose spells and enchantments tempt the gods themselves into bargains.”

“So what happened?  What will happen?  You know what I mean!” the blind girl said, anxiously.  She did so love a good story.

“The Spellmonger was – a few days ago – attacked in his lair.  Only the object of this attack was not his life, but his seed.”

“No!” Alurra said, blushing at the insinuation – and the scandal.  “Is he not wed?”

“Aye, to a brave and true Wilderlands lass like yourself,” agreed Antimei, enjoying the girl’s interest.  “Baroness Alya, the Lady of Sevendor. Beloved by her folk and by thousands in the Wilderlands by reputation alone.  The Spellmonger was not willing, dear.  He was taken by surprised and ravished.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yet that vile deed was enough to invoke Ishi, who manifested to him and proposed a bargain.  He gave her power, and she . . . she helped him, somehow.  And she promised to help him more.  You see, she was enchanted by more than his arcane powers, she was enthralled by the man.”

“Ishi?  In love with a mortal?”

“Love is love, in the heart of a maiden . . . and Ishi is forever a maiden, so it is said.  She felt something for the Spellmonger, in her bargaining.  Perhaps because he rejected her, as much as he could, because he truly loves Lady Alya.  But she felt infatuation for this man, and like a love-sick village maiden she seeks to impress him.”

“How?”

“She cannot appeal to his heart, because it belongs to his wife.  So she wishes to appeal to his nobility by using her powers on behalf of humanity.”

“Uh, but isn’t she the goddess of . . . y’know . . .” the girl said, guiltily.  Being blind did not stop her from looking away uncomfortably.

“Love, beauty, and sex?” snickered Antimei, enjoying the maiden’s discomfort the way only a crone could.  “Yes, my dear, she wishes to employ lust in service of humanity.”

“How . . . ?” Alurra asked, confused.  “Why?”

“She, herself, ponders that very question, actually,” Antimei said, smugly.  “The gods are bereft of true foresight, thankfully, though their divine vision is near to it.  Ishi pines to impress her lad, and conspires to do so by indulging her nature.  She knows the Spellmonger’s attention is drawn to wounded Alshar, and especially the Wilderlands.  So like a butterfly seeking a flower, she searches for some way to shine in the Spellmonger’s eye.

“First she must find a vessel,” she continued, forestalling the eager girl’s prompt.  “And as she seeks the proper avatar for her scheme, a vessel is about to offer herself: Baroness Amandice.  Once she secures a willing and devoted servant, and the right kind of servant, she will begin her display.  For display it is.  Her feelings are hurt, and she seeks to restore herself by alluring the Spellmonger’s affection and admiration, and eventually his love.”

“That’s so . . . romantic . . . and . . . obsessed . . .”

“You are not the first to say so,” chuckled Antimei.  “And those are the traits – among others – Ishi seeks in her avatar.

“Luckily for her, one who is obsessed with love now seeks her favor.  In far Vorone, once fair, now in fallen estate, lives one Dowager Baroness Amandice, a widow in residence and in retirement.  Whether she knows it or not, she represents Vorone’s fortunes to the goddess.  And when she invokes the goddess in her desperation and despair, her utter faith in the power of love and pleasure to conquer over all adversity is irresistible to Ishi.

“Neither heroine or villain, nothing will remain the same after tomorrow night . . . when Ishi comes to Vorone in person.”

2. The Fair Maid of Lamar

The decrepit old hall on the far end of Perfume Street in Vorone had once been glorious.  Built a generation before by the Sealord Baron of Chaldan for his beloved mistress, the miniature mansion was spacious and ornate.  Three stories tall, with two bays protruding from the rear, it featured a wide front porch and a second-story balcony upon which the Baron’s long-dead mistress could sit in the afternoons and greet her neighbors and simply enjoy the sunshine.

Some secret lover’s joke between the paramours had resulted in the entire front of the manse being decorated in a riot of flowers.  Buds and blooms were carved into every wooden surface, from the shutters to the doorposts, and the short walkway from the street to the porch was laid in a beautiful mosaic tile imported from Enultramar that represented the view of a colorful and fanciful flower garden from above.  When viewed from the balcony, the shapes of the flowers revealed themselves to conceal erotic designs in the mosaic, if one knew where to look.  The design was gaudy and utterly feminine, though in perfect harmony with the naughty nature of Perfume Street.

The quaint hall quickly become known as the Flower Bed, and for nearly two decades the Baron of Chaldan and his mistress reigned there when he was in town.  Even the Baroness of Chaldan had enjoyed the entertainments there.

When the Baron died in the War of the Docks, his mistress followed in grief a year later, and the property was sold by the Baroness at a good price.  A string of ladies had since occupied the manse, but for the last twenty years or more it had been home to the Dowager Baroness Amandice, who herself had once been known as the Fair Maid of Lamar.

Her father was Wilderlord, a knight banneret of three small domains in the far northeast during the crest of the Narasi settlement of the Wilderlands.  Lamar Castle was a rough two-story tower without moat or wall, and her father spent every spring plowing the rocky fields alongside his few peasants, just to feed his family.

While poor in coin, Amandice’s father was a doughty warrior who felt blessed with the beauty of his youngest daughter.  When she was introduced to his baron at thirteen, the man was utterly taken with the golden-haired lass’ delicate beauty and promising feminine form, and pronounced her the Fair Maid of Lamar.  Though he was married, he was smitten enough by her face to invite her and her sire to Vorone as part of his entourage when he went to swear fealty.  It was a high honor for a country knight in the remote Wilderlands.  Amandice was thrilled by the adventure, if quite innocent of the baron’s designs.

In Vorone, that spring, thanks to the Baron’s patronage, her beauty attracted attention in the capital’s jaded society.  The Baron did his best to aid her, telling her father he hoped to find her a good marriage.  Paying for the best seamstresses to garb her in beautiful clothes in vibrant colors, and bedecking her in simple but elegant jewelry, the baron lavished her with fripperies her impoverished father could never afford.  When presented her at court the Fair Maid of Lamar was fourteen and breathtakingly beautiful.

A summer of balls and parties followed, where she was courted by dozens of handsome lords from the Wilderlands and the south alike, enchanted her girlish heart and led to many clandestine lusty encounters.

Her memories of that summer lingered in her mind like a heavenly dream of perfect maidenhood: desired by all the most handsome and powerful men of the summer court for her beauty and feminine grace, utterly envied by every other painted maiden trying to draw their eye.  Two duels were fought over perceived slights to the Fair Maid of Lamar, though neither (unfortunately) resulted in the fatality that would have assured her fame across the lands.  She went to fetes and luncheons, balls and hunts, dancing with every nobleman who asked for the honor of the favor of the Fair Maid of Lamar.

She even enjoyed the hospitality of the contemporary resident of The Flower Bed, twice, and was struck with the bright beauty of the place.  Even then the manse was showing signs of age, but the lingering vitality of the Baron of Chaldan’s mistress made Amandice look past the wrinkles on her forehead.

But all summers must end, as must all maidenhoods.  When the aging Duke departed Vorone with his children at the end of that glorious summer with his ministers and horses and his handsome gentlemen, and the Wilderlords who had come south to swear fealty had departed, Amandice was bereft of the attention she’d become accustomed to.  She feared her return to the mean little domain in the dirty little corner of the depressingly unpeopled Wilderlands.

She began to slide into despair . . . until the Baron revealed that she, too, would be departing south with one of the last baggage trains of the season.  Her fame had attracted enough attention so that he was encouraged to secure her place in court.  To that end he had arranged for her education, he explained.  He had paid her tuition and upkeep for her to attend classes at the Temple of Ishi in the distant town of Inmar, in southern Alshar, to give her rustic mannerisms a layer of refinement under the careful eyes of the Scarlet Sisters.

Her father had agreed, reluctantly, in exchange for the solace a new suit of armor and two dozen cattle can bring to a man’s heart.  She tearfully bid him farewell for the last time as she boarded the coach in Vorone.  The Fair Maid of Lamar wept the entire journey south, into the thriving heartland of the duchy.

In Inmar, Amandice thrived.  Inmar’s famed Temple of Ishi, known more colorfully as the Temple of Passions or the Scarlet Temple, had educated the daughters of the Alshari elite for centuries, preparing them for marriage or taking holy orders, as their families dictated.

Among the many services the priestesses of the Temple of Passions taught were the erotic arts, so that once a maiden did pledge herself to her husband, she would come to the marriage bed educated in all of the arts of pleasure.  Reading, calligraphy, painting, dance, and music were taught, as every noble maiden was expected to be conversant in those disciplines, but the classes that Amandice excelled at were in the arts of physical pleasure.

For five years she studied intensely, not just the theory but the practice of seduction.  The Temple had many social functions designed to assist in their patron’s divine purpose of matching male and female, and Amandice eagerly enjoyed every one.  The gallant young gentlemen who came from all over the duchy to participate were enchanted by the young novice’s beauty and spirit.  Amandice was zealous in her passions, teaching numerous young men the finer points of kissing and courting through her maidenhood.  The Fair Maid of Lamar had become the supreme coquette.

As she neared eighteen years, her Wilderlands life all but forgotten as her harsh accent had been replaced by the smoother, more refined tones of language in the south, Amandice’s life changed again.  She was contemplating taking holy orders with the Temple and becoming an initiate, when word arrived from the Wilderlands: the baron’s wife had died in childbirth, and she was summoned back home to attend to him.

Everyone in the temple knew what that meant.

Amandice was not the only girl in the temple who served as a potential replacement wife for a rich and powerful man.  With a tremendous amount of excitement and eagerness, she was feted by the Scarlet Sisters at the temple on the eve of her journey and sent north with a bounty of blessings from their red-painted lips.

Amandice was to become the new Baroness, it was known.  The Fair Maid of Lamar would finally have title to match her beauty.

The wedding was brief, a small ceremony in the castle chapel attended by her older brother and a jealous sister, who had been married the previous year to the baron’s castellan.  Her father had died two years earlier.  The Baron, while older than her now-deceased father, was still a hale and hearty man.  And lusty.  Her wedding night was as blissful as all of her years of training had taught her to make it.

But life in the dark and gloomy castle in the Wilderlands was a far cry from the exciting urban existence she had grown to love in the south.  The rustics surrounding her just did not appreciate the fineries she had grown accustomed to.  Amandice tried desperately to organize entertainments suitable for her new husband’s rank and importance, but her new daughter-in-law (the baron’s heir’s wife, and a favorite of the first Baroness) contended with her for position at every turn.  For a year and a half the two women struggled for control of the household of the castle.

While her husband dutifully supported her, when asked, he quickly grew tired of the acrimony in his house.  Though he bedded Amandice passionately, he did so rarely, owing to his age.  Amandice was scheming to find some way to banish her rival outright when one night her husband collapsed on top of her, dead in the midst Ishi’s Embrace.

It was supposed to be considered an especial blessing, when a man died in the middle of an act of passion.  It seemed fitting, at the time, somehow.  The Baron had been a great man, and if he had been denied Duin’s Blessing on the battlefield, dying in bed between the legs of his comely young wife must have been some consolation . . . at least, that’s what the man-at-arms she was having an affair with told her. To Amandice it was more than a little traumatic . . . and heralded another change to her life.

With the baron’s death, her power within the distant keep evaporated.  Her step-son and daughter-in-law graciously gave her a fortnight to grieve, bury her husband with proper honor . . . and then leave the barony forever.  The meeting after the reading of his Will was tense, but cordial – and their terms were not subject to negotiation.  Amandice could retain the title of Dowager Baroness, if she liked, so long as she did it elsewhere.  Her step-son (who was two years her senior) wished to avoid competing loyalties while he took power, but he was a fair man.  The Baron’s legacy included her, of course, granting her a handsome gift of a thousand ounces of silver and a stipend from the estate he gifted her upon their marriage.

But other than her clothes and personal jewelry, nothing else from her husband’s estate would accompany her as she journeyed . . . elsewhere.

Amandice considered traveling all the way back to the Temple of Passions in Inmar, and knew the Scarlet Sisters would have her back as a novice, even at this late stage in her life.  But she also knew that her generous legacy would only last her a few years in the expensive southern city, even as a novice in the temple.  And she knew in her heart that her days as an irresistible maiden were nearly over.  Amandice was no longer the Fair Maid of Lamar, and would never be again.  She was a homeless widow, now, and she had to make the best life for herself she could.  That was the teaching of Ishi.

She elected instead to return to Vorone, site of her magical summer of maidenhood.  Though she was no more known as the Fair Maid of Lamar, she was still extraordinarily beautiful.  Amandice knew that catching the attention of a powerful widower at court, using her beauty and her wiles (not to mention her title) might be the very best thing she could hope for, now.  She arrived in the capital prepared accordingly.  She took a string of lovers early that spring, eagerly waiting for the Duke to return to the Wilderlands with the court that was the heart of the social life in Vorone . . . but then news came that the summer transfer of government would not be accomplished that year, due to the marriage of Grendine and Rard, in Castabriel.

Vorone was still a gay place, when the Duke was not in residence . . . but the level of social activity was dramatically reduced.  Wilderlands counts and great nobles still threw parties and balls, and the temples and brothels of the city kept the affluent entertained, but without the court driving the social world of Vorone there was little enough to recommend it.

Amandice was fortunate, however, to begin a secret liaison with a married burgher who became more infatuated with her charms than those of his dumpy wife.  It had been an unpleasant experience, but he doted on her enough to make it financially worthwhile.  When she complained of her quarters to the dumpling masquerading as a civic official, he tried to prove his devotion to her by buying The Flower Bed for her as a gift.  He had taken possession of it when the previous resident defaulted on her loan, and in truth he was having a difficult time finding a buyer for the decrepit old property.  Gifting it to his mistress solved several problems at once.

It was far more than Amandice had expected, but she could not turn down the man’s generosity – that would be an affront to Ishi, she new.  Lover’s gifts were always to be accepted graciously, the goddess taught.  And his needs were modest enough.  The gay old hall was showing its age, the floral carvings cracking and the pretty mosaic fading and chipping with long use.  But when he presented her with the deed to the property, as well as a confession of undying love, she knew better than to refuse such a gift.

Amandice thanked her lover sincerely and thoroughly, with all of the skills the Temple of Passions had taught her . . . even as she conspired to break away from the wealthy commoner. But Amandice loved the place fondly from her girlhood memories, and it allowed her a far more genteel existence than her previous quarters.  More, it was hers.

The Temple had also taught her when to quit while she was ahead.  Once a lawbrother assured her that the deed conveyed ownership to the property to her, and her alone, unattached from anyone else, she knew it was time to end things.

Amandice was too nice to be cruel to the earnest little burgher, however.  Instead of rejecting him, she ensured that one of his maidservants reported their lusty business to his wife, and within a week the affair was over.  She agreed to meet the woman at market, agreed to stop tempting her husband, and promised to report any further indiscretions to the poor wife if she witnessed them.

But she was keeping the house.

At first she sunk much of her savings into sprucing up and repairing the old place to meet her standards.  New paint was applied to the outside, the porch was expanded slightly, and she had a new fireplace installed to help heat the draughty hall in the winter.  But Amandice’s funds were not limitless, and before another summer came she was already restraining herself in her visions for restoring The Flower Bed.

At last the Duke and Duchess returned to Vorone (without their notoriously manipulative daughter) when Amandice was in the prime of her womanhood.  It was time to act, she knew, and use the last of her capital and fading beauty to ensure her fortune.  At nineteen, a widow, she had precious little time.

At first she haunted the sidelines of court life, but within weeks of the Duke’s return to Vorone she began carefully cultivating friends and allies in the halls of power.  The novelty of the independent-minded, beautiful baroness delighted the court, and her widowhood provided some social cover from the disapproving judgments of the senior ladies there when they witnessed her many flirtations.

The Duchess liked her – that was what mattered, she knew.  She played rushes and garden games with her, and with subtle flattery and deft social wit, won her favor.  The old woman even promised an invitation to meet her handsome young son, Lenguin, heir to the coronet, when he arrived for the summer.  It was Amandice’s crowning achievement.

That summer was a more mature reflection of her first introduction to court society.  Only this time it was not handsome young gentlemen who courted her, but older men; lords, barons, senior courtiers, married Wilderlords of wealth and power.  While she used these opportunities to her best advantage, assuring discretion and devotion, she kept her ultimate aspirations in mind with every secret kiss.  In quick succession Amandice had an affair with a secretary in the Minister of Treasure’s office, and then his assistant.  Before a month was out she was the clandestine lover of the Minister himself, and a regular at the palace.

From there, attracting just the right eye was a matter of luck and timing . . . and Ishi’s grace.

Ishi was with her.  She met young Lenguin, their heir to the coronet of Alshar, in the palace gardens at Midsummer. He invited her to a swimming party at one of his many local estates (a fashion at court at the time, embraced for its dual pleasure of the opportunity for illicit embrace and inciting the ire of the conservative clergy, who saw the practice as an invitation to licentiousness) and the two spent an intoxicating few days together in rustic leisure.

For Amandice, that “leisure” included demonstrations of devotion and adoration that, sadly, the future Duke was already all too familiar with.  Yet her beauty, wit and charms were sufficient to entice him for weeks and earn his genuine affections before he departed to Relan Cor, for instruction in the arts of warfare over the winter months.  It was a magical time for her, the absolute prime of her womanhood.  She was a beautiful widow bedding a youthful heir who was, she was delighted to find, not completely boorish by his position and obligations.

She genuinely loved Lenguin, despite his faults.  He was handsome enough, but his title and his wealth made him entitled and shallow. He also had predilections for certain intimacies most noblewomen of refinement were reluctant to consider. He acted arrogantly and even contemptuously of his seniors, enjoying the fruits of his position without yet shouldering its obligations.

There was a spirit of rebellion in Lenguin, she saw, a feeling of resistance to the path that had been laid for him by his birth.  He treated her both kindly and rudely, depending on his mood and which of his gentlemen were in attendance.  And Amandice, for all of her wiles, could not keep Lenguin’s exclusive attention, she discovered.  While she accompanied him to a number of functions, twice she encountered other ladies of the court being quietly escorted from his chambers as she arrived.

Still, Amandice was not about to let such an opportunity slip away because of mere personal tastes.  She set about his seduction with patience and tenacity.  Persuading the awkward young heir to steal a kiss or two at first was simplicity itself.  Progressing from gentle amusement to more lusty adventures was elementary for the talented ingénue.

She readily surrendered her virtue – what was left of it – to the heir for weeks at his discretion.  She haunted his quarters at the palace, met him at the stables when he hunted, chased away her rivals for his affection with especial fervor, lavished him with simple gifts, invited him to stop by her hall in the middle of the night, and did everything she could think of to befriend the Duchess while bedding her son at every opportunity.

She was all too aware of her narrow chance.  Lenguin was to embark on his military training, as befit the heir to the throne.  The pressure for him to wed was growing, as his sire sought to consolidate power for his family through alliance.  Yet she knew that a lord in Lenguin’s position had at least some say in his future bride.  If she could snare his heart before he left Vorone, she reasoned, and enflame it sufficiently, then perhaps she could convince him to advocate for her as a potential bride.

So Amandice did her womanly best to enchant the Duke with her charms and gave him the promise of much more passionate times when he returned the next summer.  She spared no effort in her quest, and exhausted the store of favor she’d accumulated at court as she conspired to monopolize Lenguin’s time in Vorone.  Whenever the subject of his eventual marriage came up, Amandice did her best to advance herself as a candidate despite her lack of power, wealth, position, affiliation, or anything save her devotion, loyalty, beauty, and title.  Dukes had married for love and beauty in the past, not riches and political alliance, she knew.  There were stories about it.  And wars fought over it.

But those stories were concerned with the girls who had successfully changed their fates with their beauty.  Those wars were fought when a powerful man found his passions outweighed political necessity.  They did not tell the tales of those girls who failed to turn a passionate affair into a commitment and a coronet.

The long winter that followed that glorious summer was full of hope and expectation to Amandice.  Spring came and lifted her heart with promise.  She, along with the rest of the town, prepared for the annual return of the court.  When the news came that the Duke and his family were returning to Vorone – including the dashing young heir – Amandice spared no expense preparing her freshly-painted house for her noble lover.  She even pawned some of her lesser jewelry to pay for an entire new wardrobe for the season, designed to dazzle and impress.

But then the other news followed a few days later, carried by a swift rider.  News that left Amandice stricken.  The Duke of Alshar had arranged a marriage for Lenguin with the niece of the Duke of Remere, to be realized at Midwinter.

Amandice’s hopes were crushed . . . but not destroyed.  When one opportunity ends, Ishi provides others, she knew.  A duke’s mistress holds almost as much authority and power, position and title as a duchess, she reasoned.  If she could not have his hand in marriage, she could settle for his heart and . . . other parts.  Imagining a dumpy, doughty Remeran noblewoman in her lover’s bed, she predicted just how quickly Lenguin would tire of such congress and seek relief and repose in the arms of another woman.  She conspired to make herself the mistress to the heir.

She put her plan into action using every resource at her disposal.  She was at the welcome reception and the ceremonial Opening of the Palace after the Wildflower festival, dressed in a stunning new gown and stylish hat.  Her maids had taken hours applying cosmetics and styling her hair, and she was certainly noticed by the court.  Two days later she attended the opening joust of the season with two dear (slightly less-attractive) friends and their maids, and contrived to place herself in view of her lover.

She quickly caught Lenguin’s eye, she saw.  It was only a moment, as she crossed in front of his reviewing stand, but when she dropped her fan and beamed at him, she saw his smile.  There was no doubt in her mind.  He remembered her!

It took a week to arrange to actually meet with the heir at a function.  She managed to secure another invitation to hawking with Lenguin at his estates.  He recognized the purpose of her presence at once, and to her delight he indicated his desire to renew their intimacies.  Amandice did not hesitate.  While they were passing through wood and field, Lenguin found a way for them to be separated from his gentlemen for a time.  Enough time.

He took her in the middle of the beautiful field, passionately and roughly, and she reveled in her success at the seduction.  She was bedding the heir of the entire duchy, betrothed not a month!  Though she would wear no coronet, she bore the honor proudly, and did her best to entertain and delight Lenguin with every skill at her disposal that brilliant afternoon.

They walked back to the rest of the party slowly, hand in hand, Lenguin promising to continue seeking her acquaintance whenever he could.  That was as much success as a proposal of marriage, from such a powerful man.  He had not even seen his new bride, he complained, and he could not imagine married life to be anything but dull.  He far preferred Amandice’s company, he told her sincerely.  That was all the opportunity Amandice needed.

For three weeks she did all she could to be in Lenguin’s presence.  She haunted his steps and made herself available to him at every opportunity.  She delighted his senses and flattered his ego.  She did her best to live up to his ideal of a graceful mistress.  Her seduction worked magnificently.

Lenguin left games of dice to steal away with her for a few moments of passion.  He spent many evenings toasting her loveliness with Cormeeran wine while they both sat naked in the famous hot pools of the House of Steam.  He took her hunting with him, and then took her in the stables afterwards until they emerged with straw in their hair to the laughter of his gentlemen.  He gave her a parrot from the jungles of Farise, after that, a bird who became a beloved pet.  She named it Vanity, and taught it to speak.

She was not the only maid in court, nor even the only one vying for Lenguin’s affections and favor, but the beginning of summer saw her and the young heir in love, to her mind.  Twice he visited her in her own home for unforgettable nights of passion – but that saw him leave at the dawn, eager to escape notice or scandal.  Amandice spurned her other lovers cruelly, in the face of her success, and she wasted no pity or mercy on her rivals for Lenguin’s eye at court.

But then Lenguin was called to accompany his father for a week on a tour to inspect Tudry and attend a tournament in the northwest.  He would not return until Huin’s Day at Midsummer.  As a military operation, she was not invited to go with Lenguin.  Instead she spent the time until his return preparing even more grand entertainments for her beloved, even as she openly bore the envy and scorn of her rivals, and those at court who disapproved of the young man’s dalliances.  She loved Lenguin, and would serve him in any capacity.  She could easily bear the whispers against the Heir’s mistress with her head held high.  Once he came back to Vorone things would be different.

She had especial news for him, too.  Their love had borne fruit over the beatific summer months.  She was blessed with a baby in her belly, the heir’s first child.  All seemed perfect, as Huin’s Day approached with the promised arrival of her noble lover.

But he had scarcely enjoyed one night’s passionate reunion with her when he broke his own news first: his bride had arrived at port in Enultramar three weeks early, to avoid the storm season and the Farisian pirates.  He would be departing the next day to greet her, before he escorted her to the great abbey where they would be wed at Yule.

Amandice was devastated.  She pledged to follow him south and be his mistress after he wed, but he refused.  He would be too busy for such dalliances for awhile, he assured her, especially with his father in poor health. And he claimed it would not be fair to his new wife. A portrait of her had arrived at the palace while he was in the north, revealing his wife to be was a beautiful Remeran lass.  Lenguin pledged his love to Amandice and gave her gifts, but he also firmly insisted that she stay in Vorone until his eventual return.  She had not the heart to reveal her pregnancy to him, then, for fear of appearing desperate.

Besides, he mentioned, her name was not well-liked by his mother or his conniving sister, now that the apparent truth of her designs was obvious.  Though the one was busy planning his wedding and the other safely married off in Castal, Lenguin still feared their disapproval and their power.  Amandice did not know why, but when he told her that he and all of his heirs would likely be assassinated by his wretched sister, Grendine, she resolved to conceal her pregnancy from him and the court.

The next morning Lenguin was gone.  He’d left a healthy purse and other fine treasures for her, which she gratefully took.  She nearly hung herself in despair, but prayed to Ishi for answers.  A few days after Lenguin departed, she took lodging in a distant abbey to conceal her swelling belly from the gossip of court.  The next spring, three days after Duin’s Day, she gave birth to the first son of Lenguin II, future Duke of Alshar.  She called him Gydion, after Lenguin’s favorite hunting hound.  But she did not see the healthy little boy’s father for years afterward.

When Amandice returned to Vorone she told the boy off as the son of her maid to the public while she anxiously awaited his father’s return, so that she could present him with his son in secret.  In vain, she waited.  For two long years Lenguin and his wife stayed in Enultramar, far from Vorone, while Amandice raised the boy and waited.  He sent no word.  He did not answer her letters.  When the duke’s new bride gave birth to Anguin, Lenguin’s heir, Amandice even sent a simple gift and a note of loyal affection to the future Duke.  He answered her with a short, vague note thanking her in a general way.  It was signed by a clerk, not in Lenguin’s distinctive hand.

Holding back her despair, she planned on revealing the existence of his first born to him when he arrived the next summer.  But before the Ducal party could leave Falas and set off to Vorone, the old duke took ill and perished in a fever, despite the best efforts of the court physicians.  Lenguin, newly wed and newly a father, was suddenly the monarch of a mighty land.  He had little time for lovers in general, and no time for an aging mistress from his youth.

Amandice kept few lovers in those years she looked after her child and waited.  She was careful with such affairs: just enough to amuse her, and occasionally to re-supply her coffers, but never to raise a rumor among the courtiers.  She oversaw her son’s raising and education, instead, in preparation for meeting his father.  Gydion was strong and hearty, like his sire, and she encouraged his efforts in secret, in memory of the passion she had born for his absent father.  But for year after year, the duchy’s business and the duke’s life conspired to keep them apart.  Gydion grew.

Then the day came one spring when word finally arrived that the new Duke and Duchess would at last return to the summer capital with their children.  The Wilderlords would be able to pay homage and swear fealty in person to the vibrant young duke for the first time.  The entire town cheered to see its purpose fulfilled, and spared no effort to make the sovereign welcome.  Amandice herself made great preparations for the return, remembering the promise Lenguin had made to her before he’d departed.

But the man she saw arrive at the Opening of the Palace after the Wildflower festival that year was not the same smiling, carefree youth she recalled.  Instead he was older and more worn, surrounded by ministers and monks with parchments, not young gentlemen with swords and hunting spears.  He looked worried, serious, and deep in thought as he conducted the official rite that transferred ducal power to Vorone.  He was no longer near as handsome as he had once been.

Worse, as he made his entrance through the thronging crowds, his eyes lit long upon Amandice . . . and he didn’t recognize her.

That hurt Amandice’s heart more than anything.  He walked right past her, though she was bellowing his name as loudly as her lungs would let her. She was trying to get his attention as wildly as any peasant, in a gown that could have purchased a village of them, but when their eyes locked for an eternal heartbeat, it sealed her fate.  If Lenguin remembered her, his eyes showed no sign of it.  Burning with embarrassment, she returned to the Flower Bed and redoubled her efforts.  Baroness Amandice was not to be so lightly forgotten!

For days she conspired to get an invitation to the palace’s many announced functions, but she found herself spurned at every turn.  Old and dear friends at court suddenly stopped paying calls upon her, or even returning her correspondence.  Her attempts to secure a place at even minor functions where the Duke might be present were challenging.  Twice she attended luncheons in the hopes that he would appear . . . but rumor said that he sat in chambers with his staff, day and night, working on the governance of his lands.  He barely took his meals, let alone go hunting and jousting as he did in his carefree youth.

Politics was to blame.  There was pressure building on the young monarch to try a campaign to retake fair Gilmora, the lands lost by Alshar to Castal a generation before, she found out later.  Lenguin was trying to assess the Wilderlords’ military strength for such a campaign.

But Amandice did not know that.  All she knew was that where once she was welcome, now she was disdained.  The Duke barely attended the functions he sponsored in his own palace, and the new Duchess had very Remeran ideas about social propriety, as an acquaintance of hers from court (sent to her by special appointment, Amandice later realized) explained to her.

“No woman wants the mother of her husband’s bastard at her table,” Lady Peshta informed her at tea one afternoon that summer.  “Really, Amandice, everyone knows that the Duke favored you in his youth.  You were a pretty widow, he was a handsome heir.   But we all knew what was going on – he bragged about it to his gentlemen oft enough.  Not many women would present themselves for that kind of humiliation, I suppose, but you managed it well, I’ll give you that.  If it hadn’t been so sweet and romantic, it might have been scandalous.  And despite your pretenses, everyone knows who the parents of that handsome boy are,”  she added, smugly, her eyes full of superiority and judgment.

Those concerned Amandice not at all.  She was concerned for her lover.  “Does Lenguin . . .?”

“No,” Peshta said, sharply.  That’s when Amandice knew that her acquaintance had been dispatched with a message that was just shy of official.  “The Duke is not aware of his bastard.  Nor does his wife wish him to know.  Her Grace has mentioned, quietly, that she would find that distracting.”

“But, Lenguin—”

“She is aware of your position in his old life, but now that His Grace is married she will brook no affairs to complicate her life and bring scandal to her court.  Lenguin has grown into his legacy, now, and no longer has time for such . . . foolishness.”

“Perhaps if I met with her,” Amandice proposed, “spoke with her face to face—“

The laughter that interrupted her was painful and mocking.  “You still do not understand, you stupid little bird.  You are not welcome at the palace any more.  Nor does the Duchess feel you have any right to be at court with her.  Not with the reputation you now enjoy.  Not with the threat to her marriage that you pose.  Surely you can understand that, my dear?” she asked, coldly.

Soon after that dreadful meeting, before she could act on the impulse to find a way to meet with her lover, Duke Lenguin was called away south to mediate a private war between two vassals, pledging to join the Duchess in Falas after the season.

Amandice lost all hope.  She was exiled from court, denied her lover, and left with a brat to raise by herself on her diminishing savings while the Duchess had a palace and servants and plenty of money.  As bitterness set in, so did resentment.  But Amandice was not helpless.  When Gydion was seven years of age, she called upon an old favor and had him sent to southern Castal as the page to a tournament knight, along with enough to purchase horse and armor, when he was knighted.  Then she returned to her dashed dreams and vowed to knit them together.

As the years went by, she continued to scheme and plot.  She continued to take lovers of wealth, title, and reputation, though there were fewer of them each year.  She continued to attend what palace events there were available to her, and cultivated a circle of other ladies similarly unwelcome at court.  Regardless of what they did, however, the unofficial ban stood.  Amandice was not welcome in court, as the mistress of the Duke or in any other capacity.  Her bearing of a bastard was known to all but Lenguin, and the topic of conversation during dull moments for years.

Over time, the resentment Amandice felt became harder and harder to bear.  Rumors of a string of younger mistresses floating through Lenguin’s private chambers crushed her, even while she delighted in the Duchess being embarrassed so.  Eventually, even her own scandal ceased to be of any interest amongst the jaded courtiers.  She was all but forgotten, a remnant of a more pleasant age left to fend for herself at the margins of society.

Then Lenguin came to Vorone again, his own children growing into adulthood.  Amandice remembered standing near to the street that year, just for the barest sight of her former lover.  Once again she strove to catch Lenguin’s eye, but once again he was distracted, or did not recognize her.

Determined not to be ignored again, she had made a complicated series of plans to get her into the palace, into Lenguin’s proximity.  But, tragically, before she could execute them, His Grace was persuaded to lead his Wilderlords to war to stop the goblin invasion . . . a battle from which he had never returned.  The next time Amandice saw her lover, he was lying in state at the Temple of Orvatas.

Since then, her life had descended further and further into despair.  The sudden loss of the ducal family and the kidnapping of Lenguin’s heir by Castal plunged Vorone into an economic depression.  Waves of ignorant, poor refugees from the north inundated the town, and the appointment of an unpopular steward by a foreign duke over the capital grated on everyone.

There was very little left of her life in Vorone the day Amandice looked out of her balcony and made a decision that would affect the lives of all Voroni.  If her best days had been as a novice in the Scarlet Temple, she would seek them again, she vowed.  If there was no actual temple to the Goddess of Love and Beauty here, she would contrive to build one.  If there was any way her talents and abilities could rescue the town that she fell in love with Lenguin in, she felt compelled to use them.  She would invoke the goddess, herself, and give herself over in any way her patroness chose.  Body and soul.

It was time, she decided that fateful day, to invite the goddess Ishi to come to Vorone.

3. The Goddess In The Garden

As the last words of the ritual faded in the night’s air, and the last tendrils of smoke arose from the censor, Ishi looked down at the hands – her hands, now - still dainty and feminine, but wrinkled and spotted despite the best creams the apothecaries could make – with her new eyes.  Age, beauty’s tireless nemesis.

“A glass!” Ishi demanded to no one in particular.  “Bring me a glass!”

The bucktoothed servant girl startled at her mistress’s sudden change in tone, but hurried to bring the old gilded brass looking glass to her.  Ishi regarded herself in the imperfect surface.  Like the face and body she now inhabited, the mirror looked fine and ornate from a distance, but once you got close enough its age was easily revealed.

“This . . . is barely adequate,” she muttered to herself.  The Baroness was beautiful, for her age, but despite the care and attention she paid to herself, the climate and conditions conspired against her.  The hair was exquisite, treated with herbs, brushed, and washed regularly.  The body was well cared-for, she had to admit – strong, vibrant, humming with desire – but she had to do something about that face.  Those . . . imperfections.

She was the goddess of feminine beauty, after all.  Ishi concentrated a moment and filled her vessel with divine grace, directing it to achieve her goal.  When she returned to regard herself in the glass she had been transformed.

It was no maiden who stared back at her, to be sure.  But the face she beheld was smooth and clear, now, with the rich, healthy glow of youth.  The eyes were clear and blue, sparkling like mountain streams in the morning light.  Gone was the hint of despair and loss the Baroness’ worn face had carried for years.  A beautiful woman first, her maturity and bearing was now a complement to that beauty, not a detriment to it.  The marks of age on her hands were gone.  Her hair was even more luxurious, and now fell over her shoulders with enchanting grace.

“Much better,” Ishi said, satisfied.  “We’ll contend with the wardrobe later, I suppose.  You, girl – your name?”

“Elspeth, Mum!  But you know that, don’t you?” she asked, her mouth open unattractively.

Ishi sighed.  “I have a lot of work to do here.  Elspeth, I bear joyous news.  Your mistress’s ritual was a success.  She has invited me to occupy her body as my vessel.  She has been chosen as Ishi’s earthly avatar, here and now.”

“Ishi . . . Mum?” Her eyes went wide with awe and wonder, and her jaw dropped.

“Oh, close your mouth, girl, you make me think of rabbits!” Ishi said, testily.  “Yes, I – your mistress, the Baroness Amandice – invoked me by holy rite, known only to my priestesses.  She has been chosen to bear the spirit of Ishi, the goddess of love, lust, beauty . . . I believe you are acquainted with the lore.  Be not afraid.  I am merely borrowing her, for a while, and will leave her enriched when I depart.  Like borrowing a friend’s jewelry or a gown for a few nights,” she explained.

“Aye, Mum . . .Your Highness . . . Goddess . . . oh, whatever shall I call you?” the girl asked in confusion.

“Treat me as you always have, for now.  It will take us both some time to get used to this, several days, at least, before I will be ready to go among the mortals.  My true identity will of course have to remain secret – no one would believe us if we did tell, and that would work against my purposes.”

“Your purposes, Mum?”

“You don’t think I inhabited an aging ingénue in the ass-crack of the wilderness for the excitement, do you?” Ishi asked, coolly.  “I do have a purpose, and that purpose aligns, for the most, with those of the Baroness.  My time here will be short, but I shall leave your lives better for it, I think.”

“M-may I ask, Mum . . . what is your purpose?” the gawky girl asked, bringing her a warm mantle to drape across her shoulders, unbidden.  That was a good sign.  Elspeth may have had an unfortunate overbite and an overabundance of freckles, but she was smart and compassionate.  Ishi didn’t mind the homeliness.  She’d had worse to work with.

“To restore Vorone to health, to establish Duke Anguin thoroughly on his throne, and enliven the folk of the Wilderlands in support of him.”

“The Goddess of Love and Beauty is going to do that?” Elspeth asked, still confused.  “Shouldn’t that rightly be Duin’s domain?  Or Luin’s?”

“Warcraft and lawcraft will not save the duchy from destruction,’ she explained, patiently.  “Not when the spirit of the people is broken and hope is so elusive.  I was asked to do something constructive, Elspeth, and this is what I can do.  Nor is it a small power I bring to bear – merely more subtle than axe or decree.  Indeed, it is a very subversive power, affecting things in subtle ways and producing unexpected results.  It’s all in the way you use it,” she said, more to herself than the servant.

But that reminded her of business.  “Elspeth, tell me, how many servants are there?”

“Just me, Mum, the cook, the valet, and the butler.”

“For a house this size?  That will never do.  What is the state of your Mistress’ finances?”

“Oh, she was quite frugal, Mum.  Is quite frugal,” she amended.  “She has a few hundred in silver in her chamber, and she has an account with the Temple of Ifnia and a silversmith.  But not much with either,” she confessed.

“That will not do, either.  Every girl needs coin, if she’s to get anything accomplished.”

“Excuse me, Mum, but the Baroness has tried to get credit from several sources, and has been spurned, even from old friends.  That’s one reason why she . . . she beseeched you.  We were down to our last bit of silver.  Creditors were starting to call.”

“I gathered,” Ishi said, dryly, looking around at the faded tapestries and old furniture in the Baroness’ chamber.  She had made a magnificent effort, Ishi had to admit.  Amandice had paid faithful attention to all of the subtle hints about decoration, color, contrast and placement the Scarlet Temple had taught her, and had added some inspired touches of her own to blend it with the floral theme of the hall.

But it just wouldn’t do.  Not for what she had planned.  It was far too shabby, and far too common.

“First, we need some servants,” she directed.  “Then some students.  Then a change of décor.  A desperate change of decor.  And a thorough cleaning.  Tell me, dear Elspeth,” she asked, suddenly, “where can I find the most desperate of the desperate, in Vorone?”

“Why, everyone is a bit desperate, Mum,” the bucktoothed girl admitted.  “But the sorriest lot have to be the poor frozen souls in the camps outside the gates.”

“Then that is where we will begin, tomorrow morning,” the goddess in human form pledged.  “For what we need to do, human hearts are worth more than silver and gold.  And only amongst the most desperate can you see, really see, what lies within a human heart.”

“If you say so, Mum,” the servant girl agreed, reluctantly.  “But we’ll as like get our throats slit for our shoes, as stir the kettle of human compassion, out there.  Those folk are desperate.  Especially in the cold.”

“No mortal will harm Ishi,” she chuckled.  “Nor anyone under my protection.  But for now . . . a bath!  Draw me a bath, girl, as hot as you can, and as fragrant as you can manage in this dismal parlor.  For the kind of magic I plan on, I must be at my best – or as best as I can manage.  And lay out suitable clothes for tomorrow – I’ll want to select the appropriate garments for scrounging through a refugee camp.”

“There are appropriate garments for that, Mum?”

“There are appropriate garments for every occasion, my dear, including none at all.  One of my favorites.  But for this, I need to look regal, noble, untouchable.  But beautiful, in a Wilderlord sort of way.”

“I will do the best I can, Mum, with what is available.”

“I trust that you will, Elspeth.  You are of noble spirit, even if of heavy heart – and you doubt that your mistress has, in fact, transformed.  But you are willing to endure her apparent madness . . . why?”

Elspeth shrugged.  “A job is a job, Mum.  I figure a reference from either a goddess or a baroness would stand me in good stead.”

“That’s very opportunistic of you, Elspeth.  I like that.  Bath, clothes.  Run along!”

“Yes, Mum!” the servant said, and ran to comply.

For three days Ishi, in her guise as the Baroness, prowled the lowliest sorts of places on the outskirts of Vorone.  One by one she visited the camps, used her presence and her silver to keep the unwanted at bay, and began selecting from among the girls she found there.

Few were virgins, she quickly discovered, through her divine ability to sense such things.  In the desperation of the camps, with no kin or protector, the girls who had made it to Vorone had learned quickly to use the one resource available to them to survive.  Not all had bargained away their sacred seal so lightly, but most.  Almost all had been subject to deprivations and predators, starvation and beatings.

But as Ishi walked through the camps and surveyed the girls, she sensed more than their sexual histories. She sensed their deepest passions, desires, and delights.

Usually she would approach a girl directly, if she had no pimp or protector around.

“You, lass,” she would call in her Wilderlands brogue.  “Are you for hire?”

The question usually bought their rapt attention, for copper and silver were rare in the camps.  Simple jobs for pennies a week were fought over by grown men. An opportunity for a girl to earn coin on her own was just too alluring to ignore.

“Aye, my lady!” they usually said, trying their best to make themselves look presentable and healthy.  “What work have you?”

“Does it matter?” she would ask, amused.  “Would you do it, for silver?”

She would display a single silver coin, gleaming and irresistible.

“Aye, my lady!” they almost always said.  They knew the routine.  If a regal lady didn’t mention what work it was they were to do, they could guess what it might involve.  But most had enough experience to understand that a middle-aged woman likely had less demanding tastes than a tradefallen peasant in a camp with two apples, a crust of bread, and a hard pecker.  They were eager to be hired.

If she found them acceptable, Amandice would give them her address, and a wooden token with her crest upon it that would allow them entrance for their “interview.  But they were instructed to bring all of their clothing, for there was the possibility of livery – room, board, and perhaps even a bit of coin.

Ishi took a few here and a few there, ten from this camp, a dozen from another, only nine from another.  Nor were maidens the only servants she sought.  As she prowled through the desperate paths between makeshift shelters that had lasted years, faithful Elspeth behind her, she also found youths of sound body and of a particular bent, most quite handsome, who were willing to take service as guardsmen for lady of such noble bearing.

Best yet, she found a middle-aged widow nearly the Baroness’ own age who was a bit of a prodigy, for this backwater of a backwater.  She discovered Goody Candrice running a soup kitchen of sorts in conjunction with an oft-drunken monk of Huin, providing meals for many in her camp, and providing protection for as many young women as she could.  She had them pooling their efforts, taking in mending and washing from town and purchasing grain and eggs with the profits.

But Goody Candrice was no pious nun.  Before she wed she was a notorious unofficial disciple of Ishi, nor had she let her vows to Trygg stop her from taking her pleasure as she wished.  Since the war she had constantly schemed, both on her own behalf and on behalf of those she found worthy to protect and nurture.  And in turn, she had organized them into conducting some discreet whoring in the camps and in the less fashionable parts of town on their own.

Half a dozen of her older girls were already trading their favors for select clients she screened herself, either out of a tent in the back of her camp or on an on-call basis.  It was such an efficient and dear little operation that, once Ishi understood it by observation, she invited Candrice to come and be her matron and cook at her house . . . and invited all of her girls as well.

The matron was shocked, and didn’t believe the offer was genuine until Elspeth reluctantly placed ten ounces of silver in her palm.  But once she closed her fingers over it, the deal was done.  Candrice would come to the Hall of Flowers, as Ishi had re-named the Flower Bed, and help oversee the restoration of the place.  Not to mention help regulate the maidens.

Everywhere they went, however, Elspeth seemed to second-guess Ishi about her choices.  The homely girl was critical, but she had a good eye, the goddess had to admit.  She was adept at sums, despite her illiteracy . . . and every silver coin that left her purse made her moan in despair under her breath.

But then the first investments in femininity began paying dividends.  On the fourth day of their search, girls began arriving at the Hall of Flowers with their baggage and their hopes.  Elspeth greeted the first of them politely, took their names and birthplace, determined whether they were noble or common, and then assigned them to a chamber with several other girls.

By the end of the week there were more than a score crowding the hall, with Goody Candrice’s girls arriving last.

Candrice quickly took over the kitchen, even as one of the older girls – a pretty blonde name Rancine – assumed the role of clothier.  Most of the girls arrived in rags, torn dresses they’d outgrown or oversize cast-offs they’d acquired in the camps.  Few had had a bath since summer, and as the winter winds began to rise in the dark West, it was unlikely they’d see one before spring, in the camps.

Most of the poor wretches were half-starved.  A big pot of simple bean soup and a loaf of bread took care of that problem. It was taking a good portion of her remaining savings to feed them, but it had to be done, Ishi knew. Goody Candrice was adept at turning a little into a lot, and within hours of her arrival she and her more homely girls had turned what meager fare Ishi had been able to procure into a wholesome repast – the best most of the girls had eaten in weeks.

“I know you are all wondering why I invited you here, chose you to be here,” Ishi began as she addressed the first group of girls at dinner that first night.  “The simple fact is that I have seen all of Vorone, all of the Wilderlands, suffer too long under this awful war.  So many fair maidens and sturdy lads have gone off to die, or be enslaved, or otherwise doomed in the darkness, and many more have suffered at the hands of the fellow men.

“But for good or ill, you have all survived and found yourself here, in Vorone.  Perhaps this is the last outpost of true culture in the Wilderlands, perhaps it is the first, but here in Vorone we must do our best to create a world worth living in.  And one worth fighting for.”

“Why us?” one fleshy girl with long dark hair and big brown eyes asked.  Her name was Lega, Ishi knew.

“Because, my dear Lega, you are the smartest . . . fairest . . . most promising wildflowers I’ve found so far, growing in the wilderness.  And from you I shall make a beautiful garden of culture and civilization grow, here in Vorone,” she answered, sweetly.

“Baron won’t like that,” grunted Lega, around a mouthful of bread.

“The Baron won’t be in charge for much longer, if I understand correctly,” Ishi replied evenly.  “Nor will you all truly be ready until he is cold and dead in his grave.  But when that time comes, each of you will be well-prepared, as will this hall.”

“Prepared how, Mum?” asked a winsome girl with delicate features and child-like eyes.  Aubrum, she was.

“Why, Aubrum, you will be instructed.  Instructed in how to bathe.  How to dress.  How to speak, how to walk, how to stand, how to sit, how to eat, sleep, shit, piss, fuck, suck, and dance a pavane.  Each of you will learn the intricacies of your own femininity, and discover how to take that supposedly frail framework and turn it into the most deadly and dangerous weapon known to man or god.  You will become my Maidens of the wood, and allure every man in the city.  While inspiring envy and jealousy in every woman.”

The girls looked around at each other’s scraggly visages in amused disbelief.  They certainly did not see themselves that way.

Ishi smiled, and indulged them in a moment of her pure grace.  For a bare instant, each woman in the hall saw the rest not as they were, but as their most beautiful and dazzling ideals of feminine beauty.

“That, my blossoms, is what we aspire to,” she said, without further explanation.  “It will be up to each of you to see how close to that ideal you can come.  But each of you should know the attainable possibility, before being asked to trust me blindly.”

There was a pause, and then a gasp and a titter of voices from behind Ishi as she mounted the stairs to her private chambers.

“Mum?” came a call from the hall below.   “Mum, what shall we call you?”

Ishi considered.  She could maintain the identity of the Baroness, of course, but this occasion called for a masking pseudonym.  She had contrived one.

“Call me Lady Pleasure,” she decided.  “Soon all of Vorone shall know me by that name.”

The lessons were relentless.

The food was good, if simple, at first, prepared by Goody Candrice, and each girl was given a clean blanket or quilt, and a warm, dry place to curl up at night.  They were broken up into groups by age.  They were each assigned simple chores – wood, water, cooking, or laundry.

While the conditions in the House of Flowers (as Lady Pleasure now styled the Flower Bed) were far, far more pleasant than those the girls had enjoyed in camp in winter, there was very little time to enjoy them.  From morning to night, Lady Pleasure and her staff conducted lessons.  The first day was devoted entirely to walking properly, less like a farm girl and more like a lady of town, secure in her sophisticated femininity.  The next day was devoted to caring for the face, and basic clothing.  The day after that was dedicated to speaking properly, and conversing politely.

They were not all agreeable with the lessons, at first.  But the girls who raised a fuss had a brief, if intense, conference with Lady Pleasure, and afterwards were amongst the most devoted of her strange family.

By the end of the first week the girls were rising at dawn, as quiet as nuns, preparing breakfast, washing, and gathering for lessons – increasingly interesting lessons – in everything from flirtation to dancing.  At noon they would enjoy a light luncheon of bread, soup, and riverfish, practicing light conversation while Lady Pleasure mingled among them, correcting posture and diction.

Afternoons were devoted to the study of art, music and history, particularly the history of the Wilderlands, Vorone, and the Duchy of Alshar.  Lady Pleasure was a stickler on that point, though the long list of Dukes and Counts and the various struggles with Castal over the Gilmoran territories seemed inane to most of the girls.  Though they grumbled, they sat and they learned until they could recite them by rote.

But Lady Pleasure was more adept than that.  Ishi knew that the kind of weapons she was crafting needed not just awareness of their own femininity and its value, but the value of femininity in the construction, administration, and destruction of power.  Though she tied the various eras to surviving fashions in the court, making the exercise at least somewhat interesting, the history lessons were by far the least favored among the girls.

Three weeks into their studies, Lady Pleasure began taking the most promising of her pupils aside, two at a time, for extended study in her private chambers.  There the discussion ran to pleasure in all of its manifestations.  Ishi imparted to them the ancient secrets of human female sexuality older than man’s time under Callidore’s sun.

A long list of topics were covered in those heated sessions in the Garden Chamber, as her room came to be called: The importance of the moon, the fleeting moments of beauty before the ravages of age inevitably came, the use and employment of glamour, the art of erotic enrapture, the immutable laws of attraction, and a woman’s ability to use her sexuality to improve her lot in life – or even change the course of empires.

Those were the sessions in which Lady Pleasure selected the first of her Maidens, those who were old enough to be wed themselves (two of them proved to be young widows) but were still in youth’s full bloom of beauty.  Twelve of them she chose for that first trial.  While the rest of the girls continued to grow with their lessons, the first twelve Maidens were taken aside and instructed in the most secret arts of sexual pleasure.  She used the mesmerized bodies of the handsome young guardsmen to instruct the Maidens.

“So we’re to be whores, then?” Andrette asked, frowning.

“You are going to be far more than mere whores, my dear,” Lady Pleasure insisted.  “Any woman can be a whore.  We are all naturally equipped for that.  No, you are being trained to be the perfect companion to a man . . . so perfect that he will willingly spend his valuable resources for you to favor him with the power of your femininity,” she explained.  “You will be great courtesans, each of you, in your own right.  It might be your purse he thinks he’s buying, but you will give him so much more than that, he will never count the cost of your company.  If you master the crimson arts, you will enchant him out of his wits.”

“Still looks like spreading for coin, to me,” Andrette said, skeptically.

“That’s nothing you haven’t done before, Daughter,” Lady Pleasure pointed out, coolly.

“I just figured—”

“That you would be . . . more, somehow?” she chuckled, skeptically.  “My dear Andrette, whether you are a Queen or a peasant wife spewing brats forth from your crack, your power lies in your femininity.  For some of you, that will be the only power you will ever enjoy in this brutal world, and briefly, at that.  Without my help.  With my lessons, you are just beginning to learn what can happen when combine your feminine power with greater power.

“But that is a lesson for another time.  Tonight we begin preparations for your winter debut.  The Dance of Holly, for the Yuletide festival.”

‘Yule, Mum?” Haneth asked, her eyes wide with delight.  “A real Yule dance?”

“I think that you will find this Yule a bit merrier than last in Vorone,” she smiled.  “A new wind comes from the south, and it will stir a great many things to light here in the wood . . . if the conditions are right.  For our part, Maidens, we shall prepare the way with special blessings . . . and open our Hall to gentlemen callers on that sacred night.”

The girls looked around at each other and grinned nervously.  “Gentlemen callers?” Haneth giggled.

“Clients, she means,” Andrette stated, flatly.  “Just like in the camps.  Only they smell better in Vorone.”

“And so do you, my Maidens,” Lady Pleasure assured them.  “And you will learn to act like real women, now.  At Yule we will introduce ourselves to Vorone’s society, and welcome all that the new year will bring for us.  For after winter comes spring, the time of blooming.  Come spring, you will all be in perfect form to blossom as dazzling as any ingénue.”

From that night forward, the first class of twelve Maidens began learning the Holly Dance popular in the Wilderlands, and the symbolic significance of the ancient plant and the other evergreens that were featured at Yule.  Meanwhile, the other girls of the Hall of Flowers prepared three special chambers, small in size but intimate in appointment, for their first callers.

While it meant some of the larger chambers were overcrowded at night, the three rooms – the Lily Chamber, the Tulip Chamber, and the Rosebud Chamber – were bedecked in the finest tapestries and linens the house’s dwindling coffers could supply.  Indeed, Elspeth’s daily accounting to Lady Pleasure of the declining balance the House enjoyed was the worst part of Ishi’s incarnation every morning.  She hated hearing Elspeth lecture her against unreasonable expenses.

But she knew she could spare no expense, here.  This was an investment.  In Vorone.

Ishi knew how powerful a public festival could be in restoring the people’s spirits, and Vorone’s spirits had been wracked repeatedly over the years.  The despair and hopelessness in the faces of the folk of the disused capital was tragic.  Yet there was much hidden strength here, she saw.  The folk of the Wilderlands were hearty, bold, and unused to lean times.  In some ways the residue of humanity who had found themselves in Vorone, out of easy reach of the goblins in the north, were the finest of the Wilderlands stock.  Brawny men and sturdy women, each possessing a rustic beauty.

But Vorone had too long been bereft of any real purpose, save sheltering the people and carrying on a sham existence between Ducal visits.  Without the presence of the court in the palace, it was merely a regional capital town of modest commercial importance, at best – and one on the edge of a smoldering war zone.

A time was coming when the fallow strength of Vorone, of all the Wilderlands, could arise again, she knew.  There was at least a chance that things could get better, if they were managed properly.  She wasn’t a traditionally powerful goddess – she couldn’t make the granaries full or wage holy war on the gurvani.  But that didn’t mean that she could not have an effect on the outcome.  With just a little inspiration, a little admiration, and a little wonder, Lady Pleasure decided, she could find a way to inspire the Voroni back into their strength once more.

Unfortunately, someone got wind of her plan days before the Yule festival.  On the same day, Lady Pleasure entertained to gentlemen who claimed to have business with her.

The first was the town constable, a vile man of noble lineage and common tastes.  Lady Pleasure saw him in the Sunflower Room, a tiny chamber roofed with expensive glass.

“Excellency, it has come to the attention of Baron Edmarin that some along Perfume Street have been whispering that you plan on opening a bawdy house in this hall.”

“People do find things to gossip about, Constable,” she assured him, pouring him a glass of fragrant herbal tea.  “I am merely taking in poor orphan girls, the few who are left after most departed last summer, and teaching them civilized manners.  An act of godly charity, would you not say?”

“Oh, yes, Excellency, if that is all they are,” the constable chuckled wickedly.  “Perhaps you teach them all sorts of those intriguing things I hear about those temples in the Southlands.  I heard that you were in one, yourself,” he added, eyeing her obscenely.  “I don’t object to such practices at all, but I want to ensure the security of your house.  Such places must be . . . inspected.”

“And what kind of inspection would you propose, Constable?” Lady Pleasure asked, invitingly, as she sprawled on the couch across from him.

“Oh, a simple examination of the wares, and the occasional sample, to ensure quality,” he proposed, cocking one crow-like eye at her.  Ishi hated crows.  Wretched birds.  They were the totem animal of her sister,

“And who would the palace designate as the inspector, Sir Constable?”

“Oh, I think that such a grave duty falls to no less person than the Constable of Vorone.  Indeed, it is in the charter that the officer administer all such places of . . . amusement,” he said, sloshing the delicate tea around the rare glass like it was cheap grog before finishing it.  A detestable man of low breeding and high entitlement.  “A few auxiliary passes might not go awry, if you want your place to stay out of the office’s eyes.”

“Yes, I’m thinking that being in your eye is a very poor idea, Sir Constable,” Ishi agreed.  As usual, the idiot mistook her declaration for submission, not as a challenge.

“Quite right Baroness.  I’m the last man you want against you in Vorone.  I can be your best friend, or I can be your worst enemy.  Just give me and my gentlemen a few evenings a month, and I’m sure we can overlook any official unpleasantries.”

As Ishi and Elspeth watched the nasty little man leave from the deck above, Elspeth shook her head in disgust.

“Are you really going to let the likes of him paw at poor Andrette and Ilsie?”

“He claims to want to inspect the girls for their worthiness, to determine their quality . . . when he has no concept of quality himself.  No, Elspeth, that is not the kind of man we can do business with.  He’s the kind of man who continues to take and take until he feels entitled to take everything.”

“So what do we do about him, Mum?  Complain to the Baron?”

“Edmarin’s life won’t survive the new year, Elspeth.  But the Constable shall predecease him.  That tea you prepared?  Mountain hibiscus, white oleander and black lily stem, from the high country lakes.  Separately they are harmless, even a bit bitter.  Together, in the proper proportions, at the proper heat, they release a slow-working toxin.  If he does not receive the antidote, within three days the man’s liver will fail, his eyes will turn yellow, and he will begin acting like a madman for a few brief, destructive hours before his heart finally fails him.”

“But you do have the antidote, Mum?” Elspeth asked, desperately.

“I do, Kitten.  But he will never see it.”

That afternoon, a second gentleman arrived.  This one wore a fashionable southern-style aristocratic long coat over his doublet and hose, not a surcoat and mantle in the local style.  But though his fashion was impeccable, denoting just the right amount of class and sophistication, the man within the clothes was every bit as vile as the Constable.  Worse.

“Baroness,” he said, giving a curt nod.  “I have heard you plan to open a brothel, here.”

“I am considering many business opportunities,” she countered, reasonably.  “You are, Sir?”

“I am . . . you may call me Master Luthar.  I am well-known in the precinct.”

“Ah, yes, your reputation precedes you,” smiled Lady Pleasure.  He was the leader of the local thugs.  “Tea?”

“No, thank you.  You said you were open to business opportunities.  I might have one for you.”

“Really?  Do tell, Master Luthar.”

“I am a member of a society who wishes to see the folk of Vorone prosper, with good security for their business.  For a modest contribution, you can help ensure the security of your Hall and all of its clients.”

“I have guards already,” Lady Pleasure demurred.  “Fine, strapping fellows.  And I can procure more.  Certainly they are enough to contend with a simple drunk or madman.”

“The dangers I could protect you from are more insidious, Excellency.”

She looked confused.  “Do you specialize in vermin?” she asked, at a loss for what other dangers she might be exposed to.

He chuckled, an unpleasant sound.  “As fair as Vorone might be, Excellency, it is subject to the same mischance as any other town.  All sorts of misfortune can befall even the most magnificent enterprises.”

“I tend to have very good luck, Master Luthar.  And I am familiar with the kind of ‘luck’ your society proposes: I’ve seen the vicious gambling parlors, the hidden fights for sport and wagering, the awful loans you force the merchants of this quarter to pay just to stay in business, the fixed games you use to offer the impoverished false hope and real debt slavery.  I see no business advantage in contributing to that.  No, the Hall of Flowers will stand unprotected from the likes of you.”

“Such a pretty bunch of flowers,” the man said with mock sadness as he watched the girls practicing the Holly Dance in the hall below.  “So nubile, and ready to be . . . plucked.”

“The incautious finger will discover that those roses have thorns, Master Luthar.  And sometimes things more dangerous than thorns.”

“They are but girls,” he dismissed arrogantly.

That irritated Lady Pleasure.

“You see those girls, and you see things to be exploited, used . . . ‘plucked’.  And when they are no longer pretty, you throw them into the gutter.  I see them as young ladies to be tended, nurtured, trained.  They are here to be developed, not used up.  That is the difference between you and I, Master Luthar, between all who would profit from the act of love without understanding it, and those who appreciate its subtle nuances.  Your own desire for fat little boys, for example . . .”

“I . . . Madame!  That is a bold accusation!” the man blustered, his face colored.  “I’ll have you know I am married!”

“And l also know that you go after your stableboys after a good ride to get your blood up, don’t you?” she followed.  “On that little country manor outside of town?  I wonder what your wife would say, if she knew of such proclivities.  Especially the unwilling nature of the lads.  I believe you had to thrash the last one when he rejected your advances?  For shame.  There’s nothing admirable about that.”

“You . . . you can prove nothing!” the criminal boss sputtered.

“I don’t need to,” Lady Pleasure smiled.  “All I need do is drop the suggestion of it into local society.  Like a pebble in a pond it will ripple larger and larger, until your wife’s ears hear them – likely from her dearest friend.  By then the anxiety will have built up in you, and the pressure will be nearly unbearable.  The first mention of it, the first accusation will be enough.  Proof won’t matter to her, you see, for she shall see the truth on your face and in your eyes.  That will be enough, Master Luthar, to blacken you in her eyes forever.  And when your own wife turns against you—”

“I believe we have concluded our business for today!” the dandy said, gathering his hat and sword.  “I wish you the best in your endeavors, my lady, and I will be sure to take an active interest in your affairs.”

“He certainly left in a hurry,” grunted Elspeth, as the man nearly ran from the hall.  “What did you say to him, Mum?”

“I confronted him with his worst fear.  Not death, nor disgrace, but dishonor in his wife’s eyes.  Not every man has that weakness, but those who do invariably betray themselves with wickedness of some way or another.  It did not take much to reveal his secret.  A man such as he has many.  It was just a matter of figuring out which one he feared the most, and employing it against him.”

“You do know he was of the . . . Rat Crew, Mum?” Elspeth added, hesitantly.

“Of course I do, Kitten!” Ishi smiled.  “They own controlling interests in most of the squalid brothels in town.  But their idea of a pleasure house and mine are as far apart as wood and wave.  Oh, he thinks he can scare me with threats of violence, and the menace of his notorious organization, but the truth is he is but a man, and therefore weak.  Such men invite wickedness and guilt into their souls like it could sustain them.  Such men have no future in Vorone.”

“He wouldn’t drink the tea, though,” Elspeth observed, gloomily.  She had come to terms with her mistress’ pragmatic approach to administrative oversight.  Assassination was, she was starting to admit, a quite efficient method of removing commercial and bureaucratic obstacles.

“He is different than that awful Constable, Kitten.  An official can be replaced by any other kind of man, but there is only one kind who seeks the kind of work Master Luthar does.  Kill him, and two more will come in his place.  I thwarted him by humiliating him, telling him his own secrets.  That will only work for a short time, but help is on the way.  These . . . rats may be a problem for others, but not for us.  They will leave us alone, for now.  And they will be too hard pressed, come spring, to pay us much mind.”

“You do like to speak in riddles, Mum,” Elspeth said, shaking her head.

“Enough of this,” Lady Pleasure sighed as she watched the criminal lord hurry away.  “Back to the dance practice.  A week to go, and they still look like scarecrows blowing in the winds!”

There was just a trace of Baroness Amandice’s up-country accent in the exclamation.  It was enough like one of Baroness Amandice’s old whines to make bucktoothed Elspeth grin.

“Tomorrow we will begin where the story should properly begin,” Antimei finished, with a sigh.  “With the Restoration of Alshar.  I will tell you of the daring return of a long-lost heir to his legacy . . . and the powerful heroine he brings with him in his retinue.”

“Who?” asked Alurra, intrigued.  She really did love stories.

“Tomorrow, Sweeting!” Antimei begged, giggling at her enthusiasm.

“Antimei!” Alurra whined.  “Just the beginning?  Who is the heir?  Who is the heroine?”

“Well, he is known as the Orphan Duke,” Antimei said, settling more comfortably into her chair, resigned to talk all night long.  “He is Anguin II, son of Lenguin II, and he has returned in secret from a long exile to the last outpost of his realm he can claim as his own.  With him are a band of heroes and adventurers, stalwarts who risk their lives and their honor supporting his claim.  They have travelled for days across the frozen roads to arrive at the gates of fair Vorone, the summer palace locked in snow, and held by an evil man.”

“Oh!  This sounds good!” praised Alurra, leaning forward on her fist.  “I was getting bored with the, you know, sex stuff.”

“It will be . . . when it isn’t terribly sad,” promised the witch.  “And there is some ‘sex stuff’ in this tale as well.  Pour the tea, if you would, and I will tell you about the night that the Orphan Duke will come to Vorone, and bring his new Court Wizard with him: a Remeran mage of great power,” supplied Antimei.  “Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial . . . and upon her, child, not only does the story depend . . . but upon her depends all of our hopes.  Luckily, Yule is the feast of Hope, and that snowy, moonless evening is the night that the Duke and his gentlemen will appear at the gates of Vorone . . . and that is where our real story begins . . .”

Chapter One

Return to Vorone

“Halt!” called the sleepy but determined voice of the guard at the great city gate.

It was near to midnight, and though he was awake – unlike his fellows – he had not spotted the approaching party until they’d been within bowshot.  With a foot of snow on the ground to muffle their hooves, that was somewhat understandable, but even Pentandra, who had only casual experience with warfare, knew that was sloppy.

The guard stood boldly in front of the great redwood gate, facing the party of two hundred men and horses, their breath steaming in the cold night air, with a single crossbow cradled in his arms.  “The city gates are closed, after sundown.  By order of the Baron,” he added, apologetically.

“Then open them,” came a strong but reedy voice from beneath the fur-trimmed hood of the leading horseman.  “In the name of the Duke.”

The guard chuckled at the unexpected invocation.  “Huin’s tired feet, my lord, but the Duke died more than three years ago.  Four, now.  Begging your pardon, but you won’t get no further than that by mentioning poor Duke Lenguin.”

“I wasn’t,” the reedy voice said, impatiently.  “I am referring to—”

“Enough of this!” One of the heavily-cloaked riders a few rows behind the vanguard of the party urged his mount forward.  “It’s late, we’re cold, we’re tired, and we’re hungry!”  He approached the head of the column, where the leader retreated deferentially.  He threw back his dark blue hood, revealing a youthful face of noble bearing – and a scowl.  “You, Sir!  You are . . . Randaw, are you not?  Corporal of the guard?”

“Ancient of the guard, my lord,” the man corrected, respectfully.  “But I—“

“Hush!” the youth commanded.  “I know that because I remember you.  You have two daughters, and your wife died with the second, am I wrong?”

“My lord!” the man said, his eyes growing wide.  “’Tis true, but—”

“I know this, Randaw, because I recall as a boy watching you play with them after your shift at the palace in late spring,” he said, firmly.  “Your older daughter wore yellow, with a bow in her hair often; and your younger daughter wore white, but it always looked gray, because she could never stay clean.  Further,” he said, smiling at the recollection, “your younger daughter called you ‘Dadums’, for no good reason that you could explain.  You loved them dearly.  So much that not even the approach of a Duke’s son would keep you from tending to them, when the younger one injured her knee,” he finished.

The soldier’s eyes grew even wider, and his jaw went slack with wonder.  “Huin’s holy hoe!  It’s you!  Anguin!”

“Duke Anguin,” the reedy voice corrected, officiously.  “His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, to be precise.”

“I . . . Your Grace!” the man exclaimed, his face filled with emotion.  “You’ve . . . you’ve returned?  Here?”

“Aye,” Anguin nodded.  “This is the summer capital, is it not?” he asked, looking around at the large drifts of snow that had piled up outside of the city’s wooden wall.

“Aye!  Aye, Your Grace, but . . . pardon me for saying it, but is this not the eve of Yule?”

Anguin smiled at the man.  “Summer is coming, my friend.  For all of the Wilderlands.  Now, in my own name to my own sworn man in my own city, will you please open that godsdamn gate and let us in before we freeze on the spot?”

“It would be a genuine pleasure, your Grace!” Randaw nodded, solemnly, and rang a bell in the guard house twice.  He had to wait a few moments, then grinned apologetically and rang it again, twice.  “It’s the eve of Yule,” he explained, sheepishly.  “Most of the men are in their cups or sleeping it off.”  Just then the massive gate creaked and cracked, shuddering open and sending a cloud of freshly fallen snow cascading across the party.

But the great gate was open.  Anguin, with a bit of ceremony, nudged his horse forward past the threshold of the town.  Randaw followed behind him.

“I’d like to be the first to welcome you back to Vorone, Your Grace,” he said with a deep bow.  “Many of us mourned your parents on that fateful night.  Many of us were saddened to see you go with your . . . to see you go.  But welcome back, your Grace.  May the gods give you the strength to set things aright!”

“Who authorized the bloody gate being opened?” came an angry shout from the tower room above the gate.  “Who the bloody hell said open the bloody gate when the baron gave explicit instructions that it should remain closed until morn?” demanded a slovenly-looking guard with a lieutenant’s sash hung haphazardly around his neck.  He wore an impressively bushy specimen of the mustache that was currently in style among the Wilderlords, but it was about the most impressive thing about the man.

“That would be me,” Anguin said, from horseback.  He did not sound pleased.

“And who the bloody hells are you, my lord?” demanded the lieutenant angrily, leaning on the rail of the balcony.

“Your liege lord and master of this town, Anguin,” the Duke replied.  Despite the entourage behind him, the lieutenant did not believe him.  Indeed, he laughed derisively, filling the air with the aroma of slightly-used juniper spirits.

“Anguin’s a bloody prisoner in Castal!” snorted the man derisively as he descended the stairs.  “Now kindly get your noble arse back through that gate, your lordship, and bloody wait for the dawn like everyone else to begin your reveling, or you’ll answer to Baron Edmarin in the morn!”

“Ancient Randaw?” Anguin called, quietly.

“Yes, Your Grace?” the guard asked, quizzically, but with a properly subordinate tone.

“Arrest this man,” he commanded.  “Secure him until I have time to judge him for his foul language and uncouth manners.”

Ancient Randaw snapped to attention, and did not hesitate.  “Aye, Your Grace!  You!  Lieutenant Maref!  By order of the rightful Duke of Alshar, I take you into custody and request that you relinquish your sword!”

The lieutenant looked at his subordinate blearily.  “What kind of game are you playing at, Randaw?  Do you want to be chasing goblins through the Penumbra for the next six months?  Get these folk back out of the gate, close it, and then put yourself on bloody report!”

“Lieutenant, this is your last warning,” Randaw said, soberly, putting his hand on the hilt of his infantry sword.

“This is insubordination!” Lieutenant Maref exclaimed, as he realized his man was serious.

“Permission to subdue him, your Grace?” Randaw asked, his hand gripping the hilt and drawing it an inch.

“Allow me,” Pentandra finally said from behind them.  While she enjoyed the drama, she was tired, starting to feel the cold even through her spells, and wanted the comfort of a fire and a bed more than she wanted political entertainment.

She kneed her roan rouncey ahead and within the town’s limits.  She held out her hand, and before the uncouth lieutenant could speak again, he was laid out flat on the dirty snow.  In a moment he was snoring.

“Thank you, my lady,” Ancient Randaw grunted, as he stooped and dragged his superior back into the guard house.  “You are a mage?” he asked.

“I am your new Court Wizard,” she agreed, casting back her snowy hood.  “Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks.  You are loyal to your duke, Ancient Randaw?”

The guardsman nodded solemnly, as he threw the unconscious body on the cold floor of the guard house with impressive strength for his age.  “Oh, aye, my lady.  My family have worked at the palace for three generations.  I expect to try for the palace guard, someday, myself . . . assuming the management changes,” he added, disgustedly.

“Good.  Then aid his plans now by keeping quiet about his return until an announcement is made – lest some with evil intent attempt to keep him from doing so.”

“Aye, that’s sensible.  Enough of those sort in Vorone these days,” Ancient Randaw sighed wearily.  “I’ll keep mum, I swear.”

“In about a half an hour,” Duke Anguin continued to the man, “there will be the vanguard of a mercenary company bearing the arms of the Orphan’s Band coming up the road. They are in my service.  You are to admit them without difficulty and assist them in securing the gatehouse.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Randaw nodded enthusiastically.  “Orphans?  Tough buggers those,” he said, admiringly.

“And go ahead and take that foul fellow’s sash from him, Randaw,” advised the Duke.  “I don’t think he deserves it.  It looks a lot better on you, Lieutenant,” he added.

“Yes, Your Grace!” Randaw said, proudly.

“That was well done, Sire,” Pentandra told the young duke, as they rode into the town, proper, the rest of their party trailing behind them.  “And quite an impressive feat of memory.”

“Not that impressive,” shrugged the young duke with a grin.  “I recall his daughters because the older was quite pretty, though she had a gap between her teeth that made her look like a rabbit.  I was just a lad . . . but I had taken notice of femininity, before I left here.”  He looked around at the silent snow-covered streets.  “This place looks so . . . different than when I was here last.  I’ve never seen Vorone in the winter.”

“Enjoy the sight, Your Grace,” a gruff, deep voice suggested from the next rank of riders.  “The snow cloaks all with its pristine beauty.  Yet we’re but a warm day away from seeing the filth and despair it conceals.”

“My husband, you are so full of Yuletide cheer,” Pentandra reproved, sarcastically.  She could feel his wry grin without even turning around.

There were two hundred in the advanced party, a score of them mercenary soldiers of the Orphan’s Band.  The rest were loyal knights and retainers who had quietly joined the Duke in exile in his estates in Gilmora last autumn, and had assisted in planning (and, in some cases, funding) his restoration to power.  Partisans, patriots, and soldiers-of-fortune, it was an odd assortment of adventurers she found herself with.

She had come to know them a bit in the scant weeks leading up to their departure.  Their motivations were as varied as their individual stories.

Many served out of fierce devotion to the cause of supporting the Alshari ducal house.  Many others served for lack of a better position or opportunity.  Many were Wilderlords who had lost their holdings to the goblin invasion or the turmoil after; some were Coastlords and even a few Sealords disgusted with the rebels who had usurped ducal authority in the rich Southlands of Alshar and sought to restore the rightful heir to the coronet – and their own political fortunes.  Still others were Castali gentlemen-adventurers, younger sons of great houses or landless knights eager to take part in a noble and potentially lucrative political cause.

But they had all pledged their swords, their purses and their lives to this untested, untried, and un-blooded Orphan Duke as his sworn men.  They could all, theoretically, be dead by morning for doing so.

Leading the motley assembly of nobility were the three men most responsible for the effort to put the teen-aged heir known as the Orphan Duke back into power: Landfather Amus, the High Priest of Huin for Vorone, and the boy’s personal chaplain.  The high priest of a peasant’s god was a strange protector of the line, but he looked after the lad with the tenacity of an aging bitch with her last puppy.  The man was huddled under a thick, plain woolen cloak as befitted his ascetic order, but there was no disguising the delight in his eyes to be back in his home ecclesiastical territory.

Count Salgo rode next to him on a magnificent destrier, a contrast in appearance and vocation.  Salgo was a soldier, the former Royal Minister of War, who was recently forced to retire from the Royal Court in favor of a younger man after quietly assisting the Magi against the goblins against orders.  He was disgusted with the Royal court and was eager to prove his value in a theater where active hostilities might break out at any moment.  A dedicated man, his loyalty was to his men, first – but he had never proven untrue.  His oiled leather travel cloak obscured his mail and sword, but his true power lay in his strategic vision.

Ahead of them rode Count Angrial, a career Alshari diplomat who had been living in self-imposed exile at the bottom of a wine glass in Wilderhall for the last four years.  Under the Spellmonger’s recommendation he had been chosen as the new Prime Minister to replace the Steward, Baron Edmarin, who King Rard had left in charge of Vorone. His star having waned at the Alshari court in ages past, the talented administrator and politician was determined to rebuild the Alshari state from the remains of the duchy.

Only such dark and desperate times could have recalled a degenerate sot from exile, Pentandra knew, but the challenge and importance of the post had transformed Angrial.  He had approached the difficult feat of restoration with a passion and a genius for organization that kept the odd band motivated and regulated.  Whether or not that professionalism would extend to governance was yet to be seen, but there was fire in the reedy little man that gave her hope.

A fanatical priest, a worn-out soldier, and a destitute drunk.

Each had something to prove by their efforts.  Amus was as devoutly loyal to Anguin as he was to Huin the Tiller, and seeing the boy he had ministered to since he was a child come into his rightful inheritance was his most fervent desire.  Count Salgo was stinging from his removal from office at the height of his military career.  His efforts here was the only way he could keep himself on the front line of the only war that mattered, the war with the gurvani.  And Angrial, a courtier with a troubled past, saw this attempt at restoration as a pathway back into political power long denied him.

Each man was able and talented in their field.  Each was as loyal to the Orphan Duke as one could hope.

But then there was Pentandra.  She was the fourth player in this mad attempt to steal power.  She represented the Arcane Orders’ interests in the Alshari Wilderlands, which were significant.  Minalan had convinced her to give up her cushy post as the Steward of the Arcane Orders in the cosmopolitan capital of Castabriel for the important-sounding title of Ducal Wizard of (A Third Of) Alshar in the quaint, rustic, remote resort of Vorone, the summer capital.  At the height of winter.

She had always dreamt of being a Ducal Court Wizard, ever since she had come into her Talent and begun learning the family’s Art.  Ducal Court Wizard was the highest position a mage could attain, in her youth.  Now, as she was entering the town and the reality of the task ahead of her was pressing, she wondered if she should have stayed in warm Castabriel, sorting parchment and attending balls and luncheons at the fashionable salons.  That’s what her mother would have wanted her to do.

She might have, once-upon-a-time.  But a former warmage-turned-spellmonger, former classmate and former lover, had summoned her from her comfortable estates in civilized Remere to come rescue him from certain doom at the ass-end of the world and messed up her hedonistic approach to life.  But it wasn’t her fondness for Minalan that had motivated her.  Pentandra knew in her heart of hearts that despite her affection for Minalan, she never would have ventured into her new life if there hadn’t been the promise of power – ironite.  That intrepid rescue party had set a course of events into motion that had shattered her peaceful – and utterly boring – existence.

Using Minalan’s bold and foolhardy maneuverings against the Dead God as cover, she’d not only gotten her own stone of the ultra-precious magical mineral, she’d attained nobility, power and position beyond her ambitious girlhood dreams.  She’d taken a personal hand in restructuring how magic was done in the new Kingdom, gained a small fortune and immeasurable professional respect to the point where accepting a post as a mere Ducal Court Wizard seemed like a demotion.

But it wasn’t.  If the assumption of the position belied her girlhood fantasies of power, it was because, ultimately, she had found the entire exercise underwhelming and unfulfilling.

Being Steward of the Arcane Orders had given her unanticipated power, but Pentandra had quickly grown weary of responsibilities that always seemed more burdensome than the perquisites they accompanied.  When it became clear to her that a future as Steward meant being locked in a room with thousands of sheaves of parchment for all of eternity, she had started to question her goals.

Then she’d met Arborn.

As a student of the arcane and obscure magic of sex, Pentandra had a highly discerning eye when it came to evaluating people, sexually.  A casual glance at a man or woman told her volumes about that person’s sexuality, once you understood the arcane rules of human sexual attraction and interaction.  It was far more than good looks and base attraction.  Pentandra’s professional eye evaluated social context, age, bearing, charisma, and nuances of musculature that escaped everyone else.  It was amazing what a casual glance could tell you about a person’s inner soul, if you knew how to read it.  And that was before she added her magical perceptions into the equation.

When she’d met Arborn, her assessment of the big Kasari ranger was perplexing.  She’d never met a more perfect man – literally.  He was physically appealing, of course – the traditional Tall, Dark, and Handsome, Strong and Silent, but he was no mere muscular slab of man.  He possessed a marvelous intelligence, had keen insights, and was surprisingly educated for a barbarian – far more than the average nobleman.

She had finally found a man worthy of her.

Oh, she had encountered plenty of men in her time who would have made adequate, even exceptional mates, objectively.  But Arborn was the first she’d met who approached her ideal.

Their courtship had been odd, at best.  But once she’d given voice to her interest and received the faintest hint that it was returned, she had pursued the Captain of Rangers diligently and with a single purpose: to wed him according to the rules of his own tribe.  And when Pentandra set her mind to a task, that task got accomplished.  Her attraction to Arborn was no different.

To that end she’d taken the Kasari Rites of Marriage in the Kasar homeland, learning what the odd barbarians considered essential for a wife to know.  That the training and rites focused more on the domestic arts Pentandra had avoided her entire life was bad enough – the Kasari’s idea of a marital sex life was largely concerned with bearing children.  That had been both professionally and personally disappointing, though she’d learned a remarkable amount in the process.

But she was no fresh-faced Kasari maiden, she was a professional woman with a career and a post.  Nor was Arborn a stranger to streets and towns.  But his vocation involved the wilderness.  After their dramatic wedding at a sacred waterfall, she had been perplexed over what to do with her new husband.

Minalan had offered this post as a compromise: good, honest work and an important title, near the forests of her husband’s Wilderlands home.  But he hadn’t coated the offer in honey – Minalan had given her a starkly realistic idea of the task ahead of her.

Vorone was a Ducal city, technically, but it had little other purpose than entertaining nobles.  The summer capital of the Duchy of Alshar, it had been the site of the death of the Duchess Enora, just days after her husband had died of wounds sustained at the Battle of Timberwatch, four years earlier.  That had been an important battle.  Pentandra had been there.  Two Dukes had joined their armies together to fight the common foe, the gurvani invasion from the Mindens.

That the Duke of Alshar had help toward claiming his due reward from Duin for his puissance was not widely known.  In fact, it was a closely-held secret of the Arcane Orders that Duchess Grendine of Castal had ordered her magical assassin, Isily of Bronwyn, to give the indecisive Duke Lenguin a push into the afterlife.  That her agents were likely behind the subsequent assassination of Duchess Enora was also strongly suspected.

The Duke of Castal had used the resulting power vacuum in Alshar to elevate himself to King, using his military position to take wardenship of Duke Lenguin’s minor heir, Anguin, and force him to support the new Kingdom of Castalshar.

Not everyone had been eager to see the union of Remere, Castal, and Alshar.  There was a historical distrust of the realm, after centuries of intermittent warfare.  The anti-Castal parties in Alshar had largely fled south to the rich coastal valleys, where a coven of rebels denied distant King Rard and had taken control of the wealthiest portion of the Duchy.

What was left under royal control was a slim slice of land between the nearly-impassable Land of Scars to the south and the unremitting danger of the Penumbra in the north.  Hardly a third of the original duchy.

That was enough for Rard and Grendine.  They had the Orphan Duke, they had the Duke of Remere, and enough of a pretext to build a throne.  Whether or not they could build an actual kingdom was another matter.

It was a deft piece of political maneuvering, Pentandra had to admit – it had all the style of the traditional Remeran politics she’d grown up with.  But the fact that she had directly benefitted from it left a bad taste in her mouth.  The Orphan Duke was an orphan because his indecisive father and idiot mother had gotten in the way of his aunt’s ambitions.  Both she and Minalan felt an obligation to the boy to try to make up for that.  That was part of the reason she was here.

But Pentandra was also here to represent the substantial interests of the Order and her profession.  She’d taken the post partly as a way to safeguard the political truce that the Magi and the nobility had come to in the last few years.  But she and Minalan had agreed that depending on one political alliance for the Order’s survival was foolhardy.  Rebuilding the duchy of Alshar – what was left of it – and restoring the Orphan Duke to power in fact, and not just in name, was her actual mission.

That would require magic.  And luck.  And the help of the gods.

Despite his title, the actual holdings the Duke would have under his control were pitiful, wartorn, and fractured.  Nothing had been the same in the Alshari Wilderlands since the invasion, and what loose social and cultural institutions had been in place among the far-flung settlements of this robust land had been ripped away by the invasion.

There was Tudry, in the north – once a rustic walled town depending on mining and forestry for its survival, Tudry was now an army town on the edge of the Penumbra, ruled by her friend Astyral, a Gilmoran magelord of some repute.  And there were a few smaller baronial towns south of here.  But Vorone was the last city of any size in the Wilderlands worth ruling.

And it was a mess.

The summer capital was poorly situated for defense, and the flood of refugees from the Penumbralands had swelled its population far beyond its meager capacities.  There was a ring of camps around the town were the survivors of the invasion had sought refuge.  After four years, they had settled into near-suburbs of the resort town, surviving on alms and whatever else they could.  There was a garrison here, but it was poorly maintained and led, suitable for little more than quelling riots and protecting the palace.  King Rard had installed a local pro-Castali baron, Edmarin, as Steward of the Realm in Vorone, ostensibly in charge of both the summer capital and the lands beyond.

But without a Duke in the palace they were riding toward, there wasn’t really any reason for the town to exist at all.  The snow-covered shops and homes that surrounded them on this sacred night had no reason to exist without the government institutions and visiting nobility of Vorone.  Without a Duke, the town was irrelevant, an abandoned capital without purpose.  Without a capital and at least a fragment of his legacy to stand on, he was a Duke in name only.  The Orphan Duke and Vorone needed each other . . . they just didn’t realize it yet.

It was her job to help push the young man into power, and then help him keep it – and then help him make something worthwhile out of it.   Pentandra had to admit to herself she found the prospect challenging.  And frightening.  But it was a welcome distraction from the fear she felt over her new marriage.

She had felt so wonderful when she and Arborn had finally consummated their love for each other, but she also knew all too well that there was more to marriage than blissful repose.  Now that she had achieved the man she’d coveted, she needed to figure out how to incorporate him into her life.  She had to learn how to live here with her husband, somehow, and compared to that challenge the idea of rebuilding a broken duchy from the ashes of invasion, usurpation and neglect seemed elementary.

Her father had been skeptical of her appointment, and considered it a demotion.  On top of her unanticipated wedding to a barbarian, she’d lost much of her family’s good opinion of her. Mother was mortified at the news.  Her sister was gleeful at Pentandra’s embarrassing choice.  He was neither mage nor nobleman.  He was poor, as her family measured things.  A penniless ranger from the wild – the news had shaken her mother’s social circle and enlivened her sisters.

Pentandra was supposed to marry a fellow mage, or at least an intelligent nobleman who would add to the family’s prestige, if not its estates.  Arborn was neither of those things . . . which was one of the many reasons Pentandra had been attracted to him.

But now that her ideal man was hers, she was perplexed as to what to do with him.  They’d gone from Kasar to Sevendor, for the Magic Fair, and thence to desolate Gilmora, where the Orphan Duke’s party was quietly congregating.  A month spent in an abandoned cot with Arborn had seemed an extension of the honeymoon, as had Sevendor.  She’d spent her days discussing the arcane situation and helping Father Amus with political strategy while Arborn had consulted with Count Salgo on the tactical situation in and around Vorone.

Their nights had been cozy and passionate as she could ask . . . but they’d already shared some awkward mornings.

Now that they were headed toward their final destination on their journey, the reality of her situation was starting to bear down on her.

She was married.  She was someone’s wife.  She, Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial, scion of an ancient Imperial house of magi and specialist in Sex Magic, had a husband.

The very idea made her want to giggle and shudder at the same time.

But every step her horse took toward the palace was a step toward settling down into a permanent household with Arborn . . . and despite all of her education, training, and mastery of obscure arcane subjects, that was a lore that eluded her.

Luckily, they reached the gates of the palace before she completely lost her mind dwelling on that fact.

The main gate to the palace looked formidable, but Pentandra could tell that, while stout, the impressive gate was more decorative than functional.  Two burly-looking guards bundled up against the cold stopped leaning on their spears long enough to challenge the vanguard of the party.  When twenty men behind the duke drew steel, and several others drew bows or arbalests, they dropped their weapons and opened the gate to the palace.

“That was a lot easier than I expected,” Arborn murmured to her, as he helped her down from her saddle in the courtyard in front of the beautiful palace, a moment later.  No guards had come streaming from their barracks, no alarm had been rung.  But then the night of Yule saw most of the people dead drunk in celebration.

“So far,” she agreed, allowing her husband to catch her as the knights in the vanguard dismounted around her.  She lingered a moment to appreciate his strong arms before she felt the toes of her riding boots touch the snowy cobbles.  “But then that’s the point of the element of surprise, isn’t it?”

“I think we’ve accomplished that,” he murmured, nodding to the great door of the palace, which was already thrown open by the Duke’s men.  No one rushed to meet the intruders.  A single old man roused himself from the outer hall.  He proved to be the steward on watch.  The night steward started to complain about the interruption until he saw the visitors.  He recognized young Duke Anguin at once, and fell to his knees in front of his liege.

Anguin seemed gratified by the recognition, and bid the man to rise.  He assured the old servant that he was, indeed, returned to Vorone to set things right.  That pleased the steward until he had tears in his eyes.

After that, the securing of the palace was simple.  The night steward supplied the keys and led the Duke’s knights to the strategically important posts around the palace.  The guard rooms, the armory, the main entrances between wards of the palace were all manned by sober, clear-eyed Alshari knights bearing the ducal badge on their baldrics . . . and naked swords in their hands.  Count Salgo directed them, and they moved quickly and quietly.

“Where shall you sleep this evening, Your Grace?” asked Count Angrial, as more men filed into the entrance hall.

“Sleep?  Luin’s staff, Angrial, I’ve just come home!” complained the young nobleman with a snort.  “I cannot think of sleep!”

“My lord,” the minister said, reprovingly, “you did ride more than ten hours today!  In the cold!  You must be exhausted!”

“I feel more awake and alive than I have in years, Angrial,” assured Anguin.  “Indeed, it is close to midnight.  I feel like a brief court session,” he announced.

“Sire?” Angrial asked, dully.  It was clear to Pentandra that the old man was far more tired than his liege.

“I want to address the man who has let my home fall into such disrepair,” Anguin decided.  “As my very first act as sovereign duke. I want to meet Baron Edmarin, the vassal appointed to safeguard my realm in my absence,” he said, his voice grave.  He studied a threadbare tapestry that Pentandra would have been ashamed for the servants to display back at her quaint little estate of Fairoaks.  It was a hunting scene depicting wild dogs surrounding a wounded stag, a hunter – no doubt some illustrious ancestor – being forced to defend a kill he had yet to make.

Pentandra didn’t have to wonder what the boy thought of the image.  Especially when a wood roach the size of his thumb raced across the scene.  It looked like a good time for a distraction.

“Where would you like to hold your audience, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, emphasizing the title.  Anguin looked as angry as she’d ever seen him about the disrepair around him.

“The Stone Hall,” he repeated.  “The throne room my father favored.”

“The Stone Hall, Your Grace?” Angrial asked, curious. “That was used more for summer occasions, due to the placement of the windows.  Would not the Rose Hall be better suited?”

“I am not partial to roses,” Anguin said, sternly.  Pentandra controlled a self-conscious grin.  The yellow rose was the personal badge of Queen Grendine, Anguin’s aunt and the woman he – rightly – suspected of ordering his parents’ assassinations.  “I will see Baron Edmarin in the Stone Hall.  Make it as ready as it needs to be.  I will sit in court first there, I think, and ask this man what he has done here in my absence.”

Pentandra didn’t like the way the Duke’s dark eyes looked, when he turned his gaze back to his court.

The night steward cleared his throat with practiced volume.

“My liege, might I remind you that it is the eve of Yule, and that the baron has retired after sinking deep in his cups?  The feast tonight was no rival to those in your father’s day, but His Excellency made the most of the limited resources at his disposal to properly honor the holiday.”

“I really don’t care if he’s vomiting drunk and up to the balls in the backside of his valet, have him awakened and brought to the Stone Hall,” he ordered, flatly.

“The Stone Hall has not been opened since your mother’s funeral, Your Grace,” the steward said, apologetically.  “No real reason to.  It’s a frightful mess, I’m afraid, not fit for a proper duke.”

“It will do,” Anguin insisted. “Make sure it is ready. Lay a fire, too – it’s cold as goblin balls in here.”  Two of the palace servants scurried off to prepare the hall, one of the monks in the duke’s party following to see it done.    “Your name?” he asked the steward.

“Pram, Sire,” the man said, surprised.  “Like the god of distillation.”

“Pram, see Baron Edmarin is brought to me immediately, regardless of whatever vice he fell asleep enjoying, nor should he bother to dress for the occasion, if it delays his arrival.”

The old steward tried to hide his pleasure at the thought.  “I trust Your Grace will not be disappointed, then,” he said, smoothly.  “And what shall I tell Baron Edmarin is the reason his repose is being interrupted at this late hour, on the eve of Yule?  I am certain he will demand an answer, Your Grace.”

Anguin’s face was harsh.  “Tell him that the bells of midnight are near tolling, and he is summoned by his lord for the first court of Yule.  And if he argues . . .” the young duke said, his eyes narrowing, “take a few of my gentlemen with you to persuade him.  Forcefully.

“The rest of you, please refresh yourselves as you need for a moment, and then join me in the Stone Hall.  Tomorrow we can speak to the rest of the palace.  Tonight, I take what is mine from those who would steal it from under me!”

Chapter Two

Husband And Wife

Being Court Wizard was supposed to be a cushy job, professionally speaking.

Ordinarily, apart from their regular official duties, a court wizard was called upon to deal with discreet requests for aphrodisiacs or remedies for cramps or spells against disease from their employer.  But most courts were headed by older men and married couples, who required such things the most.  There were plenty of professional jokes about that and Pentandra had heard every single one at some point in her career.

She tried to remember them to remind herself why she’d undertaken this mad challenge as she made her way through the quiet streets of snowy Vorone, her horse’s hooves echoing off the cobbles and post-and-beam buildings.  At the moment, dispensing aphrodisiacs sounded preferable than being the target of a sudden attack of revolutionaries, partisans, or even bandits.

Not that she had any indication of such things, but the doctrine established for this expedition was to be prepared for them anyway.  While the Duke’s agents had been clandestinely surveying Vorone for months, there were still many unknown forces at play in this deceptively pleasant-looking town.

“Do you think we’ll be attacked?” she asked Arborn, who now rode beside her on his big brown courser.  It was more to break the silence and make conversation than from any serious worry.

“No,” he answered, simply and thoughtfully.  She waited for him to elaborate.  He didn’t.

“Why not?” she prompted.  Arborn was maddeningly laconic, she was learning.

“Because everyone is dead drunk and asleep, as they should be on Yule,” he replied, softly.  “That was according to plan.  And no one here knows our plan, even our own agents; we were quite careful of that.”

All of which Pentandra knew. Perhaps an expression crossed her face to communicate that, but Arborn continued, after a pause.  “And from what Count Salgo has informed me, there are few in this town who would raise a sword against anyone who vowed to replace Baron Edmarin.  He is unpopular even amongst his own men.  But there are other factors at work, here.”

That confirmed her own assessment.  Their biggest ally in this enterprise was the element of surprise.  Without time to organize a response, the opposition – whomever that might turn out to be – couldn’t prevent Anguin from taking the palace, it was hoped, the main objective of the evening.

She also trusted Arborn’s judgment, though he was not – technically – a military man.  He was a ranger of the Kasari people, strange barbarian tribes who lived in remote woodland enclaves across the Wilderlands.  Arborn could smell an ambush the way she could tell if someone was preparing to do magic.  If he was relaxed, there was little for her to worry about.

But he apparently sensed her desire to talk, as they rode.  It felt forced, but he continued.

“In fact, it is quite possible that you will be installed and at work in a day or so,” he added, hopefully.  “We really won’t know until we see what kind of resistance the palace is ready to put up.”  He smiled at her, awkwardly but warmly.

He knew what this posting meant for her, and though it meant he would be consigned to town life for the foreseeable future, he was genuinely pleased with her new position.  Luckily, the Kasari valued women who took leadership seriously.  She could not imagine a Remeran lord, even a mage, being pleased with such an ambitious position for his wife.  But Arborn was nothing but supportive of her appointment.  Almost enthusiastic.

She was grateful for that. Pentandra had dreamt of being a ducal Court Wizard, ever since she had come into her Talent and begun learning the family’s Art and generations of tradition, stretching back to the Archmagi of old.  It was a lot to live up to.

As Ducal Court Wizard was the highest position a mage could attain in her youth, before Minalan upset the Bans on Magic, it was still seen as the most prestigious, coveted and lucrative position a mage could aspire to, and one with - usually - few pressing duties.

This was not going to be a cushy assignment, no matter what her title and the warrant she’d accepted in Gilmora said.  Instead of moving smoothly in a well-established government, she was having to re-invent the office according to the wretched situation the Duchy found itself in.

Her tenure with Anguin’s court would differ in a number of ways from her predecessors, now that the rules had changed. It helped that she’d written many of the new rules, but now she had to enforce and implement them, in this new age.  Pentandra knew that court wizards would be doing a lot more than handing out aphrodisiacs to aging courtiers now that irionite was available again.

This was the era of the High Mage.  And Pentandra was among their elite.

Taking full advantage of Minalan’s bold and foolhardy maneuverings against the Dead God, Pentandra not only acquired her own stone of the ultra-precious magical mineral, irionite, she’d attained nobility, power and position beyond her ambitious girlhood dreams once Minalan upset the Bans on Magic and took over its administration in the new kingdom that was established in his wake.

Much of that work he delegated to her, and she’d reveled in it . . . for a while.  As the Steward of the Arcane Orders for the last three years Pentandra had taken a personal hand in restructuring how magic was done in the new kingdom, gaining a small fortune and immeasurable professional respect in the process.  Her family even suggested that accepting a post as a mere Ducal Court Wizard seemed like a demotion, compared to her previous position as Steward.

But it wasn’t.  If the assumption of the position belied her girlhood fantasies of power, it was because, ultimately, she found the entire exercise of court politics underwhelming and unfulfilling.

At first it had been intriguing, especially witnessing the development of Royal authority out of ducal authority.  It was fascinating to watch, and her ability to understand the personalities, the minds, and the emotions behind the feat was highly instructive.

But it was also a fairly modest discipline to put her mind to, once you understood a few basic rules.  As a result, she had grown restless in the new royal capital, Castabriel, in long periods of social indulgence between brief bouts of maddening activity.  Being Steward of the Arcane Orders gave her unanticipated power, but Pentandra had quickly grown weary of responsibilities that always seemed more burdensome than the perquisites they accompanied.

When it became clear to her that a future as Steward meant being locked in a room with thousands of sheaves of parchment for all of eternity, she started to question her goals.

Then she’d met Arborn.

As a student of the arcane and obscure (not to mention lurid) magic of sex, Pentandra had a highly discerning eye when it came to evaluating people, sexually.  A casual glance at a man or woman told her volumes about that person’s sexuality, once you understood the arcane rules of human sexual attraction and interaction.  It was far more than good looks and base attraction.

Pentandra’s professional eye evaluated social context, age, bearing, charisma, and nuances of musculature that escaped everyone else.  It was amazing what a casual glance could tell you about a person’s inner soul, if you knew how to read it.  And that was before she added her magical perceptions into the equation.

When she’d met Arborn, her assessment of the big Kasari ranger was perplexing.  She’d never met a more perfect man – literally.  He was physically appealing, of course – the traditional Tall, Dark, and Handsome, Strong and Silent, all in generous portion – but he was no mere muscular slab of man.

He possessed a marvelous intelligence, had keen insights, and was surprisingly educated for a barbarian – far more than the average nobleman.  His bravery was legendary, and his skill as a warrior was at least as great as any knight of the south.  But he was far more than a mere warrior.  He was literate, well-read, and had a sense of purpose and confidence that made him as much a scholar and a diplomat as a fighter.  There was little she had found that he could not do, save for magic.

She had finally found a man worthy of her.

Pentandra had encountered plenty of men in her life who would have made adequate, even exceptional mates . . . objectively.  But Arborn was the first man she’d met who approached her masculine ideal.  The first to truly win her heart.

Their meeting at a beautifully lordly Alka Alon council was the definition of magical.  Their courtship had been beautifully odd.  She’d accompanied Minalan on his mad dash across the Wilderlands in the company of a few thousand Kasari children, and Arborn had been there every step of the great journey.  The children were from the great Kasari settlements in the northern hills, in danger of the looming goblin menace.

She’d fallen in love with him as she witnessed Arborn looking after his folk like a tireless, devoted sheepdog.  His every action during the monumental trek was alluring to her.

He was constantly on watch for dangers, from goblin attack to poison ivy, and had commanded the other rangers escorting the children like a seasoned general when peril inevitably arose.  In a situation seemingly designed to promote chaos and argument, dissention and conflict, he enjoyed the universal respect of everyone in the march.  Sometimes it was merely using his quiet presence to quell quarrels or his booming voice to call the marchers to action.  During the entire, journey she never, ever saw him make a misstep.

Pentandra got to know him slowly, at first, merely admiring him from afar.  But she could not help herself in her attraction to the big, handsome ranger.  Every time the great column had halted to encamp she had found some reason to seek him out, or at least be in his proximity, until he knew her face and voice as well as he knew the sun in the sky.

But it was a frustrating endeavor.  Despite her deep knowledge of feminine wiles and attraction, he hadn’t once tried to take advantage of her acquaintance, unlike so many other men she’d flirted with.   Not so much as a stolen kiss, though she’d given him every opportunity.

She had been subtle – she wasn’t prone to the kind of overt displays that a priestess of Ishi or some of her more flamboyant sisters would have indulged in.  Yet he always responded to her subtlety with quiet amusement and a congenial acceptance that she found endearing.

That alone would have reached her heart.  Judging a man on what he said was foolish, on what he did was wise.  But judging him on how others reacted to him gave her an insight to his character that convinced her that Arborn was perhaps the kind of man she could love.  He was never cross with the children, nor unkind to an animal, and everyone he met seemed to strive to their utmost to aspire to be more like him.

Once she’d given voice to her interest and received the faintest hint that it was returned, she had pursued the handsome Captain of Rangers diligently and with a single purpose: to wed him according to the rules of his own tribe.

To that end she’d taken the Kasari Rites of Marriage in his homeland, Kasar, and undertook to learn what the odd barbarians considered essential for a Kasari wife to know.  She had expected the lessons to revolve around the marriage bed, and on the peculiar Kasari customs and dress.  They had a rich culture of song and story, one which her native competitors had grown up with.

She found instead that the training and rites focused more on the domestic “arts”, chores and skills Pentandra had studiously avoided her entire life.  She grew up in an estate with a multitude of servants who had cooked every meal and sewn every stitch she wore.  Though she understood the principles of thread and needle, pot and kettle, when it came to practicing them in front of the judgmental Kasari matrons she had felt all thumbs.

Worse, during the entire ordeal there was really no guarantee that the council would approve her match to Arborn . . . and that they would instead both be married off to those they decided would better compliment them.

And still that wasn’t the worst of it, she’d discovered.  The Kasari’s idea of a marital sex life was largely concerned with bearing children, not sexual pleasure.

She’d nearly considered abandoning the effort, when she’d discovered what the Kasari thought about sex, and its place in marriage.  That had been both professionally and personally disappointing, though she’d learned a remarkable amount about their customs in the process.  As interesting as that had been academically it had nearly soured her fantasies of unending nights of sensual pleasure.

She looked over at her handsome husband, and tried not to blush.  For all the wrong reasons.

The Kasari ideal concerned quantity over quality, procreation above recreation, and both partners’ duties to the other in terms of provision and comfort over . . . fun.  It was a supremely practical arrangement but one which barely made room for passion.  Qualities like attractiveness, arousal, and pleasure were barely hinted at.  The mechanics were explained, in theoretical and symbolic terms, but without any hint of variation or sophistication.  Discussions of the Kasari approach to the ancient arts of love were less frequent and detailed than their instruction in the art of making a one-kettle meal, tying a bowline, slaughtering a chicken, or decorative embroidery.

Hence her fearfulness at the Council’s decision.  They could have – quite easily – given Arborn over to some brilliant young Kasari lass with a face like a mud puddle but with masterful culinary and crafting skills.  Pentandra’s presence at the rites was not popular. There was much resistance to marrying off the cream of the Kasari crop to a foreign stranger, and she dreaded them doing just that, just to spite her.

Thankfully, they had taken the couple’s mutual desire into consideration, and blessed the union – once Pentandra had proven herself at least nominally proficient at being a Kasari wife.  There had been plenty of discussion and doubt about her suitability among her fellow initiates in the rites.  Particularly the younger, more nubile maidens who didn’t believe Pentandra deserved even a chance at a high-status mate like Arborn.

When the Council’s approval was finally granted, her elation at the news was accompanied by a distinct feeling of triumph over the hopeful Kasari girls she’d beaten out.  She suspected that Arborn’s high rank and her service to the Kasari on the march had more to do with it than the judgment of the Matron of Maidens, but she would never have admitted such a thing – not to them.

That triumph lasted only as long as their time in the beautiful forests of Kasar.  The reality of what she had done – what they had done together – set in as soon as they had returned to more civilized lands.

She was not just a bride . . . she was married.  She didn’t just have a wedding, she had a husband.

Pentandra was no fresh-faced Kasari maiden, she was a professional Remeran woman from a wealthy noble house who had a career and an important post.  While Arborn was no stranger to city streets and townlands and their customs, his vocation involved the wilderness.

After their dramatic, beautiful wedding at a sacred waterfall, Pentandra started to grow perplexed over just what to do with her new husband now that she had him.

Pentandra looked at her husband again, all bundled up against the cold on his well-muscled Highlands courser in a thick bearskin cloak.   Married for almost nine weeks, now, she still thrilled when she looked at him.  His broad shoulders, long legs, and powerful arms filled out the great shaggy hide, his beard nearly blending with the dark brown fur.  He rode with the easy grace of long practice and many miles, but he had walked far more than he had ridden.

Esteemed as adept in a culture that valued competence in all things, Arborn was a Raptor in rank, the highest rank a Kasari could earn.  Nor was he ignorant.  He had learned more before his twentieth year than most sages learned in a lifetime of study.

He was the perfect man: broadly built and strong of limb, dark haired and steely eyed.  He possessed a fascinating and discerning intelligence, yet had a friendly and humble nature.  Arborn’s great humor had charmed her out of fits of rage she hadn’t thought capable of receding, and his quick wits had kept him alive and hale in the most harrowing of professional circumstances.  Captain Arborn of Kasar, the Eagle of the Wilderlands.

He had consented to marry her.  And she had won that right.  The right to follow the man to whom her heart compelled her.  As challenging as the Kasari marriage rites had been for her, she had prevailed, proving her worthiness –without magic – until even the council had to agree she was a good mate for their most adept ranger.

But though the competition had been fierce, and the thrill of that victory still sweet in her mind, there was a part of Pentandra that felt as if her wedding was not yet legitimate.  Or at least not yet . . . real.

It was legal enough.  The Kasari woman who had seen them bound was a consecrated priestess of Trygg.  The union had been duly registered at her temple in Lemsiddons.  Pentandra and Arborn were legally bound as one, husband and wife, for the rest of their lives.

Only it didn’t feel real, yet.  The entire idea of getting married had seemed wonderful.  The celebration of life and her love for Arborn, the celebration after so much effort and struggle, the victory she had won over the other women who paid Arborn court in the rites – that was real.

The exquisitely beautiful ceremony in front of the waterfall in the middle of the forest had been magical and meaningful.  When Arborn had placed his kerchief around her neck and fastened it in the traditional Kasari ritual, claiming her as his bride, there had been no hint of doubt in her.  She had enthusiastically and blissfully consented to wed him in front of the gods and Kasari animal spirits.

But she was still getting used to the idea that she actually had a husband, now.  Harder still was the notion that she was someone’s wife.

Wife.  The word felt strange in her mind and stranger on her tongue when she spoke it, now.  She was Arborn’s wife, and he her husband.  Despite the preparation the Kasari rites had given her (and her own professional interest in the whole idea of sexual and romantic love) Pentandra had never truly understood what it meant to be a wife.  To have a husband.

It wasn’t at all like the great romances foretold.

Being Arborn’s wife meant that she was suddenly responsible for him in a way she had never been for another person before.  She was getting used to being his responsibility in ways that she could never have foreseen as well . . .  and found that it bothered her.  She had lived quite long enough without someone asking if she was hungry or cold all the time.  Now her . . . husband . . . asked her several times a day.

It was confusing.  Things that she used to do for herself she now had to take Arborn into consideration before doing.  Her time was not quite her own, anymore.  And she now had a permanent invasion of her personal privacy that she found disconcerting.

The dramatic pace of their lives since their wedding had softened the transformation somewhat, she guessed.   A few weeks in Sevendor for the Magical Fair after the wedding, and then the late autumn trek to Gilmora to join the Duke in preparation for his restoration had kept the full effect of her wedding from her.  But Pentandra knew that the honeymoon was drawing to a close.

Now she had to find some way to learn to live with a man, not just love him.

Beyond her fears and anxieties over the intricacies of her newly-minted marriage Pentandra had other worries.  In marrying Arborn she had not just followed her heart, she had eschewed tradition.

In the Remeran aristocracy in which she’d been raised a young woman not only did not marry for love, she did not marry without the express consent and counsel of her entire family, particularly her female relatives.  In finding the perfect man Pentandra had committed the sin of marrying him without her mother’s knowledge, much less her approval or permission.

That wasn’t a legal issue as much as it was a social matter.  Young aristocratic Remeran ladies were expected to wed in their late teens, with a lot of parental involvement in the selection – that was how her older sister had fared.  But because Pentandra developed rajira, the Talent to use magic, soon after menarche, she had been spared the indignity of an arranged marriage.

To her mother, Amendra, she Pentandra was a lost cause.  She felt the weight of her disappointment, particularly on the anniversary of her youngest sister’s death.  No matter what she did, Pentandra would forever be a disappointment to Amendra anna Benurvial.

While being a mage was a respected profession among the Remeran nobility, the Bans precluded most beneficial marriages for her anyway.  Female magi were professional women, in Remeran society, unlikely to marry at all.  Most went into practice as Resident Adepts (the traditional Remeran term for “spellmonger”) or went into public service.  Or teaching.  They were not particularly desirable as brides.

Pentandra had compounded her problems by eschewing the respectability of even that path and focusing on a career in magical research – and not just any research.  In spite of her mother’s investment in social propriety, Pentandra had chosen the thoroughly scandalous field of sexual magic to study – not the easiest thing to brag about at garden parties.  Perhaps, Pentandra often reflected, one of the reasons she’d pursued her studies so aggressively.

While her older sister had gone on to be the perfect picture of her mother’s social ideals, marrying a handsome, rich young noble living in a small but elegant country estate, Pentandra had been publishing papers and giving lectures on arcane and outlandish subjects . . . and developing a somewhat unsavory reputation in the refined halls of Remere.

Her sudden rise to prominence in the Arcane Orders had mollified Mother somewhat.  Being so close to the centers of power almost made up for the lack of a beneficial match, in her mother’s mind . . . almost.  The glorious memory of her sister’s summertime wedding continued to echo in her letters even as Pentandra was dining with dukes and even the King, himself.

It seemed that no matter how well Pentandra did, professionally, she did not measure up to her idiot sister in her mother’s eyes because she was still without a husband, and near to twenty-five.

Arborn should have repaired that . . . had he not been not just a foreigner and a commoner, but a barbarian tribesman whose people worshipped animal spirits as much as gods.

The fact that Arborn was more literate than most of the nobility and more widely respected than any aristocrat she knew meant nothing to Remeran society, and therefore meant nothing to her mother.  Without title, lands, or coin, his status as a penniless wanderer made him little more than a vagabond.

Marrying the incredible Kasari ranger had been as scandalous, in its way, as taking up sex magic.

Perhaps that’s why Pentandra had yet to write her mother about it.  The news was out, of course – her cousin Planus was a horrible gossip, and had seen to that.  That was half the reason he’d hosted a magnificent wedding party in their honor back at Sevendor . . .  the details of which he’d certainly told everyone back in Remere.  Planus could resist gossip that juicy, even if it was about his favorite cousin.  He enjoyed the scandal.

It was a good one, too.  With her unanticipated wedding to a barbarian she’d lost much of her family’s good opinion of her. Remerans of Imperial descent just did not see much worth in a man such as Arborn.  Planus had filled her in on the reactions, back home.  Her mother was mortified at the news.  Her sister was gleeful at Pentandra’s socially embarrassing choice.

Pentandra was supposed to marry a fellow mage, or at least an intelligent nobleman who would add to the family’s prestige, if not its estates.  Arborn was neither of those things.  He was ghastly poor, as her family measured things.  A penniless ranger from the wild – the news had shaken her mother’s social circle and enlivened her sister’s.  Arborn was scandalously unacceptable to her family.  Which was one of the many reasons Pentandra had been attracted to him.

Pentandra was not eager to face her mother over the marriage.  She did not fear her rejection of Arborn (no one would ever be good enough for her disappointment of a daughter, she knew; Amendra made no secret of the fact that she had never thought Pentandra would wed at all).  She feared the judgment Amendra would cast over making such a permanent decision without her counsel and advice.

Which was precisely why Pentandra made the choice to marry Arborn without her mother’s counsel and advice.  Mother would be beside herself, Pentandra knew.  The temerity at thinking she was wise enough to marry a man without her mother’s help would be just too much for her to bear.

It wasn’t mere spite, she knew, as much as she could claim that.  It was wisdom.  She had felt so blissfully wonderful when she and Arborn had finally consummated their love for each other.  But she also knew all too well that there was more to marriage than blissful repose, and if she had any aspirations to a happy life Amendra anna Benurvial was not someone whose counsel and advise she valued.  Her parents were miserable when they were together, and never stopped complaining about each other.

Now that she had achieved the man she’d coveted, she needed to figure out how to incorporate him into her life, and she into his.  She had to learn how to live here in Vorone with her husband, somehow, and if her mother was anywhere nearby, that would be nearly impossible . . . without recourse to matricide. Compared to that challenge, the idea of rebuilding a broken duchy from the ashes of invasion, usurpation and neglect seemed elementary.

Minalan offered Pentandra her new post as a compromise: good, honest magical work and an important title, yet near to the forests of her husband’s Wilderlands home.  But he hadn’t coated the offer in honey – Minalan had given her a starkly realistic idea of the task ahead of her.  This would not be a cushy position, with servants and a nominal stipend.  Her new title would have to mollify her family.  That would, at least, keep one of her parent’s happy.

Her father, Orisorio, was a professional mage himself, and he respected his daughter as a brilliant theoretician.  Orisorio had been skeptical of her appointment, considering it a demotion, but he had not given her trouble about her new husband.

He was more disappointed that Arborn wasn’t gifted with rajira than he would be in his social class or cultural associations.  He had been even less hopeful about Pentandra’s nuptial chances than her mother, but he’d also been less concerned.  A good mage could support herself, he’d always told her.  She didn’t need a husband to survive.

Even in Gilmora she’d been too preoccupied with planning and preparing for her new position to fret overmuch about her new marriage.  She’d spent her days discussing the arcane situation in Vorone and helping Father Amus with political strategy while Arborn had consulted with Count Salgo on the tactical situation in and around Vorone.  There just hadn’t been enough time to get used to each other.

Their nights had been as cozy and passionate as she could ask – Arborn had proven to be a lusty and enthusiastic lover, if not terribly sophisticated – but they’d already shared some awkward mornings.  She’d been worried how things would work for them for a while now, but other events had kept them occupied.  Now that they were headed toward the final destination on their journey, the gritty reality of her situation was starting to bear down on her harder than it ever had before.

She was married.

That was the real, secret reason she was now skulking through the frozen, filthy streets of a scruffy town in the Wilderlands with a band of mercenaries and adventurers on the eve of Yule, she knew . . . when she should have been basking in the sumptuous feast and stuttering over the difficult questions her family in Remere was certain to have prepared for her this year.

The truth was, Pentandra was running.  And hiding.  Taking on an impossible task, just to avoid judgment.

From her mother.

She forced herself away from wallowing in that pit of fear and anxiety, and focus instead on the daunting task ahead.  That was something she could actually do something about.

The demands of the post would require far more than elegant spellwork and adept administration, she knew.  Serving the Orphan Duke in the capacity of court wizard promised to challenge her in ways she could not expect.  It was as much a study in crisis management as it was in magical opportunity.  Indeed, that was one reason Minalan had chosen her and promoted her for the position, because of her abilities beyond the arcane.

Politically, the situation was fluid.  Vorone was a Ducal city, technically, but unlike Rouen, Falas, Castabriel, or even Wilderhall it had little purpose other than entertaining the court nobles in hunting, horse racing, hawking, whoring, and providing the ducal family with relief from the south’s heat and bad weather.  Vorone was the summer capital of the Duchy of Alshar, but it had lain dormant in function since the assassination of Duchess Enora here, just days after her husband had died of wounds sustained at the Battle of Timberwatch, four years ago.

That had been an important battle.  Pentandra had been there herself, and it was terrifying in her memory still.  Two dukes had joined their armies together to fight the common foe, and had stopped – mostly - the gurvani invasion from the Mindens from entering the populous Riverlands.  A victory.

That Lenguin, the Duke of Alshar, had some assistance in claiming his final reward from Duin in the afterlife for his puissance was not widely known.  In fact, it was a closely-held secret of the Arcane Orders that Duchess Grendine of Castal (now Queen Grendine I) had ordered her magical assassin, Isily of Bronwyn, to give the indecisive Duke Lenguin a helpful push into the afterlife.

But while it was also strongly suspected that the Queen’s agents were likely behind the subsequent assassination of Duchess Enora, particularly amongst the highly suspicious Alshari, there was no definite proof – nor did the Orders want to upset the new regime with accusations. The Duke of Castal had used the resulting power vacuum in Alshar and the subsequent possession of the heir to elevate himself to kingship.  In doing so, he protected the Arcane Orders.  And he’d used his military position to take wardenship of Duke Lenguin’s minor heirs, especially the only son, Anguin, and forced him to support the new Kingdom of Castalshar.

Not everyone had been eager to see the union of Remere, Castal, and Alshar under one crown.  There was a historical distrust of the realm from both of the other duchies, a history and tradition of enmity only to be expected after centuries of intermittent feudal warfare.

The Alshari duke had been coerced.  Remere was willing to be bribed.  Farise had been conquered.  But there were plenty who were unwilling to support the kingdom or the Castali ducal family.  The anti-Castali parties in Alshar fled south to the rich coastal valleys and vibrant seaports where a coven of rebel barons and viscounts led by the Count of Rhemes denied King Rard his position.

They’d also taken control of the wealthiest most densely populated portion of the Duchy and the massive Alshari Navy in the process. And closed the gate behind them.

What was left under royal control (and therefore under Duke Anguin’s control, as the king’s sworn vassal) was a slice of thinly populated, largely undeveloped land between the nearly-impassable Land of Scars to the south and the unremitting danger of the gurvani Penumbra in the north.

Hardly a third of the original duchy remained to Anguin.  But that fragment was enough for King Rard and Queen Grendine to have enough of a pretext to build a throne upon.  They had the Orphan Duke, they had the Duke of Remere, and they had the Duchy of Castal.

Whether or not they could build an actual functioning kingdom was another matter.

It was a deft piece of political maneuvering, Pentandra had to admit – it had all the style of the traditional Remeran politics she’d grown up with, with a dash of Alshari ruthlessness and Castali pragmatism.  But the fact that Pentandra and her cherished profession had directly benefitted from the double assassination left a bad taste in her mouth.

The Orphan Duke was an orphan for no better reason than because his indecisive father and idiot mother had gotten in the way of his vicious aunt’s ambitions.  To that end Rard and Grendine had supported the banishment of the Censorate of Magic and appointed Minalan the Spellmonger and his cronies to oversee matters arcane in the new kingdom of Castalshar.

As a result, both she and Minalan felt an obligation to the boy duke to try to make up for that.  That was part of the reason she was here.

But Pentandra was also here to represent the substantial interests of the Order and her profession in the Alshari Wilderlands, she knew.  She’d taken the post partly as a way to safeguard the political truce that the Magi and the nobility had come to in the last few years, a truce that had greatly liberalized the practice of magic – including allowing magi to hold lands and titles.

But she and Minalan had agreed that depending on one political alliance for the Order’s survival was foolhardy.  Rebuilding the Duchy of Alshar – what was left of it – and restoring the Orphan Duke to power here in fact, and not just in name, was her actual mission.

That would require magic.  And luck.  And the help of the gods.

Despite his title, the actual holdings the Duke would have left under his control were pitiful, war-torn, and fractured.  Nothing had been the same in the Alshari Wilderlands since the goblin invasion.  Much of the local nobility, the knights and landed gentry of the region which were the heart of the Alshari military, had been all but wiped out when they’d tried to drive the gurvani back to the mountains.

They had largely failed, and died in battle, leaving their people leaderless and without protection, homeless refugees fleeing for their lives – and those were the lucky ones.  Much of the Wilderlands population had been slain or enslaved or both.  The already loose social and cultural institutions of the feudal system that bound together the far-flung settlements of this robust and undeveloped land had been ripped away by the invasion.  What was left was struggling just to survive the aftermath.

There was Tudry, in the north – once a rustic walled town depending on mining and forestry for its survival.  It was the farthest thing north that could rightly be called a town, once a center of mining and timber.

Tudry was now an army town on the edge of the Penumbra, ruled by her friend Astyral, a Gilmoran magelord of some repute, sheltering around twenty thousand brave souls behind its walls.  Its biggest reason to exist was to provide opposition to the goblins of the Penumbra.  If it wasn’t for the subsidy that the Kingdom sent every six months to pay the garrison there, and the tribute it collected from the region, the place would be long deserted and occupied.  It was holding on by magic, spite, and government subsidy.

A few independent lords had managed to hang on to their holdings around Tudry, especially to the east, and there were even a few barony-sized institutions in places.  There were a few smaller but fully-functioning baronial towns south of here, in the gentler, more developed region of Wilderlands and the last bit of the Alshari Riverlands not taken over by Castal a half-century before.

Vorone was the last actual city of any size in the Wilderlands worth ruling.  Its relatively central location, large population, and traditional seat as a ducal city made it the natural political site of the restoration.  Dukes needed courts, courts needed capitals, and Vorone was a capital.

And it was a bloody mess.

The summer capital was poorly situated for defense, and the flood of refugees from the Penumbralands swelled its population far beyond its meager capacities.  There was a ring of camps around the town, in abbeys and abandoned estates, now, where nobles once hunted, hawked, and fished.  After four years the common folk within the camps had built them into near-suburbs of the town.  They survived on alms, a meager relief from the new Crown, day labor at the few honest manors in the area, and whatever else they could find to keep from starving.  That mostly meant the most unsavory of economies.

There was a garrison here established by King Rard, but it was poorly maintained, shoddily equipped and abysmally led, by all accounts.  The soldiers were suitable for little more than quelling the frequent food riots and protecting the palace.

That was largely the fault of the current ruler in Vorone.  After taking possession of the ducal heirs, King Rard installed a local pro-Castali baron, Edmarin, as his Steward of the Realm in Vorone.  He was ostensibly in charge of both the summer capital and the lands beyond, but his actual power was as weak as his ambition to do more than collect his own royal stipend and live like a Duke at the palace.

But without a Duke in that palace, Pentandra knew with certainty, there wasn’t really any real reason for the town to exist at all.

The snow-covered shops and homes that surrounded them turned into the stately edifices of the Temple ward as they made their way through the empty streets.  The majestic temple of the Skyfather, Orvatas, patron of the ducal house, was on her right, its stately roof glazed with snow and icicles.  The temple of Trygg’s circumference was ringed with them, making a kind of icy crown for the Mother’s round house.  Across the street Luin’s temple’s holy field of wheat was fallow and covered in snow.

They were grand temples, Pentandra reflected, built by a proud and wealthy people to demonstrate their own greatness to their gods.  The Alshari were proud, not practical.  On this sacred first night of winter they should be lit up with parishioners and clergy preparing for tomorrow’s festival, but there was little sign of activity.

Such places were dependent upon the patronage of nobility.  Without the court, these grandiose tributes to divinity had no reason to exist without the government institutions in the palace and the nobility visiting it in Vorone.  The place was a product of politics, from the palace to the slums.  Without a Duke, the town was irrelevant, an abandoned capital without purpose.

But without a capital and at least a fragment of his legacy to stand upon, Anguin was a Duke in name only.  The Orphan Duke and Vorone needed each other, Pentandra knew . . . they just didn’t realize it yet.

It was her job to help push the young man into power, and then help him keep it – and then help him make something worthwhile with that power.   Along the way Pentandra hoped to make the lives of the people better here, through magic and good policy.  She had to admit she found the prospect challenging.  And frightening.  And exciting.  She found the challenge was a welcome distraction from the growing anxiety she felt over her new marriage.

Chapter Three

A Duke’s Curiosity

Pentandra shared a quiet moment with Arborn, as they both used the latrine off of the entrance hall after performing their initial duties.  A very nervous servant girl, sleep still clouding her eyes while she performed her unexpected duty, held a basin of cold water for them to splash on their faces, while another sleepy maid stood by with towels.

Pentandra gratefully freshened her face with the frigid water, then spoke a spell and heated it to steaming before plunging her long, cold fingers back into it a second time.  Her riding gloves had been adequate for keeping the cold at bay, but after so long on the road she felt the chill in her bones.

“Magic,” sniffed Arborn, when he realized what she’d done.

“That’s what I do, Husband,” she agreed.  Arborn didn’t exactly disapprove of magic, but he was still unused to it in his life.  “It is one of the many luxuries of being a mage.  Thank you, dear,” she said, smiling at the homely servant girl who tried to dry her hands.  The towel was far rougher than it appeared and chafed her fingers.  “Is there any sign of resistance, yet?”

“Not that I can see,” he shrugged.  “Count Salgo thinks it will take a few days for organized resistance to form, if it does.  He fears a commoner’s revolt more than an attempted rebellion.”

“I’m honestly more concerned with vermin than villeins,” Pentandra declared, eying the privy door distastefully.  “This place is filthy!  And at Yule!  Was there no feast?  No visitors?” she asked the girls.  They looked at each other guiltily.

“Only Baron Edmarin’s usual friends and family, my lady,” the taller girl admitted.  “They had a right feast back in his chamber.  There was a service in chapel.  And we each got a new cap and slippers from the castellan.  But no feast for all, as they did when we were children.  Or games.  No gifts.  Not enough money, the Baron says.”

“And not enough for proper drudges, either!” snorted Pentandra, looking up at the tangle of cobwebs over the privy door.  “Thousands of refugees outside of the city walls, and they can’t find someone who will clean for a loaf of bread?”

“There is much amiss here, my darling wife,” Arborn agreed.  “It must be set to rights one step at a time.”

A call came from down the corridor, and a moment later the night steward Pram led a portly middle-aged man in a linen nightshirt, his hands in iron manacles, flanked by two mailed knights, towards the Stone Hall.  Count Salgo, looking quite satisfied with himself, followed behind.

“This appears to be the first step, there,” Pentandra observed.  “Shall we go?  I don’t think we’re going to want to miss this.”

“They call me the Orphan Duke of a Broken Duchy,” Anguin said, a trace of wry bitterness in his voice, as he addressed the great empty hall from his father’s dusty throne after the belfries of the chapel tolled midnight.

A hastily-laid fire crackled at one end of the broad Stone Hall, but the long disuse had left a residue of dust and cobwebs everywhere, and the air was still cold enough to see your breath. Pentandra quietly cast a few small magelights around the throne when she arrived to supplement the lamps the servants brought.  She almost immediately regretted being able to see into the corners of the disused hall.

The pale, flabby, unshaven face of Baron Edmarin stared in drunken confusion at his young liege.  Edmarin had angrily protested his treatment, demanding to be released and threatening the heads of all involved.  He was under the illusion that he was suffering a bit of Yuletide drunken humor in extremely poor taste.

Being confronted by the truth of the matter did not convince him.  Even after Count Salgo had introduced him to Duke Anguin and forced him to his knees in front of the throne, Edmarin had thought it a joke and the young man on the ornate chair an imposter, and said as much.

Only when he saw and recognized old Landfather Amus did he realize that he was, indeed, in front of his lawful sovereign.

His manner quickly turned from indignant to frightened, when the Orphan Duke addressed the court . . . and the more Duke Anguin spoke – and the more authority his youthful voice carried – the graver his expression became.

“My parents are dead,” Duke Anguin continued.  “Of my living family, my two sisters are near hostages and the rest want me a puppet or dead.  The greatest part of my dominion is in rebellion, ironically enough, in support of my House but not in favor of its sole male heir.  I am . . . I am the necessary linchpin to bind the wheel of Castalshar together, a useful tool and troublesome ally.  I gave up a life of comfortable captivity and nominal political power for the danger of self-exile into the last remnant of my realm.  Why would I do that, Excellency?”

“Why, I know not, Sire!” the flabby, filthy Steward admitted, nervously.  But the courtier’s mind, even drunk, worked quickly, Pentandra noted.  He would try to talk his way out of danger, she saw.  “Why would you leave the comforts of the royal court for this troubled land?  Surely you have more pressing matters of state than reigning over this . . . ancient hall,” the baron said, tactfully, looking around at the decrepit room.

“I am so gratified that you honored me to ask, Baron,” Anguin said.  It was difficult to determine whether his tone was mocking or serious.  “The truth of the matter is that my comfortable captivity afforded me the ample chance to study in seclusion.  Do you read, Baron?”

“A bit, Your Grace,” the man admitted.  “I know my letters.  I don’t read books.  I usually get my scribe to read my reports.”

“You really should consider the hobby,” Anguin advised, congenially.  “With little else to turn my mind to, I indulged in the rare luxury of tutors and books.  As my seclusion was, I was assured, for my own safety, I took advantage of the time to my best effect.  I read the great histories, the books of the various gods, the Books of the Conquest, and the lore of my own house.”

He paused, looking at the slovenly man in whose care that house had been entrusted. “I learned mine is a great house: descended from great mariners, powerful warriors, and cunning woodsmen.  We are the Alshari, on the edge of the world, yet as strong and brave and potent as any men in Callidore.  Would you not say that is accurate, Baron?”

“Why, of course, Your Grace!” the man hurried to agree with the patriotic declaration.  “The deeds and wisdom of your House are well known to all!  As is the strength of the Alshari!”

“True enough,” agreed Anguin.  “It’s a heady legacy of greatness for a man to aspire to.  Yet I take strength in the tales of their brave deeds.

“So why would I continue to skulk in safety hundreds of leagues from my realm when the legacy of my house demands I see to my duty?”

“I . . . I . . . Your Grace, I know not!” the confused man said.

“You don’t seem to know much at all, then, for a man entrusted to keep my realm in trust for me until my majority, Baron Edmarin,” Anguin said, his mood shifting darkly.  “I find that disturbing.  Would you say you have given good service in your term here?” he asked, pointedly.

“I have done the best I could with what little resources I had, Your Grace!” insisted the baron, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Have you . . . really?” asked Anguin, his eyes narrowing.  “Would you be willing to swear an oath to that effect?”

“I . . . of course, Sire!  Any oath you wish!”

“And if some should come forth to contest the veracity of that oath?  Would you challenge them?”

“Ch-challenge them, Sire?” the man asked, suddenly still. “A contest?”

“Yes, Baron, Alshari law says that if a witness should contest your sworn oath in court, you have the right to challenge him to combat before he presents his evidence for judgment.  That’s the proper reading of Luin’s Law, is it not, Father?”

“Yes, Sire, I believe you have interpreted it correctly,” the old monk agreed.  That was Lawfather Jodas, who Father Amus had persuaded to come out of his retirement and recruited to become the new Minister of Justice.  “An oathtaker may fight his challenger to prevent evidence from being heard.  The gods will favor the righteous or the faithful, says the Book of Luin.”

“So if you were to swear a sacred oath in the presence of this court that you have faithfully and honorably overseen my realm in my absence, with no thought to your own enrichment – as you are willing to do – and a man stood forth to challenge that oath, would you, Baron, take up arms against him or his champion in your defense?  Or would you be so certain of your good management of my estates that you would be willing to withstand any and all such claims before this court and your liege . . . though you knew it meant your death to receive an unfavorable judgment in such circumstances?”

The baron looked wildly around the room at all of the strangers and all of the courtiers he had bullied and bargained with over the years.  Any of them, Pentandra could see, could provide ample evidence to cause a claim to be laid.  There didn’t seem to be anyone in the hall who he hadn’t metaphorically screwed.

“Your Grace wishes to know what I would do, in such an occasion?” Baron Edmarin asked, swallowing hard.  Sweat was now pouring off of his unshaven face.

“I do,” assured Duke Anguin lightly, as he regarded the man.

“But . . . why?” asked the baron, plainly.  “I haven’t sworn the oath!”

“I’m curious,” explained Anguin.

“Curious, Sire?”

“While away in Castal in study, I heard many reports of your governance here in Vorone.  So I became curious.”

“Curious,” the Baron repeated, dumbly.  “Your Grace was . . . curious?”

“By the gods, yes I was, Baron.  Quite curious.  So I ask you to indulge my curiosity on this one matter: should you be asked to repeat the oaths you took regarding your position and duties, in my presence, and should there be some to challenge that oath, would you defend your honor by the sword . . . or would you rely on your own truthfulness, good governance, and the grace of the gods to protect you from any possible evidence brought before me?  It’s something I’m quite curious about.”

He looked at the man thoughtfully, and not unsympathetically.  “One could even say that it is a mere matter of counsel, a hypothetical situation.  The sort of thing for which a Duke should be able to rely on his great nobles’ opinions with confidence, wouldn’t you say, Baron Edmarin?”

“I . . . I suppose it would be, Sire,” the Baron agreed, once the term hypothetical had been mentioned.  That, it seemed, took away the potential for tragedy, in the baron’s mind.

Pentandra wondered what game Anguin was playing.  The dark-eyed lad looked casual, for a moment, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles.  Edmarin certainly seemed to see the possibility of persuasion in his quiver, Pentandra saw.  She caught Arborn’s eye, but he wasn’t focused on the proceedings as much as everything else.

“Then . . . advise me, as you are sworn to.  You are the man who would know this thing best, and under your oath to my house I call upon you, Baron Edmarin of House Eith, to advise me.  What would you do?”

“H-hypothetically, Sire?”

“As no oath has been sworn, it is, I assure you, an entirely hypothetical situation, Baron Edmarin,” the young man said in soothing tones.  “I am merely curious as to your response.”

‘I . . . that is, if I was . . . under such an oath,” the portly man began, sweat pouring freely from his balding head and down his face, even in the chill of winter, “I suppose I . . . I would rely on my good works in the name of your House, Your Grace!”

He finished more confidently, with a hint of practiced posturing and affected humility in his delivery, Pentandra decided.  She certainly didn’t trust him.  He reminded her of a ripe sow struggling to free himself from a one-way trip to market.

“Ah, you would, Baron,” Anguin nodded, pleased.  “Thank you for being forthcoming.  Would you further say that another man, in your position, who made such a declaration should be considered trustworthy, due to his willingness to hear accusations against his honor?” he asked, conversationally.

The baron straightened even further.  “I certainly would, Sire.  A man who is unafraid to hear such things in the presence of gods and men as witness is clearly confident in his administration.  Such a man is trustworthy, in my experience.  If he need not defend his honor, then his honor is likely intact.”

“And you would employ such a man?  Give him duties and responsibilities, based on his demeanor?”

“If he does not fear accountability for his past actions, then that indicates a trusty man,” declared the baron.  “Particularly if his lineage and honor support him in that regard.”

“Of course, we wouldn’t want to ignore lineage, or honor,” Anguin agreed, nodding thoughtfully, as he stepped down and addressed the kneeling prisoner.  “Only by investing trust in such institutions can a Duke be assured of worthy advisors.”  If Anguin’s subtleties were lost on his wayward vassal, they weren’t lost on Pentandra.  Anguin’s respect for both had been challenged by his captivity after his parent’s death.  He was allowing that emotion to guide his actions, now.  Perhaps not the wisest course of action, she considered, but certainly understandable.

“That has always been wisdom, as I understood it, Your Grace,” nodded the baron, relaxing.  He nodded toward the clergy to the right of the throne.  “A man willing to swear an oath in front of the gods and their hallowed priests is rightly accounted a trustworthy and loyal man.”

“So there is really no need to render such an oath, or put such a terrible burden of decision upon you, based on your answer,” Duke Anguin observed reasonably as he circled the man.  If Edmarin didn’t realize his danger, Pentandra did.  She stifled the urge to say something, but knew that would be improper and unwelcome.  But the anticipation was excruciating.  It was like watching someone ride a horse over a cliff.

“Nay, Sire.  My very willingness to do so would satisfy any reasonable man of my veracity and accountability.”

“That is your advice?”

“No better counsel have you heard today, Your Grace,” assured the baron.

Duke Anguin continued his circling until he regarded the portly baron’s face, again.  The contrast between the two men was stark – one in his maturity, in his nightshirt, in fear for his life.  The other young, headstrong, and in the tight-fitting leather armor the Duke favored while traveling.

“Yet the day began when you first spoke,” noted the Orphan Duke quietly.  “I’ve had no other counsel this day.” He turned and regarded the throne on the dais, dusty with disuse.  “You say your counsel is sound,” he said, as he stared at the throne his father had once occupied.  “My father, the gods give him grace, said that a good duke had to depend upon the wisdom and counsel of his barons.”

“I often heard him say such things myself, Your Grace!” Edmarin agreed, faithfully.

“He said they were the duke’s conscience, a chorus of wisdom and counsel that would help guide the ship of state.”  There was a note of doubt and regret in Anguin’s voice, Pentandra detected, and she wondered what journey the lad was taking, here in the great Stone Hall.

“He also said that foolish and unwise counsel should be ripped out ruthlessly,” he continued, drawing his sword suddenly and turning.  With an adept twist of his shoulder the blade neatly pierced the dirty nightshirt of the baron, who was as shocked as any of the witnesses.  Anguin stabbed the shiny blade around the vicinity of Edmarin’s navel and deep within his gut while the portly noble quivered, his eyes wide in terror and pain.

But Duke Anguin was not done.  “In my opinion, Baron Edmarin, that was very bad counsel you just gave me.  My father may have depended upon the advice of his great nobles, but he is dead now.  I am not.”

“Your Grace!” squeaked the man, shocked at the sight and sensation of bright steel protruding from his bowels.  Blood began to stain the front of the nightshirt.  “Mercy!  I have not been . . . been tried, I—”

“Tried?  You have not been accused of any crime,” Anguin said gently but furiously, as he inched the blade further into the man’s quivering body.  “There is no trial, no accusation, here, Baron Edmarin.”  Pentandra watched the disappointment on Father Amus’ face, and the discomfort on the faces of the rest of the clergy, as the young duke impetuously put Edmarin to death.

“By ancient custom and right, an Alshari duke holds the power of life and death over the vassals in homage to him,” Anguin continued to lecture, “and failure of service is akin to failure in war.  That is treason, from my studies.  I execute you now, in my own name and by my own hand, for the crime of giving me bad advice, Baron Edmarin.  Treasonous advice.

“As such, your lands and property will be confiscated by the coronet, and your heirs turned out.  You, Baron Edmarin, may die with your title.  No other heir of your blood or House Eith shall bear it ever again.”

With a final, decisive twist the duke withdrew his blade and allowed the gibbering nobleman to try in vain to keep his insides within his skin.  Anguin wiped his traveling sword on the filthy nightshirt as the baron moaned and screamed.  Just as his bladder added to the pool of foul liquid on the paving, Anguin sheathed his sword.

Pentandra stifled the urge to squeak, now.  She was no stranger to violence, but she was no admirer, either, and the duke’s actions had been swift and unexpected.

“Post a guard over him,” the young duke ordered.  “No one is to render him any aid or assistance until dawn.  If the gods grant him life to see another day, cauterize the wound and put him in a cell,” he announced.  “If he doesn’t, put his corpse in a gibbet.”

“Leave him here, in the throne room, Sire?” asked Father Amus, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“Here, Father.  In the sight of everyone.  I will not tolerate deceit or faithlessness from my court, and I wish all to know it.”

Pentandra suddenly realized why the young duke had taken this particular path, as soon as he’d arrived at the palace.  She was impressed.  She learned more details, later, when she had time to discuss the matter with the others on the Council, in private, but she realized that the act of brutality had been more than the frustrated rage of a new-made duke – it had been a calculated political ploy.

The Baron had been appointed by one of the Kingdom Prime Minister’s aids, when a Steward for Vorone was needed.  He’d selected a friend, a local powerful baron who had often conspired with Castal in the past over skirting the edicts of the Alshari dukes.  As a royal appointee, Anguin would have a difficult time getting rid of the man, once he could hide behind the cloak of his royal office.

But he was also technically Anguin’s vassal, and as such he was under his authority first.  An actual trial and inquest for corruption would be lengthy, involve lawbrothers and witnesses, and plenty of influence from abroad to manipulate the outcome.  This way not only was the problem resolved – legally – but Anguin had removed a dangerous piece from the board before it could be brought to bear on him.

There would be no question of a transition, now.  The old Steward was dead – or would be before dawn, she could see, as he fell to his knees in a puddle of his own juices.  There was no need for another, with Anguin seated at Vorone.

“Count Salgo, if you would be good enough to have our men finish securing the palace, I feel the need for at least a little sleep tonight,” Anguin requested.  “Tomorrow is Yule, after all.”

That first night in the decrepit palace was busy for Pentandra, and she found herself borrowing magical power to stay awake and alert to get through her mission.

The seizing of power did not stop with the death of Baron Edmarin.  The entire palace had to be secured before she could rest.  Pentandra had duties assigned to her, just as everyone in the Duke’s party had, and hers were specifically magical in nature.

The Restorationists had spent nearly a year at one of the Duke’s estates in northern Gilmora, planning and plotting for this night, and they had left no detail unconsidered.  Agents of the Duke, sent secretly by Father Amus, had infiltrated the town and even the court to provide the party the intelligence they required before they acted. Many of those agents had long-enough familiarity with the details of the palace during happier days to know where the political assets were stationed.

The Restorationists’ goal was simple: as close to a bloodless assumption of power as possible.  By seizing the palace quickly and establishing control, and by countering the lackluster garrison with the crack troops of the Orphan’s Band mercenaries hired for the purpose, Duke Anguin and his advisors hoped to prevent any hint of resistance to his rule from forming.

Pentandra had been in favor of the stratagem as the wisest – not to mention least violent – course of action.  But it also ensured a busy night for her.  As court wizard her duties involved establishing proper wards and magically securing certain areas of the palace.  Among them was the late Baron’s personal treasury, as well as the Ducal treasury.  She used her prepared magemap of the palace to get to her destinations without getting lost in the architectural monstrosity, and took the young nun of Ifnia’s order, Coinsister Saltia, to help.

She’d gotten to know the woman in the last few weeks of preparation.  She was chubby, under her nun’s habit, and entirely devoted to her vocation as priestess.  She even insisted on rolling dice before making serious decisions, as a tribute to Ifnia’s holy randomness.  Saltia was a merry friend, and easy to work with.

But tonight the nun was anxious, fearing reprisals or hidden traps around every corner.  Pentandra didn’t have the heart to tell her about the Baron’s lackluster execution, and the profound unlikelihood that there would be a palace uprising against the Duke.  She wanted the priestess alert.

Saltia stood guard while Pentandra summoned her new baculus and cast the spell on the treasury.  A fiendishly complex spellbinding kept anyone less powerful than herself from going in either vault door without her permission.  Saltia tried the vault door herself, and pronounced herself satisfied.

Pentandra was also detailed to secure the prison wing, a long vaulted series of underground chambers below the front of the palace.  There was a strong possibility that the cells within housed political prisoners who would prove loyal to Anguin, as well as anyone who had gained the ire of the Steward. Anguin wanted all of them interviewed, when the time came, and wanted no one secreted away before he could notice them.

She put the turnkey asleep with one spell and secured the others magically with a less-complicated spellbinding before she hurried to secure the final vault on her list.  Pentandra supposed she could have reasoned with the man, producing orders or someone in clear authority, but the truth was she didn’t have the time for that.  And the records stored within the Office of Lands & Estates was exceedingly important.

The cavernous tomb where the records of land ownership of the various fiefs in northern Alshar were kept had no intrinsic wealth inside, but it was the only record of who owned what and what taxes they owed the coronet. While she doubted anyone would steal them, a good many people could gain by their sudden and mysterious destruction during a change of regime.  The records were perhaps more valuable to the young Duke than the treasury.  Without those documents his realm truly would be broken.

By the time she had finished her rounds and rejoined the other ministers around the throne in the Stone Hall, not even magic was keeping the weariness at bay any more.

She listened to Bold Asgus’ grinning report to Anguin that the Orphan’s Band mercenaries had secured every part of the palace, from gatehouse to the inner chambers, and secured the garrison.  She stifled a yawn as the big mercenary captain gleefully told how the only time his men had been challenged they subdued the solitary guard so quickly he hadn’t made a sound.

Then it was her turn to speak.

Pentandra dutifully reported her mission successfully concluded, assured the court that no one would lay a hand on coin, prisoner, or deed without her assent, and then begged a few hours of sleep.  Duke Anguin gratefully granted her that, after thanking her for her service.

That was when Pentandra realized she didn’t have any place to sleep, in this strange, chilly old palace.

She ended up wandering out of the great doors and down a passage until she found a storeroom containing old draperies and tapestries waiting to be mended or used for special occasions.

Worse than a servant’s bindle, she noted, but she had slept in worse places on the trail or in the field.  After taking the Kasari rites, a warm pile of musty tapestries looked terribly inviting.  She thankfully curled up under her cloak on the lumpy rolls and was instantly asleep.  After nine hours on horseback and another five scurrying through the bowels of the palace, she could have slept on broken crockery.

She awoke a few hours later, still exhausted but more intrigued by events than by sleep.  She stumbled to a privy before seeking out the Great Hall, the hub of the palace.

The Great Hall was designed along southern lines – southern Alshar, she corrected, not southern Castal – and certainly not Remere.  When the maritime Dukes of Alshar had constructed this second capital so far away from the wharfs and docks of Enultramar, they had imported many of the styles of that decadent land.

Pentandra didn’t have a problem with decadence – she was Remeran, her people had perfected the art – but Alshari styles seemed to combine the worst elements of ornamentation and function.

The high-peaked arches throughout the palace were indicative, part of her mind observed as she walked toward the Great Hall. They were far too wide, and far too tall, to be effective here.  The southern style was developed in the hot coastlands where keeping cool was important.  The wide doorways and pointed arches captured the sea breeze nicely.

But here they just made the whole place draughty.  Vorone was in a river valley of a mountainous country, not a subtropical coastland.  There was plenty of wind here – far too much.  The smaller round-topped doorways the Wilderlords favored would have been far better suited.  The gallery on the second floor overlooking the busy hall was decorated with a succession of anchors, sea axes, cotton bolls, plows, antlers, and other national symbols of the ducal house, and once they had been grand.

Now the gilt was growing pitted and the paint was peeling and cracking.  The vaulted roof, upheld by beams carved to resemble anchor chains and ropes, was teeming with cobwebs.  Three massive chandeliers, crafted as anchors and antlers, had not been used in years, and were infested with spiders and spinners.

The great fireplace was sculpted out of marble to look like the stern of an Alshari man-of-war.  Every other column bore a figurehead of some famous naval vessel, the alternates bearing great racks of antlers in deference to Wilderlord sensibilities.  The entire palace was built to resemble one of the great maritime palaces of Enultramar, long and spacious and grand.  And utterly out of place here in the Wilderlands.

The whole palace – the whole town – was like that.  The Alshari dukes had come to the Wilderlands as Sea Lords and conquerors.   When they had built the summer capital at Vorone they had built it to symbolize the dominion of Wave over Wood.  Vorone was where the first settlers symbolized the sea’s conquest of the forest.

But now the sea was sundered from the ducal line by rebellion, the forest was all that was left to the Orphan Duke.  Every anchor decoration she saw, every threadbare tapestry depicting a naval battle, every sea axe and anchor, every nautical-themed ornament in the palace reminded her of that.  And likely reminded the other members of the Duke’s Party of the great task ahead of them.  This was it, all they had to work with.  The ship of state was aground in the wood.

She found Count Salgo near the fireplace in the main hall with Bold Asgus, where their rank had allowed them to commandeer one of the impressive permanent tables nearby.  The men discussing military matters when she approached their familiar faces.

“Good morning, gentlemen, and merry Yule!” she said as she glided over to the fireplace, where a kettle was boiling.  The marble ship’s stern was an ornate thing, supported by two stylized Sea Folk supporters . . . and half the size it needed to be for a room this size.  Brass braziers around the hall tried to make up for the deficit.  “I see I didn’t awaken to insurrection and rebellion in the palace.  I take it there hasn’t been the expected opposition?” She poured hot water into a chipped crockery mug she found on the mantle and then added her morning herbal blend.

“It seems the element of surprise was in our favor, my lady,” Bold Asgus agreed.

“No one expected His Grace to dare return to . . . this,” Count Salgo agreed, looking around at the cracked plaster and plentiful cobwebs.  “His reappearance took everyone by surprise, as planned.  But that doesn’t mean opposition to his rule won’t emerge.”

“It is Yule, after all,” Captain Asgus agreed.  “Not even seasoned brigands would give up their holiday revels.  Even spies and saboteurs need time to act.  No, now that we control the palace, your foes will absorb the news and wait to see where your weaknesses are before they strike.”

“They won’t have to look too hard,” Pentandra sighed.  “Apart from your good men, Captain, we have no more than three hundred warriors to depend upon, and the company of archers we brought from His Grace’s estate.  When you leave . . .”

The two thousand men of the mercenary unit Minalan had arranged for Angrial to hire had, unfortunately, accepted a contract in the south long before Duke Anguin had contacted them.  They would be departing south from Vorone as soon as the roads and fords were clear.  The archers he’d brought from Gilmora were good men, she knew, but they were anxious to return to their homes and not up to serious duty.

“We will have the town well in-hand by Briga’s Day,” promised Count Salgo as he sipped spirits from a small silver cup.  Pentandra wasn’t sure if he was just arising, which made such an indulgence suspect, or if he had yet to sleep, in which case a drink might well be in order.  “Once we take proper control of the garrison, we’ll control the city.  I know of Sire Baskei – he has a solid reputation, and I approved his commission under Rard.  Once I speak with him I think we will come to some understanding.”

By all accounts the “royal garrison” at Vorone was a joke, militarily speaking.  Bold Asgus certainly thought so.

“The garrison?  A thousand ill-trained and poorly-armed conscripts commanded by a corps of landless knights who lead by their titles, not their swords!  While it is technically an army, Count Salgo, just how long could it stand a real attack against the town?”

“Right now?  A day.  Let me train them for three months, however, and we’ll see them stand as long as they need to.  The men are decent enough, but without leadership, training, and investment they will never be good enough to handle anything beyond a riot.”

Pentandra trusted Salgo’s professional military judgment.  The man was adept at command, and there was no one better suited to revive the garrison.  But he had his work cut out for him, by all accounts.

Anguin had wisely sent men to Vorone to assess the military situation while he was still preparing in Gilmora.  The reports hadn’t been encouraging.  The administration was notoriously corrupt, diverting royal funds into their personal purses while their men wanted for boots, the Duke’s spies had reported.

The Baron had bribed the commanders liberally and granted them concessions and even dispensed lands for their loyalty.  Sire Baskei, the garrison commander, was rumored to be enjoying the holiday at one of his gifted estates this morning.  But since the garrison was funded by the crown and the garrison commander a royal appointment, he was beyond the legal reach of the Duke.

But so had the Steward been.  Anguin had found a way.

“From what I hear, Baskei is a reasonable man,” Count Salgo said, putting his cup away in his pouch.  “The king might pay him and his men, but he isn’t exactly a tool of Castal.”

“Bah!  Execute him and replace him,” suggested Asgus.  “He is tainted from Edmarin’s stain.  Your opinion, my lady mage?”

Pentandra considered.  “I’d give him an opportunity to betray us in good faith before I’d send him to the headsman.”

“Exactly,” agreed Salgo.  “Don’t kill a man for what he hasn’t done yet.  Baskei had to deal with Edmarin, that doesn’t mean that the two were confederates.”

“He is at the top of a long list of courtiers that Count Angrial wants me to interview, under enchantment, to ensure their loyalty,” Pentandra pointed out.

“Does that actually work?” Salgo asked, intrigued.

“It takes a lot of will to fight your way out of a truthtell spell,” Pentandra said as she sipped the bitter tea.  “It can be done, but most men who are open to treachery lack the will to resist the effects.  It is a sensible precaution of the Duke,” she praised.  She had to admit that though she had not thought the lad capable of ruling, Minalan had seen the boy’s potential and a way to capitalize on it while it was developing.

“That reminds me – there was business this morning we have to attend to, I believe.  When is the council meeting?” she asked, sipping her bitter tea.

“As soon as Count Angrial arrives,” supplied Salgo, brushing at his furry lip with the back of his hand.  For once his big bushy mustache and clean-shaven face was not out of place, as the style was favored among Wilderlords more than Riverlords.  “He’s spent the night interviewing minor functionaries and the head staff himself, to try to put together court this morning.  I don’t think the Prime Minister has slept at all.”

“For myself,” Bold Asgus said, thoughtfully, “I am curious as to how the people of Vorone will react to the change in regime.”

“I can’t see how they would view it as anything but a blessing,” Pentandra said, gulping down the rest of her tea.  “The people are always removed from the affairs of court, save how they are affected by policy.  Having a duke in the palace will be seen as a good thing,” she predicted, “until they realize that they have a real duke in the palace again, with nothing better to do than manage the affairs of the town and countryside.  That is when we’ll see opposition arise.  For now,” she prophesied, “I think the townsfolk will welcome the change.”

Chapter Four

A Thaumaturgical Baculus In Duke Anguin’s Court

The town of Vorone awoke the morning of Yule to the expected tolling of temple bells at dawn . . . and the unexpected – and unbelievable – news that the Duke had returned to the palace in the night.  It seemed like some Yule miracle, the kind that come from fairy tales and old stories.  Most dismissed the news as soon as they’d heard the first rumor.  Vorone had seen too many such fictions for the dispirited populace to take such optimistic whispers seriously any more.

But when the first worshippers began their pre-dawn trudge through the snow toward the Temple ward, their devotion was rewarded with the sight of tough-looking armored mercenaries, pikes in hand, guarding the palace gates and all of the entrances.  Each bore a blue baldric bearing a simplified badge of the anchor and antlers: the badge of the ducal house.

A few brave souls tried to ask the Orphan’s Band men for news.  Despite orders against it, someone talked.  When the servants unlucky enough to have drawn holiday duty arrived at the palace and were turned away, the castellan said enough to them to fuel the rumor.  They quickly took it back to their homes, markets, inns, and taverns preparing for the festival, spreading it to every corner of the town by the time the sun was over the horizon.

The rumor was just too fantastic to be believed: the Orphan Duke had returned in the night with an army behind him, and slain the wicked Baron Edmarin in his bed.  Many scoffed in disbelief at the outlandish tale, while others seized on it with a desperate hope.  The talk over their breakfast and beer was of little else.  The wise dismissed it as a wishful rumor.

But as the day aged and folk gathered at temples and shrines for the later morning holiday services, the official news was announced at every temple gathering:  Duke Anguin II had taken up residence at the palace.  By noon, when the services were over and the traditional reveling had begun, tangible signs of the truth were seen.  It stunned Vorone.

Suddenly, squads of rough-looking Orphan’s Band mercenaries bearing blue baldrics with the ducal badge were everywhere: at the town gates, patrolling the markets and taverns, now, in conjunction with the town guard – few of whom looked pleased with the development.  But the most important symbol to all that it wasn’t just the vicious result of mulled wine in excess was the Ducal banner, the Antlers-and-Anchor, over the watchtower of the palace, instead of Baron Edmarin’s depressing red and gold standard.

Those who presented themselves at the palace in the faint hope of appealing for the duke’s clemency, begging a boon, or asking for the Duke’s intervention as the holiday tradition suggested, were shocked to find an earnest young monk actually taking their names and stories and promising a response at the duke’s convenience.

The girls who were wandering through Vorone, distributing sachets of evergreen and blessings on all, were eagerly telling of the handsome young man now in the palace, though none had yet to see him.  Spontaneous hymns and bawdy songs of the season, with verses hastily reworked to celebrate Anguin’s return, broke out in taphouses and temples all over the town.

Within the palace things were just as exciting, though not nearly as festive.

Most of the previous courtiers-in-residence of Baron Edmarin’s sad little skeleton regime were detained after morning chapel service, and then directed to a special and entirely unexpected ducal audience in the disused Stone Hall.  Some of the court had yet to even hear the news, when they were informed; others were skeptical.  But if the Duke summoned them, they would go . . . particularly if they did not feel like arguing with the mercenaries of the Orphan’s Band or the armed loyalists of the ducal house.

Despite very little sleep, Pentandra and the other ministers of the new regime were there in full regalia as the vibrant young duke introduced himself on the morn of Yule.  There were plenty of guards there, and plenty of Anguin’s party, armed and prepared for any hint of insurrection.

The new duke himself wore a simply cut but richly embroidered green tunic in Wilderlands fashion and seemed to be in high spirits as he unceremoniously entered and sat on the throne.  Along the way he called out to faces he remembered, and after he was announced and seated he led the court in an impromptu holiday prayer for the souls of his parents.

It was well-done, Pentandra approved, silently, an adept political move to establish the young sovereign as both pious and respectful of his filial duties.  Many faces in court seemed pleased that the new sovereign took such a traditional approach.

But then he directly addressed the matter of Baron Edmarin, whose body was frozen on display in a gibbet outside the palace.  Anguin quietly affirmed that he had found the baron’s advice to be lacking if not treasonous, and the resulting failure of confidence was so dire that he had seen fit to take his life and lands from him.

It was a pretty way to present and rationalize a murder, part of Pentandra’s mind observed wryly.  But it was clear from the reaction of the courtiers that the execution had the desired effect, as they stood staring at the dried blood on the slate floor of the hall: every man and woman there was taking every word the Orphan Duke said seriously, as he addressed them more directly.

Pentandra could tell the lad had spent more time among monks and books than was usual for an Alshari nobleman.  His speech hit all of the essential points she knew he had to cover if he was to control the town.  Anguin cogently and eloquently blasted how the business of the realm had been conducted under Baron Edmarin, tacitly agreed to hold the rest of the court blameless for his inept policies, and then demanded loyalty and obedience from them with quietly powerful rhetoric as he lectured from the throne.

The stain wasn’t the only compelling element of the décor in the hall.  The dour looking Orphans’ Band mercenaries who had taken over palace security wore full infantry armor, helms, and bore real halberds, not the almost decorative spears the palace guard carried.  The palace guard, save the present leadership, was confined to their barracks pending review.

The Orphans weren’t decorative, they were real soldiers used to blood and death and killing.  That had an effect on the mood of the court.  The cold, stark old Stone Hall was a depressing enough setting, compared to the festive Yule decorations in town, to focus their attention.  Having real soldiers ready to execute anyone at the Duke’s command was foreboding.

Pentandra watched the spectacle from the dais, behind the throne and off to the side, standing behind the new Deputy Minister of Treasure, Coinsister Saltia.  Count Angrial, the Prime Minister, had quietly requested that everyone in the new regime wear “full regalia”, whatever they decided that was, for the occasion.  It was vital that Anguin impress the old court with his power, intelligence, and ability to select ministers who would implement his policies.

Pentandra had hastily donned her official Order robes.  They weren’t particularly impressive, but they did actually made her bulky magical necklace look almost proper for a change.  Tucked away in the corner as she was, she needn’t have bothered with anything more glamorous.  No one was paying any attention to her but her husband.

She’d made a point of bringing her shiny new baculus along with her to the function - a silvered rod of weirwood, five feet long, a big gaudy ruby-encrusted phallic looking ruby acorn on the end, just barely within the bounds of good taste.  Minalan had suggested it – he pointed out that it would provide both a point of distraction as well as a potential weapon, should matters go awry – as handy for duels to the death and peasant rebellions, he’d quipped.  Pentandra doubted the thaumaturgical tool would be helpful for anything of that sort, but she found that it gave her something to do with her hands while Anguin was nearly shouting to his supposedly loyal court.

The baculus was new, the first of several powerful magical tools Minalan and his mad band of enchanters in Sevendor were building lately.  She was concerned about his newfound obsession with enchantment – a useful, if boring, discipline – and what was inspiring it.  But she couldn’t argue with his results.  The baculus was a handsome gift, a rod of extreme power crafted as carefully and adeptly as he could manage.

It was pretty thaumaturgically, too.  It not only seethed with power from the auxiliary witchstone in the head (a powerful extravagance, but she could hardly refuse) and a sophisticated array of spells, it had a kind of phantom inside, thanks to Minalan’s inclusion of an enneagramatic paraclete.

That confused Pentandra, at first.  She was not used to her magical tools having their own opinions, but she was eager to try out the more sophisticated enchantments.  Minalan had imbued the rod with the long-dead spirit of some ancient sea creature, or something to that effect, he’d told her. It was supposed to act as an intercessory between her will and the spells within the baculus.  It was designed to function as a paraclete that could interpret Pentandra’s wishes and activated the proper spells on her behalf.

It had other features.  It was enchanted to disappear into an interdimensional space that was tied to a moderately-gaudy ruby ring on her right hand, then return to her hand upon command.  That meant it was always with her, which was handy.  In addition, it had several extradimensional “pockets” attached to it that her friend had already filled with a variety of useful items, with space for more.  It was even heavy enough to use as a pretty mean club, if she needed it to be.

Pentandra felt a little guilty about the rod she’d had since last Autumn.  It was a remarkable, priceless gift, but she’d been so distracted by her marriage and her new job she had barely studied it since Minalan had given it to her at the Sevendor Fair.  She had been investing her time in studying Arborn, instead.

But while she held it at court, she could not help but to be drawn into the device’s perceptions.  It was irresistible.  The ancient enneagram with which Minalan had imbued the rod gave it an intelligence and an awareness that lured Pentandra’s mind to reach out and connect to it, silently, while she stood there in the middle of a crowd during an important ceremony.  Anguin’s words faded, and her perceptions of the room and everything else around her shifted as her baculus added its observations to her own.

There was a moment of confusion and doubt, as her mind naturally resisted the invitation the baculus extended. But when she marshaled herself and willed her own mind into submission, she let the spirit within the rod touch her own until she felt the connection fully and completely.  She recognized that the entity within wasn’t seeking to dominate her will, but inviting her to direct it.  That seemed a new feature, she realized.  Reluctantly, she accepted.

Suddenly she regarded the room in an entirely different perspective, as the rod evaluated the assembled court with breathtaking magical proficiency and startling complexity.  Not only did it use simple magesight, but spells of discernment and perception washed over the entire hall while the rod’s spirit helpfully accumulated and presented the information for her.

“Interesting,” Pentandra whispered to herself.  No one noticed her speak save Arborn, who always seemed to have his eye on her.  The rest of the court was focused on Anguin.  But considering the wealth of information that the baculus presented her with in an instant, she was surprised she didn’t make far more noise in reaction.  The baculus, she realized, was a very keen observer.

Seeing people this way was revealing in ways she couldn’t anticipate.  With a glance she knew that the duke was excited, a bit chilly, thirsty, nervous, itchy, self-conscious, determined, and committed, all at once.  He felt heat in his brow and his throat was getting sore.  He feared a general revolt against his usurpation of power more than anything, and his blood was high after killing a man in cold blood to assert his reign.

He’d also need to relieve his bladder soon, she saw, thanks to the rod.

That was merely the surface.  Had she taken the time to delve deeper, she was certain she could soon learn things about the boy no one else could ever know.  The power of the baculus’ discernment was that deep.

She pulled her focus back from the Duke, and turned it instead on those who supported him.  Those upon whom everyone’s fortunes now fared.  The new ministers of the court were more complex, lacking the duke’s youthful exuberance, though each of them more than matched him in determination.

The men wearing the dark blue hooded cloaks Anguin presented his nominal chief ministers on the eve of their journey from Gilmora were nervous, but also deeply committed to the cause, each for their own reasons.

Count Salgo, an old soldier who looked forward to his new post with special anticipation.  His recent dismissal after assisting Duke Rard to become King Rard, and then keep him on the throne, stung.  But he also welcomed the opportunity for action in a way only an old campaigner could.

He was at the age where most men consider a quiet retirement, but Pentandra saw that glorious death on the field of battle, in support of a noble cause, was what he truly desired.  The Duke’s cause was just, and his service discomfited the royal family.  That alone was enough to lure him.  The prospect of crossing swords against the gurvani and their confederates was far stronger an attraction, Pentandra noted.  He as a soldier, and the war was in Alshar.  Free to roam the realm as he pleased, he went to Alshar.

Count Angrial, even older than Salgo and far less hale, was as determined in his way as Salgo.  Angrial had been an Alshari diplomat at Wilderhall, representing Alshari interests when the dukes were both at their summer capitals.   Rarely had that been a major diplomatic need, as both ducal houses saw the summer as a time to hunt, hawk, and joust, and typically postponed formal diplomacy for the winter capitals.

But Angrial had been skilled enough to use his position at court to help Minalan persuade Rard to take his army into Alshar against the goblins.  Had he not, the gurvani would be at the gates of Castabriel by now, she suspected.

Angrial had been ill-served by his advocacy.  He’d seen the invited army linger just long enough after the battle to temporarily occupy the Alshari Wilderlands, magically assassinate his head of state and take possession of the heir.  By the time Rard’s head bore a crown and installed a loyal lackey as steward, Count Angrial served no one, in particular.  And no one was paying his bills anymore.

That’s where Minalan had found him, drunk and nearly desperate.  Pentandra had seen plenty of such men in Castabriel, discards of court who lingered long after their service and mission was expended.  Minalan recruited him for the post and position of Ducal Prime Minister, but Pentandra could see that it wasn’t glory and power he sought.

Angrial was plagued with guilt over what he’d done, sacrificing his lord and his land to save his people.  He saw his service to the Orphan Duke as a means of redemption.  He’d left the drink behind – he was as temperate as a novice, most of the time – but the desperation clung to him like a shroud, under his practiced court persona.  Minalan had arranged for his unexpected rise in position and title as an opportunity to display his management skills.

Angrial’s zeal for doing just that, in service to his young master, possessed the man.  If will alone counted, Angrial could set the Duchy aright by the Feast of Luin.  But from the expressions on the faces of many of the older courtiers, Count Angrial was not universally liked – surely there was a history there.  The expression on Viscountess Threanas’ face, for instance, was strong enough to curdle milk when she glanced at the new Prime Minister.

Then there was Landfather Amus, the high priest of Huin and ducal chaplain, who had known Anguin since birth.  The head of a peasant’s cult, usually estranged from the nobility, Father Amus had risen to the challenge the gods had given him while the priests of more lofty divinities had given up.

In the aftermath of Timberwatch he’d followed the heir to Alshar into captivity and exile.  Amus used his ecclesiastic position and limited authority to ensure fair and proper treatment for Anguin for three years, made certain to continue his education and provided what guidance he could, and done what he’d could to protect the interests of Alshar and the ducal house against Castal’s ambitions.

Restoring Anguin from captivity and exile to the throne was his determined passion.   Amus was personally proud of his charge, she saw through her rod’s discernment, yet frightened at his unexpected fury at the same time.

Here was a man who had raised a boy to manhood, and was watching that terrible sapling take root as Anguin invoked his authority over his subjects.  There was a great deal of love for the boy, a paternal pride that was impressive to behold, akin to the priest’s devotion to the Divine Tiller.  But there was also doubt and fear, there.  This was no pious figurehead of a duke.  Anguin was showing a passionate fire he had hidden from his mentor, and that disturbed Amus.

The other ministers and courtiers who’d accompanied them from Gilmora were also important to her future here, but these three men had staked their reputations and their lives on the success of this wild enterprise.  To fail would invite disgrace; to succeed too well could get them accused as traitors and rebels.  Such were the dangers of court.

Arborn, she noted, wasn’t worried or anxious as he stood in the gallery with the other new ministers and courtiers being introduced to the government.  Though he looked out of place in his Kasari cloak and colorful tunic amongst the more somberly dressed, he did not seem uncomfortable at all.  But that didn’t stop him from scanning the hall for threats, his eyes, hawk-like, seeking any subtle sign of treachery from the court.  She was also amused to note that his eyes flicked toward her every three seconds or less.  No better proof of his devotion could she have asked for.

The other men and women who had accompanied the Orphan Duke to his broken lands had been hired or recruited for the task.  Some were Castali, though many were enthusiastically patriotic Alshari who wanted to see the Ducal house re-established and the duchy re-constituted.

None faced the kind of consequences for failure as Salgo, Amus, and Angrial, but they all knew the challenge ahead of them, and had accepted their appointments anyway.  Some sought position, others wealth and power, and some simply wished to serve and strive to rebuild the duchy.  They were all grateful for the warmth of the hall after the frozen ride from the frontier.  Even after a few hours sleep, the roaring fire was a comfort.

The existing courtiers at Vorone were even more fascinating, and far less pleased with the temperature of the hall at this time of day she saw as she scanned them.  But they were also enrapt at the Orphan Duke’s words.  The news of Baron Edmarin’s midnight execution was well-known, and the bloodstain and gibbet outside verified it for the doubters.  These people were the true unknowns, and Pentandra focused her arcane attention on them, now, to see who would prove a foe, who a friend, and who would be both or neither to the mission.  The reactions of the court to the sudden change in administration were telling, under the subtle sight of her baculus.

She picked out by eye those who were suddenly frightened, those who were angered, and those who were pleased by the development.  Her new thaumaturgical tool helpfully kept track of those people for her, as well as its impressions.  Some looked guilty, some relieved, some terrified.  Some managed to display themselves to her as all at once, though their exterior faces were stone-like, practiced smiles pasted on their sleepy faces, the traditional mask of the courtier.

It was fascinating, learning so much about these people before she even knew their names.  A few she determined were decidedly against the new regime, and she marked them for immediate and special attention.  Some were so gleeful she noted them as well, for referral to the Prime Minister.  Cultivating loyal support was just as important to the new regime as ferreting out treachery.

Without asking, her baculus started suggesting patterns based on the associations they mutually perceived.  While Pentandra was amazed at the intuitive way the tool worked, she was far more impressed with the results.

Even in this rude place, an out-of-place summer palace in the depths of winter, where the style ran to gaudy celebration of the surrounding Wilderlands and where local lords dressed in homespun wool tunics instead of finely embroidered cotton doublets, the nuances of social power were still in effect.  Whether tribal council or the royal court, the rules of human engagement were always the same, Pentandra reflected.  As Court Wizard, it was her job to employ the arcane to support the political regime.  Determining who the bad guys were before they could reveal themselves was decidedly within the scope of her new position.

The duties which Anguin had invested her were far greater in scope than those enjoyed by Master Thinradel, her predecessor in the post.  Instead of keeping the position of Court Wizard a mere bureaucratic functionary and member of the larger Great Council, not the inner Court, Pentandra had been included in the close circle of advisors Anguin kept around him since she’d agreed to accept his offer of the position.  Implicit in the bargain was the idea that she would use the powers at her command to cleanse and restore the summer capital, and eventually what remained of the Duchy.

That she had no real idea how to do that hadn’t deterred her.  As she reached forth her discernment over the courtiers of the old regime, she began to appreciate the advantages she possessed over her predecessors.  Few magi, unaugmented by irionite and Minalan’s enchantments, could have learned so much about so many people in such a short time.  The baculus compiled the results for her like a helpful servant, allowing her to review it later, but her initial assessment was telling.

Over half of the court functionaries present were profoundly disturbed by the sudden change of regime.  Plots had been interrupted, plans had been overturned, schemes had been ruined by Anguin’s sudden appearance and resumption of authority.  They were angry, Pentandra noted, but most were just afraid of the sudden uncertainty.

By the time Pentandra pulled her consciousness out of the baculus Anguin was finishing his speech, promising the usual rewards and acclaim for faithful service and dire consequences for betrayal or failure.  When he dismissed the court to enjoy the holiday’s festivities, none of them doubted that the politics of the moment had suddenly changed.

A few of the nobles of court lingered to welcome the Duke, thank him, and attempt to swear fealty to him there on the spot.  Count Angrial graciously declined on His Grace’s behalf, although he gratefully accepted the token of their fealty – such ceremonies needed to be done in court, in public, where all could witness it.

“That was exhausting,” Pentandra yawned to Arborn as she waited for the courtiers to leave.  Her husband – husband! – had been just as busy as she last night, but he hardly looked it.  His dark features were as alert and awake.

“All we did was stand around and talk,” Arborn said, confused.

“My mind is exhausted, my sweet, not my body.  I’ve been doing magic.  I need sleep.  As I’m sure you do.  I can’t wait to be asleep in a real bed after a week on the road!”

Ideally she and Arborn would have moved directly into the official residence and offices of the Alshari Court Wizard – but they were in a frightful state of repair, and unready for habitation, from what she saw when she visited them.  Nor did she have just herself to look out for – Arborn had persuaded a dozen of his fellow Kasari rangers to join him as woodwards in his new position, and he was responsible for their housing, too.  Which meant that now Pentandra was responsible for them.

Thankfully she was not without resources.  After a brief moment of panic when she realized that she had no place ready for her to stay, and being unwilling to take residence in the inns of Vorone, she remembered that Minalan had taken over ownership of a townhome in the noble’s quarter of Northwood, one that had originally belonged to Sire Koucey of Boval Vale.

Since Pentandra had once been imprisoned by the Wilderlord – in a common dungeon cell! – she had no compunctions about enjoying his hospitality, or Minalan’s.  The fact that the old coot was now in a prison of his own, in eternal servitude to Sheruel, the Dead God, as recompense for his ancestors’ treachery, did little to soften Pentandra’s ire at the man.  She would be happy to let her new husband enjoy Koucey’s hospitality.  She’d already arranged for her baggage to be taken then, along with a short note to the caretaker, Surduin.

“I am rested enough,” he shrugged, his big shoulders making his mantle dance deliciously.  “It was an easy few days on horseback, and then we got here and didn’t even have to fight.”

“Not yet.  Not with swords, anyway,” Pentandra said, wryly.  “What duties have you been given?”

Arborn was technically the Ducal Master of Wood, the court official with the responsibility over the duchy’s vast forest resources.  That had been a concession by Anguin to get Pentandra to come to work for him.  No one was better suited to oversee the vast forests of Alshar than a Kasari captain of rangers.  But until the snows melted in the spring, there wasn’t much for Arborn to do in his official capacity, so he had been utilized by Count Salgo as a special troubleshooter for the transition.  That was going to keep him deployed more than she had anticipated.

“I am to seek out the leading burghers in the town and read to them the Duke’s Yule proclamations, and get their seal that they have heard and understood it,” he reported, grinning wryly.  “Some of them will cause some anguish.  Count Angrial thought it best if they were delivered in a polite but intimidating fashion.  He believes that I can accomplish this.”

“There’s no one better for that,” she agreed.  Arborn wasn’t a warrior by trade, but that was a choice.  He was big, he carried himself with a deadly grace, and he could stare down the stars themselves.  He would have been a valuable addition to any military force he cared to join – but he was not a violent man, by nature.  “I’ll be stuck interviewing courtiers and prisoners all day.  But promise me you’ll try to make it back to the house by dinner?”

“I will do my best,” he assured her, quoting a Kasari motto.  “I did speak to Count Angrial earlier about my office’s priorities.  Unfortunately, for the next few days we are needed outside of Vorone, to help spread news and take an accounting of the nearby estates before they can manage to organize against him.  We will travel to local manors considered strategically important and ensure that they understand the new political reality, and their responsibilities under it.  So it seems I will soon be deployed with my men,” he added, with a mixture of disappointment and eagerness in his voice.

Pentandra was suddenly overcome by his strength and calm confidence in the face of so much activity.  She tossed aside decorum and embraced him suddenly in the middle of the Stone Hall, before bestowing kiss on his surprised lips.

“Happy Yule,” she said, as she relaxed into his arms.  “Not the way I wanted to celebrate the holiday with my new husband.  But I think it foretells a very interesting marriage.”

Arborn gave a sudden and uncharacteristic laugh.  “A barbarian Kasari ranger and a Remeran mage of Imperial blood?  My wife, there was no way we are destined for a boring union.”

Pentandra smiled, enjoying the few beautiful moments she was able to just exist inside the emotional protection of Arborn’s arms.  It was as if the tension she had accumulated for the last day drained out of her in the embrace.  She had always feared the dreary obligations and inevitable conflict that seemed implicit in marriage.  But in moments like these, she began to appreciate the benefits, too.  She happily continued with her interviews, refreshed by her few moments alone with him.

He was nowhere to be seen, when her busy day concluded with the chapel bell.  Pentandra finished her last interview and made the long walk back home just before the sun set.  Darkness fell quickly, this far north and this late in the year.  She was not concerned with her safety, despite Vorone’s rough reputation.  The Orphan’s Band controlled the streets, patrolling in squadrons of four or holding tactically important street corners.

Besides, anyone who attempted to rob Pentandra would have to face the power of her spellcraft, so she felt reasonably secure walking back to the Northwood ward.

She followed her baculus’ direction through the unfamiliar snowy streets, choosing to walk the long way, largely through the protected palace grounds, though it was twice as long.  Once she exited the gates into Vorone, proper, she gingerly stepped around the path littered with footprints and less pleasant offerings after the busy holiday.  The open gutter in the center of the street was frozen over still, holding the winter’s refuse in stasis.

What an apt metaphor for Vorone, she decided as she walked to the Spellmonger’s Hall.  And now we’re going to thaw that filth, and let it flow, she added to herself, resigned.

She spent the time on her walk usefully, employing magic to contact the senior magi in the Wilderlands to let them know about the important development.  Thanks to her Astyral, the steward of the important city of Tudry, knew about the new Duke’s occupation of Vorone, as did the militarily powerful Magelord Azar, head of the Horkan Order of Warmagi and the Megelini Knights.  Pentandra was able to persuade Astyral to hold the news of Anguin’s bold move seizing Vorone from Tudry’s Mirror array for a few days.

The magical net that allowed communication between the far-flung, important cities of the Kingdom did not yet include Vorone, but Tudry had a node.  The longer she could delay the news, the longer Anguin would have to get established before his foes would have time to plot against him.

Lady Carmella, head of the Order of Hesian Warmagi (responsible for support and supply, fortifications and defenses for the war) was also informed, as was Wenek, Baron of the Pearwoods, and a half-dozen other High Magi scattered across the Wilderlands.  By the time she got to the glowing green snowflake on the door of the hall, she had accomplished much.  She had at least been able to wish them a merry Yule.

It did not feel much like the holiday to her, thanks to the anxiety and the frenetic activity.  Traditionally Yule was a day of drunken celebration, visits to temples, and feasting.  Pentandra had indulged in none of that.  But it was Yule, she knew, her first Yule with her husband.  She would not be a good wife if she did not at least make some effort at merriment. This was no proper hall for her husband to return home to on their first Yule together!

She summoned her baculus and examined the place with highly augmented magesight for the first time.  She had been far too busy to invest her attention in the place, even though she’d spent a week under its roof, and she was curious.   The internal structure and roofing were intact and in good repair, she quickly saw, and the place seemed relatively free of vermin.  Satisfied, she put the tool back into her ring

The hall was dusty and needed sweeping desperately, and the chamber above was in a miserable state.  Pentandra employed magic, the cook, and two neighborhood girls (daughters of a penniless lord two doors down) to scrub the place from top to bottom, and paid extra for the sheets and blankets to be laundered.  She dried them all by magic, rather than wait for them to dry in front of the fire.  The tapestries were taken up to the loft and beaten by the caretaker, and the crockery was re-washed.

Noting the state of the pantry and buttery, Pentandra sent the younger girl to the Market ward for supplies.  While it was after-hours, and the throes of a holiday, Pentandra knew that with adequate coin anything could be had in Vorone at any hour.  She was proven correct when the girl returned two hours later laden with at least some of the supplies Pentandra had sent her for.

By the time darkness fell, the hall was reasonably prepared and the chamber above was nearly comfortable, according to Pentandra’s standards.

Arborn arrived late that night, thankfully, and did not elect to sleep at his tiny office in the palace.  Pentandra left word with the guard where he could find her, and by the time he found his way to the snowflaked door of Spellmonger’s Hall, she had almost gotten the place presentable.  Or at least bearable. When Arborn climbed the stairs from below, his men exclaiming at the mulled wine she’d left bubbling in a kettle over the fire, there were magelights hanging in the air of their bedchamber like lazy clouds, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth, and a small pot of soup bubbling over it.

“Welcome home, my husband,” Pentandra said, handing him a goblet of wine.

“The hall looks lovely, my wife,” he agreed, pleased.  It was full of his men who, while rangers used to the wilds, were happier sleeping on a clean floor, not a filthy one.  True, the rushes on it were two years old and dusty, but it was warmer and drier than they could have found outside.

Their bedchamber, above, was only marginally cleaner than before, and had yet to receive Pentandra’s luggage, but the canopied bed was wide and comfortable and the fireplace filled the room with a cozy glow.  Pentandra used magic to seal the chamber from draughts and dampen the sounds from within.  It would take a few more days to restore it to full cleanliness, she knew, but it would do for the night.

But even on its best day, she knew, Boval House would never pass her mother’s expectations about what kind of home her daughter should have.  It was a Wilderlord’s townhome, meant for temporary lodgings, not a permanent residence.  It was small – too small for a noble family – and hardly the richest townhouse on the street.  No matter what she did to it, Pentandra knew, her mother would find fault with it.

That added a certain amount of delicious indulgence in her possession of it.

And if her mother was so willing to criticize her choice of home, Pentandra knew she would have plenty to say about her choice of husband.  She was just as happy that the woman was more than five hundred leagues and two duchies away.  And once Amendra got to really know Arborn, and appreciated the fact that he had slept under more stars than roofs in his life, she might realize that as humble as Spellmonger’s Hall might be, to him it was an embarrassing luxury.  For as rustic as this might appear to her, Pentandra could already tell that the house was far more urban than the Kasari were used to.

It was a compromise in her marriage, she knew, but a helpful one.  As she and Arborn snuggled together, late in the evening, exhausted from their long day, she honestly didn’t give a damn what her mother thought.  Pentandra was happy, relatively speaking, happier than she’d been her entire life.  She would be damned before she’d let her mother mess that up.

Before she fell asleep after their delicious union, with Arborn snoring beside her, she took the quiet of the moment to contact Minalan and officially inform the Spellmonger about their success.

He was, after all, the chief architect of the new regime, and had risked much in seeing it established under the nose of the King.  If things went poorly with Anguin, she knew, King Rard would eventually trace his supporters back to Minalan, which could prove awkward for relations between the state and the arcane.  It didn’t take her very long to make contact with Min, mind-to-mind.

Well, we have a restoration, Pentandra proclaimed, proudly.

We do? he asked, sounding surprised.

As of last night.  The bum of a baron who was holding court here was caught completely unawares.  The Orphans moved to counter the garrison and keep them in their camp.  And Anguin really put on a show, claiming his rightful place as ruler.  There was an execution.  And two imprisonments.  Very exciting.

Any serious resistance? Minalan asked, warily.

Not yet, Pentandra admitted, but honestly I don’t expect there to be for a few days, until the players in court figure out what the situation is.  But one thing is for certain: our sudden arrival interrupted at least a dozen brazen cases of abuse of position.  The palace has been picked bare.  I have no doubt some fled in the night – we’ll have to see who shows up to the council meeting this morning to determine just who, and with what.

Let me know if you need any help, okay? he instructed her.

While the offer was authentic, Pentandra was reluctant to consider it, if it wasn’t vital to the success of the mission.  But she became concerned.  Minalan just didn’t sound himself, for some reason.  He sounded . . . tired.  Pentandra promised herself not to call upon him unless it was absolutely necessary.

I can manage this, she promised.  And thank you for the use of your home.

My . . . what?

The hall you appropriated in Vorone?  Sire Koucey’s residence in the capital?  Until adequate quarters can be secured in the palace, Arborn and I are staying there.  I hope you don’t mind.

Of course not.  Was there anyone there?

Just the old one-legged warmage who Astyral detailed to become caretaker.  He’s used the place once himself, when he visited.  But it’s cozy, even with a dozen rangers downstairs.  Arborn has pledged their service to the Duke to help restore order in Vorone.  They were extremely helpful last night, when things got tense.

Pentandra briefed Minalan about details of the palace takeover, and what obstacles to their success she thought they faced.  I think we took everyone by surprise, she concluded.  That might just give us the breathing room we need to secure the capital without Royal interference.

Well, that’s the key, agreed Minalan.  The longer Anguin can maintain power in Vorone, away from his uncle’s influence, the more likely he’ll survive his ire.  If Grendine decides that Anguin is running counter to her plans, she’ll just send in some pretty little maid with murder in her heart and end him.  That’s going to be a lot easier when he’s the untested heir sitting uneasily on the throne.  Once he builds up a political consensus behind himself in the Wilderlands, and re-establishes his administration as vital to the management of the duchy, he’ll be a lot more protected.  Get the locals to accept him and prove loyal to him, and even Grendine will have to think twice before killing him out of hand without courting rebellion.

Since the news probably won’t arrive at Castabriel for another few days, we should be able to start that process before she interferes, then, Pentandra agreed. He could have as much as a month before she will be able to react to what he’s done.  That should give us enough time to shore up some political support.  But . . .  just how do I go about ensuring the local nobles support him?

Persuade them that it’s because he’s all they have, Minalan said, wisely.  The King only needs the Alshari Wilderlands so that he can claim sovereignty over three duchies – he has little interest in spending more in time or treasure on them than he has to.  New royal palaces take a lot of both.  Rard doesn’t have any further interest in the Wilderlands, after that, so if they are threatened it will take a long time to even bring it to his attention.  Anguin, on the other hand, is willing to stake his fortunes to their own.  Or at least that’s what I can tell, Minalan confessed.  If they support him, he will, in turn, try to support them.  Not the least by the legitimacy his reign gives them.

And if I am unpersuasive?

Then bribe them, Minalan sighed, tiredly.  That’s the only way things really get done in a feudal system, anyway.

Chapter Five

Interview With A Courtier

The day after Yule was as busy as the previous day, though less fraught with anxiety now that the Orphan’s Band were well in control of the town.

There were no riots, despite the drunken revelers extending the holiday, there were no insurrections by angry townspeople, there were no rebellions by local nobility.  It seemed, on the surface, at least, as if the Restoration was taking hold.

Pentandra found some comfort in that, after the long hours and exhausting work she had put into the effort.  As she walked the two miles from Spellmonger’s Hall to the palace for her first official staff meeting, she felt at least some sense of security, despite the fact that Arborn had to leave almost as soon as they’d arrived.

The palace itself was starting to look less gloomy and decrepit already.  The Orphans’ Band soldiers at the gate were part of that, but Pentandra could see some of the exterior walkways had been hastily shoveled off, and the refuse and disrepair that dotted the massive building was beginning to be addressed.

She greeted the sergeant of the guard at the gate, who waved her through without incident.  Porters and servants were busy unloading wain after wain of baggage arriving from Gilmora while guardsman diligently watched over them.  It seemed as if every member and supporter of the Duke’s new regime was ready to set up their household in the palace.

A young assistant castellan with a scroll bearing his instructions was waiting in the main hall for her, and led her through the maze-like structure to the office the Prime Minister had selected as his own.

“Ah!  Our Court Wizard!” the white haired old man greeted her, rising, as she was ushered in by a page.  The room Angrial had made into his command center was bustling with monks, clerks, castellans, and pages, running errands and sending messages.  There was an aggressive pile of parchments lurking on the table in front of him and a cup full of goose quills at his elbow.  “Day Two of the Restoration.  We shall be in this transitional phase for a few more days, I’m afraid, but thanks to your help we’ve made some remarkably quick progress.”

“So what shall I be doing today?  Opening my office?” she asked, expectantly.

Angrial winced and chuckled at the same time.  “I’m afraid we are upstream from that, yet, my dear lady.  With matters still in flux, I’m afraid the Court Wizard’s office is, sadly, a lower priority than establishing the more fundamental elements of our rule.  Not to diminish your abilities, accomplishments, or importance, but . . .”

Pentandra smiled despite herself.  “I understand.  As eager as I am to begin a life buried in parchment, that can’t begin until the rest of the palace and court is stable and secure.  I’ve run a large organization before,” she reminded him.  Her early days organizing the Arcane Orders in Castabriel, essentially by herself, had given her a strong appreciation for the importance of proper policy and procedure.  It had also taught her patience.

“Just so,” Angrial smiled.  “So glad you do – believe it or not, the presumptive new Master of Wave was in here a few moments ago, just as I was affirming our new town constable’s post, demanding that his office be made ready at once.  Despite the fact that our regime does not currently control a single ship.  These Sea Lords . . .” he said, shaking his head sadly.  “In any case, today I need you to participate in more interviews, I’m afraid.  But important ones.  The first few will be minor functionaries, but they are essential, and need to be vetted.  But then I want you to meet with Viscountess Threanas. Coastlord, scion of one of the Oxbow Viscounties, who have a long tradition of dedicated service to the duchy. She was the Minister of Treasure under Lenguin, and she’s lingered around the palace during the Baron’s unfortunate tenure, irritating him to no end.”

“I recall her, from my brief time here before Timberwatch,” Pentandra nodded.  “Not a particularly pleasant woman,” she observed.

“Few Ministers of Treasure are,” Angrial nodded.  “If they were pleasant, their courts would be broke.  In any case, our goal is to see where her loyalties lie, see if she’s willing to re-join the court under Anguin, and see if she’s willing to resume her former position.”

Pentandra’s brow furrowed.  “Did we not bring Coinsister Saltia to fill that position?”

“As an assistant,” corrected Angrial.  “Sister Saltia is the representative of the Temple of Ifnia, who is underwriting this endeavor . . . with the secret backing of the Arcane Orders, as you well know.  But her age and experience, not to mention her ecclesiastical loyalties, make her . . . unsuitable for the top position.  In addition,” Angrial continued, in a businesslike way, “Threanas has served under two previous dukes, and has the grudging respect of many of the local nobility for her long and scandal-free tenure.  Bringing her on will add a much-needed dose of legitimacy and continuity for the local nobles.  And . . . despite my personal issues with the woman . . . she does know her sums,” he admitted, almost painfully.  “And she’s honest to a fault.”

“I’ll be happy to assist,” Pentandra agreed, unenthusiastically.  She hoped Sister Saltia did not take her participation personally.  “I just hope it doesn’t inspire any complications,” she added.

While she had become friendly acquaintances with the coinsister the Temple had assigned to this position, she could see why having her in a position of authority might make some people nervous about the future of the regime.

The Ifnites were slightly obsessive about money, for one thing, but they also had an institutional gambling problem that made people anxious.  They were famous for determining their decisions about important things randomly, as a devotion to their fickle goddess of luck and prosperity.  Every initiate into their order carried a little pouch of lots which they were known to throw to give them direction and insight.  When one wished to discuss the financial security of an entire state, it was somewhat disconcerting to see your experts on the subject throwing dice to determine their answers.

“Sister Saltia understands her role in the new court,” Angrial assured her.  “She will be sitting in on your interview.  And she will have to be the one to work with Threanas.  But this is an important enough post that the duke, himself, wishes to participate in the interview,” he informed her.

“That . . . will be interesting,” Pentandra said, non-committally.  The young duke was still very much an unknown factor in the equation of Alshar, yet so much depended upon the character and leadership of this untried, untested teenage boy. One execution did not a ruler make. “But instructive to His Grace,” she approved.  “As wise as his ministers might be, ultimately it is he who must select his staff.”

“Quite right,” Angrial nodded.  “I’m pleased we understand each other.  If you’d like to refresh yourself in the main hall, I am arranging a suitable room for the interview. Go ahead and conduct the others on your list.  I’ll send word when we arrange Threanas’.  I believe Sister Saltia is already in the palace,” he added.  “Anything you could do to preemptively sooth any hurt feelings would be appreciated,” he added.  “The last thing we need in the palace right now is a surly nun.”

There was breakfast available in the main hall of the palace, laid out on trestle tables near the huge fireplace.  She’d barely broken her fast this morning, so eager was she to get to the palace.  Pentandra stopped indulged herself in a biscuit. a rasher of bacon and a cup of beer before beginning her duties.  The palace cooks had been unprepared for a real Duke to arrive like a Yule gift from the gods, but they had done their best to make the repast festive.  The servants were looking at the newcomers nervously, as if they expected to be executed on the spot for their complicity with Baron Edmarin’s regime.

Livery was an important benefit of court service, Pentandra reflected abstractly while she prepared her food.  The palace kitchens were massive, employing dozens, ostensibly there to cater to the dietary whims of the Duke.  But they were vital to how the palace worked, thanks to livery.  That was the right to eat meals at the palace, a privilege that came with many court positions.

Traditionally many of the junior positions as court functionaries were paid out entirely as livery, usually with a small stipend but sometimes not.  It was that important a benefit.  Even in its fallen estate, the cooks of the palace still ensured that the food was as good as their expertise could manage.  Eating at the Duke’s table was far better fare than what could be purchased elsewhere for coin.

Pentandra took a moment to speak with one of the assistant castellans about the pressing matter of her quarters, but the man had little to offer her.  The official residence and offices of the Court Wizard had stood vacant for years, now, and had been largely put to other purposes.  They were certainly not prepared for her to take residence, nor to conduct the proper business of her office.  That forced her to plan on staying at Spellmonger’s Hall indefinitely, which she found annoying.

But the bulk of the Duke’s party had yet to arrive, and the nervous castellan assured her that the newcomers would have to be accommodated before any attention to permanent housekeeping matters could be paid by the staff – by orders of the Prime Minister.

Pentandra returned to her task interviewing senior courtiers of the old regime.  While they were considered essential personnel needed to keep the palace running with a minimum of efficiency, their loyalties and accountability needed to be established, particularly after the corruption of Edmarin’s rule.  She had claimed a small chamber in the quiet east wing for the task, and had drafted a servant girl who wasn’t doing anything in particular to act as her page, fetching the interviewees to her as requested.

They were a nervous lot.  The former Palace Castellan, Sir Enrei, was the very first she interviewed, and the thin man’s face was pouring with sweat as he took a seat.  Pentandra made her baculus appear out of nowhere in front of Sir Enrei’s dumbfounded eyes to demonstrate her power in the situation, and then launched into the speech she would use on most of her interviews.

“I am Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial,” she informed the sweaty Sir Enrei, realizing that she would have to change the way she was addressed, now that she was married.  How did the Kasari handle the matter?

“I’m the new Ducal Court Wizard.  In an effort to ensure the loyalty and efficiency of his staff, His Grace has asked me to speak to you and determine your suitability for your current post.  In this he has directed me to use magic to learn the candid truth of the matter.  If you decide to resign rather than be subjected to this, please do so now and have your effects removed from the palace by dusk.  If you elect to continue, then you may choose either to be compelled to speak the truth, or merely to have me know when you are being deceitful.  Which would you like to do?”

Those who were concerned about their history usually chose the second option, and then tried to use evasive language to avoid admitting to any wrongdoing.  A few chose to be compelled to speak the truth, confident in their history and very eager to prove their loyalty.

The palace castellan was decidedly in the former group.  Pentandra had a list of fairly straightforward questions to put to each of them, and Sir Enrei lied about three of the first five.  Pentandra was not only able to tell he was being deceitful, but with the assistance of her baculus she had incredible insight into just how and why he was being deceitful.

In his case, his position was almost entirely nominal.  He collected the large salary for the post and pushed most of the details of running the place to his deputies and assistants.  As it turned out, he was a distant kinsman and former vassal of Baron Edmarin.  His primary responsibility, it seemed, was to act as a procurer supplying the illicit desires of the palace, from young girls to rare wines to other, less savory fare.  He had connections with the town’s many brothels and, he inadvertently revealed, connections to the criminal underground known as the Rat Crew that was in charge of much of the city.

Pentandra thanked him for his cooperation, assured him that everything would work out, and added him to the list of those to be dismissed and questioned more thoroughly.  And perhaps imprisoned.

He was the worst of the lot.  One of his assistants, was also fairly corrupt, but not nearly as bereft of morals as his senior.  Another, Sir Mincar was extremely competent but had been forced into doing things he did not approve of, and bore the stain of guilt on his soul.  In the end Pentandra recommended him to replace the outgoing castellan, and decided to take a luncheon when the palace chapel’s bells rang.  She trundled back down to the main hall, where she found many of the new regime congregating.

Pentandra noticed a familiar face, dressed in a rough spun light brown woolen habit, picking through the seasonal dishes the cooks had prepared.  “It hardly feels like Yule,” she remarked to Coinsister Saltia, who was filling her trencher when she arrived.

“Oh, I know!” the woman replied, her eyes wide.  “It’s cold enough for Yule, but where is the celebration?  I’ve been doing inventory of the vaults all morning, with nary a cup of cheer in sight.  I know it needs to be done,” she moaned, “but I do love the Yule festivals.”

Pentandra did not have many strong acquaintances amongst the other supporters of the duke’s party, but over the last few weeks she’d befriended the dumpy nun and appreciated both her sense of humor and her insulation from wider court affairs.  She liked Sister Saltia’s willingness to face uncomfortable truths without submitting to despair. The infinity-sign religious symbol around her neck notwithstanding, Saltia had the brains and intelligence to have been a mage, had she but possessed rajira.

“I’m sure the festival decorations will stay up a few more days,” Pentandra offered. apologetically, carefully avoiding the subject of their upcoming interview.  Yule was not her favorite holiday, but she could appreciate the draw for someone bound to ecclesiastical celibacy.  A number of religious orders relaxed their rules, unofficially, for the festival.  It enjoyed a far greater significance up here in the Wilderlands where a severe winter was a threat, than it did for her back in sunny Remere.

“Worry not, my ladies,” a courtier said, from behind them.  “Yule drags on for three days, here at Vorone, at a minimum.  Traditionally so many lords arrive late, due to the roads, that the holiday has gotten stretched beyond one day.  And I have it on good authority that His Grace plans on extending the festival, officially, to distract the townsfolk while the new regime becomes established.  So the taverns and temples will be festive for a while – as festive as they can be.”

Sister Saltia smiled, dimpling.  “And you are, Sir?”

“I am Sir Vemas, former lieutenant to the palace guard, recently-appointed Town Constable.  Very recently.  By about three hours.  I’m still awaiting the scribes to finish writing out my post appointment and warrant.  And you are . . . Coinsister Saltia, I believe;” he said, charmingly, receiving another dimpled smile at the recognition from the nun.  “And no one could mistake you, my dear lady, for anyone other than our new Court Wizard, the famous Lady Pentandra.”

He bowed gracefully.  Despite her experience with courtiers and their obsequious ways, Pentandra felt well-disposed to the man.  He was handsome of face and well-muscled under the fancy southern-style doublet he wore . . . but not such a courtier that he had focused too much of his attention on his attire.  His rakish grin and confident attitude were infectious enugh, she found.

“So I take it you favor the new regime?” Sister Saltia asked, guardedly.  She was a naturally suspicious woman, particularly of charming men.  That would serve her well at court, Pentandra reflected.

“It is no less than the answer to my daily prayers, Sister,” the man affirmed, happily, as he snagged a small sausage from the trestle table.  “My ancestors were among the first settlers of Vorone.  We have been in service since the very beginning,” he explained, proudly.

“Is that so, Constable?” Pentandra asked, coolly.

“My father served Duke Lenguin in the palace guard here for twenty-five years.  I joined the town guard out of family duty and honor.  But hearing Lenguin’s death crushed my father’s spirit and sent him to an early grave two years ago.  I have done what I can to preserve his legacy, here, but I’ve been pissing into the wind for all I have accomplished as a lieutenant of the palace guard under . . . Baron Edmarin,” he said, with a visceral growl of disapproval in his voice.  “I’ve been desperate for some sort of attention to come to this town.  I can’t save it by myself,” he admitted.

“Save it from what, I wonder?” Pentandra asked.  “In your opinion, Sir Vemas, what is the biggest threat facing Vorone?”  She knew very little of the folk of Vorone, and Pentandra was genuinely curious in how they felt about the restoration.

“Apart from four years of neglect and corruption?” he chuckled, smiling.  He was more handsome when he smiled, Pentandra decided.  “The Rats, my ladies, they are the biggest threat.  The goblins may skulk about outside the walls, but the Rats walk through them with impunity.  I oft wonder which has the better interests of Vorone in mind,” he mused.

“Rats, my lord?” Sister Saltia asked, her eyes growing wide.  “Here in the palace?”

“Oh, they are everywhere in Vorone, Sister, I assure you,” Sir Vemas agreed, sadly.

“Sister, I don’t think the constable is speaking of the four-legged kind of rodent,” Pentandra smiled, indulgently.  The clergy always seemed to live such protected and isolated lives.  “The criminal organization currently controlling Vorone from underneath is known as the Rat Crew.  They are affiliated with the Brotherhood of the Rat, a much larger and insidious organization in coastal Alshar.”

“Just so, my lady,” nodded the constable, his face set in a determined expression.  “The Rats infest much of the working classes and lower classes, and they rule about half of the refugee camps outside of the walls.  Their influence stretches into the palace – or it did, until last night.  They will be stunned by this development, but not deterred.  In a few days, a week at most, they will resume their operations.”

“Oh! That’s ghastly!” Sister Saltia shuddered.  “The darker areas of commerce have long intrigued the elders of my order.  Criminal gangs disturb the natural flow of probability.  The Ifnites always fight against fixed odds or shady dealings . . . I take it they lend at high rates, and use violence to collect?”

“That is the least of their crimes, Sister,” he nodded gravely.  “The things they do in their secret lairs would make a goblin blush.  And the silver they take for such things flows south, toward the coffers of the Brotherhood, leaving Vorone forever.”

“That’s terrible!” Saltia gasped, even more shocked at the economic rape of the town than the social instability the Crew represented.

“So it is, Sister, so it is,” the man agreed, mournfully.  “But now that the Duke has turned me loose on the Rats, perhaps I can make some headway against the infestation.  If I have the proper allies,” he added, soulfully.

She was tired, and needed sleep desperately, but Pentandra was not stupid.  She recognized at once what the handsome constable was doing.  Seeking allies.  That didn’t keep her from gasping audibly at the recognition.

“For shame, Sir Vemas!  You sought us out!” she blurted out, before she could stop herself.  “This is no chance encounter over luncheon, is it, Constable?”

“What do you mean?” Saltia asked, instantly suspicious.

“Our new constable has a mind, Sister.  To go after the Rats he is being a very canny tomcat.  Within hours of your appointment, he just happened to approach the two people in the palace who can help him trace their revenues and then trace their secret locations . . . magically!”

The man’s mask of cheer and charm slipped for but a second.  Then he smiled apologetically.  “Aye, my lady, I have been a guardsman long enough to know when a fellow is fairly caught.  You are correct.  I sought to arouse your sympathy with torrid tales of depravity, then enlist your aid.  Shameful of me,” he added, without a lick of shame in his voice.

“As any good constable would do!” Sister Saltia said, defensively.  Pentandra tried not to roll her eyes.  The poor nun was unused to the attentions of handsome men, unless there were great sums involved.  Likely that was why Vemas had focused his approach on her, not the married lady who practiced sex magic . . . and understood the immutable laws of human attraction.

Pentandra was impressed, despite herself.  Most men could not bring themselves to be that blatantly opportunistic, particularly in the name of public service and not their own personal interests.

“It’s more than what a good constable would do,” Pentandra countered.  “It’s what an adept courtier would do.”

Sir Vemas frowned.  “My apologies, ladies, I meant no offense.  I was merely trying to make an alliance in the service of His Grace. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive!” Saltia insisted, glaring at Pentandra over her rebuke.

“I shall forgive the method, but not the motive, Constable,” Pentandra continued, smoothly.  “Either you boldly scheme to replace the Rats with your own cats, Sir Constable, or you are guilty of that rarest of sins: idealism.”

“If coin was my aim, my lady, there are simpler ways to go about gathering a fortune during such a transitional period,” he countered.  “Most of them involve fleeing the region, when you are done.  I rather like it here, and would prefer to stay in Vorone.  With my head.”

“Which makes you an idealist,” she smiled.  “Worse, an intelligent idealist.  And worst of all, an intelligent idealist with a zealous mission in mind.”

Sir Vemas studied Pentandra with renewed respect.  “I can see I shall have to improve my style, in this new court.  You have seen through me as if I were glass, Lady Pentandra.  I am humbled.”

“Not enough to cease your mission, which you continue even after it has been exposed,” chuckled Pentandra.

“Lady Pentandra!  That seems rude, on such short acquaintance!” snarled Saltia, whose strength was in numbers and not in the subtle arts of human society.

“On the contrary, Sister, the Court Wizard has demonstrated her insight and subtlety without recourse to any magic, save her wits and bewitching smile.  And earned an admirer thereby,” he added with a bow.  “I do, indeed, have a mission.  I wish to drive the Rats from Vorone, and make it a place where common folk can conduct their lives and their business safely, without fear of having all they toil for stolen by thugs and bullies.

“And that is my ideal: I love this town, and love it more through seeing it neglected and misused during the interregnum.”

“Then you have, indeed, scored an ally here,” Pentandra assured him.  “My mandate extends to such business, I believe, and I have an especial hatred for such foul folk.  More, I am incorruptible.”

Sir Vemas smiled.  “My lady, with apologies, no one is incorruptible!  Even me!  There are just few who could afford to corrupt me,” he added, amused.

“What could someone offer me that I covet?  I have wealth.  I have power.  I have position and authority.  I am in love and newly wed.  And I have magic,” she added, casually, and silently summoned her baculus to her hand from its hoxter, the magical interdimensional pocket tied to her ring.  “With magic, one can gain wealth and power and position.”

“I think I disagree, my lady,” smiled the Constable.  “You are, in my view, that most corruptible of courtiers in this new court: an idealist.  I could not fail to recognize a fellow afflicted with the same malady as myself.  Idealism is the most damnable weakness in a courtier, Lady Pentandra.  We will sacrifice and compromise in the furtherance of our ideal in ways no opportunistic mercenary whore would dream.”

“Language!” the nun declared with a scowl, clutching the infinity symbol around her neck.  The Ifnites were a very conservative sect when it came to sexuality, Pentandra reflected.  She ignored the rebuke.

“I cannot disagree with you, Sir Constable,” Pentandra nodded.  “Thus it falls to us to watch each other’s flanks and protect each other’s weaknesses with the armor of objectivity.  In that spirit, I’d advise you that your zeal for your ideal betrays your mission to courtiers subtle enough to see it.  You are naïve to expect a simple rebuke shatters resolve, and that timidity is ever rewarded with opportunity.  For shame, Sir, for thinking my own weakness blinds me to opportunity because I expose one tarnished-tongued courtier!”

“Lady Pentandra!” Saltia gasped.  “Such tones!”

“Oh, I deserve such chastisement, Sister,” Vemas, grinned, “as only a bumbling rogue from the barracks, unused to court, can deserve it for making such an abysmal mistake.  Of course, when a lady’s reputation precedes her, even a rough fellow like myself might mistake her highborn manner and regal bearing for a mere glamour.  Cosmetics and fashionable gowns conceal and obscure as oft as they accentuate the natural charms.  A bold fellow feels compelled to explore to determine the nature of the woman underneath.”

“And have you satisfied your curiosity, Sir Constable?” Pentandra asked, wryly, enjoying the game with the charming man.  “Have you satisfied yourself as to whether I live up to what reputation predicts?”

“That depends upon whether or not my lady’s commitment to her virtue is the match of her powerful allure,” he said, glancing at her baculus with open admiration.

“I assure you, Sir Constable, that you have barely guessed the scope of my commitment . . . and have scarcely experienced the power of my allure.  I have been in Vorone for only one full day, thus far, and have yet to even unpack my baggage.  When you see me revealed in the fullness of myself, you shall see just how beggared I am by my reputation.”

“I look forward to that revelation with the eager anticipation of a young boy in the bloom of first love,” he promised.  “I can only hope that my paltry offerings of admiration will flatter you, my lady, and perhaps draw your attention for a time.  I need not spend my hours dogging your footsteps, but if you could devote but the fewest moments to indulge my interest . . .”

“That depends on your quality, Sir Constable.  It is said that a woman may judge a man most fairly by the companions that he keeps.  A man of low quality will have few comrades, it is said, and those of weak temper.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m quite the social fellow,” Sir Vemas replied.  “I’d like to think I have a score of stalwarts who would drink to my health and follow me carousing, if the purse was sufficient to support them.  Gallant, foolish fellows like myself, similarly cursed,” he admitted.  “Not highly born, or with many expectations, but of stout bearing.”

“That speaks well of you,” Pentandra said, smiling coquettishly.  “Then I grant your boon, Sir Constable, and look forward to speaking with you in private concerning your commitment and my allure.”

“Nothing would please me more, I assure you,” he smiled, his teeth flashing brightly.  “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have other courtiers to seduce in the name of idealism.  Merry Yule!” he bid them, as he withdrew.

Sister Saltia was fuming, but Pentandra ignored the portly nun while she thoughtfully watched Sir Vemas leave.  Finally Saltia could take it no more.

“That was just . . . just . . . brazen!” she accused.  “And you a newly wedded wife!”

“What?” Pentandra asked, her calculations grinding to a halt.

“You and that . . . that . . . rake!  Just upjumped from the guard and already trying to get under the skirts of his betters?  Such temerity!  And you!” the nun said, scandalized.  “You did nothing to stop him.  No, you encouraged him!  And asked if he had fellows to join you!  Shameless!” Saltia said, blushing.

“What?” Pentandra repeated.  “Sister, you’ve clearly not been in court before.”

“I have been witness to a seduction before!” Saltia sputtered.

“This is court.  Allow me to explain its subtleties.  That entire conversation had nothing to do with sex, love, or even flirtation.  That gentleman, there,” she explained as she nodded toward the constable’s back, “is a local zealot who wishes to see the gangs eliminated and the town restored to its former glory.  He is willing to do just about anything to accomplish that task, now that he has ducal backing, and he was enlisting my magical aid against the criminals.  He wanted to ensure I was a loyal and steadfast supporter of Anguin.  He has twenty guardsmen that he can depend upon not to be bribed and answer to him, and he’s confident that between the two of us we can make serious gains against the rampant crime in the city.”

“You . . . said all that?” Saltia asked, confused.  “But I didn’t hear any of that!”

“That’s because you listened with your ears, and not your most suspicious mind,” explained Pentandra, gently.  “Every conversation at court has at least two meanings.  Sometimes up to four, depending on context.  I just made a very helpful ally who is likewise seeking a patron.  Should things work out well, I think we’ll be very successful.”

“But. . . but he said . . . you said . . .”

“All a code, of sorts,” she replied, gently.  “You are somewhat immune from it, due to your vocation,” she added, tactfully, to the plain-looking nun, “but you should get used to such conversations.  Much of the court’s business is cloaked in erotic doubletalk.”

Sister Saltia did not looked pleased by that.  “But why?  That seems so confusing!  And pointless!”

“The language of love is an excellent metaphor for a number of situations, and conducting the business of policy in code when in public is just wise thinking,” Pentandra explained after a few moments’ thought.  “The attraction he spoke of was recognition of our mutual interest and a proposal for an alliance.  He has considerable knowledge of the local situation, including the players in the underworld, allies, and a passion for fighting them.  We’ll speak more candidly when in my chambers, wherever that might turn out to be, and likely in the presence of my husband.”

“Your . . . husband?  Won’t he be threatened?”

Pentandra chuckled at the thought of her Arborn feeling threatened by anything.  “No, while Sir Vemas is incredibly handsome and charming, and his dedication makes him that much more attractive, he was no more interested in what’s under my skirts than I was in what was tucked into his hose.”

“Really?” Saltia asked, skeptically.

“Really,” Pentandra promised with a sigh.  “If half of the affairs that are spoken of in court actually happened, believe me, everyone would be a lot less grumpy.”

Pentandra’s assistance with the new regime in evaluating the old regime gave her much insight on the people that Anguin was hiring (or retaining) for service.  Her interview that afternoon with Viscountess Threanas was particularly educational.  Prime Minister Angrial and Landfather Amus attended the meeting, too, of course, but it was ultimately up to Duke Anguin whether or not to re-hire the infamous Viscountess Threanas as ducal Master of Treasure.

Pentandra recalled the formidable woman from her few days in the Alshari ducal court – the last few days of the previous Alshari ducal court.   At the time Threanas had been one of the vital ministers to Duke Lenguin, someone whose (very vocal) opinions on matters of policy were so important that her displeasure had swayed the court (and the Duke) away from what she had seen as a disastrous course of action for the coronet.

Specifically, she had opposed a lengthy and expensive military commitment in the Wilderlands when so many important expenditures persisted in the south.  Threanas, a thrifty Coastlord, certainly had not favored His Grace’s direct participation in the war, much less that of his expensive army of Wilderlords.

That she had been completely prescient about the wisdom of the fall of Lenguin’s regime did not help mellow her disposition during the interview with his son and heir.  Pentandra could appreciate that.

Pentandra was actually somewhat shocked that Threanas was even still in Vorone.  Viscountess Threanas was the leader of a powerful Coastlord banking house, one of the merchant houses that was older than the duchies, the Oxbow Viscounties.  They were faithful vassals to the Counts of Falas – that is, the Ducal house – and had served as stalwarts against the schemes of the rival Counts of Rhemes for two centuries.

Her extended presence at court in Vorone – and away from her holdings in Enultramar – had given the younger folk of her own House the room to rebel against their lawful liege and usurp her holdings.  Not only had they rejected the monarchy of King Rard, but they had repudiated Viscountess Threanas as the head of the house, placing a nephew of hers in charge of its vast commercial holdings.  Returning to her home without a friendly regime to support her claims standing behind her would mean her imprisonment, if not her execution, by her relatives.

Many in her house blamed her for the fall of the duchy, it was whispered.  She had reluctantly extended loans to Duke Lenguin to prosecute the defense of the Wilderlands, after all.  And she had not used her position to try to stop the (to the rebels) disastrous union with Castal and Remere under one crown.  Those factors alone kept her in exile, Pentandra learned.

But as her reputation for honesty and financial accountability was legendary, and her continued presence at court would be clearly seen as the tangible support of the regime by a well-respected and resolutely conservative figure. Pentandra was determined to secure her allegiance.

But much had changed since the days before Timberwatch.  The once-regal old matron was now smaller and thinner than Pentandra remembered, her hair more white than gray and her wrinkled expression fixed in nearly permanent disapproval.  Even in exile she had formidable influence and significant personal wealth, and her clothes indicated that she had not suffered much personally from Edmarin’s corrupt rule.

Pentandra could tell her mood without recourse to her baculus.  Viscountess Threanas was bitter.  She was resentful.  She was outraged.

Threanas had no objection to there being a Duke again, despite what his sire had done or not done.  What Threanas objected to was the focus of the Restoration being on the huge, sparsely settled and (to her, worst of all) relatively poor Wilderlands, and not the geographically smaller, wealthier, and far more populous southern coasts.

But without a sitting Duke to advise and threaten, without a fully-functional court to generate income and expenditures, her title and position were largely useless.  She had been overseeing what was left of the ducal accounts on her own, after Baron Edmarin allowed them to pile up, just for the lack of better work to do.  After she said as much, in the first tense introductions over wine in the small chamber Angrial had selected for the interview, she began to issue forth her opinions with the precision and accuracy of a veteran archer.

“The fleet is where the wealth of Alshar has always resided,” she said with the conviction of the Coastlord she was.  “Without Falas and the rest of Enultramar, the fleets, the ports, the merchants, the towns and the plantations of the south, Alshar is nothing,” she declared.  “Why have you wasted time and resources laying claim to a run-down palace in a patch of wood, when your real legacy lies south, Your Grace?” she asked in a tone of a reproving grandmother disturbed by the foolish actions of her descendants.

“Because when His Grace is denied the Wave by rebellion, he will have recourse to the Wood,” answered Prime Minister Angrial sternly.  There was obviously some lingering animosity between him and the old Viscountess.  “As it is the bit of the duchy we actually have in hand, we thought it best to begin to restore Duke Anguin’s rule here, and not where no one will pay any attention to it.”

The old woman snorted.  “And what does that buy you, Angrial?  The respect of his peers?  You cannot field lances or collect taxes with respect.  In Vorone His Grace rules a handful of illiterate peasant freemen and semi-barbaric Wilderlords.  In Falas he rules the great fleets, the grand armies of Alshar.”

“With Falas ruled by the Four Counts, that’s going to be difficult,” Father Amus pointed out, shaking his head.

Those were the four leaders of the wider rebellion, ostensibly against King Rard – but in practice the Four Counts headed a larger council of lords and clergy who had eagerly seized the rebellion as a chance to severe old obligations and abrogate old debts. They were led by the Count of Rhemes, whose house had strived against the Dukes of Alshar for centuries to control the rich land.  Now they had it, and they weren’t going to let it go easily.

“Not that the idea wasn’t considered, mind you,” the old priest assured her.  “But without a firm and reliable ally inside and a large enough and securely based enough force of his own outside, marching into Falas and announcing that he was suddenly in power would be foolish of His Grace, don’t you think?”

“Idealistic, certainly,” the old woman grudgingly admitted, her mouth fixed in a grimace.

“So it is the opinion of his wisest counselors that he take what legacy is within his grasp and build upon it while he awaits a change of disposition among the rebels,” continued Father Amus.  “While that is not, perhaps, the most glorious route to a complete restoration, it is certainly the most practical.  Building his strength and reputation here, in the Wilderlands, may not sway very many Coastlords or Sea Lords, but without a friendly fleet at hand that is what he has left to work with.”

“I can see that,” she finally agreed.  “But a state cannot build strength without resources,” she countered.

“That is why we have asked you to join us, Viscountess,” Pentandra said, smoothly.  “While the new regime has sufficient resources, we believe, to fund the Restoration and begin the recovery, it is recognized that it will take far more than that to provide His Grace with the forces he needs to retake the south.  Resources and time,” she added.

“The question, Viscountess,” Angrial continued in his reedy voice, clearly trying to be conciliatory to the disagreeable old woman, “is are you willing to commit to work toward that same goal?  For victory we must devote ourselves to the re-ordering and restoration of a much smaller duchy.  For the moment that includes forgetting about the cursed rebellion for a while.”

“Ignoring the blatant denial of His Grace’s sovereignty?” she scoffed.  “Or are we all just in denial, now?”

“Neither,” Anguin said, forcefully, his young voice speaking up for the first time in the interview.  “Viscountess, as much as it pains me to agree with my counselors, I have been convinced that that this is not burying our head in the dirt and ignoring the issue.  It is accepting the unfortunate reality of our situation.  Until we can contrive the regain the south, we must strive to restore the north – and to improve it, if at all possible.”

“That is an ambitious purpose,” she said, without enthusiasm.  “Before the invasion, this country was filled with belligerent, ignorant Wilderlords and half-civilized ignorant freeholding peasants, woodsmen and miners.  Now it is filled with ignorant, penniless refugees and belligerent, ignorant goblins.  You could do virtually anything and improve the situation.”

“And we will strive to do everything in our power to do so,” pledged Anguin, resolutely.  “Not merely lip-service, but real investment in our defense, in our infrastructure, and in our economy.  Now,” he said, eschewing the practiced court voice he’d learned under Amus in favor of his own approach, “we have precious little to do that with, and plenty of people who want us to fail.  We have almost no allies outside of this town, little hope to gain any, and the price of our success will – undoubtedly – be even more bitter opposition.

“But I cannot do this alone, Viscountess. Your house has ever been loyal to mine, and I call on that loyalty now. My father may have had his issues with you, but I know for a fact he respected your opinion over those of most of his other ministers.  That speaks volumes to your character.  I would invoke that sense of dedication to the success of the duchy he enjoyed for his reign, and ask you to join my court.  What say you?” he asked, simply.

The old woman screwed up her face.  “I have toiled in exile for four years in this cesspit, now, Your Grace, in the service of your house.  I suppose another few will not make matters any worse.”

“On the contrary, Viscountess,” soothed the young Duke, with empathy far beyond his years, “it is upon the talents of amazing courtiers such as yourself that we depend to bring us into a position to restore the south and regain Enultramar.  I have been told that if anyone can re-structure the finances of the duchy to that successful end, it is you.”

Pentandra didn’t know if someone had fed him the line, or if he’d conjured it himself, but the unexpected flattery worked.  Pentandra watched as Threanas struggled with herself and then relented.

“I suppose that is true, Your Grace,” she finally agreed, with a sigh of resignation.  “Very well.  If you want me to run a few counties and pretend it is an entire duchy, I am at your command.”

Father Amus looked subtly at Pentandra, and she gave the old priest the barest of nods.  Her truthtelling spell was indicating no trace of deceit or deception in the old woman’s words.  While that didn’t exactly mean she could be trusted, it was as much assurance as they had about anyone.

Pentandra knew there was a lot to gain by getting the alliance of the old woman.  She had been a major force his Duke Lenguin’s court, contending with powerful men as a matter of course and triumphing more often than not.  Pentandra recalled how adeptly she had dealt with matters of court, even calling out the popular Wilderlord Count Marcadine for praising a policy she did not favor.

With the help of her baculus, which she held as casually as a scepter though it was busy at work, Pentandra was able to note so much detail about the Viscountess to at least offer an astute guess about her loyalties and motivations.

It revealed that despite her calm demeanor she was both excited and disturbed by the sudden arrival of her sovereign.  She did not react guiltily, as many of the other courtiers had.  But that did not mean she saw the arrival as a necessarily positive development.

Pentandra liked to think that Anguin’s claim was far too strong to depend on the opinions of one frail old rich widow for his survival, but the fact was that a regime built without including the powerful, bitter old woman would be weaker than one that included her from the start – no matter how trying that might prove over time.

“Will you have any difficulty working with our own specialist in the field of finance?” Father Amus asked, quietly.  “Coinsister Saltia represents the Temple of Ifnia, who is quietly underwriting the cost of the Restoration.”

That got Threanas’ attention.  “Did His Grace have a particularly good day wagering at the racetrack?” she asked, wryly.

“That is actually not far from what we want people to believe,” Angrial agreed.  “The truth might be . . . problematic.”  The significance of the admission was not lost on the Viscountess.

“So who is really secretly funding this masquerade?” she demanded.  “I don’t believe for a moment that the Ifnites are willing to extend a loan on the strength of future earnings from lands not currently under His Grace’s control.”

“The Arcane Orders have pledged to secure the loan extended to His Grace,” Pentandra admitted.  “The Spellmonger, himself, has given them assurances that the debt will be paid.”

“I guess he’s a better spellmonger than most, then,” Threanas sighed.  “But gold is gold.  That makes me feel a little better about the situation,” she admitted, “but not much.  You do realize that there are always political costs for such alliances?”

“There is an even greater cost for sitting in inaction,” countered the young Duke.  “Baron Minalan is a friend of mine, and he has convinced me of his dedication to restoring my house to power.  And yes,” he continued, “I understand that means that I will owe a debt to the Arcane Orders.  But without them, I would still be sitting in safely in exile in ruined Gilmora, under the watchful eyes of the Queen’s agents, not sitting in this freezing cold palace debating financial policy with my court.  So I will gladly pay the political costs.  The question is, Viscountess, can you work with Sister Saltia?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust the clergy,” Threanas explained in a tone that demonstrated that she did not, indeed, trust the clergy, at least in matters of finance.  “While I’m sure that overseeing penny-contests and wagering at tournaments has given the Ifnites ample experience at figuring and probability, the accounts of a duchy are a complex thing.  Even the tattered remnant of a duchy you have left is going to require far more adept management than a few nuns will be able to muster.”

“You may be right,” Count Angrial conceded.  “I can see why Lenguin provided you a warrant for a decade of service.  There are good and valid reasons why certain positions in court were warranted the way they were, including that of Treasury Minister.  It keeps the sovereign from overspending, in theory.

“But we need the Ifnites and their loans if we are going to pay for this Restoration,” he continued, resolutely.  “And they will not proceed without ample representation in court.  And in your office.  Could you accept Coinsister Saltia as an assistant, then?” he proposed.  “You will need one to manage the coin from the loan anyway, and she seems well-prepared for the task . . . and perhaps unready for the responsibilities of greater office,” he added, diplomatically.

Pentandra bristled at the insinuation that the portly little nun was less than competent at her job, just because the Temple of Ifnia was more well-known for booking bets than it was at financing political restorations.  But she wisely held her tongue.  She recognized the slight for what it was: an attempt by Threanas to secure her position, and a response by Angrial providing the bounds of the negotiation.  And it worked.

“That would be acceptable,” the old woman finally sighed, after some thought. “I will need to restructure the entire treasury office anyway, of course.  Especially if we’re going to generate enough revenue to actually repay this loan.  On top of the expenses of the court.

“On average it costs about a thousand to twelve hundred ounces of gold a month to run the palace, and another three or four hundred to run the ducal services to the town of Vorone,” she lectured.  “That’s before you start paying mercenaries to stand around and eat through your stores.”

“The Orphan’s Band is on short-term assignment,” replied Angrial.  “They depart on Briga’s Day, and we won’t have to pay them after that.”

“Nor will we have them providing the stability we need to collect taxes and tribute!” scoffed Threanas.

“We are putting our own forces in place,” Father Amus countered, “as we vet them and prepare them for the task.  The Palace guard has been augmented.  As has the Town Guard.  Both of those were less expensive options than continuing to pay for mercenaries.”

“You will still need to pay for them,” Threanas pointed out, sourly.  “Which means you must have income, not just a generous banker.”

“That will prove difficult, from what I’ve seen,” agreed Father Amus.  “What little hard revenues the Wilderlands produced once were concentrated in regions now largely left lawless and unprotected.  The barons to the south of Vorone are reluctant to contribute their fair share of tribute—”

“Reluctant?” snorted Threanas.  “With Edmarin as the receiving agent?  Of course they were ‘reluctant’!  They disliked the man enough when he was a peer, but when Rard made him Steward and placed him in charge of Vorone, the other barons nearly rebelled.  They might have, if we weren’t at war.  They certainly weren’t going to enrich him.  He was too friendly with Castal as it was, and he let his own lands suffer terribly through mismanagement while he was enjoying life here at the palace.”

“How hard would it be to get them to start contributing again?” asked Anguin, curiously.

“The last time actual tribute arrived at Vorone from one of the barons was two years ago.  The last time Edmarin demanded tribute from Count Marcadine, the good count sent the collector’s hands back in a basket.  He didn’t even send a note.  And he is, by far, the most influential and respected Wilderlord left in the south.  Most of the other barons and lords around Vorone look to him for leadership.  Persuading them to join you will be far, far easier with Marcadine on your side.  And he is not an easy man to convince.  That will be the true test of your leadership, Your Grace,” she observed.

“Edmarin is dead and his policies and his purse are at an end,” Anguin pointed out with some satisfaction.  “If – when I convince the barons to pay me my rightful fealty and submit their proper tribute, will it be enough . . .?” he asked, trailing off.

“Enough?” she snorted again.  “To do what, Your Grace?  Re-paint the palace?  More than likely.  Sustain a proper garrison here?  Certainly.  Raise an army large enough to storm the gates of Falas and re-take southern Alshar?  Hardly.”

“Can I sustain my rule here, with the revenue available here?” the Orphan Duke said, carefully rephrasing his question.

“As long as it isn’t too extravagant, I believe so, Your Grace,” the old minister conceded, tiredly.  “But we will not merely have to persuade the southern barons to contribute, we must – must! – re-organize the administration of the domains north of Vorone, those most damaged by the invasion.”

“You think?” Anguin asked, genuinely curious.

“If you want to see a silver penny out of that region, Your Grace, you are going to have to adopt some new – even novel – policies and make some appointments – and soon.  The few settlements that remain in the east of the Wilderlands grow more remote and less reliant on your authority by the day.  The ones in the west are under constant threat of destruction.  The sooner they are properly ruled and properly protected, the sooner they can be properly taxed.”

“That is among my priorities, Viscountess,” agreed Anguin, smoothly.  “And it is of great relief to me that we see the same picture in this.  I appreciate your counsel, and I look forward to working with you in achieving our mutual goals.  Thank you, you may retire to your offices,” he dismissed.  “Prepare yourself for a busy day tomorrow.  And the next day,” he added.  “In fact, I think we all need to take a moment to refresh ourselves.  Once the core of my court is established, I want to hold my first Great Council meeting tonight, to discuss our strategy for the future.  Now that we understand what we are dealing with.”

Threanas smiled indulgently at the Orphan Duke.  “Your Grace,” she said, serenely, “with all respect, none of us have the faintest idea what we are dealing with, now.  You’ve taken the initiative to establish a state . . . now you have to learn how to run it.  And,” she added, sadly, “ultimately, to defend it.  Because there are more threats at play in the Wilderlands than corrupt barons and belligerent gurvani.  And any one of them could turn into a grave wound in your regime, if we do not proceed with the greatest of caution.”

Chapter Six

The First Great Council

The first Great Council meeting was held the evening of Yule in the Trophy Room on the second floor of the east wing of the palace, within the Duke’s residential quarters.  The chamber was warm and cozy, with an impressive natural stone fireplace that was designed to keep the frigidity of winter at bay, and tapestries displaying the hunting glories of past dukes insulating the cold brick walls.

It was still cold as three hells the moment you stepped outside the door into the corridor.

The collection of weapons adorning the walls – boar spears, mostly, with a few specialized blades and axes, bows and a rack of hunting arrows – were not particularly bothersome to Pentandra.  She found the specter of hundreds of stuffed animal heads, antlers, horns, teeth, and furs strewn around the room a little more disconcerting, especially the full-sized nine-foot tall stuffed bear in the corner.

But in the Wilderlands, she was learning, such trophies were commonplace, and in Vorone they were nearly ubiquitous.  Even the privy she’d used that morning had a giant stuffed hare’s head on the door, the largest lagomorph she’d ever seen, staring at her with glass eyes and a dusty nose while she’d tried to pee.  It had been startling, but no more disturbing, she guessed, than the Remeran-style erotic scenes her guarderobe at Fairoaks were decorated with would be to a conservative Wilderlord.

Count Angrial was already there when she arrived for the meeting, a sheaf of parchment and a wine cup on the small table in front of him and a young monk with a portfolio and desk behind him.  He wasn’t alone – Count Salgo was there, looking as fresh after their exhausting few days as if he’d slept a week.  Father Amus was better at showing his age.  The old priest’s face showed deep pits under his eyes, and his hair looked a little grayer around his tonsure.  But he walked into the room with confidence and dignity.

A few moments later they were joined by Sister Saltia, Lawfather Jodas (the new Minister of Justice), Sir Masten (Master of Works, a Sea Lord of some repute), and Lady Bertine, the Ducal Court Secretary (and, Pentandra knew, one of the secret agents of the Duke who had prepared the way for the restoration while ostensibly serving Baron Edmarin.  Pentandra was just getting to know the other members of the inner court.  She politely studied them while a young monk served each of them wine.

“We will be joined by His Grace momentarily,” Angrial said, in his reedy voice, once the secretary arrived.  “Welcome to the first meeting of the inner Great Council of the Reign of Duke Anguin II of Alshar.  I wanted to meet with you a moment before His Grace arrives to brief you on events you may not be aware of, and hear any concerns or reports of problems you wish to share candidly.

“To begin with, we have successfully taken control of the city,” he continued, glancing at a parchment in front of him.  “The Orphans now control every city gate and checkpoint, ostensibly to give the hard-working palace guard a three-day holiday,” he said, amused.  “After our interviews today, for several of them it will be a permanent holiday.

“There has been no sign of resistance to the Orphans’ arrival, thankfully, and with the garrison confined to quarters the only serious potential challenge to our taking power here is contained.  With our larger contingent due any day with our own reinforcements and baggage train, it is unlikely any real resistance to His Grace’s rightful assumption of authority is forthcoming.  We hope.  Well done, my friends,” he smiled, gratefully.  “My worst nightmare was that this day would be known as the Red Yule, or some nonsense like that.”

“Considering the state of the armories, that would have taken some effort,” reported Count Salgo.  “The main armory at the town watch’s headquarters is a pile of rusted wreckage that would be of use only in the direst of circumstances.  The palace armory isn’t much better.  Most of the best pieces seem to have been stolen and sold off while no one was looking.”

“Your Excellency, we’ve seized power, but can we keep it?” asked Sister Saltia, worriedly, as she nervously toyed with her little pouch of sacred lots.  “We have stability because we have superior forces.  But the Orphans are due to depart by Briga’s Day, when the roads clear.  What happens then?”

“We should have enough of our own forces in place to keep the peace – and keep our control,” assured Count Salgo.  “Regardless of the actions of the town guard or . . . other factors.  We are in the process of recruiting five hundred more archers from His Grace’s Gilmoran estates to bolster our position,” he informed her, “men who have no local connections, and who are unlikely to turn on the regime.  They should be ready come spring, for a short deployment, which will help.  And we do have around another three hundred gentlemen and their households who gathered with His Grace in exile.  Those men have proven their loyalty.”

“But we sit in a town of thousands, with thousands more refugees just outside the walls,” reminded Lawfather Jodas in a deep voice.  “A town more used to bribery and blackmail than law and order, for the last several years.”

“Indeed,” nodded Angrial, gravely.  “Which is why seizing the palace was merely the first – necessary – step toward establishing the regime.  We are in the beginning of winter, in the midst of a holiday.  A few banners and knights are not going to be enough to establish control of the town.”

Duke Anguin chose that moment to arrive. Dressed in a plain doublet of dark blue, the ducal arms embroidered along its cuffs and breast, he wore a small cap-of-maintenance adorned with golden antlers.  He looked well-rested, but impatient.

“Which is why I have just announced the extension of the Yule holiday, and asked you each to undertake special assignments,” he announced, taking his seat at the head of the table.  “Don’t get up, this is a business meeting,” he instructed, as everyone began getting to their feet.

“What kind of assignments, Your Grace?” asked Lawfather Jodas, suspiciously, as he resettled himself.

“Assignments which are, perhaps, outside of your particular ministry’s purview, but well within the scope of your talents,” proposed the Prime Minister, diplomatically, as he nodded to the Duke respectfully.  “Titles alone will not rule a realm without order and control.  So we must first concentrate our efforts on order and control, before we attempt to rule.  His Grace and I have spent considerable time and effort considering just how to do that, and feel that we have an adequate plan to address the issues of order and control, using the resources we have at our disposal.  Do any of you disagree?”

No one voiced an objection. Count Angrial continued, fixing each of them by eye as he checked off their assignments on his parchment with a charcoal.

“Good.  Now here are your immediate assignments.  Count Salgo, I want you to expand your mandate from examination of the Palace Guard to include the larger garrison.  It might be a royal garrison, but under the compact it is subject to ducal authority while encamped.  You are currently that authority.  Comb out all the rascals and cowards, the parchment soldiers and sots, and dismiss them.  Appoint officers as you see fit.  Recruit new men as required.”

“Your Grace,” the lawfather objected, “that garrison is a royal garrison.  We have no legal authority over its composition or its deployment.”

“It is an army within the bounds of my lands,” Anguin countered, simply and sharply.  “Under the Laws of Duin, that gives me the right to do what I need to do defend the realm.   Including assuming control over that garrison.  I’m not attacking it, disbanding it, or even punishing it.  I just want it to work less like a pack of thieves and more like a military unit.  Count Salgo, I wish the garrison to be reconstituted to provide adequate defense of the capital.    Is that understood?”

“Like fine music and a good cup of Bikavar,” nodded the Warlord, grinning under his mustache.  As he had technically appointed the original officers as Kingdom Warlord, revisiting the roster as it existed must have seemed like a rare opportunity to repair mistakes.

Count Angrial deferred the direction of the meeting to his young sovereign, and Anguin began to ask for reports.

“Sister Saltia?  The state of the treasury . . . as we found it?”

“Surprisingly robust,” the nun admitted, frowning.  “Once we included the funds discovered in the Steward’s chamber, that is.  Around twenty-eight thousand ounces of silver, nearly four thousand ounces of gold.  Enough to run the palace for about a month, maybe more.  Viscountess Threanas is still going through the accounts, however,” she added, more disturbed.  “It appears as if the palace has accrued considerable debt with local merchants and secular moneylenders under the Steward’s reign.”

“I want those debts investigated and settled,” the young duke ordered, forcefully.  “In specie.”

Among the reports of Edmarin’s deficiencies was the debt he was incurring in the name of the palace, Pentandra knew from gossiping with Saltia.  Some of those merchants were nearly beggared because they were owed silver that Edmarin did not want to pay.

“See that as many of those claims as possible are resolved, using the baron’s own fortunes first,” the Duke ordered.  “The sudden influx of coin will not harm the state of the city, I’m certain.  And our income, Coinsister?”

“Viscountess Threanas is also looking into that,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the mention of the nun.  “We met but briefly,” she added, with a hint of bitterness in her voice – she was clearly unhappy about working with the woman.  “Apparently Baron Edmarin would not allow her near the accounts, because he feared she would make a report to His Majesty.  A quick review will be difficult, because it’s hard to determine what is palace income, what is ducal income, and what is royal income.  It appears that Edmarin got frustrated and consolidated them all into one ledger,” the nun said, indignantly, as if he had smeared feces on his tunic before temple services.

“Shouldn’t that make things easier?” asked Father Amus, surprised.

Sister Saltia snorted in disgust – a lot like Viscountess Threanas, actually, Pentandra noted.  She wondered if snorting in disgust was a common trait of Treasury officials.

“Easier?  Is untangling a skein of thread easier when it is in one giant ball?  Luck be with us if we have the vaguest idea of our actual finances before Briga’s Day!”

“Then untangling that skein is your highest priority, Sister,” agreed Angrial, adding the gravity of his age and experience to the enthusiasm of the duke.  “Thanks to the good graces of your temple, the generous donations of patriotic expatriates, and the Duke’s personal funds, not to mention other . . . supporters,” he said, his eyes flicking to Pentandra, “we have a large but limited pool of funds to call upon to establish our rule.  Most of those funds must be repaid.  Establishing a viable income is going to be one of our foremost in our priorities.”

“Raising revenues from a town on the edge of a war zone in the midst of poor economic times is going to be difficult, without some semblance of order and establishment of law,” reminded Lawfather Jodas.

“Which is why your special mandate, Father, will be to meet with and appeal to the merchant class in town, and what traders remain wintered here, to gain their cooperation,” Count Angrial informed him.

“Me?  Their . . . cooperation?” asked the high priest, surprised.  “To do what?”

“To pay their damn taxes!” Count Salgo said, gruffly.  “Most are seriously in arrears, or claimed they paid Edmarin’s riff raff but have nothing to prove it.  Before the war this town generated about three thousand ounces of silver a month in tax revenue.  More, when court was in session and coin flowed freely.  We need that money, now!”

“Then we must give them the expectation of justice, law, and order in return,” the old priest said, haughtily.

“That is our intent – and why you will be our emissary to them, Father.  With your assurances they should be persuaded to resume their cooperation with the palace – and the Duchy.”

“And if they ask for concessions?” the priest of Luin asked, drumming his bone-thin fingers on the table.

“Then note them, and tell them that the Duke will take them under advisement,” Aguin directed.  “But this is not a negotiation.  This is an invitation to voluntarily comply, ahead of a much stricter – and more just – era of commerce.  Listen to what they have to say.  But promise them nothing more than our best efforts . . . and our vigilant observation.”

“They cannot fail to mention the corruption and crime rampant in the town,” the Lawfather added.

Tenacious bugger, Pentandra noted.  That could be a very good thing or a very bad thing in the Minister of Justice . . . or both.

“As far as corruption goes, Lawfather, I trust your legendary devotion to order to prevail over the transitory nature of worldly corruption in the presentation of cases before His Grace.”  A grunt and a smile from the old priest foretold just how much he looked forward to that task.

“But there are places in Vorone where even the fear of Luin’s righteous staff has no meaning,” Angrial continued.  “At the moment, the presence of the criminal element in Vorone is not merely a matter of justice or commerce . . . it is a threat to the security of the state.  Indeed, His Grace and I have agreed that it is a threat to the stability of the realm sufficient to eschew normal judicial procedure.”

Count Salgo frowned.  “You wish to employ the military?” No soldier liked to be pressed into service as a constabulary force.  It muddied things, from what Pentandra understood about the profession.

“Considering the current state of the garrison and the guard, and the transitional nature of our contract with the Orphans, that would be a poor and ineffective use of our resources,” Count Angrial replied.  “And likely ineffective, even if we did try.  From what our agents have been able to tell us, the criminals in question are adept at hiding and obfuscation.  We could send all the troops we like into town, but the moment they’re gone the gangs will be right back in control.”

“Then how?”

“The manner in which the criminal underground is entrenched requires a defter hand to root out without destroying the good will and commerce we are attempting to establish elsewhere,” reflected Angrial.  “No normal imposition of martial law will eliminate them; it will merely send them into hiding until better times appear.  Eliminating them entirely will be a subtle and delicate task.

“Which is why I have assigned that task to . . . Lady Pentandra, the new Court Wizard,” the Prime Minister continued, smoothly.

“What?” Pentandra asked, her eyes wide.

“Such an entrenched and establish cult of criminals will defy mundane methods of pursuit,” reasoned the Prime Minister.  “His Grace has one of the most powerful magi in the land on his staff, it seems a pity not to use her against his greatest state threat.”

“But . . . but I’m a mage, not a constable!”

“Then make friends with the constable, and do what you must to eliminate the threat. There is a new one, a local loyalist by the name of Sir Vemas, His Grace appointed just this morning,” Angrial directed.

“I met him earlier today,” she sighed.  “He’s quite charming.”

“He’s quite ambitious, too.  And more keen-minded than most of his fellows.  Consult with him . . . and then, together, track down every rat hole, destroy every nest, and free Vorone from the vermin.  Permanently,” he added, darkly.

“Nor am I an assassin!” Pentandra sputtered.

“Then make friends with an assassin,” suggested Count Salgo.  “More than one, if you need to.  These men need not be subject to ordinary justice, if the foes they face pose an extraordinary threat.  Nor will the agents acting in the Duke’s name,” he added.  “There are certain legal precedents . . .”

“But . . . but . . .” Pentandra stuttered, confused.

“Count Angrial, I object!” Lawfather Jodas huffed.  “Luin’s law does not allow for such unjust acts on the part of the aristocracy!   The gods decry it!”

“Not all the gods, Father,” Angrial said, quietly.  “Every duke has the right to invoke Kulin’s Law, at need.”

That proposal hushed the Lawfather . . . and everyone else in the room.

While Luin the Lawgiver was especially adored in the Narasi pantheon, and his cult was the basis of most Narasi jurisprudence, it was not the only law the Narasi respected.  Most of the major gods had books of law concerning the issues of their particular spheres.  Or at least their worshippers and clergy did.  Usually, Luin’s Law, detailing the rights and responsibilities of each element of Narasi society, was considered superior to the others and prevailed when there was conflict.

But if the God of Law was powerful, he was not absolute.  There were plenty of gaps in guidance for a noble devoted to the law.  And plenty of situations that fell within the spheres of other gods’ laws where their rules prevailed.

Invoking Kulin, the youngest brother of the family of fraternal Narasi divinities the culture claimed descent from, took special courage.  Kulin the Horselord was not merely the respected patron of equestrian affairs, he was also the patron of thieves, kidnappers, spies and assassins, among others.  So of course the lawbook detailing the god’s guidance was, by necessity, permissive of things that no other cult would have seriously considered.

But it was legally viable, and morally defensible.  Dukes had used the exceptions in the Book of Kulin to justify and rationalize their clandestine actions since the earliest days of the Conquest.  Priests of Luin, like Father Amus, were devoted to the laws that promoted equality and objectivity, giving even the condemned rights to process and appeal.  Kulin’s law dispensed with all of that in favor of bloodthirsty expediency.  The Luinites hated that.

“I understand this is not the task you thought you would be doing, my dear,” the Prime Minister told her, kindly.  “It is not expected that you will be entirely successful.  But we have used normal spies and assassins in the past, when dealing with the Brotherhood, and gotten little result.  We’ve attempted to hold them to account by law, but, regrettably, they’ve exploited the bench through corruption and intimidation.

“His Grace wishes to employ the forces of magic to the problem instead.  He shares Count Salgo’s confidence in your ability to make some progress against them.  In fact, any information you could glean about their doings in the Rebel Territories in the process would be splendid, in terms of informing His Grace’s internal policies,” he added.

“And now I am a spy?” snorted Pentandra.

Count Angrial sighed heavily, a long, reedy sigh like a deflating bladderpipe.  “If you don’t think yourself up to it, my dear, I’m certain His Grace—”

“No!” Pentandra said, automatically.  “I’ll do it.  I just have no idea how I’ll do it,” she admitted.

“If you need the assistance of the court, you need only ask,” Angrial soothed.  “His Grace has instructed all ministries to cooperate with you fully, at need.  Hopefully this will be a temporary assignment.   But you must act quietly – secretly – as the laws of Kulin demand.  Until the savages exploiting the unfortunate and hopeless for every last copper are rooted out in the capital, the tree of sovereignty will be in very loose soil indeed.”

And now I’m a gardener, Pentandra fumed to herself, wisely choosing discretion for once before she opened her lips.

“I shall do my best,” she promised, invoking the Kasari motto.  This was court, not a debate.

“Your best will be splendid,” assured Count Salgo.  Others at the table did not look so confident.

Pentandra didn’t care.  She’d been handed an impossible task she had no idea how to achieve, and she’d accepted it . . . just like she’d done when she’d agreed to be the Steward of the Arcane Orders.  She’d managed that well enough by faking it until she hired the right people.  This mandate was just as broad, in its way; it was just more . . . bloody.  She would have to have people killed, she knew.  She’d done it before, when she needed to, but it was not something in her nature.

That’s just part of the job description of the Court Wizard of Alshar, now, she reminded herself.  But the additional responsibility gave her additional leverage, and she was wise enough to use it.

“If I do this,” she said, carefully, “then I’m going to want better quarters at the palace.  The current arrangement for my office is entirely unsuitable.”   She had yet to even move into them, but she knew they were inadequate.  Master Thinradel, her processor, had been adamant about that fact.

“About that,” the young Duke said, wincing.  Pentandra’s heart fell.   “I am afraid that when the rest of our reinforcements arrive from Gilmora, my lady, I must regretfully request the use of your apartments for the quartering of some of the more senior supporters.  A few knights and their households, is all, and likely only until the Orphan’s Band departs after midwinter.  But if you could possibly find another place within the city to practice your craft and hold your house, I . . . would appreciate it.”

“And at my own expense, no doubt,” Pentandra grumbled.

“You may submit a request for reimbursement,” offered Sister Saltia.  “I’m sure I can persuade Viscountess Threanas to pay it!”

“If that is what the Duke requires of me, then I shall comply,” she sighed.  “Does that mean that I must also find sufficient funds to pay for this . . . initiative?” she asked, distastefully.

“As for that, we will fund your efforts.  Merely ask for what you need, Lady Mage,” repeated the Duke.

“And after this housing crisis is over . . . I get new quarters?”

“I shall do my best to provide them for you,” the Prime Minister assured.  “Come springtime, Ishi willing, there will be a lot more room at the palace.  And time and opportunity to construct what we do not already have.”

“Then I accept,” she said, simply.  “If the price of bloodthirstiness is a new office and decent quarters, how can I say no?”

It occurred to her that she couldn’t.  But then she’d known women who would have leapt at the chance to get a grand new home at the palace and wouldn’t have even counted the bodies it took to get them.

At Alar she had flouted academy policy and rented a suite in the town, only nominally “living” in the tiny cell in which they expected scholars of magic to exist . . . and earning the ire of the masters.  In Castabriel she had selected spacious quarters for her role as Steward of the Arcane Orders, but she had quickly found a more comfortable existence just outside of the capital, at her beloved Fairoaks estate.

In Sevendor she had quickly fled the quaint quarters Minalan had given her in his barbaric old castle and had a hall constructed – at the expense of her father and his friends – so that she could enjoy her comforts.  Even in the wilds of Kasar she had found a way to take shelter in her own manner, rather than depend on other’s ideas of comfort.

But now that she was married, she had more than one person’s comfort to consider.  It did not matter that Arborn would have been as comfortable in a makeshift shelter as a palace – more – it mattered that suddenly Pentandra had to take his needs into consideration, as well as her own.

Chapter Seven

Troubled Times

The activity in the palace did not subside during the next week as the jubilation waned and the reality of a cold, snowy winter in Vorone set in for the townsfolk.

The temple bells welcoming the Duke home had been silent for days, and the sense of joy and celebration – and, in some quarters, fright and despair – had slackened and settled, like snow that has been around for a while.

Some were even bitter.  The elation of some people had quickly turned to disappointment when their lives did not instantly transform to the better.  After the holiday the price of bread was still high, the cost of their daily labor – if any – was still low, and their lives looked little better under the Duke as it had under the Steward.

Worse, from their perspective, was the arrival of another thousand Orphans’ Band mercenaries and the remainder of the Duke’s party, late from Gilmora, four days after Yule.  Only the whores seemed pleased with that development - and there was a gracious plenty of them, working in the streets as far as the edge of the Northside  ward where Pentandra lived, to the site of most of the town’s brothels along Perfume Street and Glassblowers Street.

For everyone else it just meant more rough-looking mercenaries patrolling the town and driving up the price of bread.  They still had to toil and worry, and they no longer even had Yule to look forward to.

For Pentandra, the arrival of the rest of the Orphan’s Band and Anguin’s remaining supporters meant delaying any meaningful progress she could make towards re-establishing her office, which was frustrating.  But Alshar had functioned for several years without a Court Wizard, so it could survive a few more weeks, she reasoned.

She began working out of Spellmonger’s Hall, in Northside ward, instead.  The quarter of the town where the Wilderlords built their homes-away-from-castle were still well-guarded, despite a great many of the mansions and halls being vacant, the lords who owned them dead and their lands lost.  Some of the fine townhomes had been inhabited by the dispossessed who could prove title to them or bribe their way past Edmarin’s corrupt officials to lay claim to them.

By daylight Pentandra could see the sad estate of most of her neighbors.  The aristocratic survivors living in exile in refuge while the goblins roamed their abandoned homes were just as desperate as their former peasants who lived in camps outside the wall, they were just more fortunate.

Some were families of Wilderlords who had perished in battle defending the realm, their lands overwhelmed and their real homes destroyed or taken.  Others were vassals occupying the homes in the names of their fallen lieges.  Many had depleted what savings they escaped with and sold off most of their possessions to survive.  Despite their grand residences, the displaced nobility had little to sustain themselves in Vorone. After four years, that had left dozens of noble houses near penniless as any villein.

Still, the mansions remained guarded from squatters and criminals by order of the Steward, Baron Edmarin (who saw the value of the real estate was implicit on its protection), and deeds to the finest of the abandoned properties had been sold at dear prices, or rented cheaply to favorites at the palace.

Sire Koucey’s former townhome, which she learned was called Brandmount Hall in the town records, was safely nestled among the other fine houses.  It had fared better than the abandoned homes, and even had a caretaker.  A crippled warmage, Surduin, lived in semi-retirement in the cellar room, and he’d managed to keep the place safe and in good repair, as well as act as eyes for the magi in Vorone.

The morning Pentandra collected the new Constable, Sir Vemas, from his palace office and brought him there to inspect it was cold but clear, a strong, cold west wind blowing ash and soot into the dark sewer they followed back to Northside.  She’d elected to ride, instead of walk, that morning, and instructed Surduin to saddle her horse for the short trip to the palace and back.

“Isn’t Magelord Minalan going to take issue with you appropriating his property?” asked Sir Vemas, as he escorted her back through the slushy streets.

“He’d better not – he owes me,” she snorted.  “He uses my barge, my estate in Castabriel, and the Order’s hall in Sevendor at his convenience.  He can loan me this place for a few months.”

“I see you and the Spellmonger are indeed well-acquainted,” he said, with just enough subtlety in his voice to hint at intimacy.

“We were involved, back at school,” she said, casually, answering the unasked question.  “For a brief time - more as professional colleagues than lovers.  But he is an old and dear friend, and just about everyone underestimates the debt we all owe him.”

“So you still bear him affection?”

“We are partners in this madness,” she reflected with a smile.  “And good friends.  It is my job to keep him safe and organized.  It’s his job to make dangerous decisions and wear a funny hat.”

“It sounds like a remarkable relationship,” Sir Vemas smiled.  “My pardon, but I cannot help but wonder how your lord husband views your close relationship.”

“Arborn and Minalan are friends,” Pentandra replied.  “Good friends, who respect each other . . . well, far more than either should, frankly.  Arborn understands my work with Minalan is important, and Minalan has no designs on my virtue, believe me.”

“As I said, a remarkable relationship,” Sir Vemas nodded, as they turned the corner to her street.  “Huin’s hoe!  Is that a spider web on your front door?”

Minalan had left a spell that displayed a large green snowflake glowing menacingly on the front door before he left the hall the last time he’d been here, and it lingered with the Spellmonger’s power.  Even people who had no idea what the arcane device was knew enough not to molest the home.

Pentandra rolled her eyes.  “Gaudy!  It’s just a bit of decorative magic.  That’s a snowflake, what they look like when you use magesight and examine them closely.  The Spellmonger’s badge, and emblem of Sevendor.  But that’s Min’s style.  Loud, but effective.  I’m far subtler, I promise.”

“So your reputation suggests, Lady Pentandra,” he nodded as she allowed Sir Vemas to help her dismount.

“Speaking of gaudy,” the constable murmured, “that wand trick seemed a bit . . . flashy, didn’t it?”  He looked around at the few folk in the road, mostly women, servants, and older children sweeping their thresholds clear of snow, chopping kindling or fetching water.

“What?  The rod?”  She considered and then shrugged.  “I am a magelord and the Ducal Court Wizard.  This is a dangerous and desperate city.  Its best people in this ward know that quickly, to avoid misunderstandings.”

She mounted the steps and looked back down at the women and servants who were staring.  She saw Sir Vemas’ observation had merit.  Most were still unaware that the Court Wizard was living in their neighborhood, and gawked at her magic and her colorful finery like she was a Tree Folk.

She was tempted to do an even flashier display of her power, the kind that would send them shrieking back behind their doors, but she restrained herself.  She was representing Anguin and the rest of the court.  She had a responsibility – no, a clear mandate – to make the people of Vorone feel safe, not uncertain.

Sir Vemas followed her around dutifully as he inspected the hall for suitability for their clandestine purpose.  The hall itself was in almost acceptable shape now after her furious Yuletide cleaning.  She introduced him to the caretaker, Surduin, explaining the situation to the man in the briefest of terms.

Surduin mostly kept to the kitchen and storerooms on the lowest floor, where his room was, but he kept watch and needed to know who might be coming into the hall.  Then Pentandra led Sir Vemas on a tour of the chamber above, where she and Arborn slept, and then the third floor loft chamber.

It was dusty, of course, but still dry, by the state of the cobwebs.  The only bed in the chamber was a simple wool-stuffed tick that was only comfortable if you were a rustic Wilderlord enjoying the fleshpots of Vorone - or a ranger more used to sleeping in the wild than under a roof.  To Pentandra’s critical eye it looked more suitable to a Remeran flophouse than a noble’s chamber.  Arborn’s men had departed with him, leaving the place empty, but tidy.  That was the Kasari way.

“The food stores in the kitchen were scant, and need to be augmented. - I’m working on putting up proper provision, but with palace livery there just hasn’t been the incentive yet.  The crockery and tableware are adequate, for a rustic hall, but the kitchen is primitive, at best.”  Her recent experience cooking as part of the Kasari rites of marriage gave her a newfound respect for such things.

“It’s unlikely we will need a formal dining area,” he quipped as he peered through the loft’s gable window. But then his attention was captured by something out of the tiny third-floor window through a crack in the shutters.

“What is it?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Oh, just a neighbor of yours: A ‘Lord Camron’ owns the house, supposedly.  A gentleman who lives in that handsome hall of southern white brick – that’s a symbol of wealth and status, in Vorone – is one of the few burghers who are doing well for themselves in these dark days.  Quite an elegant gentleman.  Beautiful wife.  Social, keeps to himself, never starts trouble, never runs short of funds, even in this economy.  One of Northside’s leading nobles,” he said, with admiration.  “He’s also the crimelord who controls about a third of the town under the name Master Luthar,” he added casually.  It took a moment for Pentandra to catch up.

“He . . . what?  The head of the Rat Crew is my neighbor?”

“Oh, you’ll have no trouble from him.  He is above reproach.  He’d no more have violence done in his witness than a dowager aunt would.”

“You don’t know my Aunt Gantala,” Pentandra chuckled.  “But you’re certain he’s a crimelord?”

“Oh, without a doubt.  The heads of each of the gangs report directly to him, through agents.  His hands never get blood on them.  But they do get a lot of silver.  From what I can tell, he’s secretly sending tribute back to the Brotherhood in southern Alshar.  About three thousand ounces of silver a season.  That’s a lot of silver that goes out of Vorone and never comes back.”

“Then why don’t you arrest him?”

“On what charge?  As I said, he’s above reproach.  A leading noble.  No, ‘Lord Camron’ gives freely to the poor, sends alms to the refugee camps, and is a pious patron of several temples.  He’s developed close relationships with several magistrates and constables in the past.  He’s well known and popular at court, though he holds no official position.”

“I see,” nodded Pentandra.  “And his gangs?”

“A ruthless pack of murderous cutthroats.  Mostly of their thugs are local fellows who were already inclined toward casual violence.  But their leaders and stalwarts are usually southerners, wharf rats from Enultramar, rogues from the slums, or bandits from the back country who have had a few years as brothers themselves before they came north.  They’ve brought a sophistication and organization to the locals that makes it nearly impossible to bear witness to them doing anything in front of a magistrate.”

“So they are your chief foe?”

“Our chief foe,” he corrected.  “Outside of general lawlessness, yes,” Sir Vemas agreed, not taking his eyes off of the front entrance to the white brick hall.  “You know, this is an excellent vantage point.  I can even nearly see into the upper window, there.”

“I can see right into that place, if I choose,” Pentandra smiled.  “It matters not where I stand.  Given time, I can tell you the number of whiskers on his cat’s kittens, and what he does when no one else is looking with my spells,” she assured.

“That would be quite useful in this enterprise, then,” smiled the handsome constable in return. Pentandra could not help but feel a rush of excitement at his confident manner.

“Once we know what we’re up against, perhaps,” she agreed.  “But if you like the view, then this loft can serve our need.  With so many Kasari going in and out, and my position at court, it would not attract undue attention if there were guardsmen doing the same.”

“As enthusiastic as I am about our new mission, I hesitate to conduct operations from the palace.  I know too well how easy it is for secrets to go awry there, and the Rat Crew is adept at buying such information.  This would make an adequate clandestine headquarters.”

“Agreed,” Pentandra nodded.  “There’s a certain irony to plotting against the Rats across the street from the Head Rat.”

“I do enjoy irony,” Sir Vemas admitted.  “The men I’ve chosen for this task will be discreet,” he promised.  “They know how not to attract attention.  Further, they will provide some additional protection for you here.”

“By the time I’m done with the spellwork, they won’t be necessary,” she dismissed.

“That’s also helpful.”  He broke his stare at the white brick hall and looked at Pentandra.  “My lady, I’m concerned that this struggle will get bloody – more bloody than . . .”

“Than a high-born Remeran mage can handle?” Pentandra asked, amused.  “Sir Constable, I have been in sieges, battles, and fought against goblin, troll, and dragon.  I’ve seen more blood than you can possibly imagine.  Likely more than you.  It’s not something I relish, but I am not afraid of it, either.”

“Then I think we have the beginnings of a truly beautiful alliance, here, Lady Mage.  With your magic and my men, I think we can put the Rats on the run!”

The Duke requested her presence the next morning by messenger, calling her to the small chamber he claimed as his private office as soon as she arrived.  The young man looked exhausted, with uncustomary dark circles under his eyes, his tunic rumbled as if he’d slept in it.  He stood and welcomed her formally, escorting her to a chair and pouring her wine himself.

“I wanted to take a few moments to check in with you,” he admitted, when he’d drawn his own chair close to the brazier in the corner.  “I’m trying to do that with all of my ministers right now, to help smooth the transition.”

“I would think that would be Count Angrial’s job, Your Grace,” Pentandra pointed out.

“It will be, eventually,” he agreed with a sigh.  “In truth, he wants to do it himself but he is occupied with restructuring the palace staff at the moment.  And I wish to maintain more direct ties to my ministers than my predecessors, when so much hangs in the balance.  Besides, what else do I have to do?” he pointed out, sounding like a whiny adolescent, and not the head of state.  “Stand around and look regal?  That was my father’s style, not mine.”

“So what would Your Grace wish to know?” she asked, smiling at him.  She really did like the lad.

“How are you finding your new post . . . and your new mission?” he asked, simply.

“The accommodations are lackluster, the staff is non-existent, my duties are ill-defined and poorly described, and I have little idea how to proceed.  That is to say, I am quite comfortable in my post, and I look forward to the challenge of combating the gangs of Vorone.  At least I have more direction than I did when I was made Steward of the Arcane Orders.”

“Sir Vemas has told me that he has introduced himself and pledged resources and intelligence for the effort,” Anguin nodded, approvingly. “I recall him as a palace guardsman, when I was a boy.  A man of boundless energy and wit.  I have every confidence in his ability to pursue your mutual mission, and I trust him implicitly.”

“As do I, Your Grace,” agreed Pentandra.  “Only a man with more zeal than guile would approach me so boldly.  He escorted me to my new quarters in Northside, which he has agreed to use as a headquarters for this endeavor.  My intuition tells me he is a gallant and committed gentleman, loyal to his duke and in love with his town.”

“Just so,” nodded the tired looking boy.  “I think you two will work well together.  But that is a temporary matter.  Beyond the issue of the gangs, I’d like to discuss your greater duties as Court Wizard.”

“My predecessor, Magelord Thinradel, was generally unhappy with the position,” Pentandra said, boldly.  “Largely because of your father’s antipathy toward magic in general.”

“I am not my father,” stated Anguin, flatly.  But he did not take offence.  Pentandra got the idea that the boy was trying to impress her.  “Thinradel and his predecessors were in office when a Court Wizard’s job was largely functioning as the administrative arm of the Censorate.  While some of those duties will remain, the situation we are presented with demands a more active role,” he said, diplomatically.  “Such as combating crime in the capital.  And functioning as a liaison to the magi – and magelords – of the realm.”

“Ah,” Pentandra said, realizing what the lad was getting at.  “You worry about Magelord Astyral?  And Azar?  And Wenek and the others?”

“The old order in the Wilderlands is gone,” Anguin sighed, looking into the fire.  “Once nineteen Wilderlord barons ruled in the name of the Duke, here, within five counties.  Now there are four or five of the old houses left with their lands intact, all south of Vorone.  Two others hold but a shard of their previous lands.  Tudry is ruled by a mage, the strongest castle in the north is ruled by another, and other magi now control more land and fortifications than all of my non-magical vassals . . . we think.” He heaved a sigh.  “That’s why I’ve employed your lord husband so liberally, I’m afraid.  We just don’t know what the true disposition of the duchy is, and until we do, I have to contend with the power of the magelords.”

“Does that make Your Grace uneasy?” asked Pentandra, surprised.  “The magi have done what they could to retain your realm, and have not rebelled against your authority.  In truth they’ve just learned about your return, even before I informed the Spellmonger.”  She went on to explain the reactions of her various colleagues who were now in charge of a sizable fraction of the Wilderlands.

For Astyral, Anguin’s restoration was welcome news.  He’d been ruling Tudry as a military appointee, confirmed by Royal decree, but in the absence of any greater authority he had been on his own.  Carmella, the head of the Hesian Order of warmagi and headquartered at Salik Tower, among the others Minalan had built on the edges of the war zone, was likewise happy to hear the news.  She had come to know the duke during the great Kasari March, liked the lad, and had voiced her personal support of him.

Azar and Baron Wenek of the Pearwoods were less enthusiastic.  Azar was only concerned with fighting the gurvani, and saw an advantage in the Duke’s return only if it assisted in that effort.

Wenek was ruling his hilly fief of half-wild, mostly-drunk clansmen almost independently from the rest of the world.  The stout magelord could be depended upon to rally his men to fight goblins, but other than that he let the Pearwoods clans continue raiding the lowland lords of northern Castal every summer, stealing brides, cattle, and what silver they could, and he was loathe to give up the lucrative practice.  But he had supported Anguin’s ascension for no better reason than it would annoy the Royal family, for whom he had a disdain.

There were others of lesser rank and power, but those four were the chief wizards in the Wilderlands at the moment.

“It is not that I doubt their loyalty,” the young duke frowned, after hearing her report, “but that I wish to enlist their aid.  I cannot force the refugees from Vorone unless they have secure homes to go to . . . or at least a better future.  To do that we must first establish security, then provide service to them.  But the lands they lived in are either occupied, despoiled, or under threat.”

“The magi cannot restore them by a simple spell, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, confused about what Anguin wanted.

“Nor can they restore the hundreds of noble families to life who used to lead the Wilderlands in the name of my house.  Without good Wilderlords to protect the common folk, they will not leave come spring.  But those same magelords are now holding lands, successfully, on the ruins of the old order.”

“And you wish to replace them with your gentlemen courtiers?” Pentandra frowned.

“Ishi’s tits, no!” Anguin said, shocked.  “You misunderstand!  The magi are the only ones who have been able to hold, when nearly all of the Wilderlords failed.”

“Then what is your wish, Your Grace?”

“I wish to expand their domains,” he explained with a sigh.  “I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I think that even brave Wilderlords and armored knights do not inspire the confidence that a wizard does, to the common folk these days.  Magelord Astyral is held in high esteem here, as is Magelord Azar.  When Magelord Thinradel came through town last year, he was hailed as a hero.”  That was a far cry from how the former Court Wizard had been seen during his own tenure.

“So you want more magelords?”

“I want more warmagi,” corrected Anguin, leaning back in his chair.  “Good warmagi, men and women who can take and hold a land, and protect the people.  I will be happy to raise their station if they can prove their worth.  I happen to have vacant lands aplenty, apparently, even in the south of the Wilderlands.  I will be giving many of those to the ‘gentlemen courtiers’ who have so bravely pledged their service to me.

“But north of Vorone there are few Wilderlords left.  And not much else.  But I would be willing to grant those lands to warmagi and magelords you recommend, and who can prove their value to the duchy.”

That was important news.  There was a general reluctance to make more magelords in Castal – already there was resistance to those who had been raised since the establishment of the kingdom. Minalan had to defend his lands, and Dunselen had used his powers to expand his, and even the relatively peaceful Lord of Robinwing had been the target of his neighbors’ wrath in Castal.

But Alshar was different.  Here the magelords weren’t interlopers on the established social order, they were essential elements of the nascent duchy’s functioning and security.  Anguin’s willingness to recognize that and actively recruit them to here was an impressive demonstration of his understanding.

“That . . . will be welcome news to many who have been idle since the Treaty,” she agreed, slowly.  “But will that not also attract Royal attention here, where we don’t really want it?”

“I don’t want you to proclaim it loudly at the next Convocation in Castabriel, this summer,” Anguin snorted.  “Rather, as Court Wizard I would like for you to make contact with worthy magi quietly.  Discreetly,” he emphasized.  “The estates I can offer them are in ruins or abandoned. Or entirely absent, and they will have to build them themselves.  But they will have freedom and authority, and very little interference from Vorone, if they can improve their estates and protect their people.”

“I can think of many who would welcome the chance.  But would not Minalan the Spellmonger be a better advocate in this plan?”

“Minalan the Spellmonger is a mighty ally, a wise counselor, and a friend,” sighed Anguin.  “But he is not my Court Wizard.  In fact, he is a vassal of my cousin’s, not mine.  I trust him, but I cannot hold him to account.  I would appreciate it if you could make this effort discreetly, without worrying the Spellmonger,” the duke said, diplomatically.

“I will . . . I will do my best, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed.  Though she didn’t like the youth’s implicit threat, she realized he was not trying to be overbearing.  “When the snows clear, I can think of a dozen or so who would be willing to meet with you, I believe.”

“If you can fill my lands with magi, Lady Pentandra, enough to keep the gurvani in the west and north, then I might have a fighting chance to hold the lands south of Vorone.  And if you can secure the loyalty and fealty of those magelords, I will elevate them accordingly.”

“And this in addition to my mission to defeat crime in Vorone and my duties registering, administering exams, and enforcing magical regulation in the duchy?” she asked, wryly.

“To be fair, there isn’t much duchy left to be worried with,” he chuckled.  “And you forgot establishing and running the magic Mirror array in Vorone,” he reminded her.  “But I suppose those duties do fall to you, now, or will when things are stable enough for such mundanities.  Until then, I will have to rely upon you for more interesting tasks.  Before anything else, I must be able to rule this town, and right now I rule only as far as the palace wall.  When the Orphans depart, even that might be in doubt,” he said, discouraged.

“You have many stout supporters here, Your Grace,” Pentandra reassured him.

“Three hundred, maybe five hundred swords I can depend upon in a town of thousands.”

“And at least one wizard’s rod,” Pentandra said, producing her baculus dramatically.  “I’ll take care of your Rat problem, Your Grace.  And I will recruit your warmagi.  And I will help keep the magi in support of you.”

“Thank you, Lady Pentandra,” the young man said, formally, though Pentandra could see how close he was to being overcome by the weight of his position.  “Perhaps if I can manage to hold on to power until spring, we can make this work.”

That night Arborn returned from his duties on the road.  He wore a troubled expression as Pentandra helped his snowy cloak off of his great shoulders.

“What’s wrong, my love?” she asked, concerned, before she even kissed him.

“We were ranging north of town today, assessing security beyond the camps.  We were stalking bandits.  We found gurvani signs.  More than just spies.”

“Goblins?” Pentandra asked, alarmed.  “This close to Vorone?”

“In the winter the gurvani can range much further,” he explained, “as many of the streams and rivers are frozen over.  But this was no raiding band,” he continued, as he took off his swordbelt and hung it on a peg.  “This was a scout patrol.  Fell hounds and archers who watched by night.  Not enough to do more than harass a patrol.  But it is an ill sign,” he said, grimly.  “The closest gurvani settlements are more than a hundred miles from here.”

“Doesn’t that violate the treaty?”

“Somehow I doubt the details were shared with every illiterate band,” snorted Arborn.  “It is not a good sign.  The refugees in those camps have no defenses against even a light raid, save the force of their numbers.”

“What will be done?”

“I’ve had a squadron of my men ride in pursuit of them, to ensure they do not commit any mischief on their way back to their lands.  And I informed Count Salgo.”

Technically Arborn’s Kasari were Ducal Woodwards, under the Ducal Master of Wood, but in practice they functioned as Arborn’s private force.  “I would have preferred it was a simple raid.  It implies that Vorone is being watched, and there is only one reason to watch a place so closely during the depths of winter.”

“Preparation for attack?”

“Of one sort or another,” agreed Arborn grimly as he took a seat and took out a pipe.  Pentandra helpfully lit it with magic before he could pull a taper from the fire.  He nodded in thanks.  “They might have been observing, or they might have been meeting someone.  There were human tracks in the area, too,” he added.  “Townsman’s shoes, not boots or bare feet.  But the signs were too scattered to determine when they were made, exactly.”

Pentandra didn’t know what she found more disturbing, the idea gurvani developing confederates in Vorone, or Arborn admitting that he couldn’t tell exactly what had happened from the tracks.

“It does make sense for the gurvani to infiltrate the town, if they want to destroy it eventually,” she reasoned.  “And they can’t very well do that themselves.”

“We must discover the identities of these turncloaks and put an end to their spying,” her husband declared, more forcefully than she expected.  “How can any human being deal with such foul folk?”

“Not everyone is as noble in ideal as the Kasari,” Pentandra pointed out.  “In fact, almost no one is.  Most people will do what they feel they have to in order to survive.  Some people are so opportunistic that they will even betray their own kin in order to survive.  Like the Soulless,” she reminded him.  The captured, branded slaves of Sheruel who had sold their souls to him in order to survive, slaying five or more of their fellow human beings on the sacrificial stone in tribute to the dark lord, were legendary in the Wilderlands.  Their horrific choice had grown legendary in the Wilderlands.

“How can they live with themselves?” he asked, disgusted.

“They are alive,” Pentandra said, simply.  “They fear death so much that they will do whatever they can to cling to life.  They were forced into that by circumstance, and made the choice under duress.

“What is more disturbing are those humans among us who see the gurvani as merely another side in a war, one that may be traded and bargained with.  Where there is silver available, the folk who will struggle to get it care not what they have to do.  There are a lot of desperate people in Vorone.  There are likely many who would be willing to betray their race for even the illusion of hope.”

“Then we must find a way to give them real hope,” Arborn sighed, heavily.  “We cannot protect the people if some of them are willing to betray us all.”  Pentandra felt gratified by the admission.  Too often she became frustrated with her husband’s laconic nature.  They had already enjoyed evenings of awkward silence as she silently screamed at him to talk to her, but he had kept his thoughts close.

“That’s what we’re working on,” promised Pentandra, sliding into Arborn’s lap.  The move took the big man by surprise, but in moments his arm encircled her waist.  She relaxed into his shoulder and stared into the fire.

It was a small gesture, but she felt the pressure and stress of her day draining away as if by a spell.  She looked around.  The chamber was still far from what she would have chosen, the bed barely passable, and the décor featured far more cows than was seemly, but at least the place was cozy.  It was the first place that she had felt at home – at home with her husband.

She extinguished the magelights.  She really didn’t need them for what she did next.

Chapter Eight

A Nest Of Rats

The streets of the Market ward were piled with the excessive snow that the gods had sent before midwinter.  Only the trickling open sewer that ran through the center of the cobbled streets was clear of snow, turning instead into a vile stream of partially frozen brownish-black slush that wise travelers avoided.  A footpath was worn along each side of the sewer that was only marginally better footing than the center.

Most of the shops were still in a holiday mode through inertia alone, doing their best to allure last-minute patrons (including the sudden influx of mercenaries) with special prices or bargains.

Fresh-cut boughs of cedar, holly and spruce were tied to every doorway with red ribbons, and holiday banners were frequent, if threadbare.  But the entire display looked forced to Pentandra’s critical eye.  The faces on the merchants were sour, not merry, when they thought no one was looking.  The snow and the cold had soured the mood of the townsfolk, who were used to far milder winters in Vorone.

That was part of the reason that, despite their best commercial efforts, there was the dearth of potential customers walking up and down the High Street.  A few monks were dutifully trudging back and forth dispensing blessings and begging, and a few older women were hurrying along on errands, but the only real paying customers in sight seemed to be clumps of off-duty Orphans and new-come lords of Anguin’s party.  With much of the guard and the garrison both confined to quarters pending review, and the weather overhead threatening to bring down yet more snow, most of the pious retreated to their homes directly after services on Temple Day.

“What a depressing place,” she sighed.

“Do you jest, my lady?” asked Sir Vemas, who was escorting her through the Market ward on a simple reconnaissance mission.  “This is the happiest place in Vorone.  Of course, each of these merchants is particularly eager for our coin, because last summer the Crew began insisting on payments for their protection.  Protection from the Crew, of course.”

“That’s awful!” Pentandra said, wrinkling her brow.  There was something . . . odd about the leftover Yule decorations, she felt, but she couldn’t quite place why.

“Those who didn’t pay were beaten.  The fees were modest, at first, but once the High Street got used to paying them, they couldn’t object when they were suddenly rose.  Now the thugs enjoy nearly unlimited ‘credit’ here.  They take what they want from whom they want, almost never pay, and if the merchants object their protection fees get raised.”

“What happens when they refuse to pay?” Pentandra asked, stepping around something she really didn’t want to identify . . . or touch the hem of her skirts.

“That,” Sir Vemas said, nodding toward a burned-out spot between a cobbler’s shop and a tinsmith.  The space was an ashen ruin, the stout timbers that remained of the structure scorched and blackened under the snow.  The buildings on either side and behind it were undamaged, though they were all connected.  “It’s really masterful work, an arson like that,” he said, admiringly, with black humor.  “It happened at night.  Killed the entire family, after the tanner refused to pay.  Burned nearly everything of value within, but stopped short of the walls.”

“Magic?” she asked, surprised.

“I thought so too, when we investigated,” Vemas admitted.  “Master Astyral was in town at the time, and we imposed upon him to take a look.  No magic.  Just a masterful use of accelerants.  A bundle dropped down the chimney,” he explained.  “The outer covering was saturated with toxic oils that produced a noxious gas that killed them all, when it smoldered.  Then when it burned through a paraffin-soaked layer it ignited a nasty alchemical substance that burned hot, then exploded across the room to spray everything in sight with flaming oil.  A very quick fire, and hot . . . but it burned out quickly.  Within the fireplace, in a fold of inflammable cloth, was the corpse of one very well-cooked rat.”

“It sounds like magic to me – alchemy,” reminded Pentandra.

“The Brotherhood have employed alchemists since they were a band of shipwrecked pirates,” assured Vemas.  “Aye, and magi, too.  Some of their crews specialize in such things.  They have traditional recipes for them, part of their institutional arsenal.  It indicates a more sophisticated presence – and a far harsher response – than the criminals Vorone has suffered in past times.”

“So how do we fight against that?” Pentandra asked.  She had her own ideas, but she wanted to hear what the young constable had to offer on the subject.  Men often communicated important details they might otherwise keep to themselves, when they were explaining something to a ‘mere’ woman.  Pentandra learned long ago how to use such occasions to discover vital facts of a situation, often things the men in question never meant to say.

“In many ways, my lady.  My father dealt with crime in this town for many years.  He used to explain how such gangs operate, as a point of vocational information.  You cannot simply post guards at every crossroads and expect crime to dissipate.  Gangs are highly adaptable and quickly withdraw, regroup, and reform their organization around whatever institutional obstacles you put in their path.  In my sire’s day the gangs were local fellows, pickpockets, gamblers, moneylenders and whoremongers of the worst sort . . . but they respected certain rules.  Something like this never would have happened,” he said, gesturing at the blackened ruin of the tanner’s shop.

“So, how do we fight them?” she repeated, enjoying the handsome young man’s dramatic presentation.

“We fight them by first identifying them and then eliminating them, root and branch,” proposed Sir Vemas, boldly.  “If you want to choke a nest of Rats to death, you cut off their food supply.  In this case, their food supply is coin from their illicit businesses.”

“Can you not arrest the representatives who show up to demand the fees?”

“We could fill the prisons and gibbets with them, and there would always be more.  And they would change their procedures quickly to avoid such traps.  Policing is only part of the solution.  Institutional edict is another, but one must be careful with that,” he said, with professional reflection.  “Often when the regime imposes a new edict, it only creates new opportunities for them to profit.”

“How do you propose to approach the problem, then?” she asked, for the third time.  Some men did enjoy the sound of their own voice, she reflected.  In this case it was endearing, not annoying.  After living with stoic Arborn, she enjoyed the conversation.

“The one thing a criminal organization is prey to is competition,” the constable said, with a calculating look in his eye.  “They will expend tremendous resources to fight over even marginal operations as a matter of territory and social position within the organization.

“The Crew began here five or six years ago in a very small way.  Four years ago, around the time of the assassination of the duchess, they were one of five gangs active in the city.  Two years ago they went to war over the Market ward with the two largest competitors until they destroyed them, cowed the other three out of the way, or absorbed them entirely.  Now they control most territories worth having in town.

“But,” he continued, dramatically throwing back his mantle, “what if they were attacked not by guardsmen and lawbrothers in front of magistrates, but a new underworld gang?” proposed Sir Vemas, mischievously.  “What if a new force suddenly attacked them at their weakest points, without warning, and without regard to the ‘rules’ they’ve imposed on the other remaining gangs?”

“I would imagine they would lash out in confusion and mistrust,” Pentandra nodded, approvingly.  “But wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

“That depends entirely on the way the operation is managed,” conceded Sir Vemas.  “If it is executed thoughtfully and with good intelligence on the foe, then the dangers can be mitigated.  One must merely understand their weaknesses and know how best to ruthlessly exploit them.”

“Such as inciting conflict between them,” Pentandra nodded.  “If they are truly that territorial, then that should not be difficult.”

Sir Vemas agreed enthusiastically.  “A new, fictitious gang in town at war with the Crew could turn a great many of them against each other, if their minds are known and their motivations clear.  Many of the fellows I know as stalwarts from the guard and elsewhere escaped such lives themselves.  They are ready to indulge in a little theater, a little viciousness, and some rumormongering against the Crew.”

“I see what you mean,” Pentandra agreed, her eyes narrowing as she appreciated the deviousness of the plan.  “A new gang that isn’t there is a lot harder for the Crew to fight than a magistrate’s summons.  Particularly a gang that used magic to any degree.”

“That is what I am hoping you will assist with, my lady,” agreed Sir Vemas.  “With your help and arcane powers, we could perhaps identify the gangsters and their habits long before we choose to strike.  If you have that capacity,” he added.

“Oh, that’s easy enough,” murmured Pentandra.  “I learned plenty of eavesdropping spells and location charms, truthtells and disguising glamour spells suitable for this kind of work.”

“You have done military intelligence work for the Spellmonger?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, yes, but I mastered those spells long before I met Minalan.  I lived in an all-girl’s dormitory in an academy of magic with two dozen magically-talented teenage girls,” she explained.  “Far more dangerous work.”

“I yield to my lady’s arcane judgment on the matter,” Sir Vemas said, with a charming bow and an authentic laugh.

“Best that you do.  Have you identified the principals of the Crew, yet?”

“Several. Including your new neighbor.  The captains in town who actually run operations are more elusive than the Rats at either the top or bottom of the nest.  But I’ve guessed at least four of them, I think.  With a little investigation, I think we could discover their lieutenants and more.  Then we can begin our little masquerade, and prepare to strike.”

“Do you think your stalwarts are skilled enough to portray an entirely new gang?” Pentandra asked, skeptically.  “And ruthless enough to make it believable?”

“That will be part of the theatrical art of it,” admitted Vemas.  “But I am confident that my men will give it their best attempt.”

“We will need more than that,” Pentandra decided.  “If I am to be partner in this ruse, then it will succeed, Sir Constable.  Let me think on it, and see what additional resources we need to bring to bear.”

“Resources?” he asked, intrigued.

“People,” Pentandra explained.  “Associating with the Spellmonger brings one into contact with a lot of strange folk.  Let me see who I can summon to bolster our hand,” she proposed.  “And let me think about your plan awhile, and see if I cannot improve it.  If we are going to use magic to wage war against the rats, then let us do it properly.”

“You will bring magelords, like Astyral and Azar?”

“They would not be the most useful magi, in this case,” smirked Pentandra.  “Unless you wish to level the town entirely.  More, their faces are too well known.  No, this requires caution, deliberation, careful planning, and deception.  What we need,” she decided, “is something . . . subtle, to bring the plan together.  Something powerful, more powerful than warmagi and more frightening than the possibility of the palace dungeons . . . or the headman’s axe.  We need to invoke the fear of the unknown in our foes long before they see us coming.”

“Oh, I do enjoy the way your mind works, Lady Mage!” the courtier flattered.  “My thought, exactly!  Mystery, not murder, is more apt to compel a man to ill-thought action.  An unknown foe with unknown strength and capabilities is the bane of any organization, military or criminal.  And performing a masquerade in which you can convince your enemies to strike each other before you draw steel yourself has a certain elegance to it I find pleases me!”

The word ‘masquerade’ lingered in Pentandra’s ear as they continued down the High Street, arm in arm.  She’d seen some of the Yuletide mummers who performed simple works outside of the capital’s temples for pennies.  Compared to the professional performers she’d grown up with in Remere, or seen perform on stage for coin in Castabriel and elsewhere, they were crude amateurs.

But one of the players stuck in her mind due to the crude mask he wore - uncommon in the plays in the Wilderlands, but reminiscent of the elaborate masks used in the salons and theaters of Remere.

Masquerades and fancy dress were frequent fads of the nobility, particularly in former Imperial lands.  And the renegade warmage Lady Mask had made quite an impression with her use of a veil when she attacked the Kasari march last year. Pentandra’s baculus was a prize of war from the mage, re-built and improved by Minalan, but she had to admit that the mystique of the warmage’s blazing eyes piercing through her mask had made an interesting – and intimidating – dramatic presentation.

“Sir Vemas,” she asked, as they headed toward a tavern specializing in southern wines, “it occurs to me that the simplest way to confuse and terrify our foe is to conceal the nature - and the origin - of our attack.  And the easiest way to avoid detection is to never present your true face to him.”

“Agreed,” the young man nodded, opening the door to the tavern. “Your point, my lady?”

“What if our fictitious force used actual masks to hide their identity?  By the simple expedient of removing them, our people would essentially disappear from notice.  And provide a potentially profound effect on the morale of the Crew.”

Sir Vemas stopped moving entirely, and focused on the idea.

“Lady Pentandra,” he said, breathlessly, “that is perhaps the single most brilliant idea I’ve ever heard,” he said, sincerely.

It was pure courtier’s flattery, but it was sincerely delivered, and Pentandra was affected by it despite knowing its origin.  She was a courtier now too, she reflected as she entered the tavern.  That meant she got to get her ass blatantly kissed herself.  She had better get used to it.

Not a bad feeling, she reflected as she surveyed the fare stacked on a table against one wall.

Arborn finally returned to Spellmonger’s Hall, and was waiting there for her when she got home that evening.  The walk to the palace from here was short, a mere mile or so through the cobbled streets, or two miles across the palace grounds.  Most of that was heavily patrolled and perfectly safe, though she didn’t fear for her safety.  Any footpad who drew a blade on her and demanded her purse would face a rude revelation.

Her husband had been busy for the last few days ranging the roads out to more and more distant estates and settlements in the Ducal demesne – ostensibly to check on the status of their forests, but in actuality to gather intelligence about the nature and disposition of those fiefs.  That was in addition to work he did consulting for the palace guard and the city watch – not work he relished, but until the remainder of the expatriates returned to Vorone, every able and trustworthy man who could be employed to do so was used to review the roster and interview the soldiers.

“Isn’t that a bit outside of your position as Master of Wood?” Pentandra asked, as the homely servant woman she’d employed as a housekeeper (until better servants were procured) served them a mild but hearty game stew with corn and potatoes with biscuits that were not inedible.  Good Wilderlands fare, she knew.  A far cry from the sophisticated Remeran cuisine she grew up with, but much closer to the food Arborn was used to.  She had better get used to it, she decided.  Pentandra was doing her best to cater to Arborn’s sensitivities in the marriage.  And she was doing all she could to prod the man into conversation.

“His Grace finds my counsel useful, when it comes to judging a man’s character,” shrugged Arborn, as he dug in after a moment of reverent silence as Kasari custom dictated.  “Several times he’s depended upon me to determine someone’s worth or deeper design.  As soon as the snows clear I will be much busier.  We will be running patrols around the city for the first time, as well as ranging as need requires.”

“What?” Pentandra asked, alarmed.  “Doesn’t the garrison patrol?”

Arborn chuckled.  “We were just as concerned, my wife.  No, the garrison doesn’t patrol much farther than the refugee camps, despite the fact that we are in a war zone.  Indeed, we discovered that the local garrison has no clear idea where the enemy was, much less their disposition and intentions.  My report of the patrol we discovered was alarming to them.  We aim to repair that.  Once the melt begins around Briga’s Day, we will begin wider patrols to stiffen the defense of the town.  Then I will be gone for weeks, I’m afraid.”

“That gives us a few weeks - a month or more – before you go,” Pentandra said, between dainty bites.  “Plenty of time to set up household here, properly.”

“Not at the palace?” he asked, surprised.

“Not until they have a better space for me,” she sniffed.  “Until they do, this is home.  For now.”

“I like it,” Arborn said, unconvincingly, as he looked around.  “Much better than the palace, actually.”

“Well, of course you do!” Pentandra snorted.  “It is cozy, in a rustic, Wilderlands sort of way.  It will do.  For now.  Besides, for the foreseeable future not much of my work will be in the palace.”

“The Rat Crew,” Arborn nodded, sagely.  “I heard that you had been handed that assignment.”

“Arborn, do you think . . . do you think he picked wisely?” she asked, diplomatically.

“You were the most reasonable choice, if he wants to actually get rid of them,” Arborn said, after consideration.  “You’re the smartest woman I know.  You are a powerful mage.  And unlike many of your colleagues, you know people as well as you know spellcraft.”

“But this is just so outside of my experience!” she said, exasperated.  “I am a mage, not a reeve!  I don’t know the first thing about crime!  And while I think I can scrounge up a few loyal guardsmen to help, from what I understand the Crew is highly sophisticated.”

It was Arborn’s turn to snort.  “No one is more sophisticated than you, my wife.  You can do anything you set your mind to.  Whether it is restructuring magic in the kingdom or eliminating the unsavory element from town.  The question is not whether or not you can do it, it is how you will choose to proceed.  These guardsmen,” he continued, before she could drop her spoon and declare her love for him, “are they . . . unsavory enough to deal with this situation?”

Pentandra shrugged.  “I am hardly a good judge of such matters.  But I think many of them will be recognized, and that is dangerous.  They might be loyal, and good with their swords, but I can’t imagine any of them getting through the Crew’s defenses.  Even with magic.”

“Then perhaps you should consider other methods?  Other people?”

“The constable and I have come up with the rudiments of a plan, but we’re just beginning to proceed.  It’s all quite novel.  I really don’t know many criminals, Arborn.  Not that sort.  The kind I know do their theft with pen and parchment.”

“Of course,” Arborn said, rolling his eyes just a bit.  “Would it surprise you to know that I, perhaps, do know a few?”

“Poachers?” Pentandra smirked.

“Among other things,” conceded the big Kasari with a rare sly grin.  “If you trust me, I think I know just who to summon to your aid.  If we can accommodate them here,” he added.

“The entire top floor loft is vacant, even after we moved into the chamber,” she conceded.  “If they don’t mind sharing a roof with your Kasari, we can put them there.”  Of course that would make the place all but unlivable, as a lover’s suite, but Pentandra was starting to realize that her lusty appreciation of her new marriage might be paused, as they both attended their new duties.  She was not happy with that prospect, but she could accept it.  Temporarily.  “The place will be crawling with guardsmen, I’m afraid.   They might have a hard time sleeping, with all the noise at odd hours . . .”

“They could sleep in a turbulent rapid, at need” he smiled.  “It might take them a little time to arrive, once they get the word, but they might be able to help.  Indeed, they would enjoy the work.”

Pentandra doubted it – most of the Kasari were so devoted to their damn moral code that urban criminal enterprise was a shameful, foreign concept at best.  At the time she dismissed it as Arborn trying to impress her.

She focused her attention for the next few days on understanding her new mission, with the helpful assistance of Sir Vemas, who arrived every morning with a few of his men to introduce to her, before he began to brief her on the situation.  Pentandra had to admit that the courtier seemed well-informed on the foe, and he held a reasonable idea of what it would take to just identify them all.

“Our task is made simpler by the Crew’s own organizational efficiency,” he explained, after introducing her to two young guardsmen who were eager to take up the fight.  “Your neighbor, Master Luthar, is undoubtedly the head, but the Crew is split into five local gangs with different leadership and different responsibilities.  Completely compartmentalized.”

“That is handy,” she agreed.  “How independently do they operate?”

“Very.  Within a gang the leader has nearly undisputed authority.  But by tradition the entire Crew obeys the local boss first, regardless of what their local captain says.  Master Luthar has undisputed authority in Vorone.  They are remarkably disciplined, for a band of cutthroats,” he added, admiringly.

“Where are they operating?  I assume you have at least some basic intelligence?”

“Of course – I’ve been taking notes on them, since my father died.  They work out of several locations, based on their territories. The first gang, under Opilio the Knife, controls the Market ward, focusing on protection schemes and petty theft.  They are perhaps the most sophisticated gang, and the most lucrative for the Crew by far.  They also control the southern wards beyond the river.

“The second gang focuses on the docks and the garrison, supplying illicit pleasures and loaning money.  They also control the smuggling, such as it is.  Their boss is a highly paranoid bastard by the name of Ransung Bloodfinger.  He got the name because if one of his clients gets behind on a payment, he’s willing to work it out . . . if the client is serious enough to cut off their own finger.  It apparently keeps folks from getting too far in arrears.”

“So it would,” Pentandra nodded.

“The third and largest gang is in charge of the refugee camps, ruled by a former petty Wilderlord known as Harl the Huntsman.  They’ve made great gains in their various enterprises in the last two years, though the disappearance of most of the children last year was a blow.  They made a pretty penny on catering to the town’s darker vices.

“The fourth gang is more insidious.  It focuses on the palace, and controlling the city’s government through bribery, blackmail, and threats, if loans, favors and persuasion won’t do.  Its run by a weasel called Jarek Blackcloak.  He used to be a mercenary in Enultramar, before the Brotherhood sent him north.  He was Lord Jenerard’s local contact and muscle, arranger of bad things, when he was still at the Palace, back in Lenguin’s court.  He’s been rewarded for his efforts.  The smallest of the five, we think, but nearly the most clandestine.

“And the fifth . . . honestly, we don’t know what the fifth gang does,” he admitted.  “Their lair is hidden and their boss is unknown to us.  But we know he exists.  We theorize that they act as a control over the other gangs, a private enforcement gang that the local Rat, Master Luthar, can call upon against the others.  Or it could be here to keep tabs on Luthar for his masters in Enultramar.  Or both.  But while we know of their existence, we know damn little else about them, save that there are at least eight enforcers in the group.”

“That’s . . . a lot of Rats,” admitted Pentandra.  “How many members typically in a gang?”

“Opilio the Knife’s Market ward gang, has fifteen or twenty full members and employs about thrice that many local toughs.  The Docks gang has about that many under Bloodfinger, with a few more locals, mostly unemployed stevedores or dockside brawlers willing to beat people up for day wages.  Harl the Huntsman’s gang in the camps has almost fifty Rats, and hires gangs of toughs to help enforce their rule.  The others . . . likely seven to ten, with some attendants.”

“Less than two hundred men holding an entire town hostage to their greed,” Pentandra said, shaking her head sadly.  “Do we know where their lairs are?”

“We know two definitely, suspect two others, and have no idea where the fifth might be.  But the one time I was able to convince Baron Edmarin to go after them, a few years ago, we raided their warehouse and put nine rats in prison.  Within a week they had been replaced and set up business in another warehouse.  Four of my men were assassinated off-duty as a result.  The rats bribed Edmarin’s lawbrother to give them simple fines and they were back up and running their enterprises by the end of the month,” he said, disgusted.

“Then let us establish the fact that we know, for certain, the facts that must be investigated, and the questions that need to be answered, before we take any rash action,” Pentandra decided.  “Can one of you gentlemen write?  Then let’s begin by starting a parchment detailing everything we know and suspect, first.  That will be where we will begin.”

“My lady,” he asked, disappointedly, after a moment’s pause, “we were told that you would be employing magic in aid to our mission.”

“Magic is an art, Constable,” she replied, calmly.  “Like swordsmanship.  When you duel another man, you study his weaknesses as much as possible before drawing a blade.  Here we have not one man with one weakness, but an entire army of men, only some of whom are known.

“If you want magic to work, and not merely impress the common folk, then a bit of preparation will be required.  And that includes lists, plans, and more parchment than you want to admit.  For the next few weeks I want your men to collect as much information through observation as they can . . . and report it back to me.  Before we take the first step, I want to know everything that can possibly be known about our foe.  Every name of every thug.  Every lair.  Every weakness, every strength.   Power without control is pointless, in magic, gentlemen.  And control without intelligence is impossible.”

Pentandra and Vemas spent an entire day working out procedures and policies for the clandestine enterprise.  It didn’t take long to establish some basic security schemes for observation and reporting, and they were learned by rote by all of the the stalwart guardsmen Sir Vemas assembled.  For this first part, they all agreed to don civilian clothes and skulk about the wineshops and taverns, the docks and the refugee camps, watching, remembering, and reporting.

By the end of the week the lonely parchment on her table had multiplied thirtyfold as the guardsmen dutifully reported after their late nights out.  The scope of the Crew’s operations was impressively sophisticated, she had to admit to herself when she got a better picture of it.

Each gang operated in distinct areas, with specific areas of specialty, preventing their business interests from competing with each other.  The captains of each gang were constantly attended by bodyguards and lackeys, whether they were in their lairs or walking the district on business.  They were armed, personally, but tended to rely on their lieutenants for violence.  They wore no distinctive clothing or badge, doing their best to resemble prosperous merchants or petty nobility, though Ransung, the captain over the Docks district, had a love of gold jewelry that he displayed, and the Market ward boss Opilio sometimes carried an ornate gilded walking stick that was reputed to conceal a blade.

Day by day more names of their associates trickled in from the guardsmen-turned-spies.  They had no trouble looking the part of disinterested barflies, Pentandra decided.  Though while in their uniforms the men looked the part of guardsmen, once they donned civilian clothes, a layer of grime, and various affectations of character they looked like any of the thousands of vagabonds who filled the wards of Vorone.

They had respectable names of townsmen: Andolos of Northwood, Carastan the Cooper, Dalls, Fen the Quick, Mastril Ironhand, and her two favorites, Hanrei the (ironically) Handsome, an ugly little man with a razor-sharp wit, and Tolgan Falconeye, who was the most observant man Pentandra had ever met.

They possessed unique talents and skills among them.  Dalls had been a housebreaker before joining the guards and knew his way around locks and chains.  Carastan was powerfully built and physically intimidating, and who used to run with a gang of youth in the southern wards himself.  Fen the Quick had skills as a pickpocket, and Ancient Andolos had an amazing talent for picking up gossip from the unlikeliest of places.

There were others, but those seven seemed the most adept at the task of collecting information, and they were the ones that Vemas used to both spy on the Crew and guard Pentandra.

She thought the gesture silly.  She had proven she could handle herself, and any thug who attacked her would be in for a nasty surprise.  But the Constable insisted, Arborn agreed, and Pentandra relented.  She soon came to enjoy the informal discussions with the guardsmen more than their reports.  She learned an awful lot about the people and the town from their experiences and observations.

For one thing, she discovered that the guardsmen did not take issue with crime, itself, but saw the invasion of Rats as an unacceptable development in the criminal ecosphere.  Indeed, several of them had connections of friendship or kinship with the older gangs, and were partly motivated by a desire for retribution for the bloody way their friends were deposed.

If she wanted to start a fictitious street gang, she decided, she had some of the raw talent here to do it, she decided.

Pentandra found herself becoming more and more distracted by her evening activities, particularly in the absence of Arborn.  She rationalized the time and energy (both figurative and literal) she invested in the enterprise as careful attention to her duties, but in secret moments she knew she craved the danger and excitement of the clandestine action.

Being part of a group dedicated to a cause in such a passionate and bloodthirsty way was addictive.  It helped Pentandra keep at bay the feeling that her new marriage was stifling her.

Arborn didn’t exactly disapprove of her activities with the guardsmen, but he was also concerned for her safety.  He never directly confronted Pentandra about his misgivings when he was home for a day or two between ranges, but she could tell from a dozen subtextual clues that he was concerned.

On the one hand she found it endearing that he worried so much about her; on the other hand, it irritated her that he did not feel she could take care of herself.

That became an issue, soon enough, as a more complete picture of the Crew emerged.  Pentandra began seeking out particular pieces of information at night, by magic or in disguise, herself.  She was always cautious, she rationalized to herself . . . but she knew it wasn’t necessity that drove her.  It was a craving for excitement.

Despite her best intentions she found herself downplaying the increasingly dangerous escapades with the guardsmen to her husband.  And while she told herself that it was to keep from worrying him, there was part of her that knew - and felt guilty about - her growing attraction to Sir Vemas.

It was confusing.  In Arborn’s absence Pentandra found herself constantly flirting with the young constable, enjoying his company and being entertained by him as they plotted the serious business of dismantling the Rat Crew’s activities.  She was charmed by his passion for the mission, his acidic wit, his charismatic manner and the way his men were truly devoted to him.  Sir Vemas was always well-dressed and groomed, and if he had ever departed a courtly demeanor. Pentandra had yet to see it.

He was an intelligent, dashing man doing dangerous, important work, and doing it well.  Pentandra could tell he was equally attracted to her, and only his duty and his honor kept him from pursuing her . . . and he frequently dropped hints about how versatile his honor might be.  It was a flattering temptation to even consider . . .

But then Arborn would return before she could seriously consider it.  The Kasari captain’s presence seemed enough to put to flight any thought Pentandra might have of other men.  Compared to Arborn, even the witty, charming Sir Vemas seemed lackluster, a well-made linen of a man when Arborn was made of the finest, toughest silk.  An hour being crushed under his body or delighted by his boldly masculine form was enough to banish any thought of infidelity.  Then he would be gone again, leaving Pentandra with the sympathetic Sir Vemas.

It was, Pentandra had to admit, a very entertaining and very frustrating relationship.

It wasn’t as if court dalliances weren’t common.  Indeed, the halls of power attracted such clandestine relationships as a matter of course.  Sex and power were intimately connected, Pentandra knew.  She’d seen it play out on every political stage, from the smallest manor to the court of the King and Queen.  To some infidelity was a tactic, to others a game, to others a desperate pursuit of private compulsions.

Pentandra did not intend on using any of the available rationalizations popular at court for betraying her marriage.  She was not unhappy.  She desired no one better than her husband.  She loved Arborn, and cherished his visits.  She pined for a real home, and a real home life, with her new husband.

The fact that the idea also filled her with dread was part of her confusion.  She tried her best to bury her growing attraction to the charming Sir Vemas and refocus her efforts on the task at hand.

After two weeks of steady work she had the beginnings of an idea of just who she was facing.  As the information from the guardsmen’s nightly forays was recorded, it began to give shape to the problem.  Pentandra had nearly a sheaf of parchment full of notes detailing the names and habits of the Crew.

Each captain, their lieutenants, their bodyguards, and their enforcers now had a name and a position on her list.  There was a definite division between the upper levels of the organization, which was exclusively from southern Alshar, and the strong arms they employed were local Wilderlands men, either from rival gangs or recruited from refugee camps, the river docks, or the gutter.  There was tension between the two groups, but the southerners had a firm grip on the situation.

They decided to focus their initial efforts on the Market ward and its captain, Opilio.  The Market ward was closest to the palace and one of the most lucrative territories for the Crew.  It made sense to assess it first.

Within a few days she knew Opilio’s lieutenant, Gorne, and his three bodyguards by their faces and had a much better idea of what the Market ward captain did when he wasn’t shaking down honest merchants or making illegal loans.  She knew he liked to eat at a tavern for luncheon every day where he met with his various business interests.  He spent the afternoons either dealing with specific issues, collecting funds, or simply walking through the slushy streets with his gaudy cane like a duke, surrounded by his men, intimidating the entire ward.

More important still was the growing list of business interests and customers the Crew had, everything from smuggling to high-stakes gambling and high-interest lending to legitimate enterprises taken from their owners in a hostile manner.  That was key, she knew.  Criminal organizations tended to exist only to make money.  Discovering the sources of their revenue would be essential.

She began to ask specific questions to her spies.  How often does someone from the Crew stop by a business to collect funds and oversee operations? What happened if someone didn’t pay their protection?  Who showed up if there was a problem? Quietly the guardsmen shambled back into the house in the ward and dutifully returned an answer, or she discovered it herself.

Much of the business involved protection money from merchants and even guilds.  One in seven of the businesses along the High Street, from what they could tell, were paying a portion of their profits to Opilio’s thugs every week, and the pressure on all the rest to conform was growing.

Ancient Andolos, one of the more thoughtful guardsmen, explained the process to Pentandra one morning over tea.

“The Rats look for businesses or merchants who are in financial distress, but who cannot secure funds from a patron, a moneylender, or a temple.  They send in a very reasonable fellow first, one who dresses like a noble and throws coin around like drops of piss.  He casually proposes a loan just in time to save the day, at reasonable terms.  Then he extends a line of credit.  Then the terms change, and another fellow comes around, if payments aren’t made to the Crew’s satisfaction.  He’s less reasonable.

“That’s when things get ugly.  Threats and intimidation, beatings, even worse.  Eventually, if the poor bastards can’t pay on terms – very unreasonable terms at this point – then the Crew takes over the business.  Sometimes they let it run undisturbed, just taking a larger cut of the profit.  Sometimes they use it as a cover for some other, more sinister enterprise, or loot it at their leisure.  With local conditions as bad as they’ve been, there have been a lot of unfortunate souls who have fallen prey to them.”

“But that’s just the beginning,” Andolos continued, grimly.  He was a commoner, the son of a wheelwright, who had been in the town watch for years before joining the palace guards.  He saw the rise of the Crew with a watchman’s eye.  “Once they get into your business, they own you.  Not just the business, but your entire family.  That’s when the Crew starts asking for ‘favors’.  Not much, at first, and folk are happy to help, just to keep the thugs at bay.  But then the requests start getting more serious.”

“How serious?”

“The Crew is efficient,” Andolos sighed.  “If they have a problem with a customer, sometimes instead of sending in their own thugs, they recruit an unwilling gang of other customers in the ward and force them to beat the man and menace his family . . . or face the same fate themselves the next night.  Being forced to participate in such brutality reinforces just how easily their turn could come, and the guilt keeps them cowed.

“Last summer one man, a carter over on the east side, reneged on a pledge to repay a debt to the Crew.   Instead of beating him, they bound him in his chamber . . . and then compelled all of his neighbors who were in debt to them to have at his wife while he watched for two silver pennies a turn, until the interest was paid.  The poor woman drowned herself in the river in shame.  The carter joined the Iron Band, died on patrol.  Pity.  Nice couple.”

“That’s ghastly!” Pentandra said, shocked.  “That’s not merely crime, that’s terrorism!”

“That’s how the Rat Crew operates.  It’s worse in the docks – Bloodfinger is a right bastard, and thinks everyone is out to cheat him – and far worse in the camps where the Huntsman prefers public beatings.  The things they do to the poor souls there . . .” he said, shaking his head.  “We’ll deal with them in their turn,” he promised.  “Back in my day they’d rough a man up, or cut off his pinkie, but they wouldn’t destroy him, his family, or his relationship with his neighbors.  Nothing like this, my lady.  Those Rats are evil. They’re milking Vorone of everything they can, milking it dry.”

Pentandra couldn’t argue with that.  She consulted with Coinsister Saltia, one afternoon at the palace, and had her postulate some figures for her.  From the estimates she was making based on how much from each business under the shadow of the Rats was paying, the Market ward was losing more than twice as much in protection payments every week than it was paying in taxes.

That didn’t account for the other effects the Crew were having on the district.  Petty crime was rampant, housebreaking was a nightly occurrence, and the streets were dangerous at night.  Illegal gambling operations thrived.  Footpads and pickpockets roamed freely, some working for the Crew, others just desperate and violent.

And this was one of the better wards in Vorone.

The more she studied the matter, the more Pentandra realized that the Rat Crew really was a danger to the duchy.  They were eroding the economic infrastructure of the ward, the commercial heart of the capital city, like predators, not mere parasites.  She concluded that if Vorone was to be a functioning capital, then their influence had to be destroyed.

The Constable and his men were growing impatient, too.  A week after she’d begun the effort she’d cast no spells for them, just asked questions and taken notes.  The guardsmen wanted action, and Sir Vemas was eager to begin his war against the Crew.

But by the second week Pentandra knew that they were not ready for that, yet.  Their investigations had revealed just how extensive and ruthless a foe they faced.  As talented as they were, the idea of the guardsmen pretending to be a new gang in town without the ability to match the Rat Crew’s power, somehow, seemed a recipe for a lot of dead guardsmen.

Supposedly that’s what her magic was supposed to do for them.  She just didn’t know how to do that.  Yet.

“You know, Sir Vemas,” she finally announced at one of their evening meetings, “with all of these professional thugs and killers around, it seems an absolute shame not to take advantage of that talent,” she began, and then told them of her nascent plan.

Chapter Nine

The Tumultuous State Of The Duchy

The Trophy Room was half-filled with ministers when Pentandra arrived for the first regularly scheduled weekly meeting of the inner council Count Angrial had established as routine for the day after every Temple Day.  Ostensibly the occasion was designed as an opportunity for the Duke (and the Prime Minister) to set policy, make difficult decisions, oversee their various duties and coordinate their efforts.  The inaugural meeting had been largely ceremonial, with Anguin delivering a passionate and well-delivered speech about their great mission, and Angrial presenting them with their official warrants.

This time, the meeting of the ministers of the court was to be more focused on the business of the realm.  That would, in her experience, lead to yet more meetings, which would then begat more meetings.  She was quickly discovering that the life of a Court Wizard – barring her Rat-catching duties – was largely comprised of meetings.  There were far, far more to attend than she had ever proposed at the Arcane Orders, and most of them seemed to devolve quickly into assigning blame for failures or attempting to take credit for other’s success.  Pentandra found the entire ordeal an exercise in patience.

She had stopped on the way to the meeting in the main hall to fill her tea cup with hot water from the kettle . . . and had added a small dash of strong honey spirits from a flask to make the tea – and the meeting – more palatable.

There, she thought, as she sipped her doctored tea and took her seat.  Patience.

This morning she found, the palace was buzzing with the Duke’s impressive attempt to tackle the accumulated cases set for his justice and held in abeyance since his father died.  Prisoners who had languished for months or years in the palace dungeon, cases between nobles regarding inheritance, and contracts between estates had virtually halted with the gurvani invasion.  That meant that much serious business in the remnant of the duchy was as frozen as a goblin’s chamberpot without ducal justice.

But unlike many high nobles faced with the task of jurisprudence, Duke Anguin attacked the backlog tenaciously.  During a marathon three-day session in the Stone Room he heard case after case of minor criminal issues, listened to evidence, was advised by lawbrothers, and seemed determined to dispense justice as proof of his sovereignty.

While his rulings were rarely greeted with cheers, neither were they poorly made, and they brought considerable resolution to the realm.  It was a sincere, tangible sign of Ducal authority, one it would be hard for opponents of the regime to undermine.

Of course, it wasn’t just his dedication to justice that inspired the lad.  Years of legal logjams had suddenly been freed . . . and had led to dozens of fines and a few generous confiscations to add to the treasury.

Anguin even ordered two executions (though he had to find a temporary ducal executioner when it was realized that he had none) and sentenced nearly a hundred men from the garrison, the town watch, and the palace guard accused of corruption and cowardice to serve anywhere from one year to five in the grim Iron Band.

It was a most satisfying indulgence in justice.

Old Lawfather Jodas nearly preened as he gave his report of the affair at the start of the meeting.  Not every decision had been a pristine judgment of godlike wisdom, as was Luin’s ideal, but eliminating four years’ worth of accumulated work in three days was a professional accomplishment anyone would be proud to relate.

The state of the treasury was less triumphant.  Coinsister Saltia reported that she was depending on the loans to keep the mercenaries paid, now, the horses fed, and food in the palace kitchen.  The draw on the treasury was significant.  Feeding two thousand mercenary infantry soldiers alone was costing a small fortune, and while a price could not be put on the peace that they enforced, the price of feeding that peace was tremendous.

But then Viscountess Threanas presented her summary of ducal expenses, as well as income, and things got really dire.  Paying off the artisans the palace owed had injected a welcome amount of silver into the town’s economy, but it had been a significant expense.  Actually paying the wages of the Orphan’s Band was costing more than two hundred ounces of silver a day, on top of their board.  The burghers of the town were reluctant to pay more than a token of the cost of their own occupation, despite the persuasive arguments of Father Jodas.

But there was, Threanas admitted, at least a trickle of funds into the treasury.

“We have several payments in-kind, tribute from the north ordered by Duke Lenguin, before he died.  The storehouses are filled,” she added with dark humor, “with a tremendous amount of iron ore and timber collected in tribute . . . and completely worthless to the duchy.”

The timber and ore had been intended to support the ducal fleet, she explained, which was estranged from Anguin’s control.  Though the materials had value otherwise, the cost of paying to transport them into a market, once tariffs and fees had been added, was far more than the materials were worth.  Until things changed, the storehouses of the palace would remain collecting dust and quietly rusting.

Edmarin’s confiscated treasury had soothed matters, some, the old biddy admitted, reluctantly, in her dry voice, and the coffers of coin they’d taken from some of the more corrupt officials had also helped.  More, the fines collected by running His Grace’s docket were significant, if they could be collected - enough to pay for two weeks of the Orphan’s Band, ultimately.

“But you cannot rule a duchy with hired swords,” she lectured the room.  “It places too great a drain on the treasury in the best of times.  More, their presence threatens the traditional place of the Wilderlords, and keeping them here will undoubtedly cause hurt feelings, particularly among our precious few peers.  Once the immediate danger is over, I strongly recommend we send the Orphan’s on their way.”

Threanas had been a fixture of the court in Vorone for decades.  She knew so many obscure details of the duchy’s finances, both north and south, that replacing her would be politically troublesome – and potentially dangerous to the realm. But she also witnessed the follies of two previous dukes, and her opinions, however harsh, were well-respected even by those with an intense dislike for her.

Unfortunately, her style conflicted mightily with that of plainspoken Coinsister Saltia.  The unassuming nun was passionate about her performance and devoted to the purity of the accounts, but she had little flair for finance and almost no personal style.  That was a far cry from the elegant manner of the aging courtier.

Worse, Saltia became flustered when she felt pressured, and Threanas lived to bring pressure her subordinates in order to get the best performance out of them.  Threanas was the kind of woman who felt compelled to dominate every social situation she could manage as a matter of nature.

That was annoying enough when it happened in a civic organization or a lay society, but Threanas’ attitude was particularly troublesome at court.  She’d already started hammering away, sending poor Saltia to deliver negative inquiries to various officers in her stead.  The poor priestess had told so many officers that there just wasn’t enough money in the treasury to do what they wanted - or needed -- to do was punishing.  And it was just one of the deft social manipulations the well-experienced woman was naturally prone to.

But even the meticulous little nun had to admit that the older woman had a rare talent with numbers.  As Threanas dutifully reported that she estimated she would be able to squeeze almost seven hundred ounces of silver out of the town per month, Pentandra caught the irritated look on Saltia’s wide face.  When the southern peer announced triumphantly that she’d likely be able to do so without inspiring another riot, the nun began frowning.

It didn’t take a mage to realize that the Minister had taken credit for some proposal of Sister Saltia.  Pentandra inwardly winced for her friend, but resolved not to interfere with another office of the court.  She liked the nun.  She wasn’t ready to start a social war over her.  She would have to learn how to contend with the old bag herself.

“That is better news than I carry,” Count Salgo sighed, restlessly.  “Our scouts have been touring the outer fortifications for Vorone, such as they are, with the help and assistance of the Master of the Wood’s men.  It is my sad duty to report that there are at least a thousand goblins in the area.”

“A thousand goblins?” Angrial asked, shocked.  Pentandra wasn’t.  Arborn had been one of those men scouting the roads, patrolling for bandits, visiting estates and overseeing the town’s defenses.  He had barely been home for the last several weeks.  While that left Pentandra plenty of time to help Sir Vemas and his fellows with eliminating the Crew, it also kept her very lonely.  He had been home only twice for more than two nights with her.

“Relax, Prime Minister, that’s actually not as many as I expected,” assured the Warlord.  “A thousand sounds like a lot but an attack by the lot of them wouldn’t be more than a day’s mischief for us to contend with, I promise.  They are broken up into small groups – patrols, listening posts, outposts – all across our northern frontier.”

“Luin’s beard, man, you sound so complacent about it!” Sire Lonsel, the ducal Reeve, snorted.

“I would have been disappointed – and worried – had I not found them,” the old soldier chuckled.  “It’s only natural that our greatest enemy do his best to keep an eye on this city, to make certain we’re not a threat.”

“And you saw fit to let these outposts go undisturbed?” the reeve demanded.

“It’s more important that we know that they are there than whether they are there,” Salgo added, wisely.  “They are not a threat, in and of themselves.  But their absence would have warned me of imminent attack.  Discovering their hidey-holes lets us keep our eye on them.”

“At least you know where the foes are,” grumbled Lord Gedlail, another loyalist from Gilmora at the end of the table.  He was the new Minister of Lands and Estates, Pentandra recalled.  That was a very important post. His predecessor was marching toward the Iron Ring with a warrant for seven years of service around his neck after several deeds of estates in the southern Wilderlands were found in his quarters.  “I wish we knew where half of the supposed friends we have are.  I’ve been searching for responsible parties to answer for the domains we have listed on the books, and so far, I’ve found very, very little!”

“Many of the aristocracy died defending the realm against the invasion, three years ago or more,” Count Angrial observed, sadly.  “Some of the Wilderlords who did survive found their lands abandoned or taken.  The Penumbra spreads across more than four baronies,” he reminded the man.

“So we have landless lords, and lordless lands, and peasants aplenty to work them,” fumed Count Salgo.  “It seems to be a matter of placing each piece into its intended place – why is that so difficult?”

“Because some lords want compensation for their lost lands, some lands have been usurped in violation of the Laws of Duin or occupied by the unworthy in violation of the Laws of Luin, and some are still subject to raids by bandit and goblin alike,” explained Lord Gedlail, testily.  “And it seems every petty noble has Luin’s own case to make about why the duchy should enforce his claim on a particular domain.”

“It is a difficult problem,” Sister Saltia agreed.  “The people won’t return to work until there is protection, and the knights won’t return to protect them until they know who will profit.”

“Then appoint some as lords-tenant until we can work out the details,” Lawfather Jodas snorted.  “If we don’t get some of these estates operational again soon, the forests will take them!”

“I’ve made lists of those estates that have reported in the last three years – a paltry few – a list of those we know are occupied but have not reported, a list of those we know are taken, and a list of those we know almost nothing about,” Lord Gedlail warned, evenly.  “There are at least thirty within a day’s ride of Vorone that are in desperate need of attention – if there is to be a crop this year, and tribute next.”

“Then the Duke shall grant them, or assign them, to worthies in the court,” Count Angrial promised.

“Men who will work them, not just take the revenues,” interjected Sire Lonsel.  “Let these lords prove themselves Wilderlords before they are enriched by their responsibilities.”

“It would help if some of the local barons would be more cooperative,” Sister Saltia said, sadly.  “The barons are the means by which tribute is collected and sent to the duchy.  There are few enough of them left even around Vorone and points south.  If those who still remain don’t favor us with their support . . .”

“How can they pledge their allegiance and loyalty to a duke who could topple to a riot?” asked Lord Gedlail, testily.  “Do you think I haven’t sent messages to them at the Duke’s behest?  They stall, waiting to see if this boy we have put a coronet on will wear it next year.  If he cannot hold Vorone, how can he hold the Wilderlands?  It is not unreasonable,” he added, though it pained him.

“The most challenging element will be to uphold the duke’s prerogative past the withdrawal of the Orphan’s Band,” Count Salgo observed, philosophically.  “The garrison will be of little help, there.  As soon as the mercenaries leave, one stiff riot could put us on the road to disaster.”

“A riot?” scoffed Sire Lonsel.  “I do not think a mere riot is enough to knock the coronet off of His Grace’s head!”

Pentandra reminded herself that Sire Lonsel was a Gilmoran lord who wished to repatriate his homeland with Alshar.  He had been appointed for political reasons, not because he was competent.  He saw government as noble service to duke and land, not the seething patchwork of compromise and half-truth it was usually forced to be.  She was about to make a remark to that effect when the Prime Minister beat her to it.

“Then you have not made an adequate study of history, Lonsel,” Angrial said, smiling sadly at the lord.  “There are plenty of people who would profit from our failure here, in Vorone . . . and riots are exceedingly common here.”

“Still, as long as we hold the palace . . .” began Lonsel.

Father Amus interrupted.  “Stirring the commoners against us might not topple His Grace, but keeping him from ruling through chaos would doom our enterprise just as much as his assassination.  Without the Orphans backing his rule, he would be hard pressed to insist on tribute, taxes, and his other due rights from both the people and the nobles.  Which would prohibit him from governing.  Which would mean our failure.”

“But you cannot enforce His Grace’s rule with mercenaries indefinitely,” Threanas said, sourly.  “The treasury will not bear it.”

“Nor will the people,” agreed Angrial.  “Yet as sure as it will snow again before this wretched winter is done with us, so will the forces of chaos stir within a week of the Orphans’ departure, I predict.  As soon as they are beyond easy distance to recall, the trouble will begin . . . unless there is a greater force than the guard and the garrison around.”

“Who would dare challenge His Grace’s right to rule?” Sire Lonsel asked, indignantly.  He was loyal, Pentandra decided, but he was hardly sophisticated.  Enough for a ducal reeve, perhaps, but hardly a sufficiency for a courtier.

“They need not challenge his right to deny it, my lord,” suggested Father Amus, sagely.  The old priest largely held himself apart from the council discussions, so when he did speak his deep voice commanded attention.

“Anguin can reign all he wants, within the palace walls, and no one outside of them will care much. But if he is to rule, he must be able to project his influence beyond them.  There are plenty just in Vorone who have an interest in denying that to him.  From the burghers to the merchants to the petty nobility, there are many who would rather see him reign than rule in the Wilderlands.  Without sufficient troops in his own service to enforce his rule, our dear duke is a figurehead.  And without holding Vorone, holding the rest of the Wilderlands – or beyond – is impossible.”

“To this end,” Angrial continued, smoothly, “I have proposed that each of the local barons be commanded to make the journey to Vorone to swear fealty and give an accounting of the realm at Briga’s Day.  I will also suggest that they appear with their household guards to be prepared to provide a term of service to His Grace.”

“The barons will lend him troops?” snickered Sir Dovei, the Master of Hall.  He was a man to watch out for, Pentandra’s intuition told her.  A knight from one of the local manors, he had operated as an agent for the Duke’s party in Vorone, and had been awarded his position for it.  But the Wilderlord positively reeked of ambition.  That didn’t mean he was to be avoided.  “These are the same barons you fear will rebel against us this spring!”

“Exactly,” agreed Count Angrial, unexpectedly.  “But you mistake the nature of the summons.  It is not a call for armed service . . . merely a suggestion for preparation.  And an invitation to demonstrate their strength.”

“Why would any baron heed this?” asked Dovei, confused.  He was intelligent, but like Sire Lonsel he was unsophisticated.  He saw things from a Wilderlord’s perspective, and one of low rank at that.

“Because a powerful lord is sometimes asked not to include his personal guard in his retinue, as many a domain has fallen to a lord who brings an army to counsel.  Being advised to specifically bring arms, on the other hand, suggests that they might be needed.”

“Without a lot of encumbering preconceptions as to the nature of the foe,” nodded Count Salgo.  “I see the wisdom.  The pretext can be exercises, or even a weapontake, but convince even a few of those barons to appear in arms . . .”

“And you invite factions and feuds into the palace!” Dovei said, shaking his head.  “In addition to riots outside!”

“Try to have some imagination, Lord Dovei,” lectured Father Amus, testily.  “There are lands and titles vacant in Alshar and in need of assignment – and not all of them are within the Penumbra.  That is well-known.  Indeed, the ability to assign title to domains and estates is one of the few assets the regime has at the moment.  The men who want those lands the most are those who know it best – the local barons and great lords.”

“So you invite them into the palace, each with an army, and let them fight it out?” the Master of Hall asked, scornfully.

“No, my lord, you allow them to present their arms to the duke to prove themselves worthy by their obedience to his command,” soothed Father Amus.

“It serves several purposes, Lord Dovei,” explained Count Angrial, patiently.  “To the folk of the town it will appear as if the duke has the support of the nobles, enough to put down a rebellion.  To the barons it will appear as an opportunity to gain the confidence of the duke, early in his rule, not a demand for troops.  Perhaps a tournament or contest could be arranged on such short notice.  And if a few estates and titles happen to get granted along the way . . .”

“That seems a steep price for the mere illusion of troops,” Sire Lonsel frowned.

“For what?  The illusion of lands?”  countered Sister Saltia. “Those estates are mere slips of parchment right now.  Most are forfeited for taxes or lay intestate and haven’t been managed properly in years. Many are abandoned or at least depopulated.  Some have been burned to the ground in the war.  Without someone running them, there is no one to pay the taxes and tribute.  All they grant, really, is the right to pick up whatever pieces remain after the invasion and then fight like four hells to work them.  We have more slips of parchment than we do Wilderlords to lay claim to them!”

“Aye, hold a tournament and give a few of them out to the lads,” grunted Sir Masten, the Master of Works.  “Perhaps not jousting, at midwinter, but certainly some swordplay.  We can put something together, I think.”

“As long as it keeps His Grace in power until spring, I am in favor,” Count Salgo nodded.  “The more lords we have working toward our mutual interest, the better.  By inviting their household guards to drill with the palace guards, or cross swords in a tournament, you gain their trust and show off our own power . . . such as it is.”

When the Prime Minister called upon Pentandra for her report, she enjoyed every word of it.

“So how has our special force fared against the criminals, Lady Pentandra?” Count Angrial asked, his voice pregnant with expectation . . . and doubt.

Pentandra was actually looking forward to her report today – after weeks of assuring the Prime Minister that she was, indeed, working to counter the Rat Crew in the Market ward without much to show for it, this week she had plenty to report.  From her past conversations it was clear that Count Angrial had entertained quiet doubts about assigning Pentandra to the bloody task and worried that she would be inadequate.  It gave her great pleasure to report otherwise.

She began by talking about the rumors.  Indeed, much of what she’d done was already in the ears of the court, she told the council.  The news was all over the town and beginning to seep into the palace.

The last several nights reports of mysterious masked figures with dark cloaks and cowls skulking through the night had been made to the city watch.  Bodies had been found, brutally slaughtered, in the darkest corners of the town.  Rumors of a new force in town, a force from the northern backcountry, were spreading.  That she had begun many of those rumors herself in the rudest of Vorone’s taverns made it all the more gratifying to hear them within the corridors of the palace.

She enjoyed her own role in that effort, much to her surprise, though she did not include that in her report – from setting up the scrying and observation spells to coordinating the efforts of the squadron to the clandestine spying she did in disguise, it had been an exciting departure from her public life.

It had proven professionally gratifying as well.  She had done good, practical spellwork for the first time in a while.  The magic was elementary, but helpful to remind her of basic technique.  Envisioning and directing their new clandestine service against the rats satisfied a bizarre artistic urge, as well as the pure joy of performing a nasty surprise on people who were undeniably bad.

But it was those times where she was masquerading as a laundry woman or a nun or a matron going to market in order to learn something of value to the effort had given her a better perspective on Vorone and the people who lived here.

The people in the Market ward were good folk in desperate times.  They wanted to be friendly and helpful, but had grown too used to the perils of doing so.  Some were considering flight, most had nowhere else to go.  In the absence of their accustomed trade, they’d made do with whatever manner of business they could.  That occasionally led to bargains with the Crew, particularly high-interest loans and protection money.  That kind of social submission to gangsters cast a pall over the ward, and by extension the entire city.

It had also inspired Pentandra in her unorthodox duties with the fictitious gang she and Vemas had set up, to be known as the “Woodsmen”, she told the council.

“We felt that a rustic motif would likely inspire uncertainty in the minds of the southern Rats, and invoke superstitious dread in the minds of Wilderlands gangsters.  There are a lot of legends and stories of strange things in the deep woods.”  They were working on the details, now - none of which she would share with the Great Council, for security reasons -- but they were preparing their first round of activity, and she was eager to see the result.

But not just for her own aggrandizement.  When she had lent her ideas to the operation she did so in consideration of the people of the ward, not necessarily in opposition to the Rat Crew.  It was a subtle distinction, but she was a mage – subtlety was part of the job.

It had borne fruit.  Using the excellent intelligence they’d gathered for weeks, both magically and personally, the Woodsmen had located and identified two different buildings the Crew used as their headquarters in the district.  One was the back room of a lower-class inn, the Randy Doe, which functioned as a working space and gathering place for the thugs.  The other was the upper floor of a scribe and bookseller who was acting as a legitimate front for the Crew, and served as office and command center for the gang.  That was where their captain, Opilio the Knife, worked from.

Their initial operation was simple.  Every business they’d identified as being beholden to the Crew was marked with a glyph of Pentandra’s own design.  She’d spent an entire day wandering through the Market ward in the garb of a burgher’s wife shopping, with her baculus disguised as a common staff to ward off dogs or betters.  The glyphs she quietly cast with her rod were invisible . . . until activated.

Meanwhile, her rough-looking guardsmen made themselves look even less reputable than normal.  Instead of returning to the inns and taverns they were used to haunting in an effort to gain information, she had them switch to places where their faces were not so familiar.  There they each told a tale, after buying the hall a round in gratitude for their fortunes.  Though the details differed greatly, by design, the bones of the story were the same:

Deep in the backcountry of the Wilderlands, in some remote vale untouched by the hated gurvani, was a peaceful hamlet, six – or eight – or four – or nine – families of woodcutters, freeholders who farmed and hunted and dwelt in blissful ignorance of events beyond the horizon.

They were protected from harm by a reclusive hermit, an old woodland sorcerer who - it was said - had some teaching from the gurvani.  Or the Alka Alon.  Or still stranger powers.  He used his magic to protect the folk and considered them like family.

The story ran that the old man was away from the settlement, deep in the wilds, when a pair of brigands came to the village.  The folk were unused to strangers, but friendly. In accordance with the laws of hospitality they took them in and treated them as travelers.  But in the night the two brigands conspired to steal what little wealth the woodsmen had, and then despoil the place where there was no lawful lord to hold them to account.

Then (the dramatic pause, she’d instructed the guardsmen, that was essential) the two clubbed their hosts in their sleep, and bound them in their beds.  They made sport with the prettiest of the maids, and cruelly tortured the noblest of the men in front of their families.  Pentandra left the details to the tellers, but emphasized to the guardsmen that the lurid character of the tale was what was important.  She did not doubt that the seasoned watchmen knew just how to inflate the tale to the tastes of their audience.

When the brigands were done with their sport, they set fire to the homes and stole away over the horizon . . . south, toward their home.  They’d left behind few survivors, but in their brutish delight they’d buried one of their blades in the belly of a maid (or a boy . . . or an old woman . . .) and left it there to torment the poor soul until she (he) died.

When the Master of the Wild returned to his folk, he was too late to save all but a few.  He saw the knife - of simple iron manufacture, with a sharp point and little blade - the sorcerer became so enraged he’d vowed revenge against the evil men who did the crime.  As there was no lord over the place to seek justice, as the gods prefer, the Master of the Wild took matters into his own hands.

Using his great powers, he took the beaten and tattered survivors of the massacre and mixed them with the animals of the forest, using their strength and the natural powers so abundant in the backcountry to transform them.  The Woodsmen, some with their limbs replaced by claw or hoof, rose at the call of their master, and were marching south toward Vorone.

Indeed, the clandestine guardsmen assured them, they were already here.

With enough coin to buy enough drink - and therefore attention -- in the public houses of the quarter, the tale spread like a dose of pox through a whorehouse.

A few days later Sir Vemas arranged, through his long and surprising acquaintance with the minstrels who worked the inns, to have a song in verse made of the episode.  Within days, everyone in the Market quarter was singing the tune: The Rise Of the Woodsmen.

That’s about when the first sighting of the mysterious shadowy figures was reported, as the guardsmen began to venture forth in the very latest hours of night.

The effect on the Crew had been gratifying, so far.  At first they scoffed at the tale, and then boasted of the deeds they’d done that were far worse.  But as the dire prediction Sir Vemas had tagged at the end of the song promised, the Master of the Wild was coming to kill all the rats in Vorone, the gangsters began to get resentful.  Then surly.  Then aggressive, as they shouted down or threatened anyone in a tavern who dared so much as whistle the tune in their presence.

For the townsfolk of the quarter, the little ditty offered at least a hint of hope.  They’d suffered with the arrogant Rats for long enough to want to believe that they would, someday, be free of their yoke.  An avenging wild mage from the sticks sounded like a gods-sent answer to their oppression.

And that’s exactly how Pentandra and Vemas designed the story, over a bottle of Wenshari spirits, one evening in Spellmonger’s Hall.

Now the Market ward was properly prepared, and the interest in the tale began to wane, that was when Pentandra activated her spell.  In one night, every business she’d enchanted with the glyph sprouted a dark but unmistakable sign on its door: a rat, next to its head, its feet in the air.

The stir the spell caused was instantaneous.  Neighbors were suddenly revealed, it seemed, as agents of the Crew.  The signs could not be scrubbed off, being magic, and while some folk attempted to cover the disturbing symbol, it became all too apparent to the entire ward who was involved with the Rats.  A small riot broke out, but thanks to Sir Vemas’ foresight the town guardsmen were ready to break it up almost as soon as it began.

The Rat Crew, on the other hand, responded by quietly threatening every “client” of theirs in the ward in an attempt to uncover the mysterious vandal.  The first real signs of uncertainty began to set into the gang, at that point.

Last night, Sir Vemas chose to act, while the Rats were still confused.  Instead of merely raiding the two sites in the ward, the secret crew of guardsmen tracked the comings and goings to the two urban strongholds and discovered several members of the clandestine organization who they might never have suspected.

Just before dusk, five nondescript men made their way through the Market ward, stopping regularly to collect the week’s take from the Crew’s clients.  At each stop the merchant dutifully handed over their hard-earn silver to the grim faced courier, because they had learned the value of cooperation with the corrupt organization.   In fact, the merchants’ cooperation led to a decidedly complacent attitude among the Rats.  So easily went the evening’s collections that none of them noticed the shadowy figures who trailed them until it was too late.

Pentandra had surprisingly little feeling as she oversaw the assassinations.  Sir Vemas and the men had objectified the Rats so much that it barely felt like condemning a man to death – more like having the servants butcher a chicken.  She understood, intellectually, that each of those men was a human being with a mother and father, and possible with daughters and sons.

But when the time came, and she oversaw the killings by magically tracking them, their deaths barely registered to her mind.  She had to remind herself that they weren’t playing a game that first night as the Woodsmen reported back, each team with a bag of silver in hand.

All five gangsters were murdered by the mysterious figures, all had tried to fight off their surprise attacker, and all had died.  All were attacked within five hundred feet of their destination.  In each case a large bag of money was lifted from their bodies.  The night guards had spoken to two eyewitnesses, but they had little to offer save that neither attacker had looked quite . . . human.

That didn’t deter Opilio the Knife one bit, of course.  The scandal of having his men attacked, killed, and robbed of his money – his money! – in the middle of normal business weighed heavily on the gangster.  Jokes at his expense began to be made, undermining his credibility.   The rumors the guardsmen picked up in their vagabond disguises were a glorious tale of a gang in a state of chaos.

They always prepared carefully, striking at the Rats when they were alone.  In two nights the surprise assassinations dwindled the ranks of Opilio’s thugs, with no clear foe in sight.  More importantly, the store of silver each of them carried on behalf of their master was taken.  Disappearing after an attack was easy - the Woodsmen, as the guardsmen on Vemas’ secret force called themselves in homage to the myth, merely had to remove their masks and robes to fade into the ward.

More, the Woodsmen had proven their existence to the merchants owed money to the Crew. That brought some hope, as well as some fear, to the folk of the Market ward.

“Including last night’s raid, Excellency,” Pentandra said, optimistically, “in the last few weeks we have shattered the calm of our foes, and in the last few days we have dispatched at least nine.”

“Nine?” gasped coinsister Saltia.  “Really?  Nine?”

“Nine who we know are affiliated with the organization,” Pentandra said, evenly.  “Three more who were in their favor.”

“Luin’s staff!  How are you doing it?” Angrial asked, surprised.

“My company has adopted disguises,” explained Pentandra.  “Masks, designed to conceal and inspire dismay among our foe.  For the first few days, they were but shadows who haunted the Market ward, gathering intelligence.  A week ago we revealed ourselves – well, our disguised selves – and took action by robbing the robbers.  Five large bags of silver were taken.

“But instead of returning them to the Treasury, or keeping them for ourselves,” Pentandra said, proudly – for it had been her idea— “we redistributed the monies to the merchants, allowing them to pay off their debts to the Crew—“

“You gave the money away?” Threanas asked, dismayed.

“They paid their debts with the Crew’s own money!” Saltia gasped.  “That’s brilliant!”

“If there is no debt, there is no reason for the Crew to harass and murder the townsfolk,” agreed Salgo.  “That’s a wise strategy.”

“We chose the merchants who owed the very least amounts to Opilio and his lackeys.  A hundred ounces of silver or less.  This morning they dutifully paid off the criminals at our behest, leaving only a few of their largest debtors for them to focus on.  And this evening,” she said with a satisfied smile, “all of that silver that they have collected and applied against their clients’ debts shall mysteriously disappear from their coffers . . . the result of a spell that I cast upon one of the silver coins.  Their books will be balanced, but their cash in their coffers will decidedly not be.”

“And whence the coin?” asked Angrial, amused.

“To our purse – again,” smiled Pentandra.  “All but the enchanted coin.  I shall summon it tomorrow, and for the second time we will have robbed the robbers.  And this time the other half of Opilio’s major clients will be able to pay the Crew what they owe, courtesy of the crew’s own treasury.  Of course they will be screaming and hollering about the robbery, for the only ones capable of stealing from the Market quarter Crew are one of the other crews, according to their doctrine.  That should sow plenty of dissention in the groups.

“But the biggest victory lies in crippling the Crew’s income.  The Market is their single largest earner, we believe. and deprived of those funds for even two weeks will strain the Crew’s capabilities just as they are forced to consider a war against their fellow Rats.  I expect plenty of accusations to fly.  Perhaps even some inter-agency fighting.  In which we will intervene, as opportunity presents, to pour salt in their wounds.”

“Won’t they begin to suspect something is amiss?” asked Sire Lonsel.  As the new ducal reeve he was now officially in charge of enforcing the Duke’s legal commands – even the commands no one else knew about.  It was known he was not pleased by being shut out of an operation that, traditionally, should have been his to command.

But then the reeve was bound by Luin’s Laws, and the Woodsmen were acting under Kulin’s Law.  It would be inappropriate for the reeve to take part in such activities.

“I should hope so!” Pentandra agreed.  “If they don’t at least suspect magic by then, I’ll be very disappointed.  We will allow them to keep their gains that third week, as they will likely employ some magical counter-measures by then, but they will have ‘collected’ the majority of the debt they had issued without the opportunity to issue more.

“The following week, however, we plan to strike again, as the last of their large clients repays in coin we – that is, the Woodsmen – provide.  If they are not at war with their fellows by that time, then we will goad them into it with spells and deception to make them suspicious and paranoid beyond all reason.  Which will lead us right to the door of the next most powerful crew.”

“How is this superior than just arranging for none of their . . . clients to pay?” asked Sir Lonsel, whose honor was clearly disturbed by the scheme.

“Because if the Crew thinks that it is owed a debt, they will stop at nothing to collect it,” offered Pentandra.  “This way they are getting paid, and will spare the artisans and merchants their ire.  It was a pragmatic solution,” she shrugged.

“So what happens the next time a merchant needs a loan?” asked Count Salgo, clearly amused by the scheme.

“The Woodsmen have instructed the debtors that a condition of their generous grant is that they no longer borrow from the Crew,” answered Pentandra, smiling.  This was another of her ideas.  “By the time we are done looting the Crew’s treasuries we should have enough of a stake to have such loans made through a more responsible – and less violent — party.  Sister Saltia, here, will serve as our record keeper.  One of the masked guardsmen will serve as paymaster.  Collections will be vigorous, but not deadly.  And at a lower rate of interest than the Crew charges.”

“You plan to fight bandits and thieves through lending money?” scoffed Sire Lonsel.

“My lord,” Pentandra said, carefully, unwilling to alienate the man, “one of the things that puts Vorone into jeopardy to thugs like these is the lack of capital available to artisans and merchants.  The Temple of Ifnia and the regular moneylenders are reluctant to loan to the townsmen without traditionally rigid requirements for repayment - which are even more strict in these uncertain times.  They prefer to make large loans to nobles who have the property to secure them.  By providing an alternative to the merchant class, we provide competition for the Crew.”

“And if they cannot repay those loans?” asked Viscountess Threanas, skeptically.

“Then what of it?” shrugged Pentandra.  “None of them are for great amounts.  The greatest of them cost far less than the costs incurred in even a small riot.”

“It just seems like a subsidy for the artisans,” sneered the Minister of the Treasury.

“Were we not just discussing subsidizing the nobility?” challenged Sister Saltia.

“To restore the manors and estates required for the functioning of the duchy!” the old woman shot back.

“The artisan class is just as important for the functioning of the duchy as the estates,” declared Pentandra.  “You should understand that more than anyone, Threanas!  Without the specialized crafts they provide for the estates, it will be much harder to restore them.”

“So we pay the artisans to work, and replace one band of criminals with another,” Lonsel pointed out, sourly.

“Criminals the palace controls,” Pentandra reminded him.  “The Woodsmen shall be far more lenient in their lending, and use the fear the mysterious new ‘criminals’ generate to ensure repayment.  Most of the loans outstanding were relatively paltry sums, but for the artisans they often mean the difference between success and failure. With a more adequate money supply things won’t be as desperate.  A few hundred silver spent thus is therefore worth a few hundred gold spent on additional guardsmen, gaolers, and lawbrothers,” she concluded.

“And your men have no objection to such deceitful practices?” Sire Lonsel asked, skeptically.  He was just the kind of chivalric idealist the duchy needed overseeing the execution of justice to prop up its legitimacy.  But not the kind of man who saw descent into criminal behavior in the name of political pragmatism as a good thing.

“They are passing eager to do it,” Pentandra assured him.  “I remind you that driving the Crew out of business is their mission, my lord, not upholding justice.  Twice they have attacked the vicious enforcers the Crew has sent to investigate the original attacks.  Now the story of demons in human form has infected the Crew, causing the price of their enforcement to go up just as their income declines.  Opilio is struggling to survive and ready to lash out at anyone he suspects of aiding the Woodsmen.”

“Which will lead him to incite his fellows in other parts of the town,” Lonsel grumbled.  “And put them on their guard.”

“As we expand our operations to the other crews, they will have to alter their methods, but I think with some planning and some bold action we may eliminate the Crew from the city, proper, by midsummer,” Pentandra proposed, boldly, before nodding her head at the Prime Minister in closure.

Then came the report of the Ducal Avener, a pompous Sea Lord who knew nothing about actually procuring hay, which was the focus of his position.  He took fifteen minutes to explain that one fact, and finished up with a declaration that they should abandon this entire silly business and focus on recovering Enultramar.

Pentandra reflected that at her next meeting of the council she would add a great deal more spirits to her tea.

That evening as Pentandra was making her way back home, she received a summons mind-to-mind.  She had not made use of the enchantment with near the frequency she had when she was responsible for the Arcane Orders, so the conversation was something of a novelty – as was the caller.

I see they picked a peach for my old job, Master Thinradel of Vladenar began, once contact was established between them.  I just caught up with the news here at Megelin.  And congratulations on your wedding!

Thank you, for the congratulations that is.  As for your old job . . . it isn’t the same as your old job, anymore, she informed the older man, glumly.  If His Grace didn’t have me chasing ruffians and gangsters, I’m certain I would be bored to tears.

Boredom is the occupational hazard of the court wizard, Thinradel agreed.  All of those reports!

What reports? Pentandra asked, confused.

The reports you get from your subordinates every week, Thinradel reminded her.

I don’t really have much in the way of subordinates, yet, Pentandra informed him, carefully.

How do you keep track of everything, then?  The new applications? The requests?  The inspections reports?  Oh, I suppose you don’t have to deal with the dreadful amount of work the Censorate used to put us through, but still . . .

Uh, Thinradel? Pentandra asked, doubt heavy in her voice, just what does a court wizard . . . do?

Well, I suppose that’s changed, since Minalan came to town, he admitted.  But essentially the job revolves around the civil administration of magic, at the ducal level, in your case.  Which means you set policy, interpret policy, and hire and fire people to enforce that.

I understand the abstract, Pentandra frowned.  I mean, just what are my expected duties?

You have a responsibility to identify and arrange for training all those with a demonstrable Talent within the duchy.  You must administer the civil examinations and see that they are fairly graded, he ticked off his imaginary fingers.  You must hire a spellwarden for the town, if they haven’t done that yet.  You must oversee and arbitrate any disputes between wizards in your territory.  You must render magical aid and assistance to the court, as needed and requested.  In a time of war, you are automatically the head of the magical corps.  In peacetime, you are expected to render some sort of aid to the fortunes of the destitute among us.  And encourage proper scholarship.  And sit on panels and committees representing the magical interests of your region.  And . . . well, there are a few other things, but that’s the most pressing for you.  In a way, you’re quite lucky.

Lucky?  In what possible way? Pentandra asked, crossly.

With the south in rebellion, you need only concern yourself with the magi in the Wilderlands.  Before the war, there were only around sixty or so registered adepts and their apprentices to keep up with.  I’m sure that number is a lot less, now.  If you added in Enultramar and the Great Vale, you’d have five times that number.  And you no longer have to contend with the Censorate every time you open your window.

I do suppose that makes things easier, Pentandra admitted.  I suppose hiring a few assistants is the wise thing to do.

Oh, it’s of the first importance, after keeping the Duke happy – something I was rarely able to manage.  But do find a few capable assistants.  It will make your life immeasurably easier.

I do enjoy telling other people what to do, Pentandra admitted.  She was good at it, too, she knew.   How many?

At least three, Thinradel answered, thoughtfully.  One to oversee identification and education, one for registration and examinations, and one for investigations and enforcement.  They’ll each need separate offices, eventually, but finding decent candidates shouldn’t be too hard.  Vorone should be awash in them.  Half of the spellmongers in Tudry and the smaller towns up here went to Vorone when the war started, and they haven’t returned yet.  Too much competition from the High Magi on Spark Street.  Find a few literate ones and they’ll be glad to work for you just for a stipend and livery, Thinradel proposed.

What about you? Pentandra asked, boldly.

Me?  My dear, I’ll be happy to give you the benefit of my wisdom and experience, the older mage agreed, but my ambitions for position are well-sated.  I don’t need a title.

I’m not offering you one.  Nor a job, as such.  But if you could inspect my office, the next time you are in town . . .

Oh, professional validation I can manage, Thinradel decided.  I just didn’t want to get caught up in the obligation of government service again.  I’ve never worked so hard to get a job I disliked so much as that one.  Of course, having a superior who had a marked dislike of our profession didn’t help . . .

I think you’ll find Anguin far more accommodating toward magic than his sire, promised Pentandra.  Minalan is financially backing his claim to the coronet, and Anguin understands how the future of the Wilderlands is dependent upon the magi.  At least I think he does, she added, wondering if any of their talks with the Orphan Duke had actually penetrated the young man’s mind.

I look forward to meeting him again, assured the former Court Wizard.  I recall him, vaguely, as a boy, but rarely spoke to him.  Time to repair that, I suppose.  A party of us plan on going to Vorone in time for the fire festival.  Just a lark, really, to get us out of this dreary castle – and someplace other than Tudry.  The charm of that town has receded, he said, dryly.

I shall alert the constabulary, she joked.  Pentandra didn’t think she needed to mention just how close to the town’s watch she’d become.

I’ll be glad to take a look at your office then and make any suggestions, promised Thinradel.  In the meantime, just look busy and mysterious. Keep the duke happy. The rest of the court will probably leave you alone.

Chapter Ten

Count Marcadine

“Four seated barons are all we can muster?” frowned the young duke at the news.  They were in the Hall of Games, where Anguin had temporarily made his office for the day.  He was still unwilling to occupy his father’s old solar, and the lad had made a practice of trying out various chambers in the palace to find one that suited him.  This evening they had convened in the Hall of Games, where they had ignored the hundreds of games and puzzles the duchy had collected over the years in favor of discussing rescuing the duchy from oblivion.

He sat under a canopied chair in front of an ornate table, one leg dangling over the heavily-carved arm of the chair as he took counsel from his advisors and frowned in irritation.  “Briga’s Day is approaching, and I expected at least twice that number!”

Pentandra felt both honored and pressed by the responsibility of attending these informal sessions between the sovereign and his inner cabinet.  They were held casually every few days as the senior members of the council discussed matters of policy with Duke Anguin, usually in some innocuous locale.  Of course, that was in addition to the regular, official meetings scheduled throughout the week, but then they were also where more actual business got done than the ungainly staff meetings.

That was a puzzle enough for the court, Pentandra was realizing.  Getting the southern barons here to swear fealty and provide troops to keep order in the capital city was never going to be easy, everyone knew. It didn’t help that there weren’t that many baronies to begin with.

“It should not be surprising,” Father Amus said, regarding the map of the region with pursed lips.  He’d been absent from many of this week’s gatherings as he strove to straighten out the ecclesiastic orders of Vorone.  But the old priest knew the politics of the Wilderlands perhaps better than anyone else in the court.  He cleared his throat, and with a glance at his liege for permission, he explained.

“With the death of Baron Edmarin, his lands are unassigned.  Baron Marcadine – sorry, Count Marcadine – has retired to his estates, inconsolable over his failure to protect the Wilderlands or his duke.  He’s the senior landed noble left in the region.  His Excellency is extremely well-respected by the other barons.  The leading noble of the Wilderlands.  Should we secure his support, many, if not most, of the southern lords would follow him, I wager.  He represents the last real Great House in the Wilderlands left intact, and his opinion is respected amongst his vassals and his rivals alike.”

“Well, how can we enlist his support, if he is reluctant to respond to a request from his duke?” asked Anguin, still frowning.

“It would be helpful if we could send someone to kindly and politely drag him back to civilization to show off to his peers,” Count Angrial ventured.  “Without his presence, it will be difficult to persuade the other barons to support His Grace in anything but name.”

“I’ll go to invite Marcadine, personally,” Count Salgo volunteered, surprisingly.  “I campaigned with the count at Timberwatch.  I have the rank.  I’d like Lady Pentandra to go with me as well – his estate is only two day’s ride to the southwest.”

“Lady Pentandra?” asked Father Amus, before Pentandra could ask herself.  “Why?”

“Because she is so charming,” the old warrior smiled.  “And so persuasive.  I can appeal to his honor as a warrior, and she can appeal to his . . . higher nature.”

“If you say so,” Pentandra replied, frowning.  She didn’t feel particularly persuasive, these days.  Or charming.

“You really are quite charming, when you have a mind to be, Pentandra,” agreed Count Angrial with a thin smile.  “And His Grace trusts your judgment,” he added, implying that the Prime Minister therefore did as well.  “Yes, see if you two can persuade Count Marcadine to come and give his counsel to the court.  He likely wouldn’t make it in time for Briga’s Day, unless he hurried, but a public demonstration of support and an oath of fealty by the equinox, say, would not be amiss.  It would go far to keep the opponents of Your Grace’s rule from gaining leverage in doubt of his support.”

“Are there those who do not support the Restoration?” asked Sister Saltia in surprise.  “I thought everyone was glad to see the bloody baron gone!”

“There are those who are not wildly in favor of it,” Father Amus explained, his lips pursed in half a smile.  “I’ve heard much of the story from speaking with my fellow clergy this week.  If you want accurate gossip about the nobility, the clergy are only slightly less reliable than their own servants.”

“So what say the clergy about politics?” asked Anguin.

“That there are men who are not friendly to the ducal house.  Baron Restobuin is still in recovery from a vicious wound he took in battle defending his lands against the gurvani, two years ago, and he is not particularly well-disposed to the coronet, anyway.  The estates of Baron Mishet, like Edmarin, are forfeit to the coronet and have not been assigned.”

That had been a nasty business, Pentandra recalled.  Baron Mishet had marched his men up the Timber Road to defend his lands against the gurvani, as did most of the other Wilderlords.  Only Mishet had sold his loyalty out to the goblins ahead of time, and withdrew from supporting his liege at a crucial point in the battle.  Stripping him of his lands and titles had been one of the first – and only – useful actions Baron Edmarin had taken, though he’d awarded their stewardship (and a share of their tribute) to his own men.  The Baron himself was still at large, exiled and outlawed.  If he still lived, no news of it had reached Vorone.

“Why aren’t there more barons riding?” asked Saltia, confused.

“Because, Sister, thanks to the method in which the Wilderlands were settled,” explained Count Salgo, “only about half of the domains are actually under baronial control.  Most are subject to their individual lords, mainly knights bannerets, and swear fealty to their count, directly.  Or the duke, if they are not within a county.  They are very independent-minded folk,” he cautioned, “but they do tend to follow the lead of the barons in situations like this.  If they see the peers of the realm supporting the duke, then they will follow suit – however reluctantly.

“That leaves Baron Rei, Baroness Burshara, Baron Steldru, and Baron Dasion within a week’s ride of Vorone.  Little is known about their politics, relative to the restoration, but the very fact that they are riding with their guards as requested is instructive,” pointed out the priest.

“If they are truly loyal,” Duke Anguin said, doubtfully.  “Otherwise it could just be planning a coups d’ etat.”

“They won’t have had time to organize such a thing,” dismissed Count Salgo, holding out his glass for a servant to refill.  “From what our messengers have said, everyone was quite surprised by Anguin’s arrival.  It was a development no one, not here or in the Royal Court, expected.  It takes time and communication for a conspiracy to work properly.”

“My liege, there is yet no reason to doubt their loyalty,” the prime minister suggested, pouring tea for the young man.  He did not encourage the lad to drink too much wine after sunset.  “If they were disloyal, they would find an excuse not to come and prepare to resist your rule in force.  More than likely, they come out of a sense of duty and a curiosity about your new regime.  If we invoke their aid and demonstrate that a strong and vocal support for the new regime is in their best interests, I have every confidence that much more such support will be forthcoming.  Especially if we sweeten the stew a bit,” he smiled.

“How so?” asked Anguin, confused.

“First we settle the dispute between Burshara and one of her neighbors in her favor – which is what Father Jodas was inclined to recommend, anyway.  We grant new estates to Steldru and Rei near to Vorone.  I know which ones they covet, and that will give them all the incentive they need to support the regime.  And lastly, we order a vast amount of wood from Dasion’s sawmills . . . to aid in the reconstruction of the palace,” he suggested, after some thought.

“You’re suggesting we bribe them?” asked the young duke, doubtfully.  “I thought the palace storehouses were already full of timber?”

“That is the traditional way to get things done,” Father Amus said, dryly.  “And while we technically have no immediate need for the lumber, I’m certain we can find a use for it.  Believe me, purchasing a few hundred ounces of silver worth of lumber that we’ll eventually use is a small price to pay to secure Dasion’s support.  It will take him time to fulfill the order, and he won’t even think about starting trouble until it’s fulfilled.”

“I like it,” Count Angrial agreed.  “We can use the occasion to announce assignment of the two vacant baronies, too.  We have acceptable candidates for both of them, I think,” he said, biting his lip in thought.  “That will keep them intact and put solid leadership in place there.  That will also decrease the worry that you are the kind of duke who likes to pick up spare baronies.”  All of the dukes had lesser titles attached to their names, based on their holdings, even if they were nominal.

“Not when I’m trying to run a duchy,” the young Anguin said, shaking his head.  “Gods, why would I want one?”

“For the revenue, my liege,” supplied Father Amus.  “If run properly through trusted clients, baronies can be lucrative things.”

“If the estates they contain are competently run,” snorted Count Salgo.  “That’s where we are really amiss.  What use are barons if they head hollow baronies?”

“Which is why the court will be granting a good number of estates and domains to worthy nobles at Briga’s Day,” answered Count Angrial.  “The faster we can get them out of their winter slumber and into production, the better for all.  Especially for the nearby estates.  Plowing and planting need to be organized, peasants hired for the task, halls will need to be repaired . . . the sooner we have men in place who can ensure the estates are working, the sooner those new barons will mean something to us.”

The duke didn’t look terribly impressed.  “If what my scouts have told me is true, that is Huin’s own amount of work,” he said, dejected.

“A challenge is all, my liege,” Father Amus assured him.  “A challenge that will reveal those well-suited to the task, and those better suited for other duties,” he said, diplomatically.

Count Marcadine wore the face of a man long used to confronting his failures daily.  His dark eyes looked haunted under his thick black eyebrows, and his jaw was set at a permanent angle that suggested he had little tolerance for anything that might distract him from that guilt.

Marcadine was a powerfully-built man, Pentandra saw from the way he paced about his chamber in full armor as if he was wearing tights-and-tunic, but his confidence as a warrior did not flow from that strength as much as it originated with his self-mastery.  It was a subtle thing, but then Pentandra was becoming a subtler wizard the longer she served the court.

In truth, Pentandra did not mind the short trip a few days before the Briga’s Day midwinter holiday.  Though the days had settled into a routine for her – up at dawn, head to the palace for meetings, return home in the afternoon to work with the Woodsmen and wait for Arborn to return from his latest mission – she found her position isolating, and a short journey to a nearby estate, even on an urgent mission, was a welcome relief.

She understood the political importance of recruiting Count Marcadine.  She remembered the man from her few days on the periphery of the old Alshari court.  He had been the most willing to listen, and had worked to gain the support of the other nobles in Lenguin’s court to defend the realm.  Securing him would add tremendous stability to the regime, so she spared no effort on the Duke’s behalf.

A mere five years ago Marcadine had been one of the most powerful figures in the Duchy, a senior Wilderlord from a distinguished great house with a prestigious regional history as leaders and allies to the Ducal house.  His line had even intermarried with the duke’s, in ages past.

His much-admired barony was legendary for its efficiency and profitability, and his own charisma was sufficient to persuade his peers to elect him as Count in his youth, when the position became available.  His arms, a golden ram on a black shield, were universally respected in the southern Wilderlands . . . and his strength was wisely feared as he rose in power.

A few years after his election to Count, after rendering outstanding service on the Farisian Campaign, Duke Lenguin had raised him to the post of Lord Marshal of the North, nominally responsible for the military security of the Alshari Wilderlands.  The position was largely symbolic – apart from the traditional feuds and vendettas between the contentious Wilderlords or rebellions by native tribes, there was little to threaten the peace of the Wilderlands back then.

Then the goblin invasion began, and no one seemed better-suited to lead the defense of the Wilderlands than Count Marcadine.  Strong, intelligent, valiant, well-respected, he was the war leader who seemed capable of driving the gurvani off through pure will and determination alone.

Unfortunately, his valor was at odds at court with the schemes of Count Jenerard, the Lenguin’s Lord of the Coasts – an important post in charge of Alshar’s immense navy.  While Marcadine’s valor was sufficient for the task, his ability as a courtier was not; Jenerard had the ear of Duchess Enora firmly in hand, and convincing her to convince the weak-willed Duke Lenguin to let the goblin “problem” get sorted out by the locals was easy enough for the skilled courtier.

That was before it became clear that the gurvani invasion was a serious threat to the realm, and not just an exploratory incursion.  When the northwestern heartland of the Wilderlands was suddenly overrun and conquered, sending a wave of refugees south, it became clear that a real military response was needed.

Once the northern baronies fell to the gurvani not even Jenerard’s smooth voice and endless gifts were enough to keep Lenguin out of the war – particularly not with his cousin Duke Rard sending troops into Alshari territory while his nobles discussed returning to Falas.  Marcadine was eventually able to lead the army of Wilderlords who mustered for the battle at Timberwatch.

Unfortunately, his master did not survive the battle long enough to reward his loyal and valiant servant – and though the assassination of Duchess Enora had removed a powerful political obstacle from Marcadine’s path, it had also left the court in disarray.  Duke Rard seized his nephew and nieces in the name of security and Jenerard, with much of the rest of the court, fled to the safety of Enultramar.  Marcadine was left answering to a fellow baron, Edmarin, a man who was the opposite of Marcadine in most ways.  Including valor.

For the last four years the count had been retired to his estates, ensuring their protection from more incursions from the Penumbra, ignoring Baron Edmarin, the Steward of the Realm, and quietly improving his holdings with the availability of cheap labor.

He lived primarily in the baronial castle of Preshar, the largest in the county, when he wasn’t touring his other six estates.  Though he doubtless had more comfortable estates, since Timberwatch and its aftermath, the big castle became his refuge as he dwelt on his failure to protect the Wilderlands or his liege.  That’s where Pentandra and Salgo found the laconic lord.

The mission to secure Marcadine’s support should have been left to Father Amus or Count Angrial, by all rights, she knew; the Warlord and the Court Wizard had neither the rank nor the portfolio for such an undertaking.  Yet Pentandra had met (and had a favorable opinion) of Marcadine four years before, and Count Salgo had known the man on campaign in Farise and Timberwatch.  It was decided that a less-formal appeal to the reluctant count might be more productive than an official summons to Vorone.

Pentandra was not thrilled with the duty, but a warm spell had settled in over Vorone, leading to a false spring thaw and subsequent flooding of the low sections of the town.  The sewers of the city were virtual rivers, now, and the entire place just seemed . . . soggy.  It was starting to mildew.  Arborn was making a journey across the Wilderlands to Bransei and wasn’t expected back for a fortnight.  She was happy to get out of the place for a few days.  Count Salgo and his men were good companions on the short two-day journey southwest of Vorone, and despite herself Pentandra found herself enjoying the excursion more than enduring it.

The guards at Preshar Castle were alert but relaxed when they arrived with a score of cavalry as an escort, and the castellan was polite and welcoming.  He escorted the two emissaries from court to his master’s solar and fetched them wine without betraying much about Marcadine’s mood.

The lord’s troubled expression was difficult to fathom when Pentandra met him again.  Through the exchange of formalities, she tried to ascertain his thoughts without much success.  Only when he was reclining in his canopied chair with a cup in hand did she begin to understand him.

“So, has His Grace decided to finally impose his penalty on me for my failure?” the count asked, only a trace of bitterness in his voice.  “I’ve been expecting the call since I heard he had assumed power at Vorone.”

“To my knowledge, Count Marcadine, there is no failure in your service the Duke wishes to explore,” Pentandra soothed.  “Indeed, His Grace speaks only highly of your service.”

“I lost thousands of men and allowed my Duke and Duchess to be slain under my nose,” replied Marcadine bitterly.  “They call him the Orphan Duke, you know.  I was the one who made the lad an orphan.  It only stands to reason that he’d want retribution.  I heard how he dispatched Edmarin,” he added, with a grim smile.  “If any vassal can be slain for giving poor advice and counsel, I should have been there next to the bastard when judgment was passed.”

“No more than he wishes to punish the other soldiers who have loyally served the realm in victory and defeat, Marcadine,” Count Salgo assured him.  “Regardless of what his sire and dam may have said, done, and thought, Duke Anguin is his own man.  He sent us here to summon you to court, ‘tis true . . . but not as a prisoner.  He wishes to hear your oaths and bring you into the court.  He desires to invoke your support to re-establish the realm.  Or at least the northern parts of it,” he added.

“Considering Jenerard’s cronies own the rest, I can see why,” grumbled Marcadine.  “But why would he invite me back to court at all, after what I’ve done?”

“Because you are a well-respected and honorable man,” answered Pentandra smoothly, trying hard not to sound obsequious.  “You are a Wilderlord to whom the few remaining Wilderlords will look up.  Your lands were relatively undamaged in the war, and where they were they have largely recovered.  Duke Anguin understands that matters of politics transcend his personal feelings . . . but even if they didn’t, I don’t think Anguin holds you at fault for the goblin invasion.  Or the assassination of his parents.”

“I don’t think I would be much of an asset to him . . .” Marcadine sighed, staring out of a window at the beautiful ridges beyond.

“You’re one of the last sitting counts in the northlands,” Salgo informed him, “and your holdings remain prosperous.  They could be more so,” he added, meaningfully.  There were three deeds in their baggage that Pentandra knew about, deeds to nearby estates they could bribe him with, if necessary.   “The other barons look to you naturally for leadership.  If you support the Duke, then the others will be encouraged to do so.  That is . . . if His Grace does, indeed, have your support,” the Warlord asked, pointedly.

“I’ll not deny the Duke his legacy, or me my duty,” agreed Marcadine, slowly, after a pause.  Pentandra immediately felt better.

One of her biggest fears was that the count would conflate his self-perceived failures with an enmity for the ducal house.  That wasn’t an uncommon rationalization for political posturing in feudal society, she knew, but hardly a productive one.

But regardless of his personal feelings, Marcadine would not deny the legitimacy of the regime.  That was the most important concession of their trip.  Had he made a stand against Anguin in favor of the southern rebels, for instance, or even in favor of himself, then it would have made it nearly impossible to rule Alshar beyond Vorone’s walls.

With Marcadine accepting his leadership and eventually swearing fealty, however, it became much less easy for the other barons south of Vorone to justify rebelling or denying Anguin’s legitimacy.

“At the same time,” he continued, his eyes troubled, “I hesitate to add my full support to His Grace until he can prove himself worthy of the title.”

Pentandra skipped over the recriminations of honor Salgo was no doubt preparing and attacked the Count’s reasoning.  “What could His Grace do to appear worthy, in your eyes?” she asked, simply.

“See to our defense, for one thing,” answered Marcadine, grimly, as he poured wine for them both.  “Almost all of the northwestern Wilderlands are overrun by gurvani now.    The settlements east of there are savaged and under threat.  The southlands are ever at peril, and must be constantly vigilant against both goblins and bandits, now.  Seeing to a stalwart defense of the country should be his first priority, as the gods decree,” he declared.

“That is difficult to do without an army,” Salgo observed.  “And even harder without the support of the great nobles.  But His Grace intends to do just that.  Among the first orders of his reign has been the strengthening of his forces to protect the Wilderlands.”

While that was technically true, Pentandra also knew that the focus of that military endeavor was more to protect the Duke from the nobles, not his people from goblins.  But there were troops under the ducal banner patrolling, at least as far as Tudry.  If they saw a goblin, they’d most likely chase it.  And that gave her a convenient segue into a subject she knew all of the remaining Wilderlords felt strongly about.

“His Grace feels that the time this damnable treaty Rard has forced upon us has purchased should be used to prepare ourselves against the inevitable battles to come.  If we cannot fight for what Alshar has lost, we can prepare against the day that we can.  He has already facilitated a string of castles on the borderlands,” she pointed out.  “There are plans to train and equip many of the refugees.  And he is considering fortifying Vorone, now.  But without troops from his nobles . . .”

“I understand, I understand,” Marcadine sighed, heavily.  “My support would be valuable.  And it sounds as if this lad does have ambition, and perhaps a lick of wisdom, which is more than I could say for his sire, the gods grant him peace.  But what is to keep him from becoming a tool of the courtiers?  Or turning his eyes toward the south, once he has the north pacified?”

“His Grace is focusing his attention on cultivating relationships with the northern nobles,” Salgo said, diplomatically.  “Only when the Wilderlands are secure will he consider dealing with the rebels of Enultramar.  Or perhaps his children will.  But for now he has no capital save for Vorone, and sees the need for none better.”

“I’ll consider it,” Marcadine finally agreed, after the state of the Wilderlands was discussed to his satisfaction, and he had a moment to reflect.  “If I am able, and of a mind, then I will visit Vorone and pay my respects.  And swear my fealty,” he added.  “I have not forgotten my duty.

“But my price for this is simple: restore order in the north.  That rascal Edmarin kept demanding tribute in the name of the duke, and I sent him none – why pay to line his pockets, when he did nothing against the foe?  But if this orphaned duke can prove his mettle is better than his father’s, I’ll be happy to send my taxes to him.  And my sword, if need be.”

It was a positive meeting, Pentandra had to admit, and as she and Salgo rode away from the great stone castle, even the old count was feeling optimistic.

“Marcadine can bring as many as seventy lances from this barony alone!” he smiled as they rode through the castle village.  “That will go a long measure toward restoring confidence in the palace.”  But then he frowned.  “Of course, insisting on order, when the greatest factor in our disorder is the lack of men such as himself establishing order, makes this a confusing negotiation.”

“It seems as if Count Marcadine has done what he can, here in Preshar,” Pentandra noted approvingly.  This far south from Vorone there was little sign of the suffering the war had brought the region.  The goblin incursions had been stopped at the river to the north, and Marcadine was even supporting a small fort over the frontier manned by the Iron Band.

He had managed his lands and his people well and with discipline.  There were no shiftless refugees, hungry vagabonds, or blank-eyed men willing to kill for a meal idling in the village square.  Instead everyone she saw worked with industry and purpose to prepare for the spring plowing and planting.

“If we could only get the other estates running like this . . .”

“Not through ducal decree, we can’t,” grumbled Salgo.  “Estates run best when the men running them profit from their industry.  All of those deserted estates and empty domains will fare much better when there are proper Wilderlords in charge.”

Popular and well-deserving men had been granted titles to estates near Vorone with considerable generosity in the last few public courts.  Most of the grants included small stipends or relief from tribute that would make it easier for them to recruit the freemen needed to farm their lands.  But the expectation that they produce, and quickly, was strongly laid upon them.

That, in turn, had provided some much-needed work for some of the peasants in the camps.  Now that spring was nigh, the new lords’ agents and representatives were hiring entire families from the encampments and paying for them to relocate to the nearby estates as quickly as soon as the roads were clear.  That reduced the load on the relief kitchens and the pressure for low wages for day labor in town.  When the new plan to secure and repair the palace was announced in a week, much of the remainder of the surplus labor market would dry up.

“Especially now that Anguin makes plans to fortify Vorone . . . such as they are,” agreed Pentandra.  “Once a new keep and wall construction is underway, a lot of this equivocation about how serious Anguin is about staying will also dry up . . . I hope.”

It was clear to all that Vorone made a splendid summer capital, but that it was woefully inadequate to take on the responsibility all year long.  Especially not without a fortress of some size nearby to protect the Duke and his court.

Convincing the Duke that a more secure place than the palace was necessary to his regime wasn’t that difficult.  He was a bright young man who understood that the palace at Vorone had never been intended to be defended, just enjoyed.  The motte-and-bailey castle that had once dominated the town was long-replaced by the sprawling palace complex.  While there were areas of the palace considered secure, the nominal security of a stout door and a stone wall was nothing compared to the strength of defense a true fortress would provide.

To that end Duke Anguin was considering building a strong outbuilding or refuge keep on the site of the royal garrison’s quarters.  Pentandra had been in favor of the move, as had most of the rest of the court.  Once the first plans for that were made there would be thousands of man-hours available – at great cost to the duchy.  Sister Saltia and Viscountess Threanas were shaking their heads doubtfully over the (in their perspective) needless expense of a castle in an unthreatened town.

But Pentandra, and others on the council, saw the merit and had supported the idea in counsel – earning her no favor with either woman.  Her experience among the working class of the market quarter had given her a broader perspective, however.  As she saw it, the project would put people back to work, put coin in pockets, and encourage the workers to spend at market.  It would provide a realistic place of refuge in the case of an attack – not large enough to fit the entire town, perhaps, but certainly large enough to shelter many and give them something to put up a fight for.  It would help uplift the desperately poor and keep the artisans happy with the additional work.  And it would provide a physical symbol of Anguin’s military dominance on the skyline.

“Nothing lets the people know who is in charge than the sight of a castle under construction,” Salgo agreed.  He’d been in favor of the project himself.  Though he preferred to lead men on the open battlefield, the old general understood implicitly the kind of political and economic power a castle brought to a regime.  “The fact that it will be built on the site of that useless garrison makes it all the more desirable.  You say your friend Carmella can do it?”

“With magic?  In two years’ time, I’d wager,” Pentandra shrugged.  “She’s done wonders with her small crew at Salik Tower, from what I understand.  She really has refined the construction techniques we pioneered last year.  That little pele tower is as good as a regular keep now, from what I hear, and her apprentices and associates have been building model siege engines to practice the craft of defense.  She thinks she can cut corners and save coin by re-using the bricks and stones from some of the ruined castles in the Penumbra.”

“Of which there are a plentitude.  Won’t that be prohibitive, to cart it all the way down here through a war zone?” asked the Warlord.

“Not the way she’ll do it,” Pentandra said, biting her lip before she launched into a long discussion about the advantages of transdimensional enchantments like the hoxter pockets and potent artifacts like the bricking wands.  “By using magic she can pare at least a third of the cost away, and not have to worry about opening and defending a quarry.  From what I understand that is a long, expensive process.  There are plenty of grand old places that were ruined in the invasion she can pull from.  Including some currently owned by the gurvani,” she added.  “That’s the sort of thing the Order of Hesia specializes in.”

“To see a real keep go up in just a few years?  That would be worth some coin,” chuckled Count Salgo.  Most castles took years, even decades, to finish without magic.  The larger they were the harder they were to finish.  “In truth, I feel naked in that town without a decent wall to hide behind.”

“How are you going to convince the garrison to leave?” she asked the old soldier, curious.  While the garrison’s nominal leader was willing to cooperate with Anguin’s regime, most of his lieutenants were loyal to King Rard, who had made their appointments.  And who paid their salaries.

“I’m going to convince the Royal Minister of War to send them out on exercises,” Salgo said, smugly.  “Just over the summer, I think.  They can go and patrol the Ring with the Iron Band, or practice against the Tudrymen, for all I care.  But if we can get them out of the barracks for any length of time we can begin work on the site.  And as soon as we begin work, they’ll have to find someplace else to live.  Perhaps upon one of those ruined estates, when they return.”

Count Salgo was a military man, but he could not abide useless soldiers.  The men of the royal garrison counted as such, to his mind.  They were unwilling to attack, unable to defend, and unprepared to fight anything more grueling than rioters.

“With more support from the great nobles, we shouldn’t need them there before long,” nodded Pentandra.

“If Marcadine gives his fealty, then the other barons will also,” he qualified.  “If he doesn’t, then they might . . . but they’ll feel no obligation about swearing to our lad.”

That’s what many in the court had been calling the Orphan Duke in private: “our lad”.  It wasn’t quite a resounding show of confidence and conviction, but it was always said with defiance, devotion and affection.

Pentandra just hoped their lad appreciated the number of people willing to risk themselves and their prosperity to see him succeed.  With hopeful days like this one, that actually seemed like a possibility.

Chapter Eleven

Show Horses & Work Horses

While Pentandra was still trying to contend with her many new duties – including the unbelievable number of meetings she was now required or invited to attend – she began to see just which of her fellow ministers were fully invested and involved in the business of the duchy, and which were merely holding place until someone – and she often wondered just who they thought would accomplish it – brought better times to Alshar.

In her mind she divided the two groups into work horses, like the many draught horses who pulled plows and wains – and show horses, those steeds the nobility husbanded for their pretty lines, shiny coats, and physical ability.  The nobility had entire breeds of horses nearly useful for anything but the tasks they were bred for, while the peasants who supported them used rounceys, common horses suited to nearly any purpose, to keep the world running.

It often depressed her just how many show horses the new court had among it.

There were some, like Viscount Muros, the loyal Sea Lord who had been appointed Master of Wave but the duke, who sat in an office which no longer had much to do with the rest of the palace.  The Wilderlands had no navy, and while the post had been vital to the united duchy, being estranged from the vast maritime armada of Alshar made his appointment nominal, at best.  Yet Muros had no trouble dominating the conversations in the great halls of the palace at every opportunity, bragging of his marine prowess and mastery of shipcraft.

Others, like the nominal Lady of Fetes, Lady Landine, had active portfolios to work on, but precious little in the way of resources to do it.  While she was technically responsible for planning and executing the number of entertainments and celebrations the palace court was used to, virtually no funds for the office had been released by the Minister of Treasure, Viscountess Threanas, since she was confirmed in her position by the Duke.

Pentandra could see her point – when most of the court felt that the Duke was one riot away from being thrown out of his capital, it was difficult to encourage a celebration of his reign when there was no coin to do it.  Much of the funds which had been earmarked for such frivolities by the planning councils had already been spent on settling the palace’s considerable debt to local merchants.

That left Lady Landine moping around the palace, complaining bitterly about her situation and generally making herself a pain in the arse.

There were plenty of others.  When Anguin and Angrial were trying to build support for the restoration in Gilmora they had secretly sent word to houses there and in Alshar who were known to be loyal to the Dukes in the past, and invited them – quietly – to lend their support to the effort.

A small army of adventurers and younger sons showed up on Anguin’s doorstep.  Not all of the volunteers were useful, for the immediate task, but once summoned it was difficult to make them go away.  So Angrial and Anguin pledged plenty of court positions to keep their visible support for the court high in the public’s mind, without really having a use for so many useless nobility cluttering the halls of the palace.

While that irritated Pentandra, especially when she had so much to do and her office was not even fully set up, yet, but she understood the politics enough to keep her resentment at bay while she carried out her own duties.

Nor was she the only “work horse” of the court irritated by the useless officers.  When she had a moment between meetings (the new Mirror array attendants in the first, and a consideration of rules and guidelines for the new office of Spellwarden in the second) she escaped to any number of small, comfortable rooms scattered about the palace.

Most of the senior court were unaware of these refuges, as they were primarily the haunt of senior servants and junior courtiers, but Pentandra was less concerned with social propriety, and more concerned with amenities.  Some of the tiny chambers were extremely well-situated, well-appointed, and better stocked than she might have imagined.

One such place was a small room over a walkway between two sections of the palace, one that overlooked a pretty garden (or, at least, it promised to be pretty come spring).  The tiny chamber could be reached three different ways, if you knew how to get to it, and inside the castellans had ensured that there was wine, water, mead, hydromel, beer, and sufficient food to keep the workhorses of the court well-refreshed.

Pentandra dropped into the nameless chamber as soon as she could, after a very frustrating meeting.  To her surprise, Coinsister Saltia, the plump nun serving as Assistant Minister of Treasure, was already there drinking an extravagantly large mug of beer.

“What sent you in to hiding?” the merry nun asked her, as she left the stairwell.  “I just had my arse chewed by Threanas, the . . . Ifnia save her,” she said, with nominal piety.

“What, this time?” Pentandra asked as she poured herself a half glass of mead.  She was not fond of the rich beer they liked in Vorone.  It was too thick and too bitter, much different than the gentle brews the Remerans drank.  “Did she discover you hiding pennies under your habit?”

“I’ve got room for more than pennies under here,” the nun assured her with a smile.  “But, no.  She’s far more concerned with our appalling trade imbalance than mere pennies.  And she thinks I – well, my temple – should be able to do something about it,” she said, sourly.

“Could you?  And why does it matter?” Pentandra asked, relieved to be discussing someone else’s bureaucratic problems.

“Well, our trade balance is pretty important,” the nun said, informatively.  “Every cart that goes south and every cart that goes north across the frontier is important.  The more we purchase from outside the duchy, the less actual money the duchy has,” she explained.  “Not the duke, mind, but the duchy – all of us, put together.”

“Why would you need to know that?”

“Because if we don’t, then soon there won’t be enough silver in town to actually purchase any of it,” she complained.  “Threanas thinks that there should be at least one wain headed south for every two headed north.  While that’s reasonable, I suppose, it does beg the question of just what to put in those bloody carts,” she fumed.

“Well, we know iron and timber have limited value that close to the Wilderlands,” Pentandra pointed out.  “What else can we send?  That doesn’t compete with the local merchandise?”

“Exactly!” agreed Saltia, triumphantly.  “You have grasped it exactly!  There is really very little the Wilderlands can sell at market that isn’t well-covered by other regions already.  So chewing me out for not figuring out how to sell the Castali things we have and things they need is not terribly helpful!” she said, with a mixture of anger and dignity.

“What did Threanas suggest?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Uh . . . what . . . why, she didn’t suggest anything, herself,” the nun confessed.

“Then you should have solicited her ideas,” suggested Pentandra, sipping the mead.  “Saltia, I don’t know how they do things at your temple, but in my experience when a superior gives you an impossible task, your best defense is to ask them how they would do it.  If you lack ideas of your own – and I can’t help you much, there – then it becomes much more difficult to be held accountable if the program you execute was their idea.  Next time, ask for her guidance,” she suggested.  “See what she has to say.”

“And if she proposes the impossible?” asked the nun, warily.

Pentandra shrugged.  “Then tell her you’ll study the matter and get back to her.  I did that to the poor common spellmongers concerning their regulation for nearly two years,” she admitted, smugly.  “Every time they came to me with a demand to set policy, I asked them to submit suggestions on how to do so.  Eventually, we spent more time on the suggestions than fixing the problem, but there was at least the appearance that we knew what we were doing.”

“You cannot bluff your way out of a trade deficit that grows by nine ounces of silver a day,” Saltia pointed out, tiredly.  “Numbers mean things, my friend.  With silver pouring out of the palace the way it has been . . .”

“Yes, but look what those expenditures did for the local economy,” Pentandra pointed out.  “When the palace settled its debts, nearly five hundred ounces of silver were injected into the artisans of Vorone!  And some of that will come back in revenues!”

“Well, certainly, we retired our small debt,” Saltia conceded.  “But only at the cost of going into debt with my temple,” she pointed out.  “And while we’re not the most ruthless of temples to borrow from, we do expect every penny to be paid back.  And interest,” she added.

“You will be,” Pentandra assured her.  “Those loans were secured by the Spellmonger.  And I happen to know he has a lot of capital sitting around, not doing anything particularly important.

“Which is the only reason I’m here,” reminded the nun.  “At this rate, it will take the duchy about six years to repay the funds advanced so far – if revenues continue to come in from Vorone.”

“What if they improve?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Well, that depends entirely on how much the court – the duke – let’s face it, Viscountess Threanas – how much she wants to service that debt.”

“So why is the trade inequality such a big issue, then?”

“Because right now Vorone produces its own basic crafts and a number of luxuries, and almost none of them have a market outside of the Wilderlands,” the nun said, grumpily.  “It’s one thing if we can off-set the amount of silver fleeing the country by sending wagons south, but as it is?  We’ll be lucky to be here, come autumn, if something isn’t done.”

She could see the little nun’s point, but considering the much more pressing matters of state security and basic services, Pentandra could see no clear way out.  It would be difficult to notify the Treasury about the sudden disappearance of all of that ore and timber, for instance, without informing them of how it was sold without a single wain or barge being involved.  Or where the coin from the sale of such commodities went.  Or where several tons of wheat mysteriously came from.

It gave Pentandra a new appreciation of the power of magic, now that the Spellmonger had overturned the old order.

“I did propose that we make up for the shortfall with a lottery,” the nun proposed, quietly.  “Threanas did not seem to enthused by the idea,” she added.

“She’s from Enultramar, or near enough,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Even if she worships the Narasi gods, she’s familiar with the culture of the Sea Lords.  They do not look kindly on gambling,” she explained, which made the nun’s eyes grow wide.

“But . . . but randomness and probability are the basis of all life!” Saltia said, scandalized.

“Perhaps,” conceded Pentandra, who found the spiritual point highly debatable but kept silent, “but to the Sea Lords dice and other games are the tool of the Shipwrecker.  She’s the daughter of the Storm King responsible for those who die at sea.  Indeed, ‘dicing with the Shipwrecker’ has been a saying among the Sea Lords regarding any risky proposition for centuries.”

“They don’t . . . don’t gamble?” Saltia asked, scandalized by the idea.

“Not as a rule,” Pentandra affirmed.

“Then what do they do for fun?”

“They drink wine, brag a lot about their pretended accomplishments, tell the tales of their illustrious ancestors, and screw their wives and mistresses.  And conquer people, when they get the chance.  Oh, there are plenty of exceptions, and some Sea Lords are even celebrated for their willingness to go against probability . . . but then, would you want the captain of your ship depending upon the whims of chance, rather than his experience and wisdom?”

It was clear to Pentandra that Saltia would prefer just that – the nun was a firm believer in her notoriously capricious goddess’ nature.  For Saltia there was only good luck, in greater or lesser amounts.

Pentandra was a mage, and less inclined to invest in that philosophy.  When one could view the inner workings of nature with magesight, the random nature of events became less important.  The magi saw their perspective as a matter of scale, with chaos and order part and parcel of the same thing, not an impersonal force to be struggled with or embraced.

Yet she did not fault the nun for her beliefs.  She was a work horse in an environment that needed them, if it didn’t always reward them.  Her perspective on randomness might even assist her in balancing the ledgers of the duchy, she supposed.  Nor did she feel unreasonably superior about the difference of opinion.   There were plenty of magi who just didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.

Later that day Pentandra was headed to inspect the Mirror array station they’d installed when she ran into a Show Horse of the highest order.

The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an impeccable doublet in dark gold in the southern style, a thick golden chain bearing a pendant seal around his neck, and a courtier’s half-cloak thrown jauntily over one shoulder.  He was clean-shaven, another style popular in Enultramar but not in Vorone.

“You are the Court Mage, correct?” the man said to her, when he encountered her entering the main palace from the garden.

“Lady Pentandra,” she agreed, nodding.  “I don’t believe we have met.”

“Just arrived,” the courtier said, with amused tolerance.  It was as if he was shocked that his arrival hadn’t been the subject of gossip.  “I need to talk to you about some things I require,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“That will depend entirely upon what they are, my lord,” Pentandra assured him, “and entirely upon who you are.”

“What?” he asked, sharply.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Pentandra said, flatly.  “I don’t even know your name, much less your rank and office.”  It was a polite enough statement, but it challenged the man’s sense of his own power.

“Really?” he asked, affecting surprise and scorn.  “Well, I happen to be Sire Grenvaden of Inmar!” he announced, as if that would bring enough of an explanation to satisfy anyone.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sire Grenvaden,” Pentandra said, unenthusiastically.  “Are you visiting court?  Or have you achieved an appointment?”

That seemed to irritate the lord even more.  “Why, I am none other than the Lord Avener to the Duke!” he declared.  “I was named when His Grace elevated Sir Daranal to the peerage, and he needed a trusted and reliable replacement.  It’s one of the most important offices in the court!”

The fact that Pentandra could think of literally dozens of other offices of far more importance than the procurer of hay for the duke’s stables, she was diplomatic enough not to name them.

“Ah, yes,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing.  “What can I do for you, Sire?”

“Well,” the man said, clearly upset about not being identified, “it seems that my office is deplorably lacking,” he explained.  “The facilities are poor enough, for the post, but the tasks the duke has set me are vexing.”

“In what way, vexing, Sire?”

“Why, he expects me to secure silage for the entire stable!” he declared.

Pentandra blinked.  “Isn’t that what an avaner does, Sire?”

“Well, of course!” the man said, as if she were an idiot.  “But do you have any idea just how many horses reside in the stable?” he asked, mystified.

“I would expect a gracious plenty, Sire,” Pentandra agreed.

“You would be correct, my lady,” Sire Grenvaden agreed.  “Of course, the cost associated with such purchases are great, even in this rustic retreat,” he said, looking around at the palace disdainfully.  “I figured my charge would extend to seventy or eighty horses . . . and now I find there are nearly a thousand in the Duke’s stables, alone!”

“That does seem like a secure position, Sire,” Pentandra pointed out.  “But what can I do for you?”

“Secure?” the man said, ignoring her question.  “It’s impossible!  I will have to travel to several estates – several!  And purchase last year’s silage.  From peasants,” he added, with a pronounced sneer.

“They are, it is said, the ones who actually do the mowing,” Pentandra pointed out.

“So they say,” Grenvaden agreed, though his tone indicated he was suspicious of the claim.  From what Pentandra could see, the useless nobleman would have been suspicious of anything a peasant said.  Or anyone else not of his rank.  “Yet the idea that I have to visit their damnable villages and inspect this silage for myself is . . . is . . . unacceptable,” he finally said, with the utmost of gravity.  “I was not raised and schooled so that I could bandy the price of hay in pennies with illiterate villeins!”

“The folk of the Wilderlands are not villeins,” Pentandra tried to explain.  “They’re free peasants.  Yeoman farmers and freeholders.”

“Yet they do not seem to know their proper place!” the man nearly screeched.  “I set a price, they try to dissuade me from it.  It’s disrespectful!”

“That, my lord, is bargaining,” Pentandra explained, patiently.  “Hay is a commodity which sells at a fluctuating price, just as any.  It is dependent upon how much hay is available, how far it must be moved and the cost of that transport, and how much hay is needed by the market.”

“But I was nowhere near the market!” Grenvaden insisted.  “They wanted nearly six pence a stack, and claimed they could fetch as much from market!  But we weren’t at market!” he said, testily.

“If that is the price at market, Sire, then I can see their point,” Pentandra pointed out. “Why sell it to you, for five pence, when they can wait until market day to sell it for six?  Or more, if the demand is high enough?”

“Because I am the Duke’s Avener,” Grenvaden said, proudly, holding out the golden seal around his neck.  “They should be honored to sell their wares to the Duke!”

“They aren’t,” she pointed out, impatiently.  “They’re selling it to the Duke’s Avener.  If they were selling it directly to the duke, that might be something else, but . . .”

“But they have an obligation to supply the palace adequately!”

“Actually,” Pentandra said, knowing the man was not going to like the answer, “they are under no legal obligation to do so.  The duke has estates for that purpose . . . and if they are falling into ruin, that is his problem, not theirs.”

“But how can they be permitted to sell what the palace needs to someone else?” he asked, clearly not understanding the idea she was trying to explain.

“Because it’s their hay!” Pentandra shot back.  “They grew it, they harvested it, they need to sell it to make their money.”

“It’s just grass!” dismissed Grenvaden.  “Why does it have to be so expensive?  If I pay that much, why, I’ll have very little left over to run my office!”

Pentandra didn’t know much more about hay as a commodity than she did iron ore or timber or wheat . . . but she’d seen the brutal, back-breaking labor of mowers making hay in the late summer often enough to know how demanding it was.

“If your job is to provide hay, my lord, I would suggest you do what is necessary to provide hay,” she said, simply.  “Why do you need my help?  Indeed, how does magic enter into the avaner’s office at all?”

“I was told you were powerful,” he said, clearly skeptical of the claim.  “I thought it might be possible for you to whip up a little charm or spell that would help me convince these villeins the merit of offering the Ducal Avener a special price.”

“An amulet . . . that would make you convincing?” she asked, surprised.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged.  “I just don’t want to pay for the hay.  If you can arrange for a spell to keep their prices low, I think it would be a genuine service to the duchy,” he declared.

“So,” Pentandra said, slowly and carefully, “when the time comes for those peasants to pay off their tribute to their lords and their share to their commons, what would you have them pay their taxes with, if they have not received fair value for their labor?”

“I don’t know!” fumed the courtier.  “I just know that it’s not my responsibility to ensure that they can!  I’m supposed to be buying hay!”

“Then pay a fair price for it,” suggested Pentandra, coolly.

“I rather like that amulet idea,” Sire Grenvaden said.  “If you could make me one of those – say, one which would have them give me the hay for free, or for a single penny, that would be a positive boon for the duke!”

“I will study the matter and get back to you,” Pentandra said, unconvincingly.  But the courtier did not pick up on the subtlety . . . at all.

“Would you?” he asked, pleadingly.  “It’s just criminal to see the lower classes taking advantage of us like that,” he said, sourly.  “I plan on proposing to the duke that he set a standard price for all future hay sales,” he declared.  “One price, for every stack.  Non-negotiable,” he added, resolutely.

“If he does that,” Pentandra ventured, “just what does he need an avaner for?”

The courtier had no clear answer for her, which she expected.

Most of the nobility at the palace were genuinely committed to the success of the Restoration, and many more were at least enthusiastic about the idea.  But from the number of noble parasites cluttering up the great halls and wasting livery, she was concerned that Sister Saltia’s calculations did not take into account these show horses utterly ruining their offices with this kind of manure.  Selecting ministers who actually knew something about the office they were administering would be helpful.

But Pentandra also knew she was contending with a nearly four-hundred year Narasi tradition that rewarded client nobles with stipends, livery, honor and titles of court, while depending upon the civil servants below them to actually do the work.  That was a tradition that the new court could literally not afford, and she knew she would be speaking with Count Angrial about it.

There was enough going against the duchy without importing idiots of their own.

ChapterTwelve

The Woodsmen Of Vorone

Vorone was blessed by a few sunny, warm days of a false spring before midwinter officially marked the waning season, allowing the piles of filthy slush in the streets to finally release weeks’ worth of ordure into the sewers and eventually the rivers.  When Pentandra returned to the town, there were even a few disoriented daffodils that had been fooled by the thaw, peeking their shoots out of the snow.

The warmth was a mixed blessing, for a variety of reasons.  Commerce flourished as folk actually came outside for a few days to do more than get firewood or water from the well.  The markets were full of townspeople as they stocked up on supplies and enjoyed a few days’ sunshine before the inevitable late-season blizzard the weatherwise had foretold buried them once again.   Coin changed hands.  The roads opened up a bit, and some of the nearby estates that had been snow-locked since before Yule sent people to market.

But the same roads that brought honest folk to Vorone also brought the desperate from the camps.  Hundreds of vagabonds and urchins poured into Vorone in the sunshine, begging and stealing anything they could get their hands on despite the vigilance of the town watch.  Pentandra saw the desperate faces with prominent cheekbones from hunger and malnutrition on her way to and from the palace every morning.  If the winter had been harsh for the town; it had been unbearable in the camps that surrounded it.

The business of the court since the Restoration had grown beyond mere assessment and repair, as new officers began their duties and old officers proceeded with new guidance and fresh resources.

The new Master of Works, Sir Masten, had been charged with a half-dozen emergency projects to help secure the city, and the new Master of Hall, Sir Dovei had been tasked with cleansing, repairing and provisioning the palace and its stream of new arrivals.  Both men set their staffs to work on their mandates with purpose.  The exterior of the palace crawled with workmen, now, sometimes shoveling snow away from the palace to reach their repairs.

The Restorationists supporters from Gilmora finished arriving, and between the newcomers and the Orphan’s Band, the place was bursting at its decorative seams.  Pentandra’s official office was now a barracks for useless but important aristocrats, until they could secure quarters in the crowded city or be given estates.  She had ensured that the offices archives and the treasury, such as it was, was secure and spellbound, but apart from that there was little she could do about the situation.

Without an office, staff, or access to records much of what she could do in her official capacity was limited.  She kept in contact with the important magi in the area, mind-to-mind, to pass along news and messages.  With the Wilderlands roads snowed under and impassable, communication between scattered settlements was sparse – if it wasn’t for magic.

That was something else added to her list of new duties: establishing a working Mirror node here in Vorone.  The operations she had seen in Castabriel and Sevendor had been impressive.  Messages were communicated through pools of water and carefully-contrived spells from one node to the other – for a small fee.  They were run by the Arcane Orders, and as Vorone had no real chapterhouse here, as Court Wizard she was the wizard responsible for developing the Mirror array by default.

That meant hiring more wizards, finding a place to house the node, and securing the enchantments she needed from Minalan and magical craftsmen.  Pentandra could probably have figured out how to do it herself, but while she was technically a thaumaturge, Minalan had an entire manufactory of enchanters working on such things.  That wasn’t really her area of interest.  And without a secure area dedicated to the task, establishing a Mirror node would have to wait until she had an office.  And assistants.

Until then, her business with the court involved less savory pursuits, as she was reminded a few days after she returned from Preshar.

The melting snow brought other revelations to light as corpses found their way to the surface of the snowbank that had concealed them for weeks, possibly.  Dozens of bodies were found across Vorone.  Many were poor unfortunates who had no better place to take shelter, and who died in a tomb of snow.  Others, mostly in the proximity of taverns and inns, had slit throats or bashed heads.  And still others had a single drop of blood frozen in their left ear, and no other wound.

Those were the ones who found their afterlife beginning in Pentandra’s cellar, the day after she returned to Vorone from her errand to Count Marcadine.

“Why are there six corpses in my cellar?” she asked Constable Vemas, that morning, over tea.

“They were the six definitely slain with a Rat’s Tail,” he explained, merrily, as he poured the hot water for her.  “Six corpses who crossed paths with our villains.”

“And they are in my cellar . . . why?”

“Well. It would have been rude to store them in your bedchamber, my lady.  I thought that would be the best place for you to work on them,” he pointed out, as he offered her honey.

“Me, work on them?  How?” It was far too early in the morning for this.

“Magically,” he explained.  “If you, my dear wizard, can use your eldritch powers to determine who these men were and why they were targeted, that gives us valuable insight on the Crew’s present operations.  And perhaps clues to their various cells.”

“How so?”

“All of these men were slain and concealed since Yule.  Normally, as I understand things, most criminal operations are put on hold during such periods of heavy weather.  Thieves and thugs cannot get to work if everyone else is home.  So these men,” he said, gesturing to the six burlap-wrapped packages in the cellar below, “have had to been particularly naughty to stir the Crew to send such a message during a fallow period.”

“You are assuming that the ‘official’ method of execution would be reserved only for those who they thought needed to be made a message of,” she concluded.

“That is their traditional method,” the handsome Constable agreed.

“So what do you wish me to determine?”

“Their identities, for one.  Then the identities of their murderers.  Any information you could provide about the nature of the quarrel would be helpful,” he added, after consideration.

“You place a great store in my powers,” she said, evenly.  There just weren’t spells written for that sort of thing.  She would have to improvise.

“The second greatest mage in the kingdom should be able to level some keen insight into the affair,” he continued, diplomatically.  “And as your husband is ranging the northern roads for a few days, I’m assuming that you may find your evenings lacking in entertainment.”

“So snuggling with a corpse or six is an idle amusement?” she sighed.  “What my social life has become!”

As it turned out, Pentandra’s baculus, for which she was having a difficult time finding a name, did most of the work for her.  As she cast her gaze over the half-dozen victims, the magic rod helpfully assembled key details for her review, things she might not have thought to consider on her own.

“The first is Wilderborn,” she declared, moments after beginning.  “A fifth child, well-bred until his teenage years, then near-starved for a few years.  He’s come out of it recently.  He has worked as a smith, armorer, or farrier recently.  His fingers recently wore three rings, two of silver, one of gold.  Judging by his shoes he was a frequent visitor to the docks and taverns of every sort.”

“Good, good,” the constable nodded, making notes on parchment, as well as sketching the body elegantly with his pen.  “Anything else?”

Pentandra bent her rod closer to the body, and willed it to do a more in-depth inspection.  “Yes,” she said, a few moments later.  “He was terrified just before he died.  Terrified and resentful, as if he’d been betrayed.  He’d recently had a tooth pulled, and gotten a shave . . . something about the barber.  The barber was the man who betrayed him,” she said, with a measure of assurance.  “Where was this man found?”

“There are two barbers in that district,” the constable nodded, excitedly.  “I will put a watch on both.”

They continued with the next body, and the next, until Pentandra’s magic had revealed intimate details about each victim usually beyond the ken of normal investigation.  When they were done with the last, she felt as if she had taken six brutal lovers in a row.

“Wine, my lady?” the constable asked.  “I believe it’s about time for luncheon.”

“Wine would be good,” Pentandra agreed, tiredly.  “So I have given you six lives, Constable.  What can you make of them?”

“Actually, quite a picture,” the man said, shuffling his parchment.  “Three of the victims you saw this morning were known to have acquired funds to some purpose, and were found in the same district – near to our barber friend.  All disappeared after Yule, before our efforts.  Two others were found on the opposite side of the district proximate to an inn that caters to merchant carters.  They died weeks ago.

“But our Wilderlord . . . the sixth was found in the center of the district, but was not slain there.  And his death was more recent.  He was a landless knight known to have incurred enough gambling debt with the Crew that he was seeking escape in the Iron Band.  They, it appears, do not honor the King’s Forgiveness of their debts.  Rather disloyal of them,” he clucked.  “But since Sir Auderrei is a noble, unlike the rest of these rascals, his murder takes precedence.  That is, I can devote more resources to his murder.”

“I thought you wanted more than a single murderer,” she pointed out, frowning.

“Oh, I do.  But this makes some things easier, procedurally.  Trust me,” he said, leading her to a chair back in the kitchen.  “The Crew and Opilio the Knife wanted to send a message to their new rivals, after the brutal slaying of their thugs.  We just received it.”

“How is killing a landless, penniless Wilderlord sending us a message?”

“Opilio is pressed,” reasoned Sir Vemas.  “We have quietly slain many of his men, stolen from his coffers not once but twice, and drained his market of future possibilities.  All without revealing who we are.  From his perspective, the masked men haunting his territory are seeking to dismantle his business, and he suspects one of his rivals in the Brotherhood – who else would dare?

“So he is indicating, through the seemingly casual execution of poor Sir Auderrei, that his operation is not at all damaged.  He is demonstrating his authority and power.  Ostensibly to his rivals, but really to anyone with the eyes to see the message.”

“Shall I attempt to track the specific murderer?” Pentandra asked, already considering what spells her baculus could use to complete the task.

“Oh, goodness, no,” he smiled.  “The Crew regularly rotates those who commit such crimes into other schemes to avoid detection.  One of their many feints at the law.”

“Then you plan on arresting them?” she asked.

“No, my lady,” the constable said, gently.  “I plan on responding to the ‘message’ with one of my own.  It is time for our Woodsmen to come forth from the shadows in a way that will make no mistake about their message,” he said, boldly.

Pentandra frowned.  “And how do you propose to do this?”

“Hoods and simple masks have sufficed for our brave fellows up to now.  Opilio knows he has a rival, and is being attacked.  Let us finally show him the Woodsmen he’s been hearing about.  It is time for the masks to come off!”

“Oh, no,” Pentandra said, shaking her head, as she sipped a healthy swallow of wine.  “That is not what you need to do.  You have invoked their imaginations.  Now you must fulfill that promise,” she said, contemplating.

“Could you explain, my lady?” he asked, studying her.

“If you merely remove the masks and expose them as guardsmen – even former guardsmen – then you reveal the scope and nature of your plot.  The goal is the destruction of the Crew, not merely their discomfort.  Instead, keep the mystery intact.

“If you want to truly uncouple the hold the Crew has on the town, you do not need to boldly challenge them.  You need to encourage them to destroy themselves, first, and then attack them from another, unexpected direction. The sigils in town were an excellent piece of foreboding, it must be fulfilled. I think it’s time your assassins were aided overtly by High Magic.” she proposed.  “And endowed with monstrous powers.”

“Gangster magi?” he chuckled.  “Isn’t that a little out of your scholarly purview?”

“Not as much as you might think,” she answered, diplomatically.  “Some of the most famous Remeran vendettas used fictional organizations or secret societies to confuse and manipulate an opponent without revealing themselves.  It was an old standard in the Game of Whispers.”

“The Remeran idea of politics,” he supplied.

“Just so,” Pentandra nodded.  “The Game of Whispers often included clandestine acts of magic against political foes. Particularly in the early days after the Conquest. It is said,” she said, loftily, “that every great Remeran family of magi has a secret codex of forbidden spells, passed down from generation to generation, to facilitate the house’s needs.”

Sir Vemas smirked, this time.  “And I am to assume that you, Lady Pentandra, come from such a great house of magi?”

She snorted.  “My family has been practicing magic since the earliest days of the Magocracy,” she replied.  “In Perwyn.  You may draw your own conclusions.  The key, unfortunately, will be disguising that fact,” she said, frowning at the thought.  “Even a spellmonger will immediately suspect me, or one of the other High Magi, and anyone with any skills will be assured.  Unless we give them another suspect, like the ‘Master of the Wild’.  A backwoods sorcerer who came upon a witchstone, for instance, as the songs suggest, raising a band of disciples from the depths of the forests . . .”

“I like that,” Vemas nodded.  “We can easily add a band of loyal acolytes to the mysterious myth of the Master of the Wild.  It wouldn’t take much stretch of the imagination to envision a fellow group of dark hedgemagi accompanying the nocturnal army of crazed killers bent on dominating Vorone’s underground.”

“Particularly,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “if those magi were to confront one of the Rats directly.  Right now the Crew seems hell-bent to deny there’re any real Woodsmen, despite the bodies piling up.  They play it off as a hoax or a joke.  Now we must make it so clear that the threat they face is real – and supernatural – that they cannot deny it to themselves or the rest of the ward.”

“How would we demonstrate that?” he asked, soliciting her suggestions.

“Well, if one of them was forced to stare one of them in the eye, and hear it from their own lips, I imagine it would make quite an impression.  And remove all doubt that the Woodsmen are real.”

“My lady Pentandra, you have a fascinating imagination,” Constable Vemas praised.  “That has just the right mixture of mystification, malevolence, and magic to give us the cover we need!  Consider: a few Dark Magi, unsavory fellows who have taken witchstones from the Penumbra, naturally see Vorone as a base for an independent operation . . . and are following the Master of the Wild on his quest for revenge against the Rats!  Would that not be plausible?”

“It’s certainly romantic,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.

“The idea intrigues me!  A cult of mysterious magical assassins, led by some vile creature who took advantage of the war to enrich himself . . . we make the promise of the Master of the Wild a reality.”

“Misdirection is one of Master Minalan’s favorite ploys,” she conceded.  “My plan was inspired on his use of news of a false peasant’s uprising to deter the Censorate from chasing him during his honeymoon.  Deception is a wizard’s tool.  Not to mention the basis for a great deal of Remeran drama.  And I do have a taste for theater . . .”

“Opilio might be difficult,” Vemas frowned.  “He’s castled himself inside his headquarters, now, and rarely leaves, since his thugs started turning up dead . . . and without his silver.  What if we chose one of his rivals, instead, to make the point?”

“Perhaps we can convince one of the other captains to strike at Opilio preemptively.” Pentandra agreed.  “Stir him up against Ransung or Harl.  Incite him to attack them.”

Constable Vemas considered, “That would be difficult, without extraordinary circumstances.  The Rat Crew has very specific rules about inter-crew fighting, as set as those for a formal duel.  According to those rules, they are supposed to appeal to their superior for adjudication before they begin hostilities.”

“Would that not be an ideal situation, then?” Pentandra asked.  “If we can get their leadership to congregate to settle the matter, we could eliminate them all at a time.”

“Oh, how bloodthirsty you are, in the name of the Duke,” Sir Vemas said, half reprovingly, half in admiration.

“You take issue with my methods?” she asked, surprised. “My lord, I am a Remeran,” she explained with a smirk.  “We learn such plots as matters of national history and family honor.  I have found few outside of Remere have the temerity to strike at their foes so boldly, yet so quietly, when hindered by the Laws of Luin.”

Her own family had escaped the worst kinds of Remeran feuds and vendettas, thanks to her father’s stable but uninspired leadership, but she was aware of how bad they could become.  The merchant houses were particularly bloodthirsty, down along the coast.

“When our duke gave us the command to eliminate the enemies of the realm, my lady, it is under the shadowy Laws of Kulin that we proceed.”

In Remeran noble society the “laws of Kulin” were better known by their old Imperial name, the Game of Whispers.  It politely implied the social power of a family willing to step outside of the law, without mentioning the poisonings, ambush attacks, and throat-cuttings, the blackmail, coercion, and corruption that usually accompanied a mere whispering campaign in Remere.

The Game of Whispers and the Laws of Kulin both allowed (or at least acknowledged) all sorts of devious means to accomplish your goals, whether it was for personal, intuitional, or filial gain.  They were also used to rationalize all manner of nasty work in the service of the state, Pentandra knew.  She never suspected her own family of doing more than dabbling in the Game.  She never figured she would be capable of playing it.

That line had been crossed long ago, she realized.

“Yes,” she decided, slowly, “let us target someone who might strike against Opilio, to demonstrate the reality of his situation.”

“We shall kidnap one of the Knife’s rivals,” Vemas decided, “and put to him an ultimatum.  Ishi’s tits, I’ll deliver it myself.  “A mask and a cloak with a cowl – all very mysterious.”

“I think it needs to be more than a mere domino and cowl, Sir Vemas,” she said, tapping her lip.  “What do you think of this proposal . . .?” she asked, as a mischievous look came into her eye.

Sir Vemas loved her plan.  Pentandra merely overheard one of the castellan’s drudges complaining of the number of old storerooms that were crammed with old relics from bygone ages.  Among them, the debris from generations of social occasions, were dozens of old masks and costumes from masquerades long past, collecting dust and attracting vermin.

Sire Vemas procured dozens of such outfits from the disused palace storerooms without arousing suspicion.  The attics and storerooms of the complex were filled with the residue of past revels, and that included a number of masks and costumes for the masquerade fad, when it had last infected the Alshari court.  Among them he had found a number of animal masks of cloth, wood, leather and plaster within them, cast-offs of entertainments of yore.  Enough to outfit the Woodsmen.

To combat the signature tool of murder the Crew carried, the iron shiv known as a Rat’s Tail, Sir Vemas chose weapons designed to intimidate.  While the Rat’s Tail was small and did not leave much of a trace, Constable Vemas wanted the attack on the Crew to send a message as much as eliminate the rogues.

He’d settled on a plain slashing infantry blade for the task, and requisitioned a dozen of ancient make long unused from the depths of the palace armory the next day.  They were heavy in the blade, not particularly well balanced, and ungainly for anything but basic combat.  But a smith the constable trusted to keep his mouth shut quietly sharpened and altered the swords with jagged edges that would yield a vicious result in their employment, as well as make them lighter.

“A very distinctive edge,” Vemas had said, wickedly, when he had distributed the blades to his guardsmen-turned-gangsters that night in the upper chamber at Boval House.  “Heavy, brutal, basic, and at odds with the Crew’s normal subtle style.  They will cause as much damage as a goblin’s rusty blade.”

The guardsmen eagerly dug through the variety of masks, many cunningly carved or shaped of parchment and glue.

“Choose wisely,” the constable counseled.  “Make sure that you can see and breathe in them, before you make a selection.  You may have to fight in them, remember.  Do not let your vanity overcome practicality, gentlemen.”

“This is much better than those domino masks,” Carastan said, a bear mask in one hand and a boar in the other.  “My jaw is just too distinctive not to be recognized.  Only so many men my height in Vorone.”

“Scary things, these,” Mastril said, admiringly.  “Hate to see one of these comin’ at me in an alley.”

“That’s the idea,” Pentandra agreed.  “These are designed to inspire terror.  I’ll add glamours to each of them, to make your foes doubt whether they are artificial . . . or your real faces.  So I would avoid the fuzzy, fluffy, and cute,” she advised.

“Oh, I dunno,” Fen the Quick drawled, picking up a particularly battered and moth-eaten woodchuck mask.  “I’d piss my tights if I saw this in the moonlight!”

Most of the incipient thugs selected visages of wolves or stags, though the largest among them, Carastan, chose a brown bear for his mask, fitting to his stature.

The light-fingered guardsman Fen the Quick chose a raccoon’s bandit mask, and two former ruffians, Mastril and Hanrei, picked tusked boars for their effigies.  That allowed them to skulk about through the mists and the snow banks, allowing themselves to be seen from afar in their costume to demonstrate the reality of the ghostly gang

Two weeks earlier, Opilio’s entire treasury disappeared from his strongbox, thanks to Pentandra’s special spellwork.  When the enchanted coin one of the merchants paid Opilio’s men was activated, it swallowed all of the silver in a six-foot spherical radius of the coin into a hoxter pocket.  The other end of that pocket was anchored on Pentandra’s baculus.

The metaphysical theft yielded almost seven hundred ounces of silver to the Woodsmen, when Pentandra retrieved the coin from the pocket’s other end.  More importantly it shorted Opilio dramatically when he was already operating at a loss due to the previous week’s theft.  Without money to pay his men, much less send his proper tribute to his master, Opilio was in deep trouble (and debt) with his own organization.  With whom he also felt he was struggling.

By now, the Knife was paranoid . . . almost as paranoid as his fellow captain, Ransung Bloodfinger.

“It’s a crescent moon.  It’s foggy outside.  Let’s go inspire some terror,” Carastan said, once all of his men were costumed beyond recognition.  “No fighting, at first.  Just let yourselves be seen.”

The Woodsmen trooped out into the darkness and mists of Vorone and made their way to the Market ward, where they spread out into pairs and lurked.  They haunted the exteriors of the wildest pubs and taverns, those late-night taphouses the thieves and ruffians of Vorone preferred.

They did nothing, beyond lurking.  Each made certain that they were seen. For those drunkards bold enough to approach the mad-looking figures, they heard a single phrase uttered: The Master of the Wild Approaches.

Then they would fade away into the mists, leaving a stammering fool in their wake.  And wine-soaked rumors.

Over the course of the next few nights the Woodsmen were seen more often in the ward at night.  They instantly became figures of menace.  No one wanted to attack them, not when they seemed so frightful.  Most who witnessed them swore that the eyes of the animal blinked, glowed, or burned with an eldritch fire.  Some insisted that the heads were, indeed, real animals, and supported their theory with wild tales.

No other action was taken.  No other action needed to be taken.  The intimidation of the animal-men did its work to erode the confidence of his men and give the artisans of the ward a proponent.  Those few who owed Opilio were quickly paying off their debts in good silver.  It became commonly known that the Woodsmen were coming for the Knife.  It was time to capitalize on that rumor, and goad the vermin into action.

“The Crew have rules about stealing from each other,” Vemas explained, almost a week after the Woodsmen made their animal-headed debut.  “but those rules are just sacred enough to get violated pretty regularly.  Meaning that their first response to our thefts would be was ‘whoever did this can’t be a Rat’.  Followed quickly by ‘although it might be a Rat pretending not to be a Rat.’ That sort of thing happens a lot, particularly in the south.”

“The questions are who are the other Rats Opilio would turn on first?  That’s who we want to scare into fighting against him,” Pentandra told Ancient Carastan late one night.  He was the Woodsmen’s most valuable spy.

“He’s apparently accused every other Crew’s captain,” the man confided after spending a full day wandering through taverns in disguise.  “Every one!  And he’s lost his most trusted men,” Carastan added.  “His best enforcers.  All in one strike.  And four more seasoned runners that will be difficult and expensive to replace.  And he has not a penny left in his coffers.  The only ones who would dare steal it are his rivals.  He’s sure that it’s one of the others, but they all deny it.  Opilio is going mad with suspicion!  He’s ready to go to war!”

“Then let us give him something with which to struggle,” Vemas suggested.  “Let’s summon up his biggest rival, and give him a warning he cannot fail to act upon.  And,” he continued, a sly smile on his face, “let us do it on Briga’s Eve.  The day before the Orphans’ Band departs the city.  Just to give them something to occupy themselves.”

The small man with the heavy southern accent in his speech struggled in vain against his bonds; good hempen river rope, thick and well-tied.  His eyes were not fearful, exactly, but calculating as they flitted from one cloaked and masked figure to the other.  The cellar they had chosen for the kidnapping was a storeroom under the stable to an inn, to ensure privacy.  That was done more to elude the Crew than the law.  It occurred to that committing horrific crime was much easier when you didn’t have to be concerned with the constabulary.

This was the first operation since the initial one that Pentandra had insisted on participating in directly.  She was wearing high-heeled boots and the dark cloak of the Woodsmen, a parchment-and-glue mask of a badger covering her head.  Sir Vemas had asked her help in tracking this particular miscreant for days, now, in order to arrange his kidnapping, and after so much work she felt entitled to see the confrontation that resulted.

Vemas had agreed only because there was apparently so much at stake.  The victim of their kidnapping was Ransung Bloodfinger, the Rat Crew captain in charge of the Docks ward, an ambitious up-and-coming talent in crime - and Opilio the Knife’s biggest rival in the organization, by all accounts.

Opilio had been spreading the rumor that Bloodfinger was actually behind the recent devastating attacks in the Market ward, his men using the cursed masks as a way around the Crew’s traditional code of inter-organizational warfare.  It was one way to explain the sudden appearance of a mysterious new criminal gang that had managed to cripple his lucrative business within weeks, due to an uncanny knowledge of his operations.  A sneaky tactic by Ransung sounded more plausible than what was actually happening to Opilio’s territory.

The capture had been carefully arranged; Pentandra had supplied a small wand with the necessary spell to render the man unconscious.  The Woodsmen tracked him for days until they caught him alone.  He awoke after Pentandra broke the spell, but he discovered he had a sack over his head, and his body was tightly bound to the most uncomfortable chair Sir Vemas could find.

To his credit, Ransung did not panic, or scream, and he struggled only enough to assure himself that his bonds were taut; more than taut, for Pentandra had spellbound the knots.  His hoodwink was removed only when all of the other players were safely behind their masks and obscured by their cloaks.

There was a bit of theater in that, too.

It had been learned that Ransung Bloodfinger was bragging that even if there were really “Woodsmen” attacking his rival’s interests - and agents -- there could not be more than a handful of them, for (he explained authoritatively to his crew) a large organization could not exist without attracting attention to itself.

Opilio the Knife was shrieking at shadows, Bloodfinger sneered.  A few lucky hits and he had run screaming like a little girl.

All criminal underground machismo aside, Sir Vemas had agreed he had a valid point during the planning of this operation.

“There are enough strangers running through Vorone that it would be easy enough for another syndicate to arrive without notice, but he’s right.  A real criminal organization would be parading its strength around town.  We appear, strike, and then disappear.  While that serves our purpose, from Bloodfinger’s perspective the Woodsmen could plausibly be no more than a handful.”

“Then we must convince him otherwise,” Pentandra had declared.  “If we are to make an impression -- enough of an impression – on the man that the Crew is under serious threat, then we have to be convincing.”

“We can show him everyone, provided they stay masked,” Sir Vemas proposed.

“A dozen?” Pentandra had scoffed, playfully, over their morning tea.  “That’s hardly more than he’s suggesting!  Are we a mere ruthless gang of cutthroats or are we dark army of the night?”

“You do have a flair for the dramatic,” Sir Vemas admired.  “You suggest we use magic to add to our numbers?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “but not the way you might expect.”

When the basement room at the inn was prepared for the kidnapping the day before Briga’s Eve, Pentandra took a hand.  She had another score of dusty animal masks exhumed from the palace storerooms and quietly smuggled to the room disguised as bottles.

There, with the simple expedient of poles lashed into racks, weighted with bags of soil, she produced twenty additional menacing masked figures -- including a magnificent musk ox mask, the horns of which were just too impressive to be practical on the street.  Each rack was covered in dark fabric near enough to the Woodsmen’s black cloaks so that in dim light (and without magelight, that was all that was to be expected in the cellar) the storeroom was crowded with false bandits.

“You really do have a flair for this sort of thing,” Sir Vemas praised, when she was done.  She had added a few small spells that would make it seem like the mannequins were “alive”.  If one was not aware, then the figures seemed to shift and turn in small ways, enough like real people quietly standing in witness to be convincing. “I did not realize that a magical education extended to such things as lashing rope,” he said, amused, as he inspected her constructions.

“Oh, I didn’t learn that from Alar Academy,” she assured him.  “I’m married to a Kasari.  Knots are almost sacred to them.”

“So I’ve heard,” the constable nodded.  “Which begs the question of how a well-educated, extremely talented Remeran lady mage came to wed such a man.”

As they had spent long hours in consultation over the affairs of the Woodsmen, Pentandra felt that they were intimate enough that the question was not impertinent or rude.  She brushed her hair out of her eyes and sighed.

“I met him during a mission for the Order, and fell in love.  He is a most magnificent man,” she admitted.  “Perhaps the most magnificent I have ever met.”

“Perhaps it has escaped your attention,” Vemas continued, casually, “but the subject of your union has arisen - unofficially, of course - among some members of the court.  Many Wilderlords look down on the Kasari as ignorant barbarians and shiftless vagabonds.  Or deadly warriors.”

“The truth is the Kasari are more sophisticated than the Wilderlords by far,” Pentandra chuckled.  “They might not build cities and castles, but their entire culture is literate.  Whereas we cannot even claim that the entire Ducal Court is literate.  Do you share this prejudice, Sir?”

“What?  Me?  Oh, Luin forbid!  I’ve always found the Kasari to be wild and romantic figures.  And they make darn good rope.  My grandfather was on an expedition against them in the north, in his youth, and he had nothing but good things to say about them, though he was fighting against them.  No, I merely wished to call the rumor to your attention.  While some whisper against you because of your nation, some of the natives are trying to discredit you because of your marriage.  I am certain you are socially astute enough to determine just who might consider such a campaign.”

“Well, that kind of attack is unlikely to come from masculine quarters,” she reasoned, her nostrils flaring as she understood what Vemas was saying.  “And the number of ladies in the court is limited, until most of the wives join their husbands in the spring.”

“I’ll say no more, then,” Vemas said, graciously.  “It’s a sad conceit that place of birth, not character or value, is more meaningful . . . but such are the ways of court.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be any different,” Pentandra agreed.  In truth she had expected that sort of thing –  the Alshari, both north and south, were as woefully provincial as they were proud of their pretended sophistication.  The usual murmurs about “foreign” ministers in what should be an Alshari court were typical.  But she also knew that almost all Ducal courts employed foreigners as ministers and officials when they wished.

What truly irked her was that they chose to assail her through her husband, before the inevitable gossip about her magical specialty could overshadow her unusual marriage.  She was one of the few experts in the scandalous subject of Sex Magic in the known world, and yet they chose to disparage her because she married a Kasari?

She was calm, but inside her mind was already working on who might be quietly attacking her.  The possibilities were limited, and it wouldn’t take much to confirm her suspicions.  There was no need to appear perturbed about the news to Sir Vemas – that wouldn’t be prudent.

“I’m a Remeran, remember?  Remeran temple school politics were more complex than these Wilderlords can manage.  I shall deal with the matter, and thank you for bringing it to notice.  Now, Sir Vemas, just what do you intend on saying to Master Bloodfinger, once he is our guest?”

Pentandra had to admit to herself that watching Vemas perform in costume was not only better than hearing him describe it, it was actually better than most commercial theater performances she had seen in Castabriel and Wenshar.  It had better be, she reflected.  All of their lives might depend upon it.

Sir Vemas chose the mask of a mountain lion for his own, and a swirling cloak of black in alternating swatches of shiny and matte fabric.  The effect in the dim light of the storeroom was to make him appear shadowy - aided with a minor glamour from Pentandra. He wrapped a moth-eaten lion’s skin from the Trophy Room around his neck like a cape to complete the effect.

But his transformation did not end with costume.  Vemas’ voice deepened, and gone were the educated, formal tones of a courtier and townsman.  Instead the thickest brogue of the most remote Wilderlands settlements spilled out of his lips like pipe smoke and raw corn spirits.

He carried a crooked stick that looked like a fanciful artist’s idea of a magical staff. No real wizard would have enchanted a knobby bit of oak like that with anything more potent than travel spells, Pentandra thought, snidely.  It was so far removed from her beloved baculus that it was laughable.  But as a stage property it was more than adequate.  As Vemas moved closer to the gangster, his lion mask leering at the man, the criminal spoke first.

“Are you gentlemen going to just watch me all night, or was there a purpose to this meeting?” Ransung Bloodfinger asked, calmly, once the hoodwink was removed and he was able to look around at the room, crowded with masked Woodsmen.  “I take it if you wanted me dead my throat would be cut already.”

“I speak for the Master of the Wild!” Vemas said in a cackling, back-country accent as he shuffled forward, his lion mask illuminated by two feeble candles.  Vemas had hunched his back and affected a limp, further disguising who he was.  “You are called to account by the Master, Ransung Bloodfinger!” he croaked, taking center stage before the crimelord.  “You defile his town and his land with your cruel and petty exploitations, Rat!”

“That tends to be what rats do,” Bloodfinger responded, boldly.  “I don’t know what godsforsaken hamlet spawned this merry little band of goatfuckers of yours, but you have no bloody idea the powers that you are stirring up,” be warned.

“Nor do you have a conception of what powers are working against you, Rat!” Vemas creaked.

“I know a couple of vagabonds in crappy masks aren’t going to drive the Crews from Vorone,” Bloodfinger snorted, matter-of-factly.  “You might have been able to scare Opilio the Wife, but . . .”

Despite his bold words, Bloodfinger’s tone told Pentandra that he was starting to have doubts about his earlier assessment of the Woodsmen.  With the dummies in place, there appeared to be at least thirty masked and cloaked thugs in the room around him.  His operation, Pentandra knew, employed less than a score to control the docks and the nearby camps.  And his was the second-largest crew in Vorone.

On cue, Fes the Quick came into the room, mask over his face, and spoke to the bear-faced Ancient Andolos.  The Ancient in turn approached Sir Vemas.

“The other packs report that their prey is in hand, Master,” he told Vemas in an urgent tone of voice.  “All were taken alive . . . for the moment,” he added.

Vemas nodded curtly, the ears on the lion mask flopping forward a bit, and dismissed the man.

“Bloodfinger, know that all of your fellow Crew chieftains are now sitting, as you are, in our hidden strongholds,” Vemas barked, a sincerely vicious tone in his affected accent.  “Aye, even the Chief Rat!  We know Master Luthar well!

“The same bargain is being put to you all, by the dark of the moon: when the Master of the Wild arrives with the rest of the Woodsmen, only one Rat will be spared to bear the tale south to your ilk.  The last one alive in Vorone.  All others will be slain,” he said in dark and ominous tones.

“What is this?” Bloodfinger spat contemptuously.  “Do you think you can dance around like a bunch of mummers and expect us to turn on each other?  Go drown in pig shit, you—”

That was Andolos’ cue to clobber Bloodfinger in the face with his fist.  To his credit, the criminal took the blow with a minimum of drama, and while his stream of invective was halted, the angry, calculating look in his eye only grew more intense.

“Pay heed,” warned Vemas, harshly, “the Master of the Wild dislikes his messages to go astray.  One rat in Vorone will be allowed to live, to depart with the Master’s message.  One.  All the others will be slain as easily as a fox slays a vole.  Either be that Rat . . . or be gone.  You have until the dark of the next moon to decide.”

“What makes you think that the Crew is going to believe such rubbish?” scoffed the gangster, bravely.  “You have no idea how many we are, or where-”

“We know far more than you think,” Sir Vemas cackled, theatrically.  “The Wild is always watching, and every creature is its spy!  Do you think you deal with mere ruffians?  Every piss you take is noted, Rat.  Every time you lay your head, it is seen.  Yes, even within your precious warrens where you think you are safe, we know what occurs.  Do you think the Master is incapable of infiltrating a mere gang of thugs such as yours?  Do you think every ear you whisper into is loyal?  How many of your own men stand here now, under a mask, mocking you in their thoughts?”

That had been an essential part of Vemas’ (actually, Pentandra’s) plan: make Ransung Bloodfinger as paranoid as possible.  He was the most temperamental gang leader, the one most prone to risky moves and unexpected fits of violence.  The idea that his own ostensibly loyal men were now staring at him, mockingly, under the masks infuriated him.

In actuality, none of the Woodsmen were Rats, of course.  Nor were any of the other Crew captains being held captive, only Bloodfinger.  But by implanting in his mind the idea that his fellows in the Crew were actively conspiring against him in secret, it was hoped that they could convince the violent ruffian to take action on his own.

Pentandra ensured his cooperation, quietly using her baculus under her long, musty-smelling robe to manipulate the man’s emotional responses.  It was somewhat sophisticated Blue Magic – the dangerous discipline known as Psychomantics – but Pentandra was not unskilled in its use, for a dabbler.  There were plenty of occasions in the pursuit of Sex Magic that Psychomancy came in handy.

But she had underestimated the additional leverage that her strange new artifact gave her.  As Sir Vemas continued to threaten Bloodfinger, her intended desire to enflame the crimelord’s paranoia manifested in a far more complex iteration of the spell than she’d anticipated.  Her baculus eagerly invaded the man’s mind and dictated his emotional responses to the idea of conspiracies against him with breathtaking efficiency.

Now, Pentandra realized, no matter how far-fetched an idea Bloodfinger heard, if it could be construed as an attack against him, it would be.  When the hints that Opilio the Knife and Harl the Huntsman were sending spies and assassins into the docks made their way to his ears, Pentandra realized, he would seize on the idea and respond viciously . . . and recklessly.

“One Rat,” Vemas whispered to the man hoarsely.  “One survivor.”  When he nodded to Carastan, the big guardsman slugged the Rat across the back of the neck with a sandbag, sending him back into unconsciousness.  Two other guardsmen began wrapping him up in a threadbare tapestry, in preparation for transporting him back to the docks.

Just how they planned to leave the unconscious crimelord was up to their judgment, but Pentandra had a sudden idea.  The Woodsmen had littered the little room with various bits of cut greenery to confuse Bloodfinger and add credence to the idea that they were a rustic, woods-loving people.  She selected a pinecone about the size of her palm and handed it to the two men who would return Bloodfinger.

“Here,” she urged.  “When you put him back, try to do something interesting to him with this,” she proposed, handing the cone to one of the men.  He looked at her blankly for a moment through the holes in his mask, but then Pentandra heard the grin in his voice as he agreed.

“Now, since we’re all dressed up,” Sir Vemas announced, “let’s not let the effort go to waste!”

With that, the rest of the Woodsmen spread out across the ward in pairs, seeking out individual Rats in their accustomed haunts.  Those they discovered they beat or slew, while spreading the word that the Master’s minions were looking for them by name.

The struggle against the Rats yielded several prizes on the morn of Briga’s Day.  The Woodsmen were careful, never attacking one of the Rats until they were alone and outnumbered.

They used stealth, surprise, and superior numbers.  A strongman here, with his throat slit in a public privy.  A sneak thief there, stabbed in the back as he relieved himself against the back of a building.  Another Rat was found under a bridge, his head thirty feet away.  Each was relieved of every penny that they carried – and some were conveying funds between Opilio and his creditors.  Doffing their masks and moving about their business quickly made the appearance and disappearance of the Woodsmen a mysterious and treacherous rumor.

Every murder was deliberate and designed to enflame suspicion against Bloodfinger.  After losing a half a score of his men, Opilio was half-crazed with suspicion.  By dawn, Opilio’s crew was cut down to a tithe of what it once was.

“Poor, poor rat,” Vemas clucked as he counted out the last of the stolen silver.  “Ten thugs gone, over a thousand silver vanished, and all but a few of his ‘clients’ have paid him off.”

“That has to be the most maddening thing,” chuckled Carastan.  “To have that much money on the books and yet so little in the coffers . . . and every time he gets more, it evaporates.”

“How long until he really loses his temper, I wonder?” Mastril speculated.  “He’s got to be going mad with paranoia by now.”

“Oh, he is, he is,” Fen the Quick agreed.  “I shadowed him around that barber’s shop all day, and he was screaming and shouting like he’d been stung.  His men all have that glazed, frightened look in their eye.”

“But what can he do, against a foe who won’t stand and fight?” asked Pentandra.

It was a question that they got their answer to before they realized it.  It was Briga’s day, she realized, the day that the Duke was to receive his barons in fealty.  It was time to go back to the boring life of Court Wizard once again.

Chapter Thirteen

The Politics Of Alshar

“Well, that went better than I expected,” the Orphan Duke said philosophically in his chambers, after the feast was over.  Most of the lords were at a reception in the Hall of Pearls, sponsored by Count Salgo to discuss the military situation, but the duke recessed to “restore’ himself in his chambers after the feast.  Anguin invited (which was a polite way to say “ordered”) a select few advisors to attend him in his private chambers.  Pentandra, Thinradel and Astyral were among them.

The selection did not go unheeded; it was a clear message to the mundane lords, whose suspicions of the magi in the new court had been anticipated – and answered.  From Pentandra’s perspective the message Anguin was sending to them by her inclusion was simple: magic was now a respected power in the Wilderlands.

That was an important point for Anguin to make to his more established courtiers too.  Those who supported the effort to bring him to the throne and who resented the number and prominence of magelords in the Wilderlands.  Conferencing with three of them after such an important event would send a message to the nascent southern-bound courtiers, as well.

That was a growing concern amongst the inner council: in the few weeks of Anguin’s rule, the expatriate Sea Lords, in particular, had been increasingly insistent that the re-conquest of Enultramar become the primary objective of the duke’s policies.  The Master of Waves, Viscount Muros, was becoming more and more arrogant in his politics.

His latest proposal (she had heard) was that the duke take what forces he had, what forces he could hire, and take over five havens in southern Castal, technically under his domain though sovereign to Castal, and begin building a fleet to challenge the rebel’s navy.

It was a foolish proposal, one that involved wringing every bit of iron and timber from the Wilderlands, and using its silver and its warriors for no lesser purpose than restoring Anguin over the south.  He and his party had little concern for the people or the land, here.  It was merely a means to an end, and that end was the great Bay of Enultramar.  There was no other prize.

The Sea Lords were a difficult breed to contend with.  Arrogant and powerful, demanding and insistent on privilege, they did not have the same reverence for feudal tradition that the other nobility of Alshar possessed.  Yet their loyalty and fierceness – not to mention their mastery of the waves – made them essential allies.  Despite the important role they played in the Restoration, there was plenty of resentment about the (her) influence of the magelords with the  Duke.

Anguin was no fool, by cultivating a relationship with the magi.  The mundane barons of the south were just not as vital to the future of the realm as the magi who held the north against the gurvani.  They needed to be reminded of it, even at so important a ceremony.  Pentandra felt gratified that the Duke recognized that.

She was less excited about the attention he had focused on her office and her profession.

“How so, Sire?” asked Astyral, gracefully pouring wine for the three of them.  He had arrived in the night with a generous party from Tudry, including Azar and Thinradel.   “Were you expecting the barons to revolt on the spot, in your hall?  That would have been awkward,” he admitted.

“It has happened before,” Anguin pointed out.  “Nine barons in Enultramar and the Great Vale threw their chains at the feet of my ancestor, Durguin.  The Nine Viscounts Revolt lasted twenty years.”

“Your Grace is a scholar,” Astyral said, approvingly.

“I was raised for three years in a monetary of Huin,” he replied.  “All I did was read.  I know the history of my own house.  Darguin was an idiot.  He didn’t last a year into the war.”

“Different circumstances entirely,” Pentandra dismissed, shaking her head.  She wasn’t as familiar with Alshari politics as Remeran, but the incident was well-known.  “These barons need you more than you need any one of them individually.  Without you reinforcing their rule, they might be at one another’s throats before long over such things.”

“That realization is probably the only thing that kept them from rebelling,” Anguin said, as he flopped into his canopied chair and hung one leg over the arm.  “But I did anticipate more objection to your appointment to Lord Steward of Tudry.  And confirmation of Azar as Baron of Megelin.  I think at least a few of your new peers had designs on the place.”

“Your Grace, I can only pledge to be worthy of the office,” Astyral said, sincerely.  “And I am gratified by your trust.”

“On what basis could they object?” snorted Pentandra.  “They’ve been doing the jobs for years, anyway.  They might as well get the titles and recognition for it.”

“Exactly,” agreed Anguin.  “Still, the barons are always eager to cling to their prerogatives, and some of them – Dasion and Rei in particular – are not terribly pleased by the ascendency of the magi in Alshar.”

“If the good baron is that concerned,” Astyral drawled, “then I invite him to come north and replace me at my post.  Indeed, I would entertain a direct trade of responsibilities and prerogatives.  I think he would reconsider his position quite rapidly.”

“No doubt,” agreed Anguin with a humorless smile.  “He is unlikely to take you up on that offer.  But he and the other barons did raise some interesting questions.  I thought I might take counsel with you both on them.”

“Such as, Sire?” asked Pentandra.

“Well, I have been repeatedly cautioned against becoming involved with the Arcane Orders, because wizards are notoriously demanding, outrageous, and untrustworthy.  Yet I have been restored to the throne a month or more, and you have yet to demand even one outrageous thing of me, or convince me to entertain any evil plots.”  He looked from one mage to the other.  “What kind of wizards are you?”

“The prudent sort, Your Grace,” Pentandra laughed.  “The only things I might have asked the coronet for are the ones you’ve granted today: raising the magi who have been protecting the realm to their proper stations.  And to refurbish my quarters,” she added, casually.

That was such a common request by now that it did not merit a comment.  Duke Anguin looked around at his magical vassals, none of whom had hesitated to take the oath of fealty.  “Yet here I am in need of your service, my friends.  I was not bluffing, when I told the barons that I would be depending more heavily on the magi in the north.  Already the greatest centers of power are under your control.

“But I need more,” he insisted.  “I need magelords and warmagi who are willing to stand and fight, and defend the land.  More, I need them smart enough to administer them without courting ruin.  And I need them loyal enough so that I can depend upon their obedience in emergencies and their compliance with my rule in peace times.”

“There are several magi I can think of who fit that bill, Your Grace,” Astyral affirmed.  “Starting with Magelord Terleman, recently released from Royal service.  And not terribly pleased about it.  If you wanted a leader who could spearhead a resettlement, you could do worse than Terleman.  If you can retain him.”

“I cannot speak for his abilities in war, save to recall his reputation, but he is a powerful mage,” agreed Pentandra.  “Yet I would also ask Your Grace to consider non-warmagi.  Master Thinradel, for instance, is a mage of proven temperament and administrative abilities.”

“I have no aspirations of lands, Your Grace!” he said, startled at being suddenly included in what was, essentially, a political discussion.

“Don’t tell me you don’t aspire to some little comfort or security, my friend,” Astyral teased.

“The Tower Arcane is what I had in mind,” the wizard said, shaking his head.  “That library, access to the library of Palomar Abbey, that lovely garden . . . I got to enjoy it for so little time . . .”

“Then we can rebuild it in the north,” Astyral shrugged.  “You must see this as an opportunity for all magi, Thinradel, not just warmagi.  You can manage lands and see to their defense as well as any lord.  They are resources to be developed, used, and enjoyed.”

“But isn’t that a job more suited to warmagi?” he asked.

“Why not both?” Anguin proposed with a shrug.  “From what I have seen and been shown, the eastern domains are all but deserted after the invasion.  There is room for realms between the great river and the Pearwoods.  If we peppered the region with magi, and seeded it liberally with peasants, that might season it well enough to withstand any serious assault.  And perhaps provide some revenue, down the river.”

“Magi alone won’t be able to do it, I’m afraid,” Astyral said, shaking his head.  “Such an effort will require a tremendous amount of labor, even with magic.”

“Yet magic can reduce the need,” reminded Pentandra.  “With a score of plowing and reaping wands, for instance, thrice as much land can be farmed by the same number of peasants, with higher yields.  At least according to Olmeg the Green,” she admitted.

“We won’t even get to the spring planting, if we don’t get some help sooner,” Anguin said, quietly.  “The price of seed is untenable.  Our granaries are empty, and we can’t even plant what lands we have cleared.  Father Amus has been exploring some issues within the town.  With Castali wheat merchants.”

That sounded serious, from the young duke.  Pentandra stopped, her tea cup half way to her lip. “What kind of issues, Your Grace?”

“For the last three years the grain merchants from Castal have been savagely manipulating the markets in Vorone,” he sighed.  “There isn’t nearly enough grain being grown as surplus on the local estates to feed the town anymore, and in order to make up for the deficit Edmarin brought in grain merchants from Wilderhall.  At great expense,” he added, “for every sack of wheat that crosses the frontier is subject to a Castali tax.  He allowed them to set prices, as long as they were kept reasonable and the palace was supplied.

“But that meant that every spring since my parents died, when the peasants were planting and plowing, the prices would rise higher than temple steeples.  Four times what they were at harvest,” he said, frowning.  “They use the scarcity to improve their profits, and charge the same on every sack whether it was grown here or taxed by Castal!”

“What can we do about such things, Your Grace?” Astyral asked, his fingers spread.

“Figure out a way to lower that price,” Duke Anguin said, sourly.  “Two ounces of silver for a bushel of wheat is going to put bread out of reach of many, if we don’t.”

The standard price was seven silver pennies per bushel, Pentandra knew.  Even that was a lot, by her standards.  Commodities were not her specialty, but her cousin Planus invested in them regularly.  He had made a fortune or two just in cotton futures.

“How much grain would it take to off-set their prices, do you think?” she asked, her eyes glazed over as she calculated.

“From what I understand, Vorone’s market sells about a ton of grain a day, on average,” considered the duke.  “That doubles as peasants buy seed corn in the spring.  If we could just ensure that there was a sufficiency . . .”

“Would thirty or forty tons of wheat do it?” Pentandra asked, finally.

“That would keep them from having control over the price,” agreed the duke.  “But getting it through Castal would be tricky.  My idiot cousin has his men control how much crosses the frontier as a support for his own markets.  Letting thirty or forty tons of grain go by is going to startle them.”

“Bide a moment, Your Grace,” she begged, glancing at Astyral.  Then she contacted her cousin, mind-to-mind.  It was much, much easier to do now that she had her overlarge stone and her baculus to help cast the spell.

Pentandra! Planus’ mental voice shouted at her enthusiastically.  How is married life?

As exciting as it sounds, she dismissed.  Hey, have you been down to the market lately?

Just this morning, he admitted.  Why?

What was the price of wheat, if you don’t mind me asking?  And if you remember?

Well, her cousin said, after a long and thoughtful pause, funny you should mention it.  There was a bumper crop of wheat and barley from Moros and Morone, in the north.  They sent it south to sell, but it arrived just as the corn harvest from Sendulus arrived in port, so . . . about six pennies per sack, he decided.  For wheat.  Four pennies for oats.  Three for maize.

A sack held about two bushels, she knew.  How many could you get me?  By the end of the week?

All you need, Planus assured. The market is lousy and prices are dropping. Are you considering changing professions?  Or just taking up baking?

Just expanding mine.  I’ll arrange for transport shortly, but go ahead and acquire about forty or fifty tons.

Under your name?

Open the account under the Duke of Alshar’s name, she decided.  I’ll act as agent, but he’s paying for it.

Alshar?  That’s a long way to cart grain, Penny, he cautioned.

We’re magi, we don’t cart grain anymore, remember? she chided.  We still have those supply wands from last year.  You just cram the grain into one of them, and I’ll take it out on this side.

We can do the payment the same way, he decided, approvingly.  I do loathe carrying around a lot of coin.  Very well.  I shall prepare it.  It should be ready within the week, he assured her.  But only for my dearest cousin, in celebration of her nuptials, would I—

Yes, yes, I get it, Pentandra smiled to herself.  I owe you.

As long as we have an understanding, Planus agreed.

“The grain problem is handled,” she announced a moment later, once she had opened her eyes and waited for a polite break in conversation.  “With a little help from Sevendor and my cousin, we should be able to flood the market with cheap corn and keep the merchants from making much profit.  The poor will have a decent chance to eat this spring.  And we’ll be avoiding Tavard’s tax collectors,” she added, explaining the spell.  As the duke had witnessed such magic on the Long March last year, he understood how she proposed to deliver and pay for it.

“That’s amazing,” smiled the young duke.  “And the fact that Castal loses out makes it all the better!”

“What other matters does Your Grace have for us to solve today?” asked Astyral, charmingly.

“Keeping the riots at bay would be nice,” the duke said, his expression changing.

“I’m working on that, Sire,” Pentandra assured him.  “In fact, the next few nights should prove decisive.”

There was a sense of dread and expectation in the air on the street that night.

While Briga’s festival had not been expected to be the days of festive celebration that Yule had produced, it wasn’t supposed to be a time of riots and violence.  Drinking and feasting, yes.  The midwinter feast dedicated to the Narasi goddess of fire was often the first social occasion anyone had since the solstice.  The riots in the Temple ward had come as a shock to the town, even as the salve of the barons’ troops eased their fears.

That was still a mystery to Pentandra – why the Temple ward, of all places?  But with the Orphan’s Band patrols gone from the cold, foggy street, replaced by lightly-armed watchmen, it was inevitable that some kind of trouble spark.  Indeed, the nightly twilight war between the Rat Crew and the Woodsmen heated up while Pentandra entertained at the palace that night.

The dark, animal-headed figures could be seen skulking in shadows, their heavy swords concealed within their dark cloaks, ready to pay vengeance to the Crew for disturbing the peace of the town.

The Rats, too, were determined to make a showing on the streets that night, posting guards and watchers at the edges of their territories, nervously watching for the mysterious Woodsmen.  Some had even boldly affected rat masks themselves in defiance of their foe.

That bit of theater helped clear the streets before dusk.  The days’ riots erupting in the Temple ward had inspired dread and despair in many of the common folk, as had the departure of the Orphans’ Band. Most common folk eschewed the lure of social drinking and holiday gossip in favor of an early night, after the riots.  There was just something in the air . . .

Those who clung to the streets after midnight were rarely there to celebrate the Flame That Burneth Bright on her sacred feast day.  They were far more inclined to invoke Kulin Evershadow, the patron of thieves and footpads.  Or Pram the Blessed, patron of distillers and barmen, worshiped with hangovers and fountains of vomit.  Or even Ishi’s less-expensive caress by her less-fortunate disciples.

But regardless of their religion, those few who wandered abroad in Vorone in the misty night were wary.  The arrival of the four barons – and a handful of magelords – hadn’t served to calm them.  There were armies in the mists, killers in the darkness.  Everyone could feel a palpable sense of fear hovering over the town.

Pentandra herself was wary.  The riot was clearly instigated by the Crew, although why it was so far from the bloodbath in the Market ward the other night.  But it gave them every excuse to act.

She and Sir Vemas in a quick conference at the palace after she retired for the evening.  made a decision.  He was lurking outside of her offices, vacated just this morning.  She was supposed to open the office tomorrow, or at least begin to.  The constable stepped out, gave her a bow, and then boldly pull her into a corner.

“I think it’s time to bring Opilio the Knife to answer to the Lord of the Wild,” he said, looking over her shoulder.  “That riot was the last straw.  Our sources say he started it on purpose.  A show of strength, or something.  At least seventy people were hurt.  The lads are . . . upset.”

“Perhaps they should take some exercise tonight,” she suggested.  “Let’s see how they react to an evening of fury.  Perhaps let it bleed over to the docks to see what our friend Bloodfinger does.  Then tomorrow night, we can move in in force.”

“Why tomorrow night?” he asked, curious.

“Because I’m exhausted,” she explained.  “That council wore me out and I need rest and time to plan before we conduct a major operation like that.  Any more time . . . and my husband might come home and try to stop me from participating.”

“You make a compelling argument, my lady,” he conceded.  “I’ll have a coach brought around.  A few of the lads will escort you back to the hall, and they can depart from there.”

After her busy day at court, it was time for her to transform from Court Wizard to crimelord as she quickly coordinated the effort.  It wasn’t easy – this was perhaps the most elaborate foray the Woodsman had made, and would require some additional work.  This wasn’t a simple stalk-and-slaughter mission, as the Woodsmen were performing on the Rats they caught away from their holes tonight.  This was another kidnapping, in force, from the villain’s own headquarters, one who expected attack, and the timing had to be just right.

In a way, the chaos the Rat Crew seeded in the Temple ward and in the refugee camps aided their efforts, she considered as she boarded a carriage back at Spellmonger’s Hall.

If the mood of fear continued through the night, as a full street war would ensure, there would be so few abroad on the streets that night, near the recesses of Chandler Street, where their plan would be executed, that they did not need fear witnesses or bystanders.

As she finished going over the plan she and Sir Vemas had concocted to put pressure between the various factions of the Crew in the coach, she felt the whisper of mental contact as someone attempted to contact her, mind-to-mind.

It wasn’t the best time.  She considered ignoring the beckoning.  Yet better to settle any issues now, and not when they were in the middle of their mission this evening, she reasoned.

Pentandra! came Astyral’s mental “voice”.  Where are you?  Where did you go?  Azar and I want to go investigate the wonders of the Street of Perfume, and wanted a native guide!

Pentandra thought of the dangers lurking on that brightly-colored part of town and considered warning her friend.  But she knew Astyral would just laugh at danger.  He was a deadly warmage, one of the best, and he had both a Gilmoran’s sense of class and style as well as a low and suspicious mind – which meant that he, more than anyone else she could think of, was likely proof against the temptations of that street.

She considered recruiting him instead for her mission, but there was already enough debate about the place of magi in the new court.  Besides, if Astyral got involved, he’d be more inclined to ask questions than just do what needed to be done.  For this operation they didn’t need a warmage, they needed subtlety.

You go ahead, she urged.  I’ve got some court business tonight to attend to.

Aw, Penny! complained Astyral.  We were counting on you for some introductions!  We don’t want to be treated like rubes from the country!

You and Azar are rubes from the country, she quipped.  You realize that Vorone is the largest town in the Wilderlands?

Yes, and the fourteenth largest in Alshar, Astyral replied, drolly.  I’m enjoying this pretense at being a duchy as much as anyone, Pentandra, but . . .

We’ll get to retaking the south, she promised.  Besides, I thought you were a Gilmoran?  I thought your folk hated the Alshari?

Not at all! Astyral said, sounding hurt at the suggestion.  My family were loyalists to Alshar – mostly.  We only reluctantly accepted the Second Peace of Barrowbell, not that we had much choice.  Despite the economic advantages that accrued to the nobles with the switch in allegiance, don’t think it was without issues.  There are plenty of old Cotton Lord families which would like to see themselves Alshari, not Castali.

Well, now we’re all in one big happy kingdom, so it really doesn’t matter much, anymore.

Except to the rebels in Enultramar, he reminded her.  They think it matters.  Hells, that’s one reason that they’re rebelling.  They felt Anguin’s line was too conciliatory, and they wanted more traditional leadership.  Meaning one of his easily-manipulatable first and second cousins in Falas or Rouen.  So when the opportunity came, the southern Alshari figured that losing the Wilderlands, after already losing Gilmora, was a fair price to pay if it also lost them Anguin.

That doesn’t seem very . . . feudal, she replied.

Oh, it’s not – don’t forget, the basic feudal system was developed under the Narasi.  Before that, it was households of Sea Lords and Imperial-age Coastlords who dueled for control of Alshar.  They worked through alliances between great houses, decentralized authority descended from their maritime culture.  That’s what they want to return to, a time when a man’s power established him, not necessarily his birthright.  They’ve seen too many weak Narasi dukes in the last century.

We can still restore him to power, Pentandra countered.  Eventually.  Once things are stable here.

My dear, I love you like a sister, Astyral drawled into her mind, but when it comes to Alshari politics you have much to learn, Pentandra.  You can’t just push Anguin to the front of the room, point out he’s the rightful heir, and expect to have the court fawn over him.  Traditionally the older families of Alshar prefer to see some proof of worthiness in their monarchs before they invest them with that kind of duty.

Wouldn’t rescuing the Wilderlands from certain demise count? demanded Pentandra.

Only if Anguin n can transform it into a new fleet, Astyral reported.  The southerners don’t have much use for it, otherwise.  Face it, Penny, as smart as the lad is – and I’m impressed with him, don’t mistake me – the Wilderlands is likely to be the only part of Alshar he ever controls as Duke.  Taking the south militarily is laughable, with the resources he has now.  And doing it without a navy would be insane.  Unless you can beat the Sea Lords at sea and the Coastlords on land, it’s going to be tough to break the alliance that rules Falas now.

Well, it is our intention to do just that, Pentandra lectured.  We just have no real idea how.  But I’m guessing that magic will play a role.

It’s ambitious, granted the Gilmoran mage, but I think you’re crazy to set yourself up for failure like that.  If Anguin is wise, he will do what he can to strengthen the north and allow his heirs to pursue their claim over the south.  Unless he wants to wrest Gilmora back from Castal, first, he mused.  That would be impressive enough of a feat to win him great support in Falas.

Something will come up, Pentandra replied.  It was more hope than promise, but she’d learned very quickly that politics was largely a matter of taking the initiative to exploit sudden opportunities that furthered your interests.

There were just too many players in the Kingdom, now, and within southern Alshar the possibility of something unexpectedly happening that would give Anguin the opening he needed to exploit was inevitable.  At least, that was what she kept reminding herself as she sat through gloomy meetings about austerity.

She couldn’t argue that Astyral was wrong – he knew far more about western politics than she.  And he was an astute player of the game, having secured a long-term appointment most barons would kill for.  But she didn’t think he understood just how determined the court – and Angrial – were about their mission.  Their goal was not just to restore the Wilderlands capital, so that the duke could claim some sort of legitimacy, but to retake the entire duchy from the rebels (and, eventually, the gurvani).

And that meant the south.  Though to the nobles of southern Alshar, it also meant Gilmora, cruelly stolen from the Black Duke by Castal’s sneaky negotiations.  That, she reasoned, sensing political opportunity, might be good leverage in the future.

Of course, since an essential part of the southern rebels’ hold over the land seemed to be supported by the Brotherhood of the Rat – the parent criminal organization of Vorone’s Rat Crew – then making headway here, against these vermin, could lead to a far better chance at re-taking Enultramar.

It was a grand, impressive dream, but it was the one upon which the hopes of the court depended.  Which meant that her work as a rat catcher might, in the long run, pay off in ways she couldn’t expect.

If only I had the gift of prophecy, she mused to herself as she continued working on the details of the night’s operation.  Then I could figure out whether I’m wasting my time with this . . . or doing absolutely vital groundwork.

Not for the first time she realized that Court Wizard was not nearly as cushy as she was led to believe.  Nor for the last.

Chapter Fourteen

The Council Of Vorone

Midwinter was the fire and craft goddess Briga’s sacred feast day, the day when shepherds had their sheers blessed in her small temple, the sacred fires from her holy hearth were spread to every household in the city, and special spiced honey cakes were sold in the market at outrageous prices.  The cakes were hot, sticky, and sweet, and were supposed to ensure inspiration and imagination in the coming year.

Briga was not as revered a divinity in the Wilderlands as she was in the Riverlands.  Despite the importance of iron and smithcraft in the region, most of the fire goddess’ local worshippers were involved with the wool trade, instead of Orvatas’ temples.

Sheep husbandry was a far smaller endeavor in the Alshari Wilderlands than it was in Castal.  Most shepherds’ flocks in the remote dales were a few dozen strong, not the scores upon scores of beasts the Castali farmers kept.  Nor was it often traded beyond Vorone.  Wool was important in the Wilderlands, but far more for local use than export.

Briga’s celebration in Vorone coincided with the ewes beginning to give milk in preparation for the lambing that would soon occur in the snowy meadows outside of town.  Shears and other implements were sharpened and blessed in her temples, while candle after candle was lit in her honor in hopes for a prosperous year.  As she was sacred to chandlers, bakers, and smiths, the craft guilds used the day to promote apprentices and establish new endeavors.

Pentandra did not have the association with the Narasi goddess that Minalan did, of course – the Imperial gods leaned away from basic elements and toward the sophisticated areas of human life.  Even though Briga was technically a goddess of magic Pentandra did not celebrate the occasion by doing more than buying a half-dozen honey cakes in the market on her way to the palace in the mornings. They were excellent.

Midwinter was also the day that the last of the Orphan’s Band mercenary infantry marched away south toward their scheduled deployment, leaving only a few hundred of Duke Anguin’s sworn men to hold palace and keep peace in the town.  The prostitutes along the Street of Perfume were not the only ones sad to see the Orphans go.  They had provided stability and security during the restoration and the transition to Anguin’s rule, and there was a sense of expectation and anxiety in the air in their sudden absence.

In the days before the holiday there was little break in the peace apart from the usual tavern brawls and civil disagreements, save for the bloody nocturnal struggle in the margins of the Market ward.

The weather remained warm, teasing the distant spring, and people began to look beyond merely surviving the winter and toward the warm, fertile days ahead.  Thankfully, as the snows melted and the rivers rose, most of the poor in Vorone were too busy taking stock and thanking the gods they had made it halfway through another winter to notice the dour mercenaries were gone.  Those who didn’t buried their dead.

But there were also those in the town who were very carefully watching what happened once the Orphans were gone.  The Rat Crew was certainly paying attention – their criminal activity had virtually ceased in the few days before their withdrawal, particularly in the Market ward.

While that was a blessing for the common folk, it did slow down the Woodsmen’s continuing operations against the syndicate.  It also indicated that the Rats were preparing something nasty.

Pentandra wasn’t fooled by the relative peace, nor was Sir Vemas.  The Crew was plotting something to celebrate the departure, something designed to challenge Duke Anguin’s hold over the city.  Enough rumors were overheard to assure them of that much.

In the days before the holiday Pentandra watched Count Salgo pace the Trophy Room and receive reports from his men before and after meetings, ordering pickets and patrols around the city.  He did not have near enough men, now, to cover everything thoroughly, but he did his best to ensure that where there was trouble, there would be soldiers.  He, too, expected trouble.

The garrison had been uselessly but deliberately patrolling the surrounding territory and avoiding Vorone.  Sir Baskei, the garrison commander, was unwilling to risk his troops in a fight that was not, practically speaking, a matter of kingdom security.  There was quite a bit of anti-Anguin sentiment in the garrison, as most of the men were recruited in Castal or Gilmora, or they had found their lives more fruitful under the corruption of Edmarin.  Either way, Salgo reported that they could not be relied upon to support Anguin’s rule.

The City Guard was more helpful.  Sir Sundail, the newly-appointed captain of the guard, was eager to impress the new Duke.  The proud Wilderlord, returned after years in exile, was determined to demonstrate his loyalty, and scheduled additional patrols to keep the peace.  The guard itself was transformed from how it stood at Yule.  The corrupt and lazy had been purged from its ranks by Sir Sundail and the constable, Sir Vemas, with Count Salgo’s approval.  The few weeks spent patrolling with the Orphan’s Band mercenaries had given them some professional training, but they had yet to be tested on the street.

The Woodsmen heard tales of troubles planned for after the holiday, of course, though the activity seemed to be concentrated on the camps, not the city, proper.  Pentandra had heard the reports from her rough lads for days as the guardsmen made their rounds in the Market ward in disguise and quietly spoke to their informants.  The word from the street was troubling even outside the chaos of the Market ward.  Someone important in the Crew wanted a couple of riots to erupt, it was said, the first to distract, the second to destroy.

It was clear that someone within the Rat Crew was starting to figure out that their recent downturn in fortunes had begun with the arrival of the Duke and his mercenaries; and someone was starting to take steps against it.

One by one they had seen their confederates and informants among the Watch, the palace guard, or the garrison get punished or demoted, and their contacts within the palace all but dried up as the new court took power.  Compared to the days of Jenerard, when a Rat could get an audience with anyone, at need, this was unbearable.  Coupled with the bloody onslaught against them from the mysterious Woodsmen and, the crippling of their most lucrative ward almost overnight, the Rats were starting to feel hard pressed.  A demonstration was apparently needed.

It was inevitable that an argument in one of the northern camps turned heated and came to blows - such scuffles happened several times a day.  Blowing an insult into riotous proportions was likewise no difficult matter.  Three or four thugs, a few pints of raw corn spirits, and a riot was born.

Vorone was no stranger to riots, even in the dead of winter.  As many desperate and near-starving folk as there were in the town it didn’t take much to see a minor disagreement quickly turn into an exercise in mob violence.  The spontaneous sort were bad enough.  Those planned and executed with purpose were even worse.

Late in the afternoon of the day before Briga’s holiday, word arrived at the palace that one such altercation had turned into a brawl that quickly spread to affect the entire camp.

The Rat Crew leapt on the opportunity (if they hadn’t actually caused it) and fanned the flames of discord with long practice and a cynical understanding of the pressures of desperate poverty.  Within an hour there was a full-scale riot underway, people were being hurt and even killed, and calls for troops from the town Watch went out to pacify the encampment.

The palace had precious little in the way of troops to send – dismissing the Watch from their posts was foolish, as experience had demonstrated, as it invited lawlessness inside the walls that the Crew was looking to take advantage of.  While the garrison was ostensibly in Vorone to protect the town, the soldiers therein did not see herding unruly peasants as a legitimate threat to the kingdom and, therefore, not part of their job.  Salgo knew they would stay in the westernmost regions of the river vale, far from the mob.

But he sent what he could to quell the riot.  That was a tense day.  A scant score of knights and men-at-arms was dispatched, the rest held in reserve.

Pentandra was called into the Trophy Room and asked to monitor the situation by magic, which was hard enough that she had to use her new baculus to keep track of all of the spellwork.  It proved far easier with the device, which helpfully initiated spells at her command and compiled the results for her review far more quickly and efficiently than if she had been forced to do each casting herself.

Pentandra scryed the camps and the wards of the town for them and kept Count Salgo and his aids informed.  Her baculus kept track of the movements and brought some things to her attention she might have missed.  It was like having the most helpful servant – but one which understood arcane matters as well as she did.

Pentandra was newly impressed – she rarely put much stock in enchantment, but she had to admit that the paracletic spell Minalan had placed on the rod was an amazing improvement. It magnified the power of her scrying magnificently.

The riot in the northern camps turned out to be a feint – as the Woodsmen had predicted.  No sooner had the small force departed the city gate toward the rioters in the northern camps, two other incidents broke out in the camps to the south of the river, and quickly spread to the docks,

A smaller riot broke out near the busy Temple ward, within the city walls, on the lower end of Temple street.  That was the one Pentandra focused on.  There was nothing of value outside of the walls, but the Temple quarter was filled with people with full purses and votive offerings.  Count Salgo sagely sent his best troops, the two-score personal guard that had once been the Royal Second Commando, to intervene.

“Outstanding intelligence, Pentandra,” Salgo conceded when word had come of the much more dangerous conflict in the Temple quarter.  “Had I deployed my forces entirely to the north, the entire south side would burn.  And the cultural center of Vorone.  I’m going to send three more squads to the docks, another each to the camps, in support.”

“That would be prudent, Warlord,” Pentandra agreed as her baculus informed her of the situation to the south.  “If the docks are shut down more than a day or so, we’ll be hard pressed to keep the market full.”  Over half of the town’s supplies came in from estates upriver, or immediately downriver, where shallow-draughted barges could deliver produce and grain more cheaply than by land.  “And I think that will be a sufficiency . . . the duke’s guests will be arriving by noon, if my spells are correct, and can lend their aid.”

That had been part of Prime Minister Angrial’s plan.  Calling a council of local lords near a feast day was common, and usually meant a small party of emissaries, at best.  But these barons had been invited with their entire guards, and were arriving just as the Orphans were departing and the violence was getting ugly.  Few in town outside the palace paid attention to the announcement of the council a week before.  If the Rat Crew had planned the violence, it had not counted on the duke’s vassals arriving in strength to pacify it.

Salgo’s men managed to contain the riots in the Temple ward until noon with only the usual injuries.  Then Baroness Burshara and Baron Dasion entered the outer precincts of the townlands together with their guards when the call came by messenger from the palace for their aid.  The squadrons of loyalists Salgo dispatched to contain the fighting had been cautioned not to inflame it further, and they had done well enough to keep it from spreading to the smaller camps, but there was little else the men from the palace could do.  They were just too few, and the order they brought was confined to the swing of their swords.

Count Salgo did not have to ask the barons twice.  Rioting peasants are but a step away from rebellious peasants, every lord’s worst nightmare.

Baron Dasion eagerly took command of both households and rode to the aid of his fellow Wilderlords at the nearest camp.  Four score of their men, armored and mounted, waded into the fight at once.  With the sound of horns and warcries, as well as threats of punishment should the rioters not relent, they set upon them with the flats of their swords or used their broad shields to bash the unruly to their knees.  If they got up, they got bashed again until they stayed down.  It was a respectable threat.

The chaos quickly retreated and the riot was quelled, particularly when two men, likely instigators hired by the Crew, were hanged outright by Baroness Burshara in front of all.  By the time the moon rose all of the camps were in order and the barons were once again on their way to the palace, feeling victorious, leaving the field to their marshals.

It was not the grand place they remembered it being, back in Lenguin’s day.  In the midst of winter, the slush and grime clung to the walls, and there were few banners fluttering above the gateway in the cold breeze – save the large banner of the Anchor and Antlers that hovered over the front gate of the palace.

That was the only important heraldry for this gathering.  The rest of the palace probably looked as derelict and decrepit as an old ruin, a shadow of its former glory, Pentandra reflected as she watched the faces of the barons as they assembled for the council at dinner that evening.

Pentandra was included in Duke Anguin’s staff for this event because of her reputation and – so Count Angrial said – because of her diplomatic skills.  While she was certain Arborn would disagree about the latter, she was more than willing to be Anguin’s show-of-arcane-power.  She wasn’t as impressive as a company of mounted knights, she knew, but Pentandra did her best to dress for the part.

By the time she entered the Pinewood Chamber, one of the smaller rooms in the palace designed for such intimate meetings, she was clad head to toe to impress and inspire: a gown of golden Remeran satin brocade and scarlet silk, embroidered with thread-of-gold runes.  She wore a gilt bauble between her breasts and falling to a belt.  Her Remeran-style hairpiece, made of golden chain and tasteful gems, accented her striking black hair.  She carried her silver baculus like a scepter.

Pentandra cut a striking enough figure to earn a double-take from the peers assembled when she was announced.  Baron Dasion, in particular, seemed enchanted by the revealing gown.  But unfortunately the magic in her appearance wasn’t quite enough to siphon away the worry and anxiety each peer displayed as they waited for the Duke.

To her surprise, there were more than the four mundane barons waiting within the chamber when she arrived.  The former Warden of the North had responded to her and Salgo’s persuasion and attended the event, though he had arrived at night and with but a small retinue.  More to her surprise than the somber Count Marcadine was the sight of old friends and colleagues, Astyral, Thinradel, and Azar.  She ignored court protocol and embraced them warmly.

“We were dreadfully bored,” Astyral explained.  “No more sophisticated reason for our presence than that.  We’ve been sitting on the battlements, staring at the snow for weeks, now, without so much as a skirmish, slowly going castle-crazy.  So we thought we’d take a small force south, while the roads were reasonably clear, and look up our new overlord – and our old friend the new Court Wizard.”

“So you’re the one they convinced to nurse this wounded pup back to health?” Azar sighed, shaking his head sadly.  “I was wondering who would be gullible enough to accept the impossible post.  Honestly, Pentandra, I thought you had more sense.”

“I like a challenge,” Pentandra shrugged, casually.  “And it was at Minalan’s suggestion.  Besides, I was getting bored in Castabriel.  Urban sophistication and endless luxury can only entrance a girl for so long.  And I did meet Arborn,” she reminded them.  “Once I got married, it seemed like a change was in order.”  Of course, this wasn’t the change she’d had in mind, she reminded herself, but this was the change the gods had arranged.

“You certainly do have a challenge cut out for you,” Azar agreed, sipping wine and staring at the mundane Wilderlords gathered at the other end of the hall.  “And not one that I envy.  But I suppose it’s nice to know someone at the palace”

Politics, particularly court politics, was hardly of interest to the deadly-looking warmage.  Azar was interested in power, but only in the destructive magic sort.  He made an ideal leader of the Megelini knights.  He loved talking about the war, Pentandra knew.  She decided to exploit that weakness before he could say something politically uncomfortable in front of the skittish barons.

“How are things on the front lines?  We’ve only heard rumors.”

“Quiet,” Azar said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.  That was twice as potent an expression on Azar.  He was not a large man, but he dressed in a style to demonstrate just how deadly a warmage he was: black mantle of rich wool, black leather armor covered with polished studs in the shape of skulls and stars, and tall black boots so massive you almost didn’t notice the extra height built into the heel.  When Azar looked suspicious, he put his whole being into it.  “Too quiet.  We’ve increased our patrols, along with the Iron Band and the Tudrymen, but apart from the occasional skirmish there has been little action.  Escaping slaves and occasional raids, but that’s it.  Ishi’s tits, I’m sure the goblins are as bored as we are.  It’s been almost two years since that damned treaty, and apart from the odd incursion the gurvani have been keeping to themselves.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Pentandra asked in surprise.

“If we thought they were going to settle down and become well-behaved grocers and peasants like the Tal Alon, perhaps,” Astyral observed in his soft Gilmoran drawl.  “Sadly, I don’t see that as likely.”

“The place is a chaotic cauldron of aggression,” Azar said, almost approvingly, “but of late they have turned it upon themselves.  Since their losses at the Poros they seem less eager for a serious fight.  Pity.”

“We have observed their behavior most carefully,” Astyral continued.  “We have built up an understanding – a crude understanding, but an understanding – of their internal politics and divisions, as well as their preparations for future warfare.  Indeed, we have undertaken a few clandestine forays into the Penumbra to learn their disposition on specific undertakings or to check their progress toward developing overmuch.”

“Have you learned anything significant?” she asked, anxiously.

“Sadly, while I can report that they have adopted the trappings of human civilization, in some cases, they have not done so out of admiration as much as efficiency.  Yet the affectatation is not universal,” Astyral observed in an academic tone.  “It’s fascinating, actually.  There are serious cultural and political divisions evolving among them.”

“Really?  Such as?”

“The gurvani nearest Boval are the most fanatical, for instance, but those who have settled in the captured villages and castles in the region have taken up humani culture quite readily.  The tribes in the northern hills, under the noses of our Kasari friends, eschew both the human-acting goblins and the fanatics of the Umbra, living much as they always have.  And then along the periphery of the Penumbra are dozens of settlements and cantonments with much of the remaining military might garrisoning: hobgoblin infantry, fell-hound mounted archers, those great goblins - they call them the Urgurvani - and their great beasts.  Oh, and then there are the renegade human lords who have taken the colors of Sheruel, and those bandit lords who see financial advantage in conspiring with the enemies of humanity.”

“They even chose a king,” Magelord Thinradel said, for the first time.  “That’s what I found most interesting.  When Shereul did not take an active enough interest in the mundane affairs of the conquered lands, and his priests began cocking it up, some of the more important military leaders tried to lead a revolt, of sorts.  We’re still sketchy on the details, but the result was this goblin king.  From what we understand, he’s attempting to establish a human-style aristocracy and monarchy, but he’s facing some stiff resistance.”

“I can empathize entirely with him,” Pentandra sighed, glancing at the barons.  She said it so expressively her friends were compelled to laugh.

“More disturbing, they have not abandoned their ambitions of genocide, they’ve just slowed their pace.  And changed their tactics,” Astyral added.

“To what end?” Pentandra asked, genuinely curious.   Baroness Burshara, a matron in her fifties, invited herself to listen in to the conversation, a silver goblet in hand.

“Yes, Magelord, why are they hesitating when we are in such disarray?” she asked, politely.  “It would seem a perfect time to strike at us.”

The Gilmoran magelord considered thoughtfully.  Like Azar, he dressed to impress.  Unlike Azar, his style was more inclined toward charming sophistication than intimidation.  His garb was an elegant mixture of the simple styles of the Wilderlands and the decadent ostentation of Gilmora - and he wore it well.  A cream-colored mantle lined with sheepskin was thrown back over his shoulders revealing a richly embroidered collar on a snowy-colored surcoat, a few tasteful medallions in silver and gold hanging around his neck.  Underneath were layers of expensive tunics and fine linen under tunics, each well-tailored and fitted.

“I think they are studying us, learning our weaknesses,” he finally pronounced, authoritatively to the noblewoman.  “As many victories as they’ve enjoyed, their defeats have been decisive.  When the battles have been important, they have usually lost to us.  They seek to discover a way to counter that.”

“As if it should take them this long!” Azar fumed.  “We bloodied their noses badly on the frozen lake,” the warmage recalled, fondly, as if he were remembering a young and boisterous lover.  “And that was after their defeat at Cambrian, and the humiliation of Timberwatch.”

“And what do you gentlemen believe they have learned from that?” asked the baroness, with genuine interest.

“They found that overwhelming numbers, even combined with dragons, were no match for well-trained mercenaries, good timing, luck, and skillful magic.”

“A change in tactics was to be expected, Excellency,”  agreed Thinradel.  “And a replenishment in numbers.  Unfortunately, it takes far less time to raise an adult gurvan to fighting maturity than it does a human warrior.”

“It does?” Burshara asked, troubled.

“Oh, yes,” Pentandra agreed.  “The gurvani come to full maturity at around eleven or twelve years old.”

“Sooner, now,” Thinradel informed them.  “That was one of the things I was studying at Megelin.  Not really my field, understand, but neither is warmagic, and I have to admit I was curious.  Somehow the little scrugs have found a way to accelerate the process by a few years.  The specimens we’ve taken from the far northeastern bases - the really dark and horrific parts of the Penumbra - seem fully grown, but they are only nine or ten years.  And then there are the . . . oddities,” he said, screwing up his face.  “Some of them are being bred for specific traits, like longer arms and legs.  Or more muscle mass.  I think they’re trying to force them to maturity so that they can improve the breed as quickly as possible.”

“Trygg’s grace, why would they want to maim themselves like that?” she asked, aghast.

“It’s not like they have a choice,” Azar explained, casually.  “They use breeding camps.  Huge gatherings of fertile females, and even larger numbers of males.  Some are rewarded breeding privileges for valor or cunning, but most are directed in their rutting by the Black Skulls, or worse.  The priests choose, the gurvani merely comply under the threat of the Dead God.”

“I find the ones who are aping humanity the interesting ones,” Astyral countered.  “The king and his furry little court.  They wear our clothes, cut down for their size, and some even employ human slaves as barbers to trim up their bushiness.  That lot is more family-oriented than the others.  More civilized.  I hear some are even literate.  It helps them study us better.”

“But I don’t see the advantage of studying . . . us,” Baroness Burshara repeated, with a slight shudder  “Certainly not enough to stall the momentum of their campaign.  Don’t misunderstand me – I’m grateful to the gods and relieved that they stopped when they did – but after their advance into Gilmora was broken and repelled, something seems amiss that they did not press their gains in the Wilderlands.  Surely it was not the power of that . . . treaty,” she added, skeptically.

“It begins by adopting our ways, Your Excellency,” Astyral explained, congenially, as a servant refilled his wine glass.  “It has become clear to the goblin elite that feudal structure is superior to tribal structure when it comes to fielding a professional army.”

“You simply cannot sustain the enthusiasm or discipline of a tribally-based warrior culture for any length of time,” the charming fellow maintained.  “If you want to combat institutional power, you must establish institutional power.  And to do that you need a professional army, based on a military aristocracy.  At least, that is the theory of the . . . let’s call them the Royalists,” he said, grinning.  That was the unofficial name of the nobles who had supported Rard in his quest for a kingdom.  The comparison was both scandalous and humorous.

“So now we have goblin nobles, now?” Pentandra asked, amused at the idea.  She knew that the “goblin king” had sent an ambassador to Castabriel, but she had been spared associating with him.  She’d seen enough of his kind at Boval.  And Timberwatch.  And Cambrian.  And the Poros.

“For all practical purposes, yes,” agreed Astyral, reluctantly.  “The occupied territories in the Umbra and Penumbra have been parceled out to various tribes, sects, and clans among the hordes.”

“Well, some sort of division was bound to happen,” Azar pointed out.  “They had to rule it somehow.  Sheruel can’t be in every corner of the Penumbra.”

“That’s what is truly fascinating,” continued Astyral, excitedly.  “It is as if they are experimenting.  In some cases they have completely replaced the human population.  In other cases they rule it as simple masters to simple slaves.  In yet others they have assumed sovereign power over the existing feudal structure, becoming the lords of the manor in practice, if not in name.”

“Well, that would give them the basis for a feudal arrangement,” conceded Pentandra.

“Particularly when they are given such good examples,” agreed Astyral.  In places they have forced human lords to swear fealty to them and maintain their estates just as they would for a human liege.  They are, indeed, practicing feudalism, and finding it a better solution to the occupation than merely dominating the land with tribal bands.”

“They find ours are efficient?” Pentandra asked, sarcastically, an eyebrow raised.  “If they were, we would have a much larger army pushing back at them right now.”

“The fact we have one at all is, to them, the amazing thing,” Azar said, shaking his head.  “Compared to the highly situational and highly seasonal warriors the tribal system yields, our military, and the institutions we use to support it, are vastly superior.  But that level of social organization and sophistication has to be learned and developed before it can be exploited.  The Black Skulls are letting many different ways be attempted to see which is the best for carrying the fight into the future.  Everything from dark magic to hobgoblins to horrible mockeries of men in goblin form . . . fell hounds, siege beasts, nightsails—”

“They have been working on things . . . plotting.  Planning.  Scheming.  They are by no means done with their invasion.  On the contrary, they are just preparing for a future war.”

“Might I ask, Magelord, just how reliable you consider this intelligence?” Baroness Burshara asked, trying not to appear too anxious at the news.  She was clearly eager for some answers to her questions about the existential threat to the northwest of her lands.  “And how soon do you anticipate this resumption?”

The three magi from the north looked at each other, and Pentandra was certain that there was some mind-to-mind communication taking place before the master of Tudry spoke.

“We who are closest to the foe make a point to keep up with developments within the Penumbra and in the shadow beyond,” Astyral told her, quietly.  “We’ve built a bit of a kind of spy network there, both magical and mundane.  Scrying, of course, but it goes beyond that.  We get reports from sympathizers, prisoners, and even the goblin lords themselves. The gurvani are planning and preparing for . . . something.  We just don’t know exactly what.  Or when.  Or to what purpose.”

“What about dragons?  And other beasts?” asked Baron Dasion, entering the lively conversation with a full glass of wine.

“Also quiet, Excellency,” assured Astyral.  “At least on this side of the Umbra.  No attacks, and damn few sightings.”

“Maybe they all got the bloody pox!” the baron suggested with a smirk under his bushy mustache.  He was enjoying the novelty of magi, it appeared, and the august nature of the company.  Even a local baron was impressed by the ratty old palace and the Orphan Duke.

“My sources say that they are being well fed on human flesh, the same as the siege worms,” Astyral corrected, gently.  “And they are being trained.  By their performance the first few times we met them, they are certainly in need of the latter.”

Baroness Burshara shuddered.  “I can scarcely imagine how terrifying they would be on the battlefield!”

“Pray hope you never experience it, Excellency,” Azar said in a hoarse but confident voice.  “Our comrade, Horka, for whom—”

“My lords and ladies, noble peers of the realm,” the herald, a middle-aged man with a clear tenor voice and a harsh Wilderlands accent, called from the doorway, “Please rise for His Grace, Anguin II, Duke of Alshar!”

Everyone hurried to stand near their seats at the announcement, and there was a respectful pause as the young duke, wearing a splendid green cloak and a silver coronet-of-maintenance on his brow, made his entrance.

Pentandra was pleased.  He achieved just the right mix of youthful enthusiasm and somber reverence for the occasion, she decided as the young man took his canopied seat near the fireplace.  He appeared neither too arrogant when he entered nor did he lack confidence as he faced his court.  After he acknowledged their respectful attention, he signaled them to be seated.

“My lords and ladies, I bid you welcome to Vorone on this sacred holiday,” he began, smoothly – he must have been practicing, Pentandra decided.  “Your presence is a token of your continued allegiance to the coronet, and to my house.  If there are no objections, I will take your oaths of fealty now, before we get underway with the business of state.”

That caused some troubled expressions on the faces of the southern barons – particularly Baron Dasion.

The man was no fearsome knight, though he wore a knight’s sword and hauberk.  Over his chainmail his surcoat was made of rich gray velvet, trimmed with black rabbit fur, the kind of garment never intended to see the battlefield.  Though he had led his troops in battle against the rioters, Baron Dasion was a baron, first and foremost, not a warrior.

“Your Grace, if I may,” he began, clearing his throat respectfully, his mirthful eyes growing serious.  “I think I speak for my fellow peers when I say welcome back to your old home here in the northlands.  We are gratified to see you hale and hearty after your . . . education in Castal,” he said, the remark eliciting a few wry chuckles.

“But while we rejoice to see you here today, and welcome the stability sure to follow your rule,” the baron said, sounding less than confident in his words, “I think that we all must . . . pause to . . .  ponder just what . . . benefit accrues to us by rendering our fealty.”

“You refuse to acknowledge your lawful lord?” Father Amus frowned.

“Not at all,” Baron Dasion demurred, quickly, brushing nervously at his mustache.  “I would merely like to clarify what our fealty . . . entails.  If you want us to fly your banner, that is one thing.  If you want to call us into service in defense of the realm, we are ready to follow any good leader,” he said, his eyes flicking to Count.  “If you want to fill your coffers with our coin and send it on to Rard, that’s another.”

“That is His Majesty, King Rard,” reminded the Orphan Duke, sharply.  “Regardless of your personal feelings, he is my liege,” he emphasized.  “Nor has he asked you for coin, beyond his rightful tribute.  Which the duchy pays,” he added.

“We have greater need of it here,” Baroness Burshara contended, adamantly.  “We watched Edmarin squander our tribute on hawks, hounds, horses, whores, tournaments and amusements for his cronies while the people starve and the duchy runs to tatters!  Your Grace, it is not that we are reluctant to do our duty, but our duty to our lands, the gods, and our people demand that we undertake the oaths we swear wisely.”

Burshara spoke far more eloquently than Pentandra would have guessed.  Her accent was as pure Wilderlands as any, but softened with a warm burr that was naturally persuasive when she was speaking emphatically.  A good woman to know, Pentandra decided.

Anguin frowned, though Pentandra knew he had been thoroughly prepared for this eventuality by Father Amus and Count Angrial.  The duke sat forward in his chair, leaning toward his vassals and courtiers as he spoke.

“One could argue that the re-establishment of ducal justice has been done, with the execution of Baron Edmarin,” he proposed, pointedly reminding the barons the power he still had over them as his vassals.  “Or that in deploying your men today against the riots at my direction established me as a commander.  But if that is not sufficient honor to compel your fealty . . .”

“Your Grace, with respect, it is not your honor that is at question,” Count Marcadine agreed, rising from his seat to address the court.  “It is your intention.  Surely, my liege, you can guess at what our fears might be.  We seek to know your mind and hear your plans for restoring not just the coronet, but the lands it rules.  If we could hear those spoken plainly and clearly, so that we might contrive policy to fit, we would be much encouraged toward our oaths, I feel.”

“If you are wondering if I will tax you to death, the answer is no,” Anguin said, flatly.  “The duchy is currently poor of coin, it is true, but we do have resources, and we contrive to get more - without going in debt to those in the east, or by ceding one bit to those in the south.

“Further, if you worry that I will squander the treasury as Baron Edmarin did, I assure you gentle lords that my interests are neither in hawks or hounds nor are they in horses and . . . tilting.”  In fact, Pentandra knew, Anguin loathed the sport.  His voice became louder, and more firm . . . deeper, Pentandra noted.  Manlier.

“I came to Vorone not because it is mine by right, but because it is the responsibility of my house under the laws of the gods for me to see it thrive.  With the help of good counsel and loyal retainers,” he said, staring down the older men and women intently, “I have managed in a few short months to escape my . . . education, return here in force, establish myself in the capital, and restore what order I am able . . . without the help of my uncle,” he added.  “Indeed, I do not think His Majesty is yet aware of what I have done.  Nor is it his business that I have done it.  This is an Alshari matter,” he said, firmly, “and I am the Duke of Alshar.”

Pentandra didn’t know if it was Angrial or Amus who’d prepared the lad so well, but she made a mental note to thank one of them.  Anguin’s presence on the throne was more powerful than one would expect of a young man of fifteen.  More powerful, she reflected, than his father had ever been.  There was a deadly seriousness in the lad that he was learning to express, a seething emotion he was just learning to harness.

The speech pleased the barons.  “That is a relief to hear, Your Grace, Marcadine nodded.  “But what of your other policies?  Do you plan on invading the south?  Do you seek war with the gurvani?  What help can we expect from the capital, and what help will be required of it?”

Anguin paused, relaxing somewhat.  These were questions of policy he was well-prepared for.  “No, I have no immediate plans to invade Enultramar,” he sighed.  “I neither seek war with the gurvani, nor do I shirk from it.  And the help you can expect from the duchy will be commensurate with the assistance you provide it in its days of struggle.”

“There is the matter of past tribute owed to the coronet, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, delicately.  “Few of us were enthusiastic about enriching Edmarin.  Yet the totals owed by our estates over the years have grown . . . profound, while our expenses have grown and our fortunes have only suffered.  From what the monks tell me, my lands owe over seven hundred ounces of silver for the last three years . . . yet if you demanded that of me, at the moment . . .” he said, spreading his fingers apologetically.

There were similar nods from the other barons.  This was an important issue.

“The coronet is inclined to be accommodating,” agreed Anguin, coolly.  “As we are to Count Marcadine, who sees a third of his lands taken and under hostile control, yet persists in running his remaining domains in a commendable manner, I am told, in the absence of ducal authority.  Such effort requires silver, if you cannot depend upon the duchy for assistance.  If you spent coin on defenses properly the duchy’s, then it would be unjust for me to demand you pay those costs twice.

“Nor will we demand money payments for our tribute,” he continued.  “I will be willing to consider service or goods, if they be of value, for we need whatever resources we can gather.  But in order for the regular business of the duchy to be restored, the court must have income of some sort.”

“While that is certainly a reasonable position, surely you cannot expect the costs of the duchy to rest on the backs of four or five baronies, Your Grace!” Baron Dasion complained.

“Not at all,” soothed Anguin, with a simple wave, “but I must start somewhere.  You five, and the magelords, are the vassals I have, thus far.  With your fealty you will persuade others, who will then share the expense.  I am not blind to your circumstances.  And I am gratified by your obedience to my summons so early in the year, at such short notice: it indicates the type of loyalty I desire in my vassals.  Indeed, if you will swear to me token oaths, I would seek to discuss the plight of our realm with you as honored counselors and members of my court . . . but I will not extend that courtesy without knowing that you are my true vassals.”

“An oath, once taken, cannot lightly be forsworn,” Count Marcadine said, suspiciously.

“Either I am the duke of this realm and you are my vassals, or I am a pretender and you are in rebellion.  My friends, let us make an end to this quandary.  Swear your fealty to me and let us get on to the business of the realm.  You can always,” he said, a wry smile about his lips, “decide to rebel against me later.  I hear it’s all the rage in some quarters.”

That brought a chuckle from the court that seemed to shatter the tense political situation.

“So we could, Your Grace,” Count Marcadine agreed.  “Very well.  Honor demands I be the first,” he said, stepping forward.

Father Amus wasted no time in presenting the Books of Luin and Duin, reliquaries bearing the Sword of State and the ducal seal, and other sacred objects upon which the barons swore their fealty.  Anguin warmly embraced his vassals after each oath, pledged in return to give fair justice, fierce defense, and succor in troubled times, then after a libation to the gods drank a toast to them individually.  When the ceremony was done, everyone seemed to relax into a congenial mood.

“Now that I’ve at least bought an evening’s worth of your time and attention, my lords and ladies, let us discuss how best that time be spent,” the earnest young duke declared.

“Besides eating, Your Grace,” reminded Father Amus, hungrily.  “This is a sacred feast.”

Anguin agreed, and summoned the servants to serve the fine meal the cooks prepared for the occasion, after Father Amus gave a lengthy blessing.  Then the realm’s business continued the moment the blessing was done, as the ring of tables around the Pinewood Chamber were set and served.

It was not unusual for Alshari and Castali to combine secular and religious affairs thus, Pentandra knew, but in Remere and Merwyn one did not discuss the mundane at a sacred event.  Not that it bothered her - considering how she prayed to Ishi, she didn’t feel particularly judgmental.

Anguin continued to address the peers at the high table as the servants began the meal with the seasonal honey cakes.

“I do not begrudge you your suspicions, gentles, after what Baron Edmarin did to the realm.  It will take years to recover from that, so my ministers inform me.  Nor will I hold you to tributes pledged based on factors long irrelevant.  This is a new reign, a new duke, a new duchy, a new era.”

That was the song they wanted to hear, from the satisfied expressions on their faces.  Anguin continued as the horrid porridge course was served.  Why anyone wanted to break the flow of their meal with a bland bowl of hot cereal was a sign of a barbaric culture, Pentandra felt.

Anguin continued, now that he had their attention.  “No, my friends, we gather here not merely to prop up the last withered scion of a long line, but to re-forge the Alshari Wilderlands anew!” he said, with adolescent enthusiasm.

“Re-forge it how, Your Grace?” asked Baroness Burshara politely as a trencher was laid in front of her and her bowl filled with porridge from a silver bowl.  “The Wilderlands scarcely resembles the realm it was, sadly.”

“Nor will it again,” Anguin conceded.  “I accept that, my lady.  The realm is as it is.  The question is not whether to turn our backs on the north and look south or to rend our hair in despair over what has befallen us . . . but how to put Alshar back together again, one piece at a time.  But in different form,” he stressed.

“How different, Your Grace?” asked Baroness Burshara, cautiously.

“I think we can all agree the old order is smashed.  Therefor a new order must be made, one respecting the realm as it is.  After consultation with my court, I will be making some appointments, some gifts, and some grants, to speed the healing and re-organization.  Some old offices and titles will be done away with, and new ones will be instituted.”

Baron Steldru looked at his fellow peers nervously and spoke. “Your Grace, some of us have fought valiantly to hold the lands we have . . . to remove them—”

“Some boundaries and frontiers will be adjusted,” Anguin promised, “but no one who supported me early in my reign will suffer.  You have my word on that,” he said with commitment.

This was the important part, Pentandra knew.  The bribes.  Count Anguin chose that moment to give them their boons.  “Count Marcadine, for instance.  As your county has been . . . diminished, we will re-draw those boundaries to re-establish it further south.  As you are protecting those lands anyway through your adept administration, you might as well have full title over them.”

“Your Grace!” the nobleman gasped at the unexpected news.  “My thanks!”

“You will be required to administer and provide the tribute for the new region, of course, but those lands will be under your command,” Duke Anguin assured.

“Sir Daranal will be appointed the new Baron of Edmarin’s lands to the west,” he continued.  “The hub of them, at least.  Edmarin took title to far more than he could hold, and too many of the richest estates, to include in his barony.”

“Is that wise, Your Grace?” Baroness Burshara asked, her matronly eyebrows raised under her rich silk wimple.  “While the man was a servant in your father’s court, from what I understand he is under suspicion, in some quarters.”

“Not in mine, Excellency,” Anguin assured her.  “I have questioned and vetted Daranal thoroughly, with the arcane assistance of the Court Wizard.  He has my full confidence.”

“Still, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, looking disturbed.  “Sir Daranal was well-known to be a . . . well, a spy.  And not a very good one – Duchess Enora, Trygg rest her spirit, was slain in her bed under his very nose!”

The Prime Minister, who to this point had remained silent, finally spoke.  “He was, indeed, in service to the court in that capacity,” agreed Count Angrial, quickly, nodding his snow-white head.  “And it is the determination of His Grace that he rendered good service, in good faith, in the face of cataclysmic circumstances.  He is a good man,” Angrial’s voice was not that of a warrior or a knight, but it’s reedy tenor.  Yet it carried the full authority of both reason and sovereignty when he spoke.  “And we are in need of good men as much as we are good coin.  His loyalty is established.  He is a warrior. He is literate.  He is educated.  He is intelligent. He has ability and knowledge of the lands he is to rule: Priomar Caste, its original estates, and the march towers near the Penumbra.”

“Those are good lands,” murmured Baron Dasion, fingering his mustache.  “Horse country!”

“It was once – it shall be again.  Those are good lands.  I prefer them under more dependable administration.  I expect that you gentles will treat him as a peer.  Nor will he and Marcadine be the only ones to gain, under the re-ordering.  Each of you will gain at least a few additional estates, I think, and the more tangible your support, the more richly you will be rewarded.”

“That certainly is an . . . intriguing proposal, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, pleased.   He’d baited the hook, Pentandra saw.  She was curious to see if they would bite.

“But beyond the finances of the reorganization,” Anguin continued, “we must visit the military commitment owed to the duchy.”

“How so, Your Grace?” asked Baroness Burshara asked, suddenly.  “We have an enemy on our border - occupying our lands - and there are bandits and rebels and worse to contend with before I can claim to rule beyond the horizon. Or spare troops for any adventures.”

Duke Anguin looked at her sympathetically, like an older aunt he was appealing to.  “I have no army beyond what you’ve seen, I’m afraid, and I will need to call upon one to keep order and defend the realm.  I cannot depend upon mercenaries, nor do I think you would wish me to.”

“We have sworn out fealty, Your Grace,” Marcadine said, with a deferential nod, as his empty bowl was cleared away.  “You have but call your banners to see our lances in the field.”

“Ordinarily, that’s exactly what I would do at need, summon my vassals to supply the men.  In some cases, that might be sufficient - I pray it is.

“But with only a half-a-dozen barons to depend upon, that is just not going to work if we’re faced with a major offensive again.  I need more men than you can provide.”

“So how do you propose getting them, Your Grace?” Baron Dasion asked, politely.  He seemed pleased at the Duke’s announcements.

“If there are not enough Wilderlords to fulfill my military needs, then the folk of the Wilderlands must be taught to fight,” Anguin pronounced.

“With all respect, Your Grace, you plan on taking uneducated peasants and turning them into fighting men?” asked Count Marcadine, skeptically.  Though many of the Wilderlords lived not much better than their yeomen, the aristocracy had a natural suspicion of civilians in arms.

Minalan had explained it to her, once, when she was irritated by his castellan, Sire Cei.

It was partially due to the nature of the Wilderlords’ preferred method of warfare: heavy cavalry charge, followed by mounted hand-to-hand battle with sword and shield.  With their broad wooden shields and heavy ash lances - complete with eighteen-inch steel tip - when they charged, they knew their business, the Spellmonger told her. Though the region boasted some of the finest archers and rangers he’d ever seen, Minalan had complained, the Wilderlords refused to believe that anyone but they could properly fight.  She was glad to see Anguin was prepared for that argument.

“They have been fighting men since the invasion, and their lives are proof of their competence at arms, even if those arms are a lowly axe or a pitchfork turned to other purpose.  Nobility does not alone possess the essence of valor, Count Marcadine,” Anguin reminded him.  “A little girl can show valor when old men fail.  When the Narasi first came to the Wilderlands from Gilmora and Enultramar, commoner and lord alike were armed.  After the settlement of the Wilderlands, the freemen laid down their arms and relied upon the Wilderlords to protect them.  The time has come for the commoners to take them back up again in our common defense.”

“Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, nervously, as the prerogatives of his class were attacked, “in time, we will be able to--”

“Alshar cannot await a full generation for new knights to be raised, trained, and equipped by the few noble houses remaining in the north.  There are not enough old Wilderlord houses left to provide them in three generations, my lords.  That is not foreign sedition speaking, that is the simple arithmetic.

None of the peers could come up with a convincing argument against that fact.  Pentandra had learned through gossip and the endless stream of meetings she attended that many of the houses that were left were now ruled by infants, or sons too young to have gone off to fight.  Anguin nodded in agreement with his prime minister’s assessment, and continued.

“So we will begin training and preparing the commoners we have – and we have a gracious plenty – to fight.  Nor can I wait for the people to naturally trickle back to their lands.  I will have to compel them.  I cannot do that unless they feel protected, and I can’t protect them unless I have good warriors.  Therefore, I will train good warriors, and see where the rest leads.”

“But will that not undermine the social order, Your Grace?” asked the Baroness, a little scandalized by the idea.

“More than an invasion that wiped out all but a tithe of your ancient houses?” Pentandra pointed out, perhaps a bit more sharply than she intended.  The Baroness regarded her thoughtfully from across the room.

“If we permit commoners to arm themselves, Lady Wizard, what distinguishes them from the nobility?”

“What indeed?” asked Father Amus, spreading his fingers.  “As skill at arms is the essence of nobility, then common men of valor will of course be recognized and, where appropriate, elevated in their station.  If we cannot find enough Wilderlords, then we will make more of them ourselves.”

“I grant that the society of the Wilderlands has been disrupted by the invasion,” conceded the Baroness, “but Your Grace, upending what social order remains . . .”

“Yes,” the cautious Baron Rei agreed.  “We must not allow our society to fade in the face of this . . . disruption!  I’ve been tempted to sell my lands and retire to my estate in Gilmora, where things are still done properly.”  Baron Rei was a Castali-leaning baron, though not as much as Edmarin had been.

“Arming the peasantry is out of the question,” insisted Baron Steldru of Corthomoch.  His fief was one of the ones bordering Castal, and he had more in common with the Riverlords of Gilmora than most Wilderlords.  It was also one of the strongest, offering nearly fifty lances.  But he needed that kind of military.  His barony was the only one she was aware of that had actual villeins, not just free commoners.  An armed peasantry was a danger to his rule as a result.

That did not concern the duke.

“The goblins are adapting,” Duke Anguin said, echoing Astyral’s words.  “They are changing their own society to better meet their needs and the necessities of their struggle against us.  If we are less committed to survival than they, then how likely are we to prevail against them?  If we cannot depend upon the Wilderlords for protection, then as Father Amus said, we will make new ones.  If the present feudal order does not meet the necessities of our time, if the Wilderlands, as it was, cannot survive, then we will make a new one.”

“How that new one is composed will depend largely on you, my lords,” Count Angrial nodded.  “As much as we need the coin you owe in tribute, we need your loyalty, ideas and leadership more desperately.  If we are to re-settle the ragged north, we must do so secure in the southlands.”

“That kind of security can only be bought by wise and careful governance, Your Grace,” Count Marcadine said, boldly.  “It takes time, and trust.  When you speak of upending the social order, how can you expect our endorsement?”

“I am not advocating rule by peasant mob, my lord,” Duke Anguin smiled.  “This is a strategic policy I propose.  You once counseled my father to move to protect the northlands, and we suffered in his delay at taking your advice.  The southern baronies will be far more secure with the northern vales peopled with valiant warriors, not goblins and bandits.  You fear the burden of tribute on your domains – yet that burden will be greatly lessened with more domains contributing to the ducal coffers.”

“More, to help persuade you,” Lawfather Jodas said for the first time, “His Grace has authorized my office to expedite certain legal matters that have been vexing your various estates.”

“And I have been asked to be both lenient and forgiving with the tribute assessments and arrearages due the duchy,” Viscountess Threanas assured them.  That got their attention.  The priest and the prime minister were relatively new to them, but they had suffered Threanas for decades.  If that taciturn old harpy was prepared to be forgiving in any capacity, the barons took note.

“My office will coordinate the training efforts,” Count Salgo assured them.  “Militia training, spear, bow, and staff, at first.  Particularly bow.  Those great Wilderlands bows are worth a lance, when they’re properly trained,” he added, admiringly.

“And I have been directed to lend what magical aid I can,” Pentandra offered, in turn.  She didn’t think her words would spark a response any more than Threanas, Jodas, or Salgo’s, but to her surprise they did.

“Magic!” snorted Baron Rei of Gormuis, on the shores of Lake Criochel to the south.  A place virtually untouched by the invasion and its aftermath.  “We have had quite enough of magic!  It was magic that got us into this mess to begin with!”  That caused a stir among the magelords who were seated off to the left side of the room.

“It was human magic that protected you from gurvani magic, Your Excellency,” Astyral reminded him.  “And continues to, to this hour.”

“And you are, my lord?” the baron asked, his eyebrows arched.

“I do not believe we have enjoyed the pleasure of an introduction,” conceded the charming Gilmoran, with an apologetic bow of his head.  “I am Magelord Astyral, currently deployed in the cause of protecting you from gurvani magic,” the smooth-speaking Gilmoran mage informed the baron.  Then he turned to the Duke, even more deferently.  “Your Grace, I know I have no official standing at this court.  I was appointed military governor of Tudry by Minalan the Spellmonger, a Marshal of Alshar of your father’s making.  While my appointment was affirmed by royal decree, I understand that I am not your man.

“Yet I must take offense at Baron Rei’s assessment of my profession and class!” he said, with quiet determination.  ”Particularly in the face of the great sacrifices the magi have made to defend these lands.”  Azar stood behind his friend, a stark contrast in physical features and dress, but as he reached for a joint of meat from across his place, he shot an evil glare at Dasion.

“My lord, I meant no offense!” Baron Rei said, startled.  “I merely meant . . . that is to say, it seems as if our troubles have magic at their root, is all.”

“I appreciate your apology, Excellency,” Astyral said, graciously, as Azar returned to his seat, never taking his eyes off of him.  “You are not wrong; magic is at the root of our troubles.  But it is also the only thing that may yet preserve us.  I urge you lords to consider embracing we magelords, and aiding us, as we have aided you.”

“And how would you have us do that?” asked Count Marcadine, warily.

“Merely respect our titles, rights and prerogatives as you would any noble,” he shrugged, casually.  “We have no designs on yours, or your lands.  We gladly accept the burdens to which we have applied ourselves, as the risk needed to ensure a successful defense.  What we rule we do out of necessity, not greed.  Treat us with the respect which we have earned.”

“But you are . . . magi,” objected Rei, in a low murmur.  “Spellmongers!”

“I have a knighthood that says otherwise, Excellency,” Azar countered, coolly.  “Would you care to challenge my valor?”

“We are magi,” Pentandra agreed, quickly, to keep Azar on a leash.  “That does not make us commoners.”

Astyral nodded to her, his fingertips together, as he elaborated.  “Not all of us, in any case.  I myself was raised in a noble estate of ancient lineage and rare culture, as were my cousins in the trade.  Lady Pentandra was raised an aristocrat of Remere, and is an academic scholar of some repute.  Magelord Thinradel was raised as the son of a Coastlord.”

“And Magelord Azar?” asked the baroness.

“I am Azar, the Scion of Death,” the grim warmage said, fixing her with his gaze.  “I was born twixt the bloody thighs of Conquest, sired by the loins of Battle, itself!  My midwife was Destruction, my wet nurse, Lamentation!” he said, in the tone he apparently used to impress clients, back when he was an itinerant warmage, Pentandra figured.  She was glad he could still use the line.

“Oh,” the baroness replied, unsure of what to say.  “They must be very proud,” she finally decided.

“We are no less suited to be in your company by honor or profession alone, my lords, than any of the clergy, who may have been born to high or low estate,” Astyral said, quickly.  “And, in candor, my lords, you do yourselves a disservice with your prejudice.”

“How so, my lord?” asked Marcadine, rinsing his hands out in a basin as his meat course was brought.

“There are advantages to being allies of the High Magi.  We are no longer mere sellswords, scholars and spellmongers.  You have an opportunity, here in the Wilderlands.  An opportunity to work with the magi, not against us.  I promise you, you shall profit thereby.”

“I’ve heard many of the wonders the Spellmonger has wrought,” Marcadine said, cautiously.

“Baron Minalan has done remarkable things,” agreed the Duke.  “I, myself, witnessed what his magic could do.  He built a castle – a small one, a mere pele tower and bailey, with a ditch – in days, my lords.  Days.  Given weeks, he could have built a fortress the size of Darkfaller,” he assured them.

“In truth, a vassal of yours, Magelord Carmella of Salis Tower, is largely responsible for the construction of those, Your Grace,” Thinradel informed the lad.

“Oh, yes, a remarkable woman,” agreed the duke, thoughtfully.  “I have her in mind for a possible . . . security upgrade, here in Vorone,” he said, diplomatically.

“You could not choose better, Your Grace,” Pentandra offered.  “And could she not also lend her advice on strengthening the strongholds in the south by magic, against the spells we’ve seen the gurvani use?”

That certainly caused some appreciative nods   The stories of the shamans’ spells in the invasion were horrifying to lords used to being able to repel a foe with a deep ditch and a stout wall.

“I think that would be an admirable use of her two months’ service,” agreed Anguin, seeing the improvement of the barons’ dispositions at the suggestion.  “As for your standing at court,” the young duke continued, thoughtfully, as he held his cup out for more wine, “I have prepared documents recognizing you as the Lord Steward of Tudry, Magelord Astyral, with another six domains surrounding the townlands for yourself – if they’re worth having.”

“You honor me, Your Grace!” Astyral said, nearly oozing humility.  She was tempted to see if he was using a charm or merely relying on his own.

“Lady Carmella is affirmed as the Magelord of Salis Tower and the surrounding domain, and named Marshal of Alshar.  And you, Sir Azar, are affirmed as Baron of Megelin and titled lord of its traditional lands.  The coronet, at least, shall respect your titles, rights, and prerogatives, and hold you as valued advisors to the court.  That, at least, should take care of the matter of your standing at court.”

That provoked a gasp from the court – announcing Sir Daranal’s ascension to the peerage was one thing.  He was a loyal member of the court, and from a minor but prestigious house of Wilderlords.  Raising mere warmagi – foreign-born warmagi at that - to the landed peerage so casually was another matter entirely.  The southern barons whispered among themselves furiously for a moment before Duke Anguin continued, authoritatively.

“As far as the role of magic in the administration of the realm, it is clear that our existence today is largely due to the rise of the Arcane Orders.  I have been shown by no less than Minalan the Spellmonger, himself, just how useful the art can be in governance.  And it is also clear that the future of the duchy will depend upon the wise and prudent use of all of our resources – including magical ones.

“To that end, I will be relying heavily on the Arcane Orders and their powers in particular to help re-settle the northeastern lands, those between the great rivers and the Kulines.  As there are precious few Wilderlords left - and precious few people in general - there should be little local objection, and I do not see how you lords and ladies could possibly object, considering the generous offers your Duke has given you as incentive.

“Any non-magical noble who takes issue with that had better be prepared to offer a better alternative.  The magi will lead the effort to resettle, repopulate, and restore -- nay, to build a far stronger society than the one the goblins smashed. It is through their guidance and with their aid that we will ensure, eventually, see our ambitions toward recovering Enultramar and the rest of our lost lands.

“Isn’t that right, Lady Pentandra?” the young Duke asked, pointedly.

Chapter Fifteen

The Letter From The Queen

“Well, as political alliances go, it’s pretty damn shaky,” Father Jodas said, gloomily, as the inner court congregated to discuss the difficult council and its results in the Game Room at breakfast the next morning.  “It has splinted the wound, at best.  But it should hold until the bones are set.  Marcadine is the key,” the old priest said, more to himself than the others, as he stirred too much honey into his tea.  “The others follow his lead, as the last native Great House left in the Duchy.  Keep Marcadine happy and the others won’t be a problem.”

“He seemed taken with our lad,” Count Salgo observed, loosening the leather baldric of office as he took a seat in a cushioned chair.  “Feudal obligation is oft strengthened by personal admiration.  Thank the gods Anguin did his part!” he sighed in relief.

“It was a qualified success,” countered Count Angrial.  “It proves we can rule more than Vorone, and have some regional support.  That’s significant.  The unexpected arrival of the magelords was quite helpful, too,” he conceded, nodding to Pentandra.  “Astyral in particular is held in high esteem in Vorone.  But more importantly, the news will spread about the agreement.  With the public swearing of their fealty and the payment of tribute, they set a valuable precedent for the smaller lords.”

“It cost us enough,” grunted the Warlord.  “Don’t forget that their support was contingent on a number of factors,” he reminded.  “Marcadine was adamant in our conferences.  We must bring order to the land.  Including re-establishment of ducal services.  And settlement of their lawsuits.”

“I’m already having the agreements drawn up,” agreed Father Amus, reluctantly, overhearing the conversation as he entered the room with the Duke.  The two men slipped easily into their accustomed seats.  “For the sake of the realm, several outstanding legal cases will be settled in the favor of the lords, and each will be gifted title to additional lands.  It does seem a steep price to pay for what should be Anguin’s by right of law, but we must do what we must,” he said, resigned.

“We do get warriors out of it,” Salgo pointed out.  “Some immediately.  A dozen from each barony, to add some backbone to the palace guard and the city watch.  With those we can at least hope to keep ruling in Vorone.  For a while.”

“The money is helpful, too,” Count Angrial nodded.  “Back tribute, enough to run the government for a few weeks, at least.  But more important is the profession of loyalty.  Eventually what we do here will be noted,” he said, starkly.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid it already has been,” Pentandra sighed, withdrawing a roll of parchment delivered to the palace this morning, through the auspices of Astyral.  “As you know, I have been yet to set up the arcane Mirror array, here in Vorone, partially because I don’t have my office yet, and partially to shield us from inspection before we are ready.  The Mirror array at Tudry is functioning, however, and Magelord Astyral has generously accepted many messages of import to be sent to Vorone.  This message came by that route.”  She swallowed. “Astyral handed to me as we were leaving the feast.  It’s . . . from Anguin’s . . . Aunt Grendine.”

Everyone in the room stiffened, as Pentandra expected they would at the news.

“The Queen?” Count Angrial asked, tensely.

“Actually, the message was written not from a sovereign to a vassal, or even the leader of one great house to another,” Pentandra pointed out as she opened the letter.  “It was written informally, an aunt to her beloved nephew.”

“That . . . is odd,” Count Angrial admitted, after consideration.

“What does it say?” asked Count Salgo, anxiously.  He had long experience with the Queen, back when she was just the ambitious Duchess of Castal, and knew her ways better than anyone else at Anguin’s court.

“Lady Pentandra,” asked Anguin in a voice heavy with emotion, “would you do me the favor of reading it?  Aloud, to the court, if you will,” he commanded.  Pentandra broke the Arcane Order’s seal on the scroll and began reading.

“My dearest nephew, it is our hope and prayer that the gods see you well.  We were alarmed and concerned when we learned of your departure from your estates in Gilmora this winter, and were relieved when we heard that you were merely visiting your estates in Alshar.”

“So she doesn’t know that we’ve taken power, here?” asked Father Amus, frowning.

“Of course she does!” chuckled Count Salgo.  “Nothing escapes Grendine’s observations.  She is quite aware of what he has done.  She’s just trying to give the lad a means to back out of it.”  Anguin did not look pleased.

“There’s more,” Pentandra said, shaking the parchment.  “‘We have heard some disturbing rumors that some might advise you to pursue ambitions best left to your betters; we encourage you to, instead, enjoy the recreations and amusements available to you, and to consider yourself ever our guest in Castal.’ “

“’Guest’!” snorted Father Amus.  “More like ‘hostage’!”

“Speaking of which, Pentandra said, shaking her head, “It continues: ‘Recall, if you would, that your family has only your best interests in mind, and that we have always looked out for you.  Your sisters continue to thrive under our care, and your uncle and I encourage you to keep them in your thoughts and prayers.’”

“A thinly-disguised threat,” huffed Father Amus.  “If anything should befall the Duke’s sisters . . .”

“Well, that is the point of taking a hostage, isn’t it?” Salgo observed.  “Of course she’s going to threaten them, in so many words.  Because she can.”

“We shall deal with the matter of my sisters soon enough,” Anguin said, through clenched jaw, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “As soon as I have Alshar secure, I will send for them.”

“Your aunt may be loath to part from their company, Your Grace,” Count Angrial reminded him.  “Mentioning your ‘family’ was not an accident.”  It was well-known among the inner circle of the court that Queen Grendine’s intelligence and assassination service referred to themselves in code as the “Family”.

“Then perhaps I will send an army for them,” Anguin countered, boastfully.

“That would be more effective a threat if Your Grace commanded an army,” reminded Count Salgo.

“Which is why I will deal with my sisters soon, and not at the moment,” Anguin agreed, evenly.  “What else does the old bat say, Lady Pentandra?”

“‘We can certainly understand if you are feeling homesick or want to exercise your prerogatives on your lands,’” Pentandra continued reading, “‘but we feel obligated to remind you that despite the recent treaty with the casadalain, many of your lands remain treacherous.  Be cautious in your travels lest the unfortunate or tragic befall you, my dearest nephew.’”

“Another threat,” nodded Count Salgo.  “She’s really eschewing subtlety here this time, isn’t she?”

“She’s worried,” Pentandra guessed.  “She’s more than worried, she’s uninformed.  You worked with her long enough, Salgo – how does Queen Grendine usually contend with being uninformed?”

“As a personal insult,” agreed the old Warlord.  “I’ve never seen a woman so obsessed with knowing everything about everything.  Which is one reason she’s put together such a robust intelligence network.  It would be nice if we had at least an anemic one,” he added, reflecting a common complaint of the court.

“And now she’s heard – heard, not seen – that Anguin has left Gilmora and taken Vorone,” Pentandra reported.  “She likely also knows in whose company he is and what his immediate objective is.   That should be clear enough to anyone.  What she doesn’t know is the disposition of His Grace in relation to the crown.  If you rise in rebellion, she’ll be forced to take action.  Sorry, she’ll be forced to force her husband to take action.  If you aren’t . . . then she’s wondering what your long-term objective is.”

“Well, let us at least satisfy her curiosity to that,” the young duke frowned.  “I don’t think I could afford to rebel.  Can I?”

“Not at our current budget, Your Grace,” Father Amus said, dryly.  “I suppose we could see if Viscountess Threanas could move some things around . . .”

“Then we will be a most loyal and deferent vassal,” sighed Anguin, slumping in his chair.  “For now.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough,” Pentandra warned.  “Allow me to finish the letter, Your Grace, perhaps it will provide a more complete picture.”  The other lords nodded, after Anguin, and she continued.

“‘Nephew, I do not have to tell you what dangers and pitfalls await our family in the future.  Rebellion scars the realm in the south, invasion blights it in the north, and sedition and treason lurk around every corner.  Every open hand may conceal a dagger, every drink offered to toast your health could conceal poison.  I urge you to take the utmost caution against such perils, and be especially mindful of well-meaning but destructive advice from those who pretend to know your best interests.’”

“That would be me,” Count Salgo said, proudly.  That earned a grin from Father Amus.

“That would be us all,” Pentandra agreed.  “Oh, look!  She mentions me . . . kind of.   ‘In particular, beware the persuasive voices of the magi.  They have an unhealthy interest in your lands, and seek to control all things.  Though they promise wonders and power, I fear that they will not be content until they, themselves, rule once again.’  I apologize, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, looking up over the parchment at the young man.  “I have been remiss in promising you wonders and power.”

“We shall discuss it at our next meeting,” promised the boy, amused despite the tense situation.  “Continue.”

“‘The magi feel they have suffered long under the Censorate and bear little good will toward the nobility.  Master Minalan, himself, though a reasonable fellow, has persisted in complicating the policies of the kingdom and of Castal.  The magi he surrounds himself with are ambitious and hungry to restore their lost power – beware their beguiling voices and their vague promises.   Similarly,” she continued, smiling despite herself – Grendine made her sound so sinister! – “beware of the counsels of those who found themselves divorced from power by your parents’ untimely deaths.   While there are many good and noble houses in Alshar, there are also those who whisper revolt and plot against the kingdom, itself – an institution you have publicly supported.’”

“More begging for validation,” smirked Count Angrial.

“‘Lastly, should your stay in Alshar become extended, you should know that I have instructed your fair cousin, Princess Rardine, to visit you in your lands later this year.  She is due to tour Farise this summer and has made mention of visiting the Alshari Wilderlands afterward.  Likely you will be already returned to your Castali lands, by then, but if fortune should see you linger, please extend to her all the hospitality due family.  I know she will be fascinated to become re-acquainted with you and your efforts.’”

“Oh, dear gods!” swore Count Salgo.  “She’s sending the royal brat here?”

Princess Rardine was not widely loved by the former members of her court, Pentandra knew.  If Queen Grendine’s reputation as a tyrant was well-deserved, ‘the brat’ – Princess Rardine – had one she’d earned just as honestly.

“Only if I don’t return to live under her thumb,” Anguin said, grimly.  “If my stupid cousin shows up, you can wager that it will be with the sole purpose in subverting my rule.  And making my life miserable.  At which she excels,” he added, bitterly.

“Oh, I think it goes beyond mere subversion, Your Grace,” Count Angrial speculated.  “You may not be aware, but your pretty young cousin is not only the Princess, she’s also one of your aunt’s most trusted lieutenants in the Castali intelligence service.”

“She is?” asked Anguin, surprised and troubled.  “She’s only a year older than I am!”

“She was at Timberwatch when your father died, Your Grace,” Pentandra dutifully reported.  She was afraid of upsetting the boy ruler too much, but he deserved to know.  “I know not for certain what role she played there, but I know that she was present.”

“She’s a talented assassin,” Count Salgo told them, flatly.  “She’s killed, and ordered killings, since before she flowered.  She’s smart.  Perhaps even smarter than her mother – and certainly smarter than her idiot brother.”

“I was under the impression that she had lost stature in the royal court after her brother married and the new princess proved fertile,” Pentandra said, based on something Minalan had mentioned.

“That is true,” conceded Count Salgo, fingering his mustache thoughtfully, “but Rardine is not one to be content to lurk in the shadows.  From what I understand, the Royal Family is desperately trying to marry her off, and is finding that more difficult than they had considered.”

“Really?” snorted Anguin.  “Have they not met my dear cousin?”

“Finding her an appropriate match is not a terribly high priority for the regime,” conceded the Prime Minister.  “Not with her brother so well-entrenched as heir.  Queen Grendine has no problem using Rardine as a troubleshooter.  And a potential defection or rebellion by her darling nephew counts as trouble, in her mind.”

“If Rardine thinks that the kingdom would be better off with one less Duke of Alshar,” Salgo warned, “she will try to take steps.”

“Then we shall protect His Grace.”  Pentandra didn’t even realize the words were coming out of her mouth as she said them.  “We shall not allow the duchy to fail.  She continues,” she said, returning to the letter that had been painstakingly dictated through the agency of the Mirror array.  “‘Your cousin, Tavard, is particularly concerned that you have left his hospitality, as he had hoped to cross lances with you during this summer’s tournament season in Castal.  He—”

“I just bet he does!” said the young duke with a snarl.  “He practically lives in the saddle, and I hate jousting!  She knows that!  He just wants to put my face in the dirt in front of the entire kingdom.  I’m not keen to play the role of his conquered victim!”

“’He remains concerned over the state of your health and your future plans, and begs me to ask if you would consent to attend the tournament we plan in Castabriel in late summer.  Your appearance would be a comfort to us all.’ “

“And tangible support for her regime,” grunted Salgo.  “And the Heir.”

“’And of course your dear uncle worries incessantly about you, far more as a father does to a son than over even a beloved nephew.  I encourage you to write him soon to assure him of your good health and spirits.  Too long without word, when you are in the wilderness, spawns concerns like rabbits in spring.  Your family wishes only to ensure your continued health and happiness.  Please take the utmost care of your health in such dangerous lands.  The gods watch over and protect you, blah blah blah, your loving aunt Grendine.’”

“I’m considering the merits of vomiting,” Count Salgo said, snidely.  He and the queen were frequently at odds, at the royal court.  “That woman has never cared about Anguin’s well-being beyond its personal utility to her since he was born!”

“If you will consider my interpretation,” Pentandra offered, “she’s simply fishing for intelligence.  You caught her off-guard, and she’s using an appeal – through familial, not official channels – to your sense of duty and responsibility . . . to her and the kingdom, not to your realm.  And yes, she’s threatening: you and your sisters.  But she’s doing so in such a subtle way that it would impossible to take affront at it.  Likewise, for the arrival of the Princess and the interest the Prince has in beating you on the field of combat.”

“But is she sending assassins?” asked the lad, worriedly.

“Probably,” conceded Count Salgo, pragmatically.  “But that doesn’t mean she will order them to act.  She will likely just move them into place.  I doubt she’d have you killed until she had threatened your sisters unsuccessfully a couple of times, first.  She might be ruthless, but Grendine is practical.”

“That’s . . . comforting . . .?” Duke Anguin said, unconvincingly.

“My liege, assassination is a danger every great lord faces,” instructed Father Amus.  “You of all people should realize that.  But if your dear aunt intended to kill you out of hand, she would not bother warning you first.  She is merely reminding those who know her that she will not tolerate rebellion.”

“I do think you should find a moment to compose a letter to her, though, Sire,” Count Angrial advised, after a moment’s silent contemplation.  “Something to assure her, get her to keep her claws sheathed for the moment.”

“We could lie and mention he’s become a drunken wastrel,” offered Count Salgo.  “That has ample precedent.”

“In one so young, that would be difficult to portray convincingly,” Father Amus replied, almost sadly.  “Perhaps it might be believable if he’d done more of that sort of thing in Gilmora last summer . . .”

“So what are we going to tell her?” Salgo demanded, his nostrils flaring in irritation.  “That we’re struggling to keep the rats out of the cellar, goblins out of the henhouse, and bread on the table?”

“Actually,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing, “yes, that is precisely what we should tell her, Your Grace.”

“We should?” asked Anguin, doubtfully.

“Your Grace,” she began, carefully, “Queen Grendine fears your disloyalty.  She fears that you came back here to raise an army of Wilderlords and the banner of rebellion, perhaps throwing in with the Southern counts, and despoil the legitimacy of her crown.  If you can assure her that, instead, you are struggling to establish the most basic services and institutions of a state with the barest of resources, she’ll feel that you are, indeed, too preoccupied with such an enterprise to risk rebellion.”

“Hells, why not ask her for money, too?” suggested Father Amus.  “Isn’t that what desperately poor relations usually do?  It’s hard to be considered rebellious when you have your hand out.”

“Which has the added virtue of being damn close to the truth,” Salgo conceded.  “That idea has merit.  And we can address the issue of this useless garrison, too.  I suppose if we’re asking her for money, cap in hand, and trying to disband the tiny army we have, we can’t very well be hiring armies secretly behind her back.”

“Particularly if our young duke also begs her advice in statecraft, being a novice at the art,” Pentandra continued.  “If Your Grace can condescend to be placed in such a position,” she added, looking toward the young sovereign.

“I would rather beg my aunt for advice I don’t need than be my cousin’s tilting pell,” conceded Anguin, distastefully.  “Do you really think that would keep her from sending her assassins to my court?”

“No, Your Grace, but it may convince her to keep from using them,” suggested Count Angrial, calmly.  “Not the most ideal of situations, but better than fending them off.  I shall compose a draft of your response this evening for your review, Your Grace,” he assured the duke, making a note on his slate.  “It was inevitable that the Royal Court would pay attention to our efforts, once they were made public.  Our best defense against their continued attention is our harmlessness to their aims.”

“But she also warned us of Rardine’s visit,” reminded Pentandra.  “That’s helpful, at least.  We can prepare for that.”

“I would be happy to entertain my cousin,” Anguin said with formal dignity.  “Preferably with a bundle of thorny switches and a bucket of rocky mud.”

“Perhaps a simple tournament would be more politic, my liege?” Father Amus asked, reprovingly.

“I yield to the superior judgment and wisdom of my ministers,” Anguin yawned.  “But you may well regret that judgment after she arrives, Father!”

After the maddeningly mundane world of politics and diplomacy, Pentandra found herself eager to hear about the work of Sir Vemas and the Woodsman the night before.  The news was good . . . if bloody.

There were seven more Rats dead this morning, as the Woodsmen tracked and slew all who dared the streets.  The thugs fought hard and well, but they were no match for masked warriors whose costumes had been enchanted to allow them to see in the darkness.  The Woodsmen even attacked a tavern frequented by Bloodfinger’s crew, near the docks, and savagely beat the two Rats they found there.

The aborted Briga’s Day riots and the steady attrition of Opilio’s crew the night before to the vicious swords of the Woodsman put the Knife in a defensive posture, Vemas reported.  Now that they had seeded the idea in Bloodfinger’s mind that Opilio was desperate enough to try to unseat his biggest rival no matter the cost, she looked forward to how relations between the two crews of the gang developed.

Matters were helped by the compulsion spell Pentandra had laid upon Bloodfinger before he was released to the wild.  It focused his attention on threats, potential threats, and possible threats, and drove his paranoia to unhealthy levels.  While she was not adept at Blue Magic, such an elementary thing as invoking Bloodfinger’s psychological threat response at every opportunity was not difficult.  By the time Pentandra’s charm took hold, Bloodfinger’s subconscious was convinced that not even Master Luthar could be trusted.  The spell emphasized the potential for betrayal from those he trusted the most.  Every Rat around him was a potential foe.

It didn’t take particularly long for the effect of the spell had an effect on the Docks crew and their leadership.  Three bodies of Opilio’s men, newly hired to replace their predecessors, were also discovered tied together and tortured in a warehouse in Bloodfinger’s territory that morning.

Their plan was working, as bloody as it was.  The Rats were turning on each other, not lashing out at the population at large.

Pentandra wondered whether or not she had neatly handled a matter of national security with her spellwork . . . or released a violent psychopath on the town she was trying to protect.  At any time either Bloodfinger or the Knife could turn their anger and frustration on their clients and the common folk instead of each other.  On the one hand, a town with fewer Rats in it was the goal.  On the other, she didn’t want to wake up to more corpses in her cellar if she could help it.

But this was the commission her duke had given her, and this was what she was going to accomplish.

Some days, life as a Court Wizard just wasn’t as cushy as she was led to believe.  Perhaps once she opened her office, she could stop killing people.

Chapter Sixteen

The Office Of The Court Wizard

Today was professionally important to Pentandra.  Now that the Orphans had departed, their quarters could be used to house the many adherents to the Duke’s cause . . . like the households who had been using the office of the Court Wizard as a residence for the last few weeks. The transition had been anticipated; the gentlemen of the court had been relocated as swiftly as possible by the castellans of the palace, and the offices they lived in were being hurriedly cleaned in preparation for returning them to order

After her breakfast meeting with the council, she made her way downstairs to the east wing.  Her feet didn’t seem to want to walk.  Today was when Pentandra would have to start acting like a real Court Wizard for the first time, and she discovered that she was dreading it.

Chasing criminals through the misty streets and using her powers to master the intrigues of court were minor concerns, compared to the task of organizing and administering to the magi of northern Alshar.

Magelord Thinradel was full of advice, as he lingered after the holiday, and was always available mind-to-mind, when emergencies arose.  The former Court Wizard was only too happy to consult – but the responsibility for overseeing the important office was hers, alone.

Nor was it the same office as it was in Thinradel’s day.  He had served under the last of the Censors of Magic, who handled much of the enforcement of the Bans.  Now that the Bans had been overturned and the Censorate exiled, all of that fell to her.

And that wasn’t all.  Thinradel had not had to supervise the installation and operation of the Mirror Array that allowed news and communications between the far-flung corners of the Kingdom.  Vorone had little need or desire of the service, before the Restoration, but now keeping tabs on the rest of the world was vital . . . as was the ability to send messages on behalf of His Grace.  Pentandra was responsible for hiring and running the operation, as Court Wizard.

Then there was the need to select special officers and officials.  The Arcane Orders had allowed for a magical official, to be known as the Spellwarden, a kind of arcane reeve, to monitor the magic in a given district.  As Vorone was a ducal city, that task fell to her, and she had to find someone to delegate it to, quickly.  Clandestine magic was not yet a problem in Vorone, but with the number of itinerant wizards in the region, it was only a matter of time.  That was on top of the officials she needed to hire to run the Examinations department and the Enforcement division.

All told the Court Wizard’s office usually had a staff of ten to twelve, Thinradel informed her, to be paid out of her assigned annual budget.

Which had yet to be approved or disbursed by Viscountess Threanas and Sister Saltia.

Yet the business went on regardless of whether or not there were officials hired to conduct it.  Despite the chaotic nature of the Alshari Wilderlands at the moment there were still scores of letters and scrolls in her office concerning urgent matters of the arcane.  There were still apprentices who needed their examinations run, complaints against magi to investigate, and a thousand other minor details to attend to.  Just because there was no functional government in Alshar at the moment did not mean there wasn’t a need for a functional government.  And a functional Court Wizard.

So when she showed up that morning to inspect her recently-vacated office, she wasn’t anticipating the small crowd of people who had also gathered for the occasion . . . people who thought they had business with her.

There were seven of them, all mingling outside the small suite of chambers in the lower half of the palace.  Not counting the assistant castellan who was – apparently – assigned to her office.

His name proved to be Bircei, a slight man with narrow shoulders, not much taller than Pentandra, a native Wilderlands fellow who seemed terribly eager to help.  He produced the key to the suite, a big brass thing with the wand-and-star badge of the Ducal Court Wizard’s office on the end, and placed it in her hand with some ceremony.

“The upper chambers – your personal chambers – are still due to be properly cleaned, my lady,” the soft-spoken young man assured her confidently.  “That should be attended to tonight, after normal hours, when I can get a team of drudges dedicated to the task.  You should be able to pick out furniture and fittings tomorrow.  We have a considerable store at the moment – Baron Edmarin may have had his faults, but he purchased many household goods from fleeing Wilderlords at great bargains and had them stored in the palace stockpile.”

“I look forward to seeing the possibilities,” Pentandra said, evenly as she cradled the key in her hand and stared at the front of the Ducal Court Wizard’s offices.  On the one hand she was looking forward to more spacious, less-crowded quarters.  As homey as Min’s hall was, the traffic from the Woodsmen and Kasari at all hours made it far from perfect as either a lover’s abode or a wizard’s lab.  Pentandra was looking forward to having both, now . . . once Arborn returned.

On the other hand, she’d heard Thinradel moaning about the unsuitable state of the place since she took the job, and she did not relish moving.  But it made sense to be closer to the court and the center of power, living here.  As much as she usually enjoyed the twenty-minute walk through the city every morning, the prospect of merely going downstairs and being at work had an appeal.

She was also looking forward to having an actual office, and not working from her bedchamber.  Not that the requirements of her position had been arduous, thus far, but there was parchment involved in even a nominal position at court; for a senior position, there seemed no end of it.  She often wondered how illiterate members of court handled their duties.

They have highly literate professionals to support them, she replied to herself.  And you do not.

She realized that the small crowd of people in front of her door were staring at her.

“Who . . . who are these people?” she asked the young castellan, in a voice just above a whisper.  “Do you have any idea?”

“Actually, my lady, I do,” Bircei nodded.  “Most of them were here yesterday, or the day before, or even longer.”

“What do they want?” she asked, mystified.

“Jobs, mostly,” Bircei answered.  “Some have problems that they feel need to be brought to the attention of the Court Wizard, but most are magi seeking employment.  Indeed, some have already been in the employ of the office and seek to resume their duties – subject to your approval, of course.”

“Some of these people know how to run this office?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, certainly, my lady,” Bircei agreed.  “In particular, Master Dirmar, there, was one of Master Thinradel’s aids, I believe – that was before my time here,” he added, apologetically.  “Similarly, Mistress Sastine was in charge of the office’s records.  Both continued working right up to the . . . unfortunate events,” he said, using the phrase the palace servants had chosen to refer to the previous regime’s assassination.  “Baron Edmarin unofficially closed down their office about six months after he was appointed, here.  He said it was a waste of the Duchy’s livery and resources in a time of war.”  The irony of a man totally unsuited for making that judgment closing her office was powerful.

“So what have they been doing since then?” she asked, curious.

“Oh, you would have to ask them, my lady . . . but I assume they’ve been doing what every other Voroni has been doing for the last few years.  Awaiting better times.”

“Is there . . . someplace private I could interview them?” she asked, unsure of how the suite was laid out.

“Oh, of course – this is just the reception area!  Let me give you a brief tour, which we will conclude in your private office,” Bircei said, pleasantly.

It didn’t take long.  The lower level of the suite was a series of small chambers connecting to the reception room, one for examinations, one for records, one for the use of the Censorate, and one for general purposes.  Two small storerooms, locked with both key and simple spellbindings Pentandra had placed on the very first night in the palace, had been undisturbed since the last Court Wizard left, he explained.

“From what I understand they merely hold the ceremonial regalia, some small gifts, a few supplies, and some old records,” Bircei told her as they ended the tour in her private office.  Thinradel left a small library and a basic workbench, but little else of use.  The empty chamber echoed with their voices as Bircei prepared a fire in the fireplace.  “As your castellan, I can supply your office with whatever you need in terms of furnishings and common supplies.  Just prepare me a list,” he said, as he withdrew a flint and steel striker from a pouch.

“You can read?” Pentandra asked as she manifested her silver baculus from her ring.  “Allow me,” she added, sending a powerful burst of heat into the fireplace with a mere thought.  The paraclete in the baculus helpfully made her wishes reality, and the logs and kindling obligingly ignited.

“Thank you, my lady,” Bircei said, clearly impressed by the simple show of magic.  “Aye, I can read.  I spent three years at the monastery at Mostel, in the north, and learned the art there before the war.  I nearly took holy orders, too,” he added, with a wistful tone in his voice.

“Why didn’t you?  Did you feel a burning desire to fetch other people’s sheets and towels?” she joked.

“I had a burning desire, indeed, my lady – but her name was Brindine.  A village girl.  The allure of flesh was greater than the allure of scholarly study.  Much to the dismay of the monks, I chose a woman.  Fetching other people’s sheets and towels is not so bad,” he considered.

“So how did things work out with Brindine?  Did the allure of the flesh bear fruit?”

“Oh, we’ve been wed four years, now,” Bircei reported, matter-of-factly.  “Two children.  Never regretted giving up the books . . . much.  And there’s a lot more flesh now,” he added, with a look of resignation.

“But enough about me, my lady.  I am the castellan assigned to your office,” he repeated, as he led her to the reception table.  “Every office in the working wing of the palace is assigned a castellan to see to its needs and oversee its housekeeping.  The Office of the Court Wizard,” he said, taking a scroll out of his sleeve and referring to it, “is allotted funds for two drudges, which I will hire, if my lady has no preference, to clean and maintain the premises.

“In addition, there are funds for four to five senior officers, currently, to conduct the business of the office.  You are also allotted funds for one primary assistant and one deputy.  If you find these resources inadequate, you may appeal your allotment to the Office of the Treasury.  I believe you know the ladies in question,” he added, diplomatically.

“I do,” Pentandra agreed.  “So what do these funds entail?  If I am to hire these people, what am I allowed to pay them?”

“For the officers, the customary wage is a half-ounce of silver a week, plus livery and maintenance.” Livery was the right to eat meals at the palace, a coveted perquisite.  Maintenance traditionally included a room or room allowance, coin enough for a suit of clothing each year, and use of the palace’s facilities.  It also included, Bircei explained, legal protection for the employees of the office.  Under feudal law her employees were essentially un-landed vassals, and their employ by the Court Wizard put them under her auspices as part of the Ducal household.  And her protection.

“For the assistant, a half-ounce and sixpence, and for your deputy a full two ounces of silver, livery and maintenance.  Of course my lady is free to dictate a slightly higher or lower wage, within reason,” Bircei continued.  “Any remainder left in the office’s coffers is, of course, left to the discretion of the Court Wizard.”

“So whatever I don’t spend on staff, I get to keep?” she asked, surprised.

“That is the custom,” Bircei affirmed.  “You, yourself, are paid a stipend of an ounce of gold a week, as a minister.  But you have discretionary power over your entire budget.  Should you decide you need it,” he stressed.

It dawned on Pentandra that the practice explained why the offices of the Ducal court wizards, across the duchies, were so notoriously inefficient and understaffed.  The Court Wizards were cheese-paring bastards who were lining their own pockets.

The money didn’t bother Pentandra, much – she had a fair-sized personal treasury, accounts at goldsmiths and moneylenders in Remere, bequests from dead relatives and access to family funds, at need.  She had been fortunate enough to go through life without having to be concerned for her expenses.

That didn’t make her a wastrel – while she enjoyed shopping, she didn’t feel the need to be extravagant, the way her mother and sister were.  But she also felt no need to profit from her office beyond her token payment.  Power, not riches, were what motivated Pentandra.

The office was freshly-cleaned, but that merely revealed the decay underneath. The spellbindings on the doors to the vault and the records chamber were still intact.  The fireproofings and vermin repelling spells were in place.  But the place epitomized shabbiness.

It seemed even worse when Pentandra conjured a magelight to hover over the table in the center of the room, illuminating the farthest corner far better than the light from the windows. The polished planks were scrubbed, but scuffed and tattered.  The plaster on the walls was brushed, but cracking and crumbling in places.  The furnishings were well-built but ancient.

The central office was decorated with faded tapestries featuring great Court Wizards in Alshari history, as well as the banner of the office: a yellow hand bearing a wand with a mage’s green five-pointed star in the palm.  All of the palace officers’ badges were yellow hands, save a few specialized officials.  That was her new heraldry, she realized.

Bircei showed her the small rooms set aside for her secretary, her assistant, and the former Censorate representative – a post that was, thankfully, forever vacant.  She was solely in charge of regulating the magical affairs for the Duchy now.  That was both liberating and terrifying.  Sitting back at the Order’s headquarters in Castabriel and issuing regulations was one thing – now she was in charge of implementing them.  And enforcing them.

“And my quarters?”

“Upstairs,” admitted Bircei, reluctantly.  “But they are not done being cleaned.”

“I would like to see them anyway,” Pentandra insisted.  “I need to arrange for furnishings and such.”

“Of course, my lady – you even have a small allowance for that. Follow me.”

The personal quarters were both more and less than Pentandra had hoped, and they were still, indeed, in need of a thorough cleaning.  The room at the head of the stairs was a kind of sitting room, with two small tables and some benches near the elaborately carved, soot-stained fireplace.  The room had a homey feel, in a ragged sort of way, and the timber floors were scraped and scarred from much use.  The tapestries were threadbare, and there were banners and trophies she didn’t recognized hanging from the horns of an ancient and moth-eaten stag’s head. The room was musty with smoke and mildew.

Beyond the other door in the room was the buttery, as well as a small locker for foodstuffs.  A common guarderobe stood to one side, and a large wardrobe stood to the other.  Three small rooms, no bigger than monk’s cells, lay beyond.

“You have three rooming spaces, here,” Bircei explained.  “An excellent perquisite for those who find rents in town prohibitive.  But you are also permitted two rental allowances, should your staff already have accommodations.  Your office has an account with the Lord of the Halls’ Master of Provision, at the palace storehouse.  You are entitled to four bottles of wine a week, six loaves of bread or equivalent, a quarter bushel of fruit, and three pounds of meat or sausage.  That’s in addition to livery,” he reminded her.

“And my chamber?” she asked, looking at the state of the buttery and hoping the drudges were thorough.

“Here, my lady,” he said, opening a slightly grander door.

It was . . . disappointing.

It was grand enough, for a rustic palace court official, she supposed – or at least it had been when it was built.  And before the lifting of the Bans that expanded the role of magic in the land.

“Remember, my lady, that these were intended as temporary summer quarters,” Bircei said, sympathetically, as he watched Pentandra’s reaction.  “The, uh, official residence of the Alshari Court Wizard is the Tower Arcane, an urban estate in Enultramar.  I hear it’s quite grand. One of the famous sights of the capital,” he said.  He didn’t mention it was also controlled by rebels and forever denied her.  He didn’t need to.  For good or ill, the duchy she was responsible for was confined to the Wilderlands.

The bed was decent enough.  Wide enough for four, with tree-like pillars that held the canopy overhead.   But the wool tick needed to be replaced, desperately, and the linens . . . she didn’t want to think about the linens.  They hadn’t been changed since before the room was occupied by a rowdy band of knights for two months.  They needed to be burned A few old chests and presses lined the walls, open and empty.

But it was small – half the size of the draughty chamber she lived in now.  There was a small door that led out to one of the ubiquitous balconies designed into the palace – another Southern touch, and influenced by Remeran architecture – which afforded her a little more usable space, but it was still . . . tiny.

“I’m going to need more space,” she blurted out, despite herself.

“My lady, there just isn’t—”

“I know, I know,” she sighed.

“This was never designed to—”

“I know!” Pentandra burst out.  “We will just have to make do.  For now.  But this is . . . inadequate for long-term use of this office, Bircei.”

“I understand, my lady.  You are not the first to suggest that.  Master Thinradel – magelord Thinradel,” he corrected, fastidiously, “was particularly upset about it.”

“I will discuss the matter with His Grace,” Pentandra decided.  “This will have to do for now.”

Bircei left the most important part of the tour for last when they returned downstairs.  “And this is your office,” the castellan announced, proudly, opening the thick oaken door to the largest chamber she’d seen yet.  A magnificent old desk of some unknown dark wood dominated the windowless room.  Shelves lined the walls, shelves filled with books. A handsome scroll rack stood in the far corner, next to a small side table laden with a charming crystal decanter and cups of silver.  “It’s known as the Summer Office, of course, due to the temporary nature of its use.  For three months a year, this is where the Court Wizard heard cases and made policy for the Wilderlands magi.”

Now she was in the seat of power, technically the head of all of the Duchy of Alshar’s magi . . . and she was beginning to feel the dreadful weight of the responsibility before she had even exercised her power.

She remembered what Thinradel had told her: “I’ve never fought so hard for a job I hated so much.”

It wasn’t the bureaucracy that concerned her.  She’d built a decent organization out of nothing, when she had been the Steward of the Arcane Orders.  Nor was it the politics.  She was as adept at political manipulation as she was thaumaturgy.

But in the Arcane Orders she had designed the organization according to her own insights about efficiency and effectiveness.  Here, as Court Wizard, she had inherited generations of messes of her predecessors, compounded by invasion, assassination, rebellion, stagnation, neglect, and technical revolution.  All that was missing were the caprices of the gods, Pentandra mused, darkly, as she took a seat in her office behind her desk for the first time.

“I suppose I should start hiring some people,” she said, aloud, after a few moments’ thought.  Bircei nodded elegantly.  “So . . . I need to interview for the other officials . . .”

“Until you can hire a receptionist, I can serve,” Bircei volunteered.  “And I would recommend essential staff be hired as soon as possible.”

“Yes, thank you,” she answered, taking the chair behind the big wooden.  She cast two small magelights to hover overhead and tried to compose herself.  “Give me a few moments, and then send in the first applicant.”  Bircei nodded, and closed the door behind him.

Pentandra closed her eyes and reached out to her predecessor, mind-to-mind.

Yes? Thinradel asked.

Am I catching you at a good time?

Just walking over to the stables.  What is on your mind?

I’m preparing to interview staff, she said, and I wanted your recommendations.

If you can get any of my old staff, do it – except for the churl named Barasei, he was useless.

Everyone else was competent?

Career bureaucrats, good at what they do, he agreed.  How do you like the quarters?  She could tell by the tone in his mental voice that he suspected the answer already.

I move in today and I just saw them up close for the first time.  I’m considering burning them down and starting from scratch, she admitted.

The entire palace was falling apart, he reminded her.  And that was back when there was a functioning government.  They spruce it up every summer to get through the season – if the Duke even deigns to travel north – and then once he’s gone, it goes back to its shabby splendor.  The Tower Arcane is much nicer. That was the official residence of the Court Wizard, in Enultramar.  It was a miniature palace in its own right, over three hundred years old, and filled with the residue of dozens of Court Wizards.

So I hear.  But I don’t think I’ll ever find out for myself.  But thanks for your help.

That simplified her first three interviews dramatically.  They were all previous office holders, and thankfully Barasei, whoever he was, was not among them.  The three were all impressed and relieved at how quickly they were re-hired for their old jobs, and genuinely grateful when she handed over their livery tokens.

Two men and a woman each accepted their positions as secretary, archivist, and minister of examinations and promised good and faithful service.  None of them looked particularly well-fed. There was not a lot of work available for unemployed magi without witchstones in Vorone.  Pentandra dismissed them to allow them to move back into their palace rooms upstairs and prepare for tomorrow’s business.

After that, however, the applicants were strangers to Thinradel, and she had to rely on her own intuition.  And her baculus.

She conjured the pretty silver rod before the fourth applicant came in.  It immediately seemed to investigate the room and assess Pentandra’s own mood in an arcane flash, before it settled down.  That was surprising, Pentandra thought to herself.  But the magical tool seemed to behave after that.

Having an imposing symbol of your office that doubled as a potent magical engine sitting casually on your desk helped simplify the interviewing process, she quickly discovered.

The next applicant was a journeyman spellmonger from north of Tudry named Harrel who was desperate for any sort of job he could get.  The baculus quickly assessed the man’s Talent for Pentandra, as well as a lot of information she did not think to inquire about.  She hired him to man the Mirror Array station, as he had a facility for scrying.

The woman she interviewed after that was far less capable, a hedgewitch who all but insisted on a position.  Pentandra’s baculus revealed the woman did have a whiff of Talent, but it seemed to be involved more in persuasion than anything else.  She failed the few simple tests Pentandra provided for her.  She didn’t quite call her a fraud as she escorted her from the room, but she came as close as she dared.  “Lady” Darsta was volatile.

The next applicant was more congenial, a middle-aged former Censor named Thanguin, who had taken off the checkered cloak at the invitation of Minalan, himself.  He was no fanatic.  Originally an apprentice with a court wizard in Gilmora, he had joined the Censorate for lack of a better job at the time.  He had been among the few of his order in the Wilderlands to do so, and while he had not gained a witchstone for it, he had gained freedom.

The baculus agreed with the man’s self-assessment – he was highly Talented, and easily answered Pentandra’s challenges to his technical skill.  He had fought on and off against the goblins ever since, when he wasn’t looking for a better opportunity.

“So which job are you applying for?” she asked, curious.  “You don’t really seem the type to cleave to the archives.”

“I know my way around a records room,” Thanguin admitted, in a strong, friendly voice.  “But I do prefer a little more action than that.  Still, if that’s the position you have . . .”

“How would you like to be my new troubleshooter?” she asked.  “I’m unsure what the title would be, just yet – probably something to do with arcane enforcement and investigations.  But until I get a little more organized, you seem like the kind of mage that could fill-in in a number of capacities.”

“I suppose I could,” he agreed.  “But if nothing else, I have a lot to report from the field about some disturbing things I’ve seen.  I was hoping that this might be an avenue that would get my concerns some attention.”

“What kind of concerns?” she asked, frowning.  The baculus told her he was being very serious, and very earnest.

“The scrugs are getting ready for something, likely an attack,” he said, calmly.  “Not a huge invasion, but probably a series of serious raids.”

“You have evidence of this?” she asked, surprised.  “Real evidence?”

“Circumstantial, but compelling,” Thanguin admitted.  “I’d at least like to report it to someone who can consider it.”

“What about the Magelords?  Astyral and Azar? And Carmella?” she added.  Her old school friend had taken possession of Salik Tower, a pele fort not too far from Vorone.  She had quietly been using the post to develop a program of instruction about magical siege techniques. She had also inadvertently revitalized the economy of the region in doing so, and become a minor political power as a result.

“I’ve spoken to both of the gentlemen, though not to Lady Carmella.  They told me to tell you.”

Of course they did.

“Great.  Well, I will listen to your tales and make my own decision what to pass along to the Warlord or the Duke.  But if it’s good intelligence . . .”

“It is,” he assured her, rising.  “Thank you for the opportunity, my lady.  I look forward to serving you.”

“You do?” she asked, confused.  “This is going to be a tough, thankless job with crappy pay, lousy conditions, and possible danger,” she pointed out.

“. . . working for the second most powerful mage in the world,” Thanguin finished.  “Even a few months in your service would enhance my professional reputation,” he pointed out.

Pentandra caught herself.  She didn’t often think of herself in those terms, but clearly other people did.

What do you think of that, Mother? she whispered to herself, triumphantly.  I’m the second most powerful mage in the world!

She was also getting a mild headache from the windowless room’s stuffy atmosphere.  She beckoned Bircei to usher the final applicant of the day into her office, and bid him bring a pot of tea – it was that time of day.

The applicant proved to be a very young girl, clad in wildly mis-matching woolen plaids, and bearing a stout-looking staff.  She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen.  Her long dirty blonde hair looked like it had been combed by a cavalry charge.  And there was a huge raven that perched on her right shoulder, its black eyes darting around the room.

“Uh, you wished to see me?” Pentandra began.  “You are . . .?”

“I’m Alurra,” the girl said in a bright, friendly voice, as if Pentandra should know the name.

“And I’m Pentandra,” she answered cautiously, omitting her title.  “So why did you want to speak to me?”  Her baculus was showing that the girl did, indeed, possess Talent.  A generous supply of it, across several areas.  She was magekind, then.

“Because it’s time – and I was almost late,” she confessed, guiltily, “I know I shouldn’t have stopped as much as I did, but it took longer to get ready than I thought.  And there were troubles along the road,” she added, her eyes cutting sideways.

That’s when Pentandra realized it – the girl was blind.

“It’s time for what?” she asked, as she studied the girl more closely.

“Time for me to be here, of course!  I was supposed to be here yesterday, Briga’s day, but I was late.  I’m sorry.”

“Late for what?” Pentandra asked.  She willed one of the two magelights down closer to Alurra’s face – a wide, round Narasi Wilderlands peasant face, fair skinned, dirty blonde hair, with just a touch of adolescent blemish.  The girl’s eyes didn’t move to track the movement, as anyone else’s would.  The bird, on the other hand, noted the movement with great interest.

“For me being here, of course!  Hey, is that Everkeen? Or haven’t you named it, yet?” she asked – no, demanded, in an adolescent tone just shy of shrill.  Her hands groped toward the baculus, and Pentandra snatched it up before her fingers could touch it.

“Everkeen? What?” she stumbled, confused, before she marshaled herself.

She grasped her baculus and sent a surge of magical power through it.  Whoever the girl was, she was sensitive enough to feel it despite her blindness.

“Girl! Sit down this instant, and explain to me who you are, and what you are doing here, or I’ll find something creative to transform you into!”

“All right!  Sorry, I forget which part of the story I’m in, sometimes,” she confessed, sitting back down.

“But I’m Alurra.  From the north.  I’m your new apprentice.”

`

Chapter Seventeen

Battle By Moonlight

“My . . . what?”

“Your new apprentice.  This should explain, my lady,” the girl said, taking a scroll of faded parchment from the bag at her side.   The large raven perched on her shoulder stared at her, but Pentandra tried to ignore it, and focus on the message presented. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as was the custom, but it did have an elementary spellbinding on it that worked just as well.  It had not been opened since the spell was cast, and no one had read it.

Certainly not the young blonde girl in front of her, Pentandra reasoned.  She was pretty, with a round peasant face and cute nose, but her blue eyes were completely sightless.  She took the scroll and dismantled the spellbinding with a thought.

“’To Lady Pentandra, Court Wizard to His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, I bring you greetings,’” she began to read aloud.

“Oh, not here, my lady!” Alurra said, hastily, turning her head as if interlopers were hiding behind her.  “No, I was given specific instructions.  Please do not read that letter aloud in the palace,” she warned.

“Why not?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“I . . . I cannot say,” the girl said, frustrated.  “But Old Antimei never gives idle commands.  She said for you to read it in your private chambers, before you move to the palace tomorrow.  Not here,” she emphasized.  “She says the palace has a . . . rat problem?”

That caught Pentandra’s attention.  “Rats, you say?” she asked, casually, as she rolled up the parchment message.  “Yes, they can be insidious pests.  Very well, girl, if you want me to read this at home, I shall.  But I dislike such surprises,” she warned.

Alurra exhaled sharply.  “Oh, you’re not going to like what’s coming, then,” she promised.  “Antimei was very specific, my lady.  She’s a hedgewitch in the north.  We’re from a tiny little village, but she . . . well, she has news of especial importance, for your ears only.”

“I hope you understand why I would be skeptical of such claims,” Pentandra said.  “You don’t exactly look like a wizard’s apprentice.”  In truth the girl looked more like the vagabond Wilderlands children who had escaped to Kasar the year before.

No, that wasn’t fair, Pentandra chided herself.  She looked like a girl of thirteen who had been on a very long journey through the Wilderlands in the late winter.  Her boots were worn thin, her stockings were torn and ripped, and her sturdy woolen peasant’s gown had been slept in many, many times since its last washing.  Her wool cloak was travel-stained and worn, and just a little too large for her.  She did not look at all like a wizard’s apprentice.  But neither did she look destitute.

“Oh, I have rajira – Talent,” Alurra explained, confidently.  “Hogsheads of it, if you ask Old Antimei.  And she’s taught me a lot.  But . . . well, that letter will explain.  Read it tonight, and I will see you afterwards.  If you have any questions.”  She got up to leave, but Pentandra stopped her.

“Wait!  Do you have a place to stay in the town?” she asked, concerned for the girl’s welfare.

“I have a letter of introduction to one of Antimei’s distant colleagues, here in town.  If she’s still alive,” Alurra added.  “And can read.  But I’ll manage.  I didn’t have any problems on the journey south,” she said, speaking of hundreds of miles of treacherous, goblin-infested territory as if it were a trip up the road to the village shrine.

“Even so, the dangers of Vorone can be more difficult to – sense than those in the wilderness,” she decided.  “If you can manage, make your way to the Spellmonger’s Hall in the north quarter,” she directed.  “I can give you a place on the floor.  Have you eaten?”

“Not since yesterday, my lady,” the girl admitted.  “I didn’t want to miss you today, so I got here early.”

“Can that bird help you find food?  At an inn or tavern?”

“Oh, Lucky lets me ‘see’ out of his eyes all the time,” the girl assured her.  “It’s almost as good as human eyes.  Unless he sees something shiny,” she added.  “I’m a . . . brown mage?  My Talent lets me kind of talk to animals, and if I try hard I can see out of their eyes.  Keeps me from running into things,” she said, with confidence.  “Mostly.”

Pentandra took a silver penny from her purse and pressed it into the girl’s hand.  “Get something to eat before you arrive – you look as if you could use it.  And then we will discuss . . . this letter.  And decide what to do with you.”

“You will take me as apprentice,” Alurra said, with complete confidence.

“I am not in the habit of picking up stray apprentices who just show up on my doorstep,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing at the presumption.

“You aren’t in the habit of picking up apprentices at all,” Alurra countered.  “Old Antimei says it’s high time you did.  You have too much to pass on to a good student.  You shouldn’t waste your talents on mere self-development.”

“Old Antimei sounds like my mother,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “I haven’t even considered the matter, to be honest.  I only got into this office today.  I haven’t even moved in.”

“But you’re hiring people, and you need someone to help you out with stuff,” Alurra countered with adolescent enthusiasm.  “I can be a big help!  Until you gain Wythland, you’ll need it!”

“What’s Wythland?” she asked, curiously.  It sounded vaguely familiar, but . . .

“Oh, that’s the estate that Anguin will grant you,” Alurra dismissed.  “It’s a right mess, before you start putting it back together.”

Before she could reply the chapel bells sounded the end of the business day and the closing of the palace to the public.  It was far later than Pentandra had realized, and she had a prior engagement for which she could not be late.  The Woodsmen were counting on her.

“Let’s discuss this more tonight, Alurra,” she promised.  “If you can find your way to my house, I’ll be glad to discuss it.  Though I might be late,” she warned.

“I look forward to speaking to you about it, and meeting Captain Arborn.”

“I’m afraid my husband is still in the field,” Pentandra said, a tinge of worry in her voice.  Arborn should have returned from his errantry days ago.  That wasn’t unusual, considering the state of Alshar’s roads, but the delay was starting to concern her.

“He’ll be there,” Alurra promised.  “But then, you’ll see.”

The Woodsmen were already gathered at their staging area by the time Pentandra arrived, late, for the emergency meeting.  She was even later because it was in the tack room of a stable she was unfamiliar with in the Docks ward.  Word had come that Bloodfinger had ordered an all-out attack on Opilio the Knife, and Sir Vemas wanted the Woodsmen to intervene.  He called the emergency meeting and made a point of including Pentandra.

She tracked the handsome constable down as he was giving last-minute instructions to his men.   He had already donned the dark robe, but the mask was still by his knee.  He looked up when Pentandra arrived and beamed at her.

“Ah!  My lady mage!  I’m gratified you could join us.  We have good intelligence that Bloodfinger plans an assault on Opilio’s headquarters tonight, and we wish to intervene.  Apparently the Knife is interviewing new enforcers to make up for his recent losses, and Bloodfinger wishes to deny him that opportunity.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Wait for the assault to begin, then come in afterward to sweep away any survivors,” Vemas proclaimed, proudly.  “If all goes well, two wards of the city will be rat-free by daybreak!”

“What would you have me do?” Pentandra said, catching some of Vemas’ infectious enthusiasm.

“Why, observe the result of our weeks of work, and assist magically if things go awry,” Vemas ordered.  “I figured you deserved to witness this – it was mostly your idea to set them against each other like this.  Brilliant,” he complimented her.  “If things do go sideways, however, I thought your quick wit and arcane power might be beneficial.”

“Agreed,” Pentandra nodded, pulling her musty robe over her head.  She noted most of the guardsmen were wearing mailshirts under their robes, and each had a heavy, savage-looking blade in their hand.  They were anticipating a dangerous night.

Once everyone was in their garb, and the lookout assured them that no one was watching, the macabre-looking gang filed out of the stable and into the narrow alley outside, before they began their slow march toward Opilio’s headquarters.

Pentandra took the time to cast Cats Eye spells on each of them along the way, if their masks still did not bear the enchantment – a piece of warmagic she had mastered when she was sneaking out from the dormitories at night at Alar Academy.  That made maneuvering through Vorone’s twisty streets easier in the masks.

Along the way they encountered a few night dwellers, tavern patrons returning home or beggars evading curfew.  Most faded away from the dangerous-looking band as quickly and quietly as they could.  One seemed genuinely pleased at the sight, calling out “Hail the Woodsmen!” in a drunken voice as he passed.

“We’re getting more and more of that,” Vemas confided to Pentandra, muffled by his mask.  “The townspeople are starting to see the results of our little war.  They hold us responsible for driving out the rats.  Some even wear masks themselves, to confuse the Rats and lend us some quiet aid,” he added, pleased with himself.  “Our reputation is such that very few footpads are interested in dealing with a masked victim, it seems.  Which is lending a decided spirit of resistance to the Crew’s hold over the wards.”

“The cheaper loans are probably helping, too,” Pentandra agreed.  Sister Saltia was accounting for over a hundred silver loaned out a week, now, though it was still early.  A single masked representative of the Woodsmen, Fen the Quick, was arranging the loans with the artisans, quietly and only at night, but his friendly manner and Wilderlands accent had convinced a growing number of merchants to take advantage of the “new” opportunity.  Of course, that begged another question in her mind.   “How are they explaining our sudden and effective appearance?”

“Mythological, of course,” Sir Vemas said.  Pentandra couldn’t see his face through the mask, but she could hear the grin in his voice.  “Supposedly, the myth runs, when the Duke returned he called upon the ancient spirits of the woodlands to purge Vorone of the southern gangs.  The mysterious Master of the Wild transformed animals into warriors to fight them at night, and then turns them back into animals again during the day.”

“That does have a certain satisfying truth to it,” Pentandra smiled.

“Oh, it gets better,” Sir Vemas assured, tying his mask into place.  “By all accounts he’s approaching Vorone with an army of such magical warriors, and when he arrives the last of the Rats will be driven away.”

“That’s a pretty elaborate myth to have arisen in just a few weeks,” Pentandra said doubtfully.

“You are not wrong, my lady mage.  Nor an inexpensive one.  It cost me nearly twenty ounces of silver to have the minstrels and storytellers to spread it, on top of the stories we seeded before the first sighting of our bestial warriors.  Just another front in the war,” he mused.  “But it has given us popular support and an air of the supernatural that keeps the common folk from interfering with our operations.  And it spooks the foe at a primordial level,” he added, amused.  “Are you ready, then?”

When the column of strangely-dressed warriors approached the shop within which Opilio the Knife ran his gang on Chandler street, the place was already abuzz with activity.  The Woodsmen stopped just out of sight of the entrance, but close enough for Pentandra to scry with accuracy.

Indeed, Pentandra saw by Cats Eye, there were at least five or six ruffians clustered around the solitary door to the shop alone.  Others wandered the area with a nonchalant casual bearing that alerted just about any reasonably understanding passer-by that they were guarding the place.  Whether they were Opilio’s or Bloodfinger’s she couldn’t tell – all Rats looked the same in the dark – but they were all heavily armed, bearing stout cudgels, long knives, and even slim infantry swords.  Some of them were patrolling the rooftops with crossbows.

“Just in time for the show,” Vemas whispered, as the Woodsmen silently took up position around him.  “It shouldn’t take long, now.  If you’d like to enjoy protection spells, my lady, perhaps now would be the time to activate them.”  It didn’t take the ruffians long to recognize the presence of so many animal-headed foes in the street outside their headquarters.  Soon one of them started toward the shadowy figures to investigate – then thought better of it and returned to his mates when he saw the nature of the intruders.

“Are they fighting in there?” asked one of the Woodsmen in a muffled voice.  Pentandra cast a Long Ears spell to check, not the easiest thing to do in a mask.  But with Everkeen’s help – she couldn’t help referring to her baculus like that, now that Alurra had given the name to her – soon she was listening in on the sounds within the shop.

They weren’t at all what she expected.

They’ve arrived, one voice said in a thick southern accent. At least ten of them, in the street.

Only ten? Came another voice.  I expected more than that.  That was Opilio’s voice, she recognized.

I brought twice that many with me, came the voice of Bloodfinger.  Why so few?  We gave them the tastiest bait they could ask for.

It’s a start, Opilio replied.  As soon as we get their masks off of their corpses, we can see who is really behind this mummer’s play.

“Ishi’s Tits!” Pentandra whispered aloud, “It’s a trap!  Opilio and Bloodfinger are staging this to lure us into—”

Before she could finish her sentence, a crossbow bolt blossomed from the shoulder of the Woodsman standing next to her.  He grunted in pain and whirled around, but the angle of the bolt told Pentandra that their attackers were not on the same level as they.

“On the rooftops!” Ancient Andolos bellowed as he clutched his pierced shoulder.  “Archers!  Find cover!”

More bolts rained down on them from above, with limited effect.  Apparently the Rat Crew didn’t emphasize archery as much as thuggery in their training, for only one out of every three bolts seemed to strike anywhere near a target.  But that was enough to worry the Woodsmen, who had little means to return fire as they scrambled to find cover.

Pentandra felt a wave of fear nearly overwhelm her as she plastered herself against a wall, desperately trying to avoid the volley of missiles.  Arborn would be vexed with her if she ended up with an iron arrow in her gut, she knew.

There were two men down in the street already, she saw, and the shapes on the rooftops told her there were plenty of foes left to contend with.  Nor was there much in the way of good cover, considering the way the Rat Crews archers jumped from position to position on the roofs above.  The Woodsmen were vulnerable targets to the Rats’ inept archery, but as harsh as the attack was, it did not stop them from advancing.

Unfortunately, the Crew were not content to merely lob bolts at them.  Pentandra noted that there was also a line of thugs who had appeared from a shoddy wooden door and filled in behind them in the street, blocking their escape.

It was a trap, and one that the over-confident Sir Vemas had walked right into.

The constable wasn’t sounding so confident now, but neither was he frozen in fear – he barked orders to his men to drag their wounded comrades out of the street, while the one archer among them – Fen the Quick – did his best to find targets.

But the menace from the thugs behind them couldn’t be ignored, either, as they closed in.  There was at least half a score of them in a line, all armed, completely blocking the street.  Pentandra felt fear rise from her stomach to her throat as the thugs on the began to close.  More rats were spilling out of the shop in front of her, too, each bearing an axe or sword.

They were surrounded, she realized.  She was no warmage – she had been in battle, but had rarely struck a blow.  And certainly not dressed as a Wilderlands hare.  But even she knew the military consequences of allowing your force to be surrounded.s

Just as things began to seem dire, however, a number of things happened at once.  The most important, to Pentandra, was the feeling of calm that came over her in the midst of her panic.

She was not, after all, merely a scared girl in a tight situation . . . she was the second most powerful mage in the world, and she had had a very long and exhausting day.  Dying at the end of it was just not on her agenda.

Pentandra whispered a word and suddenly Everkeen was in her hand.  Once the baculus was active, Pentandra’s perspective on the fight changed.  The helpful paraclete inside the rod determined precisely how many foes she was facing and their positions, as well as the positions of her allies.  Everkeen seemed to intuit the nature of the problem and helpfully suggest resolutions.

Without thinking about the consequences, Pentandra first elected to remove the archers above as a threat.  Everkeen eagerly took her wishes and transformed them into actions . . . and in moments every Rat on the roof with a bow in their hand was struck blind with a spell.  She could hear the startled cries above her.

Before she could turn her attention to the thugs approaching from the street and the shop, however, other forces became involved in the fight.  Just as she was casting her attention toward the men approaching from the shop, more arrows descended – on the Rats.

Not the short iron bolts shot by crossbows, but huge, three-foot long arrows expertly fired from heavy Wilderlands bows.  One by one the gangsters emerging from the barber’s shop fell to one of the deadly shafts, many staggering to the side before they fell.

Nor were the Rats from the shop the only victims being suddenly attacked by surprise.  A low growl soon turned into a symphony of angry animal noises, and the thugs approaching from the street behind them halted their advance as they were assaulted from behind.  Pentandra took a cautious step into the street and studied the matter with magesight – but she scarcely believed what she perceived.

With Everkeen’s assistance, she realized that a large pack of stray dogs had materialized in the night and set themselves on the Rats.

The sudden appearance of unseen allies might have startled Sir Vemas, but the constable wasn’t about to let the advantage go to waste.  He quickly formed up the Woodsmen who were battle-worthy and led them into the bloody fray in the street.  While the unarmored Rats did their best to fend off the wild dog pack, the Woodsmen waded into the carnage and used their heavy, jagged weapons to execute the distracted foe.

The shadows made fighting difficult, though the animal masks made telling friend from foe easy enough.  At one point a thug fell at Pentandra’s feet, a savage cur’s jaws clamped around his wrist.  Pentandra tapped him with the heel of Everkeen, and the baculus finished the job with a spell.  The man went limp, his bowels and bladder relaxing as the life left him.  The dog, realizing his fight was over, looked up at Pentandra’s rabbit mask, barked once, wagged its tail, and went back into the fight.

Since when did the strays in this town become so accommodating? She asked herself.  Vorone was filled with hundreds of dogs, since the invasion, but she had never heard of them gathering in a pack like this.  Or attacking criminals so obligingly.

That mystery would have to wait, she realized, as Everkeen informed her of the presence of her other rescuers.  She straightened as the last rat on the street died, and recognized the silhouettes of the men leaping or climbing down from the roof.

“Who are they?” asked Carastan, as he nursed his wounded shoulder.  He was breathing heavy, and his big falchion held loosely in his left hand.  But the blade was coated in blood.

“Kasari rangers,” Pentandra answered, nodding toward the fletchings on the shaft sticking out of a Rat’s chest.  “The most adept bowmen in the Wilderlands.  Apparently,” she said, smiling, “my husband has finally returned from his mission.  And brought guests,” she added. There were at least six Kasari with bows in their hands, according to Everkeen.

“Pentandra?” came Arborn’s worried voice in the night.  “Are you all right?”

“I am now,” she confessed as her husband emerged from the shadows, his own great bow in his hands.  More bowstrings twanged from the rooftops, and the street was filled with muffled screams and canine growls as the unorthodox battle unfolded around them.  “What took you so long?  I expected you days ago!”

“I was delayed,” Arborn said, grimly.  “I’ll explain later.  As it is, it seems like we arrived in the nick of time.”

“Oh, we had things well in hand,” she lied.  “Another few moments and I would have unleashed nine kinds of arcane hell on them.”

“Which would have revealed we had a high mage working with us, and perhaps revealed which high mage,” Sir Vemas reproved.  “Best we keep that secret for as long as possible.”

“If that pack of curs you conjured doesn’t suggest that, the Crew isn’t as smart as I thought,” Arborn said, wrinkling his brow.

“That wasn’t me,” Pentandra said.  “But magic is really the only way to explain how the strays entered the fight, and did so on only our side.  Unless you gentlemen have a few pounds of bacon in your pouches I am unaware of,” she added, as the dogs continued to savage the fallen Rats.  The Woodsmen were doing their best to slip in and end the suffering of the mauled criminals with decisive thrusts of their blades.

Just then a large raven flew by – when by all rights it should have been asleep.  Pentandra started to guess where the canine assistance came from.

“That was me,” came a quiet, girlish voice in the darkness.

Slender, slight little Alurra walked into the center of the carnage, tapping her way with her staff, as casually as if she was on her way to the market.

The young girl couldn’t see the blood and gore around her, of course, but the smell of battle was unmistakable.  Her raven returned to her shoulder, and two of the stray dogs milled around her feet.  “That was one reason why Old Antimei sent me – because I can call the animals to help.  She told me to call all the dogs in Vorone to help tonight, else you all might have died.  And then everything would have gone into the chamberpot, after that,” she ventured.

“And who are you, my dear?” asked Sir Vemas, as his men began to treat the wounded Woodsmen, and finished dispatching the wounded Rats.  It was a brutal business, but it was necessary. There were no prisoners in this war.

Kulin’s Law, Pentandra reminded herself, grimly.

“Yes, who are you, girl?” Arborn demanded, sternly.

“She’s my new apprentice,” Pentandra said with a sigh.  It was the first time she had admitted it.  “She’s on our side.”

“Your new apprentice?” her husband and Sir Vemas asked simultaneously.  Arborn added, “When did this happen?  I’ve only been gone but for a few days . . .”

“Today,” Pentandra groaned.  “It’s complicated.  I don’t even understand it, yet.  And I don’t think the street, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a bloodbath, is really the best place to discuss it, do you?”

“Quite right,” agreed Sir Vemas.  “Let’s get these men some medical attention, then meet back at the hall.  I’ll have my men deal with the corpses,” he added, grimly.  “There must be a score of them.”

“Including the two head rats,” Carastan said, hauling the lifeless body of Bloodfinger into the light.  It was transfixed by two thick arrows.  “Opilio took an arrow in the throat, coming out of the shop.  If any of his men escaped, we didn’t witness it.”

“So much for trying to drive them against each other,” Pentandra sighed.  “I was hoping Bloodfinger’s paranoia would manifest against the Crew.”

“The Rats are highly disciplined,” Sir Vemas observed.  “It was a good strategy.  But Bloodfinger’s paranoia drove him instead to confess to his superiors, I believe.  And they set up this ambush in response.  I’m guessing that these reinforcements were supplied by the other Crews, if not by Master Lothar himself.  If it wasn’t for your warning, your husband, and your apprentice, my lady, they would have achieved their goal,” the constable guessed.

“How did you know we would be here?” Pentandra asked Arborn.  “And how did you know we would need your help?”

“I went to the house as soon as we arrived,” Arborn told her, in his familiar deep voice.  Every word seemed to fall around Pentandra like a warm, protective cloak.  “There was a message waiting there, saying to meet you here with all the bowmen I could muster.”

“I left no message,” Pentandra protested.  “I wasn’t expecting you back at any particular time, nor did I know about this ambush.”

“That was me, again,” Alurra admitted.  “Old Antimei gave me very specific instructions about tonight, to keep things from going poorly.  I left the message at the Spellmonger’s Hall before I went to the palace this morning, Mistress.”

“It appears that there is far more to your new apprentice than meets the eye,” Arborn observed.  “Perhaps we should retire for the evening and discuss it?”

“I’ll join you as soon as I finish up here,” Sir Vemas assured her.  “And don’t discount the good we’ve done here on the basis of the blood.  With this carnage we’ve managed to deal a stout blow to the Crew across Vorone.  You don’t replace an organization like this overnight.  By morning, the entire town will understand what has happened.  But I’ll fill you in back at the house when I’m done and seen my men attended to.”

“I agree,” Pentandra said.  “This mask smells of some ancient coquette’s sweat.  And I have developed a sudden desire for a glass of spirits or three.”

“’To Lady Pentandra, Court Wizard to His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, I humbly send you greetings and hope to beg a boon,’” Pentandra repeated, that night, when she and Arborn had settled the Kasari into the loft above their heads and gotten the wounds of the Woodsmen tended.  Alurra was waiting quietly and patiently in the kitchen, and only when the moon had begun to set in the west did Pentandra have time to sit down by the fire with the girl – and her prophesied husband – and read it.

“‘I am known as Old Antimei, a hedgewitch in the remote village of Tolindir, and for over thirty years I have practiced the Good Art for the benefit of the people of my village and environs.  It has been a good life, but a hard life made harder by the goblins in the west.  With what Art I have I have done my best to provide and protect these people magically.

“’But before I came into exile in this rustic land, far from the prying eyes of the Censorate, I was called by another name entirely, and was a registered mage in the south.

“’Due to the blessings of the gods I was damned with the gift of prophecy early in life; thanks to my education, I knew full well the price of revealing it to others.  Instead of turning myself in to the mercies of the Censorate of Magic, which would have imperiled my family, as I was legally bound to do, I kept my gift a secret as long as I could.  When I could conceal it no longer, I fled to the farthest corner of the Duchy and changed my name before the Censors could take notice.

“‘I have carefully practiced my cursed Art in secret, awaiting the long-foreseen day when the Bans would be lifted by the Spellmonger, before I revealed them to a living soul.  Now that the time is finally upon us, the visions I’ve witnessed are finally coming to pass.

“‘Among them are many concerning you, personally, my lady,” Pentandra continued, her voice full of intrigue at the unexpected message. “I have foreseen many events unfold in your life.  Which is why I must now entrust the education and upkeep for my dear apprentice, Alurra, to you now.  As she has already proven, she can be a great benefit to your undertakings, and you are, without a doubt, the mage best-suited to instruct and develop her impressive Talent.  I have done so to the best of my abilities, but I am limited by both age and health.  Alurra needs the strong hand of a seasoned wizard to bring her into the fullness of her power.  I can only hint to you, now, how important that may become in the future.’”

Pentandra dropped the parchment and looked at the girl, who was listening intently to the words of her teacher come out of Pentandra’s mouth.  “So, according to this hedgewitch, I am fated to take you as an apprentice,” she stated.

“If that’s what she said,” Alurra shrugged.  “Old Antimei rarely discusses the details of her visions, even with me, and sometimes she spends weeks considering their meaning.  When she does speak of them, she does so as . . . stories.  She says they’re easier to understand that way.  Is that all she wrote?”

“Oh, no, there’s much more,” Pentandra assured her.  She didn’t know what to think about this mysterious woman’s alleged gifts, and even less about how to proceed.  “She continues, ‘I know all of this may come as a shock to you; indeed, I am anticipating no other reaction.  Burdening you with this unforeseen responsibility when we have not yet even met seems like a harsh introduction.  But I pray that you proceed with faith in my gifts, and faith in my good intentions.  For I seek nothing else than the restoration of the Realm and its defense from the threat to the West.  If my prophecies are true – and after thirty years, I am assured that they are – then your wisdom, will, and insights will become instrumental in the fulfillment of my visions.’

“’If you are willing to proceed invested in that faith, then I urge you to take Alurra as I have requested and do your best to teach her formal Imperial-style magic.  Her sightlessness makes this a challenge, but she is a quick-witted girl of exceeding intelligence.’”

The apprentice beamed at the praise, and even the raven on her shoulder seemed to preen.

“While prone to impetuousness and fancy, she is reasonably reliable, at her age.  More importantly, I foresee that her loyalty and her gifts, including her profound abilities in native Brown Magic, will be instrumental in the fulfillment of your own goals and desires.  While she comes trained for basic service, she needs instruction on urban life, as well, and perhaps even the ways of the court.  All of these I know you are well-equipped to see to.’

“’In return, Alurra will become a trusted ally and an asset to your endeavors in ways you cannot yet imagine.  I will leave that exploration to the two of you, but foresight instructs me that you will become not just good professional colleagues, in time, but fast friends.’”

Pentandra looked at the girl skeptically.  “Just to warn you, I don’t make friends easily,” she said, warily.

“Most of mine bark, flap, or purr,” Alurra nodded.  “I’m more comfortable in a herd than a hall.”

Arborn chuckled as he lit his pipe with a taper at the fire.  “This promises to be an interesting relationship!”

Pentandra shot her eyes to her husband, and only barely controlled her anger.  “This isn’t funny, Husband!  I do not like being forced to take an apprentice!  Certainly not by post, by an old witch I’ve never even met!”

“Wife!” Arborn called, sternly.  “Please do not upset our guest.”

Pentandra stopped her tongue before she said something she regretted, and sighed.  He was right to rebuke her, she realized.  As inconvenient as this was for her, she could only imagine what must be going through the mind of the young girl. “I’m sorry, Alurra.  I just wasn’t prepared . . .”

“It’s all right,” the girl said, calmly, “I’ve known about this since before Yule, and I still don’t feel prepared.  But if Antimei says it needs to be so, then so it shall be.  She’s just like that,” she shrugged.  The raven was apparently used to the movement, for it barely noticed its perch shifting.

“It’s . . . it’s nothing personal,” Pentandra said, apologetically.

“I know,” Alurra assured her.  “I’m expecting some interesting times ahead, too.  But it all works out, in the end.  For now,” she added.  “There should be just a little more . . .”

“There is,” Pentandra conceded, turning back to the scroll.  “’I understand how easy it might be to dismiss the words of a poor rural hedgewitch and her claims of prophesy, but I have provided within this letter three bits of proof of my powers, which shall come to pass shortly.  My desire is that you take Alurra for the summer, do your best to instruct her, and if she proves unsatisfactory or fails to give good service, then send her back to me here.  But I am certain that what I have seen in my visions will come to pass, and that Alurra will be with you until she passes her certification examinations.

“’Lady Pentandra, I implore you not just as a subject of the Realm begging a boon of the Court Wizard, as so many do, but as a fellow colleague in our craft seeking the best possible instruction for my student.  If the stakes were not so high, or the fate of so many dependent upon the outcome, I would never presume . . . but the gods ask of us what they will, and it is up to us to comply.

“’I trust that this will be agreeable to you.  I remain, your servant, Old Antimei, the Witch of the Wilderlands.’”  Pentandra quietly rolled the note back up.  “I guess I have inherited a new apprentice,” she sighed, after a moment’s contemplation.  Arborn looked at her studiously.

“Is that wise?” he finally asked.  Of all the objections he could have raised, that was one she hadn’t expected.

“Perhaps not.  But neither are a great many things I’ve done over the years.  That doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing to do.  I’ll tell you what . . . give me a day to think about it,” she decided.  “Let me actually get to know you a bit, and see if I think things will work out.  I owe you that much simply for arriving with a pack of angry hounds, when you did tonight.”

“Oh, thank you, Lady Pentandra!” Alurra said, excitedly.

“You can sleep in our chamber tonight,” she decided, her heart sinking as she realized that a lusty reunion with her husband would have to wait.  “The hall below will be filled with exhausted guardsmen, and I think the new Kasari are bunked in the loft.”

“I’ve never felt safer,” Alurra assured her.  “I didn’t bring much in the way of belongings – just one little pack.”

“Who came with you, child?” asked Arborn, concerned.

“Who?  Why, no one.  I came by myself.  Except for Lucky, here, and my other friends. Animals,” she clarified.

“You speak to animals?”

“She’s a brown mage,” Pentandra supplied.  “Like Lenodara.  Only even more powerful, from the way you enchanted that entire pack of dogs,” she added, approvingly.  Arborn wasn’t nearly as impressed by that as he was her journey.

“A blind girl walked more than seventy leagues through goblin territory . . . by herself?”

“She said she had her crow,” Pentandra pointed out.  “It proves she’s capable and self-reliant – two qualities sadly lacking in most apprentices.”

“Raven,” Alurra corrected.  “It wasn’t that bad.  Lucky and the others scouted ahead, miles ahead, and always kept watch.  I never got closer than a mile to a goblin,” she boasted, proudly.  “They watched out for me and kept me safe the entire way here.”

“And once you got to the town?” Pentandra prompted.

“Oh, Antimei had me go visit a hedgewitch she knows here, a friend.  I’m to go to her if you . . . reject me.” The tone in her voice demonstrated that the blind girl feared that alternative, but was ready to face it.

“And if I do?  Reject you, that is?” she asked, curious.

“It would be . . . bad,” Alurra decided.

“Bad?  How, bad?”

“Bad in so many horrible ways I can’t even think about them all.  You must understand, Mistress, I don’t want this because I want this, if you take my meaning.  It has been . . . foreordained?” she said, trying hard at the long word.

“Fated?” Pentandra shot back, automatically, her stomach sinking.  There were several examples of prophecy and foresight intruding into history.  Universally, such entanglements spelt disaster for those involved.  “That is dangerous talk, my girl.  We all have the freedom of our will.”

“So it is said,” Alurra nodded.  “As Antimei says, our fates are composed of our free will struggling against circumstance, with destiny the inevitable outcome.”

“What does that even mean?” Arborn asked, confused.

“I’m . . . I’m not really certain myself,” Alurra confessed, hurriedly.  “But I trust her.  She has helped my village for generations, always far more powerful than she lets on.  All I ask is that you grant her this boon.  She says she can’t teach me any more magic, on account of my eyes.  I can’t read,” she sighed.  “I can see through the eyes of my animal friends, but their minds can’t . . . see words, not the way human eyes apparently can.  Or something like that,” she dismissed, frustrated.  “So I’ve learned as much as she can teach me, but Antimei says it will take one of the most creative and talented magi in the world to finish the job.  Lady Pentandra.”

“This is not the usual way apprentices are selected, I take it,” Arborn said, quietly, as the silence following Alurra’s declaration stretched.

“No, usually . . . well, honestly, I do not know.  I’ve never taken one before.  Minalan chose his first apprentice, Tyndal, and inherited his second.  His third, Lenodara, he selected to avoid a riot breaking out.  I’m not certain that there is a standard method for that sort of thing.  I mean, the Magic Fair has a venue to match good apprentices with good masters, but that’s a relatively new development.

“None of which factors into my decision,” she announced, setting her wine glass on the table in front of her.  “I’ll prepare a bed for you in our chamber tonight, and we shall reconsider the matter by light of day.  Arborn, would you mind fetching some blankets from the press?  I don’t want to wake the servants at this hour.”

Later, when Alurra was settled in, her raven perched on a rafter overhead, Pentandra and Arborn retired to their own bed and drew the curtains.  As an additional guard, Pentandra cast spells to keep them from being overheard by the sleeping girl.

“Welcome back, my husband,” she said, kissing him warmly as she slid into bed.  “I’ve been expecting you for days.”

“I was delayed,” Arborn reminded her, apologetically.  “We were in the east country when I received a message.  I had to meet . . . someone,” he said.

“Who?” Pentandra asked, innocently.  Arborn’s reluctance to speak of the matter invited her curiosity, she reasoned.

“I . . . there are some things I must be cautious about speaking of,” he mumbled.  That caught Pentandra’s attention sharply.

“Like what?  Unless it’s another wife and a cottage full of bastards, I can’t think of anything you couldn’t share with me,” she said, patiently.

“It’s . . . well, our marriage has put me in a difficult position—”

“How so?” Pentandra asked, icily.  This did not bode well.

“I am in the sworn confidence of . . . certain parties,” he said, his jaw clenched, “and those parties are wary of the Arcane Orders.”

“You . . . what?”  All sorts of unlikely scenarios erupted in Pentandra’s mind at the admission.  Was Arborn working for their foes?  The Southern rebels?  Queen Grendine’s sinister Family?

“It’s the Alka Alon,” Arborn said, quickly, anxious to pacify her.  “You have to understand, the Alka Alon and the Kasari have worked together for centuries.  In many ways we are their eyes and ears in the wilderness.  We have protected and aided each other countless times.”

“And the Arcane Orders threaten that?”

“There are many Alka who are mistrustful of human beings, even the Kasari.  Especially magically Talented human beings.  The history of the Magocracy wasn’t exactly benevolent, when it came to relations with the Alka Alon,” he pointed out.

“Agreed.  But there isn’t a Magocracy, anymore,” Pentandra responded, coolly.

“But from the Alka Alon’s perspective, that was only a few years ago.  Most of them still remember the Magocracy, personally.  And many see human magi as a dangerous threat – as dangerous as human gods.”

“Granted,” she nodded, curtly, if defiantly.  “We also have saved a whole bunch of people – human and Alkan – from certain death.  Does that count for nothing?”

“I am not defending their attitude,” Arborn said, holding up his hand, “I’m just reporting it.  They are wary.  And concerned that the Arcane Orders will delve too deeply into matters that do not concern you.”

Pentandra snorted, angrily.  “Like rushing in to assist an ally under attack, when no Alka Alon would?”

“That has been mentioned in your favor,” Arborn agreed.  “Indeed, it is the main reason for the softening of their stance.  The Alka Alon have humanity’s interests in mind.  But I am still cautious about sharing their secrets overmuch.”

“I am your wife, and no longer a leader in the Arcane Orders,” she reminded him, stiffly.  “You may elect to tell me or not, as you desire, my husband.”

Arborn stared at her for many moments in the light of the tiny magelight before he sighed.  “I met with Ithalia and a small squadron of her kin.  Only briefly, but long enough to hear news.  News about Ameras, the heir to the Aronin of Amadia.”

Pentandra knew a little about the mysterious figure.  Minalan had met her once.  A young Alkan who was the only daughter of one of the wisest of the Fair Folk, who had disappeared at the very beginning of the goblin invasion.

Pentandra still didn’t understand why she was so important – her family had ruled one tiny little stronghold in the Mindens, a few hundred Alka at most.  They had to abandon it after the Dead God had taken over the rest of the valley.  Most of the other inhabitants had found refuge with their kin in the Kulines, but for some reason the entire Alkan Council were almost panicked because this one Alkan girl was missing.

“Was she found?  Was she dead?”

“She was not found, and she seems to be alive, by the report,” Arborn said, quietly.  “She was seen in the far northeast, where few of even my people venture.  At least that’s what is suggested.  Ithalia was checking with me to see if there was any news from human lands.  That’s why she needed to see me, specifically.  Ameras is supposedly keeping company with a human High Mage.”

“A High Mage?” Pentandra asked, curious.  “Who?”

“That isn’t known.  And it was why Ithalia wished me to discretely inquire of my loving wife, to see if my contacts at the Arcane Orders could provide a clue, without arousing alarm.  But that is the second sighting of her in two years.  When all the world is searching for her.  It is as if she doesn’t wish to be found.”

Pentandra chewed her lip in the darkness.  “That’s part of what I don’t understand – why all the interest in one Alka Alon princess?  What is so special about her?  Is she the heir to a lost dynasty or something?”

Again Arborn was silent for an unnaturally long time before he answered.

“The term ‘Aronin’ means ‘guardian’.  Her family not only guarded the molopor of Boval Vale—”

“And not terribly well,” Pentandra blurted.

“They weren’t expecting an abomination to crawl out of a hole with a bloodthirsty horde, no,” Arborn said, sourly.  “But the Aronin was also charged with the task of being the custodian of a great armory.  An arsenal containing weapons from the ancient wars between the Alka Alon – weapons so dire that they were gathered and sequestered away by common assent at the end of the struggle to keep them from being used casually ever again.”

“That’s just the kind of weapons we need against the Dead God!”

“We know,” Arborn said, grumbling.  “Indeed, it was toward just an occasion as this that the weapons were put away in the first place.  Only now that they are needed, the only person who knows where they are is lost to us.  As is the location of the armory.”

“Wait, the Aronin was the only one who knew?”

“That was his purpose,” Arborn agreed, grimly.  “To protect not just the armory and how to open it, but even its location.  Only he and the members of his line know the secret.  He guards not just its location and entry, but keeps the conscience of when and how it is used.  Which means Ameras is the last one with that knowledge.”

“Oh.  Well that explains the interest, then,” Pentandra conceded.  “And why the Alon want to keep it quiet from the Arcane Orders.  But why do they want to involve you, directly?”

“All of the Kasari rangers look to me,” her husband said, softly.  “I am their captain.  I directed a few fellows to go investigate.  But that is a dangerous, wild land.  It may be many months before I hear anything.  And I am married to a High Mage noted for her discretion.”

“Well, I am gratified that you explained it to me,” Pentandra sighed.  “I promise not to misuse the information.  Honestly, if we’re going to win this war, humans and Alka are going to have to start trusting each other!”

“That depends on the humans,” Arborn said, rolling onto his back and staring at the canopy overhead.  “That depends on the Alka Alon.  That was the other thing she was warning me about.  There is a . . . faction of Alka who actively hate humans.  And most of the other Alka Alon.  An ancient political feud that turned into a generational vendetta,” he explained.  “They have been witnessed actively assisting the gurvani.”

“We’ve heard that rumor before,” Pentandra reminded him.  “The Enshadowed.  So far, the average gurvan hasn’t benefitted much from it.”

“They are now.  Ithalia told me of an encounter she had near the borders of the Penumbra.  She was attacked by undead.”

“That’s not a terribly complicated spell, if grisly,” Pentandra said, squirming despite herself at the thought of the dark realm of magic.  “Even gurvani shamans can do it.  The undead don’t last long.  And they don’t fight well.”

“These did,” Arborn insisted, quietly.  “They fought with twice the strength of a man, were alacritous, and possessed rare cunning in battle.  I, too, have faced the living dead in my travels.  These were not the usual walking corpses, my love.  These were different.  Ithalia fears they are but the first works of the Demon God.  He is awakened, and at work.”

“And he is actually an undead Alka Alon,” Pentandra finished.  “I know, we heard about that.  So it’s our good guys and their good guys against our bad guys and their bad guys.  I don’t see what the problem is in helping each other.”

“It is happening, but slowly, as suits the lives of –” the big man stopped and yawned before finishing.  “—the Alka Alon.  My wife, would you be terribly upset if we spent the evening in repose?  It’s not that I did not miss you fiercely, but I have been on the road since before dawn—”

“And again dawn brightens the east,” Pentandra said, understandably.  “Our happy reunion can wait until morning.  Or later.  But not much later,” she added.  “I’ve missed you more than you can imagine.”

Chapter Eighteen

Lady Pleasure

Pentandra did not intended to awaken the next morning until late, but her scant few hours of sleep were interrupted by a breathless messenger from the palace.   She hurried downstairs in her robe, no kerchief, her eyes bleary and her heart racing.  Would there be recriminations from the bloody night?

As it happened, the message was, indeed, for her to appear before His Grace in court – not for judgment for murder and mayhem, but as a witness for treason.

Anguin had decided to hear the backlog of criminal cases accumulating on his docket, as well as rule in a few civil matters, at a special court after luncheon, while the barons were still in town to bear witness to it. Both she and Arborn were commanded to attend to provide testimony against certain parties.   Court dress was recommended.

She tipped the messenger a penny from a jar next to the door, intended for such gratuities, and then put the kettle over the fire.  Then she realized she must be sleepy – and heated the water magically, instead.

“Well that settles what I’ll wear, today,” she sighed to herself as the water in the kettle began to bubble as she fed power to it.  “I really must get some new clothes, soon!”

Her wardrobe was extensive, but most of it was for the sunnier climes of Remere and Castabriel, not the misty dampness of the Wilderlands.  She had a gown and mantle she had designated her “standard court robe” for such occasions.  For truly high ceremonies, she had something grander . . . but that didn’t eliminate the need for a good seamstress in her future.

“What is the problem, Mistress?” Alurra’s sleepy voice asked from the stairs.

“A lack of tea, at the moment,” she yawned.  “But we have a busy day ahead of us, after a busy night.  Arborn and I have been summoned to court this afternoon.  And I was supposed to move into the palace today,” she sighed.

“I can help with that,” Alurra assured her, as she took a seat on a stool without even feeling for it.  Lucky the Raven was on her shoulder, though the black bird seemed every bit as annoyed at the hour as Pentandra.  “I can pack things, and get them ready to move,” she offered.

“I really don’t have that much baggage,” Pentandra decided, taking two earthenware mugs down and preparing her morning tea.  She stopped, and looked at the blonde girl across the table.  “Have you experienced menarche, yet?”

“Huh?”

“Have you had your monthlies?”

“Twice,” the girl said, embarrassed.  “I didn’t know what . . . Why?” she asked, curiously.

“A girl your age is too young, yet, for a full strength dose,” she decided, adding only half of the bitter root to Alurra’s cup.  “But this is Barrenroot.  And some other herbs, but at full strength Barrenroot helps keep your cramping modest, your bleeding light, and it prevents having a baby.”

“Prevents having a . . . how?” Alurra asked, suddenly interested.

“It’s actually a common remedy, if prepared properly.  This is my family’s recipe.  How it works is . . . well, that’s more herbalism than alchemy, but simply put it affects your feminine energies.  I drink it every morning. It keeps me healthy.”

“I guess I do have a lot to learn,” Alurra nodded.  ”Antimei started me on herbalism, but we’ve only covered some basic healing herbs.”

“Let it steep for a few minutes,” she suggested.  “Then add some honey.  The taste takes some getting used to.  But easing cramps and not having babies makes it worthwhile.”

Alurra made a face.  “You don’t want to have babies?  I thought every woman did.”

“So did I. At your age,” Pentandra reminisced.  “I thought that’s all women wanted to do: get married and have babies, lots of babies.  That’s all my mother, my sister, my cousins, my aunts ever talked about.  When I got my Talent, my older sister actually felt sorry for me, because that wasn’t my future.  Instead I was thrilled.  I didn’t have to get married.”

“But . . . aren’t you married now?” she asked, confused.

“I am – and recently,” Pentandra said, blushing a little at the admission.  She had no idea why.  Perhaps because she felt her mother’s snort of approval in the back of her mind.  “But that was my choice, not a dynastic alliance.  Or a commercial bargain.  I fell in love, and with the perfect man.  That alone is why I agree to wed.”

“And babies?”

“I’ve just been married – give me some time to enjoy it before I’m cured with babies!” Pentandra said, chuckling.  Despite herself, she enjoyed the girl’s company.  Alurra’s easy smile and friendly manner were easy to fall prey to.   “Goddess, I can barely manage breakfast—”

“Oh!  Let me get that!” Alurra said, jumping up and moving toward the buttery.

“Can you?” Pentandra asked, curious.  She had little idea what capabilities the blind girl had, although she was very intrigued by them.

“Oh, my, yes,” Alurra assured, as she began searching for utensils by touch.  The bird looked intently over her shoulder at the table while her hands worked.  “I used to make meals for myself and Antimei all the time – I worry, now that she doesn’t have me to look out for her.  But I can make breakfast, if you can show me where a few things are.”

“That would be lovely, especially considering that there are a dozen more Kasari in the loft I hadn’t figured on,” Pentandra frowned.

“Oh, Kasari can survive anywhere,” Alurra dismissed.  “They’d be fine with a piece of raw hide and a squirrel for breakfast.  But I’ll manage something a little more substantial,” she promised.

While Pentandra watched with fascination the sightless girl cooking, they continued to talk and drink their tea in the little kitchen, allowing Pentandra to find out quite a bit about Alurra.

The girl was largely innocent, as far as such things went, having lived a sheltered life in her remote village.  But she was also clever and observant – if such a term was appropriate for a blind girl.

She seemed to make up the lack of vision with not just animal assistance, but through some natural magical facility that informed her as she worked.  Either that or she was an incredibly good guesser, Pentandra reasoned.  But before they finished their conversation the girl had managed to put a cauldron full of oats and dried fruit on to boil, and was preparing to make biscuits.

Pentandra found her friendly and personable, a refreshing change from the posturing and positioning at court, or even Arborn’s laconic conversations.  Perhaps, she considered, it really was time for her to take an apprentice.  She left the girl with instructions to feed the Kasari and start packing up the bedchamber, though she was doubtful she could accomplish that without assistance.

Pentandra left for the palace dressed for court, reasonably washed up and less nervous about the consequences from the night before.  A steady spring rain had rolled in at dawn, making the air misty and wet, and causing her to use magic to keep dry.  Of course, none of that would matter if she was greeted with armed guards and escorted to the dungeon for murder . . .

She shouldn’t have worried.

As she approached the gate, she noticed the heads of Opilio the Knife and Bloodfinger adorning matching spikes on the gatehouse.  Someone had even thoughtfully stuffed dead rats into their mouths, so that the rodents’ hindquarters protruded.  That had to be the Constable’s work, she decided.  Which meant that the task was approved after-the-fact by the Duke, and wouldn’t cause any official problems.

That eased Pentandra’s mind, at least.  It also made her shudder.  Having a license to commit murder was a power she had never desired.

Not seriously.

She spent the morning discussing the new staff’s duties with each of them, giving some instruction and some guidance, while trusting them to figure most of the job out on their own.  She met briefly with Bircei, to go over some matters of housekeeping in the office before he led her upstairs to her personal quarters.

While they had been professionally scrubbed, they remained every bit as inadequate for her use as they had yesterday.  Less than half the size of her present chamber.  But they were hers, by right, as Ducal Court Wizard, and she was damned if she would give them up to live in Minalan’s holiday home.

After giving some instructions to the young castellan, Pentandra took a few moments for luncheon before being summoned to court (which was being held in the East Hall, Birsei informed her) at the noon bell.  That’s where she found Arborn, dressed in what passed for Kasari finery, waiting for her.

“What is this about?” Pentandra asked him, after a chaste kiss.

“His Grace wants to run his docket,” explained Sir Vemas, who was passing by.  He was in his own court finery, his baldric-of-office over his shoulder.  He did not at all look as if he’d run a nasty street fight for most of the previous evening.  “Mostly old business.  But apparently you two are witnesses in a few cases, so that’s why you were called.”

“Us?  What did we witness?” Pentandra asked, confused.

“The treason of Lord Garway of Lotanz, I believe,” Vemas supplied.  “The lord of Osbury Keep in Lotanz?  Otter’s Point?”

“Oh!” Pentandra exclaimed, remembering the episode.

Last summer, at the beginning of the Great March, the very first Wilderlord the Kasari column had encountered was the one most proximate to their lands – and most vehemently against them.  Lord Garway of Lotanz bore little love for their people, considering them savages no better than goblins, and tried to restrict both their right (according to Anguin’s letter of mission) to quarter in his castle or to cross his lands.  “I guess I am looking forward to this, then.”

Minalan had adeptly arrested Lord Garway, after some adventure, for the crime of denying the Duke and his sworn marshals – that is, for defying Minalan himself.  Pentandra had enjoyed watching Min take care of the unpleasant man, arresting him and having him imprisoned at Tudry, until he was brought to Vorone with the warmagi there.  He was charged with rebellion.

Nor was he the only one charged in a case where she and Arborn were required to speak.  There was the matter of Sirs Helden, Oacei, and Sire Gand, who had also attempted to halt Minalan’s magical (and ducally sanctioned) march through the Wilderlands that same summer.  While Pentandra had not been as involved in that fight, she did have knowledge of the day.  And Arborn had been there.

“What of our . . . other activities, Constable?” Pentandra asked, quietly.

“Oh, I discussed that with Count Salgo this morning, and got his blessing.  Indeed, the old man is quite pleased with the turn of events,” the constable reported, pleased with the praise.  “Speaking of which, I have a list of names of suspects in the brutal slaying.”

“Do you, now?” Pentandra asked, smiling despite the grim night’s work.

“I do – the usual suspects are wanted for questioning.  in my considered opinion as an officer in the watch, this bears all the marks of a gang war,” Sir Vemas said, in scholarly tones.  “I have a list of known and suspected gang associates the Watch wishes to question about the matter.  Most of the rest of the Crew are on it – except for their master, of course.  I still cannot tie him to the rest.  Not enough to swear an oath on.  But let me depart – I need to drop this off and get back in time for my testimony.”

Pentandra watched the nimble constable thread his way through the gathering crowd of courtiers, but before she and Arborn could find their places they were joined by Astyral and Azar, both in court finery themselves.  Astyral dressed in gleaming white Gilmoran cotton doublet, cut in a military fashion, while Azar was dressed in black leather and black wool.

“Pentandra,” Astyral chided in his Gilmoran drawl, “you had a party last night and didn’t invite us?”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“The city was alive with magic,” Azar supplied, more quietly than usual.  “Any mage with the sensitivity of a vole knew there was power afoot.  And blood.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you gentlemen are speaking of,” she said, with exaggerated patience.  “And if I did, I’m sure I would not be at liberty to discuss it.  His Grace has many duties for his court,” she added.  “Not all can be discussed by light of day.”

“We’re just disappointed we weren’t invited,” Azar said, almost pouting.  “It might have been interesting.”

“With your inclusion, it would have been far more interesting than wisdom dictates,” Pentandra replied.  Azar had a reputation for excessive violence and over-reaction – a reputation the warmage encouraged at every opportunity.  And while Astyral was far subtler in his use of destructive magic, he was also far too flamboyant to have included and maintained the fiction of anonymity the Woodsmen had developed.

“Besides, we have larger concerns, and other places where your talents are better used.  I’m sure you found some other way to amuse yourselves in Vorone,” she added, slyly.

“We did,” Astyral nodded.  “We passed a fair evening on the Street of Perfume, in the company of several lovely young ladies and some fine Cormeeran wine.  I will say this for Anguin: the quality of whores in this town went up appreciably since he came to power.”

“Yes, well, he thought it a civic priority,” Pentandra replied, dryly.

“My lady, my lord,” a young castellan bearing the badge of the Ducal Herald on his baldric interrupted, “His Grace is about to begin.  I beg you to find your seats in the witnesses’ gallery!”

When court began with the ringing of a bell and the herald announcing the presence of His Grace, the great hall settled down.  Pentandra and Arborn were seated with the other witnesses, instead of with the ministers-in-attendance for a change, which was fine by her.  Looking at the swarming knot of lawbrothers and civil advocates around Anguin and Lawfather Jodas made her seat seem that much more comfortable.

The first few cases were fairly simple, legacies of the previous regime.  Anguin quickly ruled on each, reading prepared judgments provided by Father Jodas before signing and sealing each one.  They tended to be property cases, some of which were old enough that the principals had died.

It might have seemed a moot point to rule upon them, but as Viscountess Threanas had explained to her, there were fortunes and dynasties dependent upon those rulings . . . and with most of the Wilderlords dead, every bit of institutional strength the Duke could encourage among his loyal vassals was vital.

Then came two capital cases, one particularly vile.  Anguin quickly found in favor of the defendant in the first, and granted him mercy and freedom from the estate whose corrupt reeve he had slain, and in the second he sentenced a vile murderer who slew his entire family to hanging.

The grim ruling of the second case still hung in the air with the manic cries of the condemned prisoner as the case against the Lord of Lotanz for high treason was read to the court.

Lord Garway himself was brought in by palace guardsmen while the court herald prepared to read the charges against him.  He was thinner and more pale than Pentandra remembered, but recently shaven and dressed in a clean tunic and hose.  He was not bound.

“The charges: That Lord Garway deliberately and purposefully discomfited the progress of a Ducal Marshal in the fulfillment of his duties, that he threatened said marshal, and that he willfully flouted the lawful command of said marshal to yield military aid in accordance with his duties as a lawful lord of the land,” the strong-voiced herald boomed.

“Who was the marshal in question?” Anguin asked from the throne.  He knew the answer already, of course, but the lad had begun to learn the purpose of public ceremony, Pentandra noted proudly.

“Baron Minalan the Spellmonger,” replied Lawfather Jonas.  “Warranted Marshal of Alshar.  Empowered by your father, and acting under your direct orders, Your Grace.”

“I see,” Anguin said, turning to address the prisoner.  “Lord Garway of Lotanz, please tell us what compelled you to do such a thing?”

“I was doing my duty to protect my lands and my people, Your Grace,” the Wilderlord said, defiantly.  “Some wizard brings thousands of vagabonds to my doorstep and expects me to feed them, when I got problems of my own, that I didn’t need!”

“It was not a matter of your need, Lord Garway,” Lawfather Jonas said, sternly.  The old monk looked at the prisoner with a curled lip.  “When you swore fealty for your lands, you pledged to render aid to your liege as needed – military aid in particular.

“Aye,” the northman said, cautiously.

“And yet when a properly-constituted officer of the Duchy made his needs known, you refused – worse, you threatened violence.  You did threaten violence, didn’t you?” the monk added.  “We have witnesses here who can attest to that, if you dispute it.” Pentandra straightened, preparing to be called for testimony.  It was unnecessary.

“Oh, aye, I threatened violence,” Lord Garway said, his lip curled into a disgusted sneer.  “I would have shot every Kasari urchin who crossed my land, if I could.  No better than the gurvani, they are.  I’d do it again, too, Your Grace.  I don’t know what mischief that wizard was planning, but if it involved the Kasari you can wager it wasn’t a good thing,” he said, darkly.

“We shall see if your opinion of the Kasari changes after you’ve spent some time fighting actual goblins, Garway,” Anguin pronounced.  “The kingdom might have a treaty, but this duchy is divided and at war.  It cannot stand those lords who would flout the commands of their duke.  Therefore, I strip you of your lands and title, and fine you five thousand ounces of gold for your temerity,” he said, his young voice almost shaking as he spoke.

“Five thousand?” scoffed Garway.  “My holding isn’t worth nearly—”

“Perhaps you misheard, Garway, but you have no holding any more” Jonas pronounced.  “The fine stands as ordered.  If you cannot pay, you will see Warbrother Caudel and determine just how much your service is worth to the Iron Band.  For you shall serve your kingdom as you failed your duke, and spend that aggression in the Penumbra, where it’s needed.  Next case.”

As it happened, the next case also involved the Great March, as it involved three Wilderlords who had fired upon the Kasari refugees without provocation.  The three all looked in better shape than Garway, but the three knights, who held themselves superior to the northern lordling, immediately began protesting their arrest and imprisonment.

They quoted (and, more frequently, misquoted) laws from the Book of Duin to justify their actions.  Their entire defense revolved around “We were defending our lands!” They began indignantly enough, as if the entire affair was a purposeful slight against their inflated sense of importance, but as Father Jodas’ team of prosecuting monks put question after question to them, their indignity died, replaced with defeat.

It quickly became clear to them that Sir Helden’s caustic attitude, Sir Oacei’s defiant tone and Sire Gand’s pomposity were doing nothing to impress the court.  As the questions got more specific, covering their sworn duties to the Duke, they realized that they were going to be found guilty.  The Duke was not nearly as forgiving to a fellow nobleman under those circumstances as they had anticipated.

He said as much in his judgment.

“If you gentlemen are so ardent to fight and defend Alshar, then we can find a better role for you than mere manor lord,” Duke Anguin pronounced.  “I was with those marchers, for a time.  They posed no threat to the Realm, rendered it a tremendous service, and the Spellmonger in whose charge they were had my complete authority to proceed.  As you gentlemen were told.  Yet you persisted in the face of this.

“While Trygg knows we need good lords to rule the people for us, you three knights have betrayed that trust by your actions.  I will permit you to retain your nobility and your knighthood if you will each volunteer for two years’ duty in the Iron Band.  Otherwise you may surrender your titles and your spurs and serve only one year.  What say you?”

The choice seemed unappealing to the men, but without discussion amongst themselves they came to a consensus, and elected to keep their titles and extend their stay in the Penumbra.

“A good decision,” Anguin nodded, solemnly.  “You have one week to turn over your affairs and report to Brother Caudel at Castle Defiant.  Failure to do so will merit outlawry,” he added, as the Ducal Reeve led the men away.  Outlawry was a serious matter, the sort that no noble wanted to contend with.  It meant that anyone - even the lowliest serf or spud - could kill you without fear of justice.

“Our two cases, and we weren’t even called,” Arborn whispered a frustrated sigh.  “Are all Narasi courts like this?”

“This was a model of efficiency, for a change,” Pentandra whispered back.  “Those earlier cases had been lingering on the docket for years.”

“Just seems a waste, to me,” Arborn sniffed.  “I could have been doing . . . all sorts of other things.”

“Court is supposed to be boring,” Pentandra reminded him.

She tried to remind herself of that fact a few moments later, when – to the astonishment of the entire hall – a cloaked and cowled figure was escorted to the center of the court, facing the throne, his hands bound in front of him.

“His Grace calls Lord Marfanth of Duers to answer for charges of treason!” the deep-voiced herald bellowed.  The entire room came awake at the mention of the word.

“Read the charges,” Duke Anguin urged his herald, grimly.

“Lord Marfanth of Duers stands accused of aiding rebellion in the duchy,” the herald said, simply.  “Call Lawfather Jonas to read the complete charges.”

The old monk stood, his eyes clear and bright, and cleared his throat as one of his assistants brought the appropriate scroll to him.  He read a few words and then looked up at the prisoner and back, before beginning to relay them to the court.

“Lord Marfanth is the lord of the domain of Duers, near the northern bank of the Poros,” Father Jonas explained.  “His late liege, Baron Lincei, called his banners during the first outbreak of the emergency as his liege, the Duke, ordered.

“Yet Lord Marfanth begged off appearing in person, citing illness, and sent less than half of his required muster to his liege.  Though Duers has been assessed nine lances, the contingent from the domain that reported to Baron Lincei was less than twenty men, all peasants, militia of an inferior sort.  It was surmised at the time of muster that Lord Marfanth simply emptied his dungeons and drafted his troublemakers to fulfill the smallest portion of his muster.

“When Baron Lincei fell that summer, Lord Marfanth seized two of his neighbors’ estates from their widows and began ruling his lands in his own name.  When called to account for his actions by the heirs to his peers, he attacked three of them with his forces and took a third estate in an illegal and undeclared war, in violation of the Laws of Duin.

“A fellow vassal, Sire Culyn, took issue with his behavior and challenged Marfanth in front of witnesses to appear before the Lord Steward of the Realm for judgment.  Lord Marfanth instead set upon the knight and his squires from ambush, slew them, and took his holding.  He was heard to declare at the time that he would never follow any Castali lord, and that the only legitimate government was in Falas, not Vorone.”

“You deny my right to the coronet?” Anguin asked, surprised.

“Your father was a proper Duke of Alshar,” the voice came from the cowl.  “You are a Castali puppet.”

There was a dark murmur through the court at the defiant temerity of the lord.  Many reached for the hilts of their swords at the words.  Anguin accepted them calmly, raising his hand for quiet.

“This is not an uncommon fiction,” Anguin announced in a loud, strong voice.  “The idea has spread that my father, may the gods bless him in the afterlife, sat upon this seat legitimately, while I – his first-born legitimate son – have somehow stolen it.  If my father was a proper Duke of Alshar, then as his only male heir I, too, and the proper Duke of Alshar.  No matter what alliances or allegiances I have undertaken.  Lord Marfanth, if I am not a legitimate duke, who then rules with legitimacy in Alshar?”

Marfanth tossed his head, throwing back his cowl.  His face was covered with vicious bruises and abrasions.  “The only real government in this duchy is in Falas,” he said, arrogantly.  “This?  This is a farce!  A boy on a chair with all of you pretending that he’s in charge!  He’s no duke!  Can’t you see?  He’s only pretending, and you are all pretending along with him!”

“Silence!” commanded Lawfather Jonas, a deep frown on his face.  “You will keep your tone respectful in front of this court!”

“Court?” scoffed the prisoner.  “This is a rabble, not a court!  Castali lackeys and idiot Wilderlords in exile, mercenaries and adventurers, thieves and corrupt priests – that’s what you have brought to rescue Vorone, Anguin.  You might pretend to be a duke, and they might go along with it, but you are no duke!”

“Enough,” Anguin said with disgust in his voice.  He was visibly trying to control his emotions.  “We shall see if I am a duke or a pretender.  The Duke has capital authority in cases such as this, and though you have been given every opportunity, you have denied my rank and my authority at every turn.

“More, you visited insults on me and my noble courtiers.  I may not live in Falas, but if this is the attitude of the Falai to my rule, I daresay I think I prefer Vorone . . . and as a Duke it is my prerogative to select my own capital.

“So as a Duke, in my own capital, I recognize your treason with my own ears.  You, Lord Marfanth, are hereby stripped of your lands and your titles.  Your estate is forfeit to the Coronet, as a result of your treason.  And I sentence you to death at the earliest possible opportunity.”

The powerful words in the young, shaking voice did little to affect the vitriol Lord Marfanth apparently felt in his soul.  He scoffed at the pronouncement of his execution, and chuckled at being stripped of both nobility and patrimony.

“Death?  You don’t have the courage!” spat Marfanth.  “See if you can find someone willing to execute me – I have powerful family in Falas!” he reported, viciously.  “When they retake this province, it won’t be my head on the gate.  When they strike down the false Castali puppet and replace you with a proper—AAHHHHHHGH!” he finished in a scream, as flames burst from the hem of his robe and quickly consumed him.  The sudden eruption of fire in the middle of the hall alarmed everyone in court, and a few blades were drawn against custom at the fire.

For his part, Marfanth realized to his horror what was happening as Azar took a step forward, looked casually into the dying man’s burning, bruised face, and then finished the spell with a word that completely consumed the prisoner and stopped his agonized screaming.  In moments the burnt body smoldered on the floor and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke filled the air.

Everyone was staring at Azar, who seemed unconcerned by the attention, at first.  Then, realizing that he had an audience, he turned and surveyed the shocked faces of the assembled.

“Oh,” he said, finally.  “I just figured I would take care of that for you, Your Grace,” he assured.  “I suppose I should ask for permission, next time.”

“That would be wise,” Anguin said, faintly.  His face was white, as were several others. Except for Father Jodas, who glared darkly at the warmage for his temerity.  The rest of the court was ashen. Few had seen the full power of a warmage that close before, much less felt the heat of a burning man on their faces or smelled the strange odor of the result.

“Sorry, Your Grace, but you did say at the earliest opportunity,” Azar pointed out, apologetically.  “Should I have waited?” he asked, innocently.  “I should have waited,” he decided.  “My mistake.”

“No mistake,” Anguin decided, grimly.  “Sentence was pronounced.  There is no appeal from a final judgment against a vassal when a duke charges him with treason.  I was going to hold a public execution and make an example out of him, but . . .”

“Your Grace, I think a sufficient example has been made by the Magelord,” Father Jonas said, quietly but irritated.  “Though – properly – a man should have time to shrive his soul and make arrangements for his family.  Before he is taken by the Duke’s executioner.  His official executioner,” he added.

Azar realized that he may have overstepped his authority, and possibly alienated the monk who had devoted his significant spiritual life to the pursuit of justice.  Pentandra was afraid for a moment that the warmage would turn his famously impetuous ire loose on the rest of the court, starting with the clergyman.  She prepared to summon Everkeen in response.

Instead the warmage cleared his throat as he stood over the smoldering corpse.  “Let there be no doubt that the magelords of Alshar know their proper liege, are his loyal retainers, and will not tolerate disrespectful language to His Grace!” he called, loudly.  “Any further treasons will be met with similar ferocity!”

With a last look around at the stunned faces, he retook his seat next to Astyral.  If the Gilmoran magelord was bothered by his friend’s sudden and decisive actions, he didn’t show it.  Two guardsmen dragged the corpse away, leaving a trail of ash and blood behind on the floor, while the herald closed the criminal proceedings of the court.

Pentandra was relieved at that.  She hadn’t relished the idea of testifying anyway, and she wasn’t particularly happy with the way Azar had handled himself, though he couldn’t disagree with the results.  Sitting through a few minutes of special recognition and awards was easy by comparison, and the hour was already growing later than she’d prefer.

That’s when she heard the herald boom out her name: “Lady Pentandra, Wizard to the Court of Alshar!  Come forward and be recognized!”

Pentandra stumbled out of her seat in a daze, wondering what Anguin had planned for her – probably wanting to invoke her assistance in the new keep he wanted to build next to the palace.

Instead he presented her with the deed to a small estate seven miles upstream from Vorone, ‘in appreciation of her valuable efforts to pacify the criminal element of the city,” the herald read.

“My lady Pentandra, since you first arrived in support of my ascension you and your husband have been powerful aids and allies in my struggles,” Anguin said, not reading from anything.  “Your adept and subtle use of magic has already been a great boon to the duchy in the few weeks you have held your position, and the town of Vorone in particular thrives better because of it.  Please accept this small token of our appreciation in the hopes that it will give you further means to improve our realm.”

Pentandra took the folded parchment gingerly in her hands, bowing and thanking the Duke while the herald called the next courtier – Count Salgo – for a similar gift

Pentandra returned to her seat in a daze.  Arborn embraced her happily and asked to look at the deed after she sat.

“Where is Wythland?” Arborn asked.  “I haven’t heard of it before.”

“It’s . . . I have,” Pentandra admitted.  “According to this, it’s about seven and a half miles downstream on the southern bank of the river.  It looks small but cozy,” she decided, looking at the map included with the deed.

“When did you hear of Wythland?” Arborn asked, his brow furrowed.

“I . . . I heard of it this morning,” she recalled.  “Alurra mentioned it, I think, this morning.  I hadn’t heard of it before then,” she admitted.

“Wait, Alurra knew . . . that you would be given . . . this estate in particular?”

“Alurra didn’t,” Pentandra decided.  “But her mistress, this Antimei, apparently did.  Which supports the idea that she dabbles in prophecy.”

“It sounds as if she’s beyond dabbling,” Arborn observed.  “Perhaps you should consider taking this apprentice,” he suggested.

“I’m considering it,” she agreed with a whispered sigh.

The court proceedings had included similar awards of small local estates for another four or five loyal retainers, and then finally some ceremonial presentations to the court.

Pentandra found that more interesting than the deed to the little country estate she’d been granted.  Six young women were presented to the Duke, none of them more than a year younger than he, by some of the senior Wilderlords in attendance.  He graciously welcomed them, apologized for not having a proper Duchess at his side at the moment to take care of them, but jokingly mentioned that the position was available.

That caused a raucous laugh among the courtiers.  It also set the stage, Pentandra realized, for the last presentation of the day.

An older woman, quite beautiful, who Pentandra had never met before, approached the throne with the girls standing in file behind her.  Pentandra could swear that she knew the woman; she had a familiar air about her.  But as striking as her face was Pentandra also knew she would have remembered it specifically.

The woman was dressed in a magnificent green gown in a southern Alshari style popular a generation or two before in Falas, but still fashionable in Vorone.  Behind her were five maidens, dressed in more revealing versions of the same gown in the same fabric.  None could have been more than sixteen.

“The Dowager Baroness Amandice of Vorone,” announced the herald, “and her maidens beg an audience with the Duke!”

“Granted,” Anguin said, absently, as his eyes rested on the beautiful girls standing demurely behind the older woman.  “I’m afraid I have not had the fortune to make your acquaintance, Baroness,” he said, apologetically.  “I am still getting to know the folk of this town again.”

“We have met, actually, Your Grace,” Amandice said, her voice flowing like honey.  “Though you were just a babe at the time.  I had the great fortune to be an acquaintance of your late father’s,” she said, lightly.  “Before he met your mother.  Of course, that was such a long time ago . . .”

Pentandra was suddenly on alert.  Such an admission to the lad was designed to pique his interest, no doubt, and that put her on her guard.  Anguin was of an age to be deeply missing his late father’s influence on his life, and Pentandra had noticed an increased interest on his part in his sire’s history in the last few weeks.

“You knew my father, Baroness?” Anguin said, with undisguised interest.

“Only in his stalwart youth, Your Grace,” Amandice assured him.  “Years ago.  A lifetime ago, when I was but a girl no older than my maidens, here . . .”

“So what brings you back to court today, Amandice?” Anguin said, reluctant to tear his eyes away from the loveliness of the girls.  They stood there simply and casually, but despite their stillness their beauty still projected to the court.

“I wish to beg a boon, Your Grace,” the beautiful matron said, boldly.  “In the name of the people, but more importantly, in the name of Love and Beauty.”

“And what is this boon?” Anguin asked, unable to take his eyes off of the nubile maidens, though he was clearly aware of the trap in front of him.  There was a wariness about him that Pentandra was grateful for.  This woman was a danger, she knew – anyone who invoked a boon for ‘love and beauty’ had to be scheming.   At least the lad was suspicious of those who wished to use him.

“Your Grace, the people rejoice in the return of the rightful heir to the realm,” she began in a praising tone.  “Too long fair Vorone has suffered from neglect, and the spirits of the people are still low.”

“So what would you suggest, Baroness Amandice?”

“I beg you to appoint me to oversee the Spring Wildflower Festival, Your Grace,” she proposed, bowing her head with perfect dignity.  “With Your Grace’s permission, my associates and I would like to see the town beautified in celebration of your reign.  Vorone had no proper time to celebrate your investiture, as we were still in mourning from the deaths of your parents.  Give us that chance now,” she asked.  “The Festival of Wildflowers is in a few short weeks.  It used to be a celebration of the expected return of the Duke and Duchess to Vorone for the summer.  Let us use it now to celebrate the unexpected but welcome return of Alshar’s heir!”

There was an uncharacteristic amount of positive murmuring from the court as the courtiers whispered among themselves.  More than Pentandra expected there would be, for such a tame proposal.

Yet the idea seemed to explode across the room like a spell, and soon nearly everyone seemed enthusiastic about the idea.  To Pentandra it seemed a relatively unimportant idea – the town and the Duchy faced much bigger issues than the spirits of the townsfolk – but when Arborn turned to her, his usually stoic demeanor gone and replaced with a (undeniably adorable) boyish grin and said, “You know, my wife, that is a truly useful idea!” Pentandra knew something was amiss.  Arborn didn’t get that excited about anything that didn’t involve a month-long journey through the wilderness.

She glanced down at the ring on her finger, which seemed to pulse with magic as if trying to alert her to something.  She considered summoning Everkeen, but was concerned such a display would be disruptive in court.  Instead she sought out Azar and Astyral by eye.  Both men nodded to her across the room.

That idea seemed to catch fire quickly, didn’t it? Astyral observed to her, mind-to-mind.

Why is everyone wetting themselves over a wildflower festival? Demanded Azar by the same method, a moment later.

“That . . . that sounds . . . like a noble idea, Your Excellency,” Anguin admitted.  “A truly wonderful . . . plan.  You of course have my permission and blessing,” he said, sitting a little straighter in his throne as the four adorable girls beamed up at him from behind their mistress.  “Indeed, I shall contribute a hundred ounces of silver for the task, Dowager Baroness Amandice,” he said, attempting a dignity in his authority far beyond his experience.

The hairs on the back of Pentandra’s neck were standing.  There was something wrong, here.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she sighed, breathlessly.  “And please . . . call me . . . Lady Pleasure.”

Chapter Nineteen

The Dangers Of The Divine

Pentandra’s head was spinning as Arborn escorted her away from the hall and toward the west wing of the palace.  While she still held the sealed deed to her new estate in hand, her mind was neither there or on the judgments the Duke had made.  She wasn’t even concerned about the Rat Crew’s bloody massacre, anymore, though it had happened the previous night.

Pentandra was far more concerned about the sudden appearance – and instant acceptance – of a mysterious mature noblewoman into Anguin’s court.

It wasn’t as if the place wasn’t already filled with such useless nobility.  Generations of Alshari great nobles had either retired to the hunting paradise or had kept their mistresses or wives here to visit during the convenient summer months.  Widows accumulated, as did younger sons of the great nobles.

There had to be a dozen purposeless nobles the rank of Knight Banneret or above roaming the streets of Vorone at any one time.  Indeed, there were entire streets in the market district designed to attract their trade.  Some, like Viscountess Threanas, had position as well as rank. Most did not, or at least not to any important extent. Occasionally they were assigned little tasks or duties. The court thrived on the experience and dedication of such auxillary folk.

But Pentandra also knew that Dowager Baroness Amandice – “Lady Pleasure” – was no mere rich widow.  What she had done to the court in one brief visit had been no less than magical, and had it not been for the protective power of her own spells, Pentandra guessed she would have been enthusiastically supporting the woman as much as everyone else.

Nor was Lady Pleasure’s proposal concerning the Wildflower Festival out of line.  The Spring Wildflower Festival was, traditionally, the rallying point for the Voroni to prepare for the busy summer season, when the court would arrive from the long journey from Falas to take residence for the glorious warm months.

Sacred to Ishi, patroness of flowers (and a half-dozen local divinities) the Wildflower Festival was an excellent excuse to clean, paint, repair, and decorate the town to prepare to celebrate the rising of the sun tides.  Begging to be put in charge of the thankless task of organizing the popular event was an excellent way for Baroness Amandice to be introduced to court, Pentandra realized.

Hells, she even managed to get Anguin to pay for some of it.

But who was this woman?  An obsequious widow with ambitions of position was one thing – but the transformation Lady Pleasure managed to win over the court, causing even long-mistrustful opponents to agree with her, was both mysterious and worrying.

And clearly magical.  Which put it squarely within Pentandra’s purview as Court Wizard.

Before she realized where she was being led, Pentandra was at the door to the Court Wizard’s office.  Her office.  Her new quarters, she remembered.

“Oh, Arborn,” she said, her heart sinking, “we’re not ready to stay here, yet.  I still haven’t gotten anything moved from Spellmonger’s Hall, and—”

“Do you think you are the only one capable of packing, my wife?” he asked, gently.  “I had my men and your new apprentice handle the affair.  All of our things are here, now,” he said, proudly.

“You . . . you moved us?”

“It wasn’t hard,” he pointed out.  “You’ve barely unpacked.”

“I’ve been busy!” Pentandra snapped, automatically.  “And I haven’t yet decided on taking Alurra as my apprentice, either!” she added, a little bitterly.

“Haven’t you?” Arborn asked, cocking his head.

“I . . . I don’t . . . I’m still thinking about it,” Pentandra said, at last.  Before she could say any more about the blind girl, she was interrupted by mind-to-mind contact.  It was Astyral.

Pentandra, where are you?  Azar and I wanted a word with you before we left.  We depart in the morning.

I’m at my new offices, she responded automatically.  You recall the way?

The same ones Thinradel had? The Gilmoran mage asked, with good-natured skepticism.  You poor girl!  I think I remember where it is.  It’s been a few years.

Do you mind finding a bottle before you come?  The buttery hasn’t been supplied yet, I’m afraid.  And I desperately desire one.

If there is a bottle to be had, I shall find it, promised the gracious Gilmoran.

“Ishi’s tits!” Pentandra swore as she opened her eyes.  “We’re going to have company!”

“Who?”

“Azar and Astyral,” she explained as she threw open the door to her private quarters, upstairs.  “Business, it sounds like.  With all of our things in disarray!” she moaned.

“It isn’t that bad,” Arborn promised, as he followed her up the narrow flight.  “We did the best we could . . .”

Her husband was right – it wasn’t that bad.  Not nearly acceptable, but the rangers had managed to place her chests and trunks in some semblance of order in their bedchamber instead of just dumping them in a corner, as she had feared.  Stacks of her books and scrolls had been neatly gathered and laid in baskets for the journey, and while they were by no means organized, they were neat and tidy.  They even endeavored to hang a few tapestries borrowed from the castellans from stores to brighten the place and cut down on drafts from the over-wide windows.

But it was still a mess, far from the homey presentation she wanted to make to her professional peers.  Thank the gods it was only Astyral and Azar.  Had it been women coming by, Pentandra would have crawled into bed and refused to consider a visit.

Pentandra sighed.  “Time to use magic,” she said, simply.  She held out her hand and summoned her baculus, and Everkeen (as she was beginning to call the rod) appeared obligingly in her palm.  She gave it the briefest of orders – more like an expression of her desires more than actual spellwork – and the magical tool got to work.

Suddenly the logs in the fireplace burst into flame, four magelights appeared and floated to the corners of her room, and chairs and benches moved across the floor at Everkeen’s direction.  Indeed, all around her the baculus sought to fulfill her wishes to conceal, decorate, and improve.  In moments the minor disarray of the room was replaced by arcane order.  By the time Astyral and Azar knocked on the door, it looked as if she had spent all day arranging things.

“Welcome, my friends,” she said, casually.  “Sorry that I’m still in my court garb,” she said, fingering her gown.

“You’d look stunning in anything, my lady . . . or nothing at all,” Astyral flirted.  She was used to it – it was an intrinsic part of the Gilmoran’s charm.

“Captain Arborn,” Azar nodded, respectfully.  “It’s been awhile . . .”

“You two know each other?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“Magelord Azar graciously extended the hospitality of Megelin Castle last year for me and my men,” Arborn explained.  “We were tracking a platoon of goblins at the edge of the Penumbra and were caught off-guard by a hob patrol.  Azar’s brave knights cut them off and allowed my men to get to safety.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” the slender warmage dismissed.  “I’ve always liked the Kasari, and I saw how your men handled their bows.  As well as Sarakeem, on his best day,” he boasted to Pentandra.  “I put the men up for a few days, tended their wounds, and gave them a chance to rest.  Learned a lot of valuable intelligence, too, if I recall.”

“Your hospitality was greatly appreciated,” Arborn assured him.  “I hope to repay the favor one day.”

“As I said, it was nothing.  All those who fight against the scrugs are my allies.  Your folk bring us better news of their movements than any of my own people.”

“Just what have their movements been?” Pentandra asked, as she instructed Everkeen to summon the chest of spirits and wines she finally remembered that Minalan had thoughtfully included with the baculus.  Her colleagues were suitably impressed – by the enchantment, not by the wine she conjured.

“That is one impressive toy, my dear,” Astyral said as he took a seat, sipping carefully from a silver goblet.  “I do wish Minalan would craft one for me, but you were always his favorite,” he observed, enviously.

“I prefer a more martial presentation,” Azar said, good-naturedly.  “If the sight of the thing doesn’t strike terror in the hearts of your foes . . .”

“It’s a whopping great long magical silver cock,” Astyral pointed out.  “That might not make you uncomfortable to consider as a weapon, but for some of us—”

Arborn looked a little uncomfortable at the discussion, so Pentandra quickly changed it.  “So what did you gentlemen want to discuss?” she asked, lightly, as she reclined on a well-cushioned chair.  “The court cases?”

“What?  No, no, old business,” Azar said, shaking his head.  “No, this is older business – or newer, if you prefer.  We want to discuss the war,” he explained.

“The one currently in abeyance, thanks to that . . . treaty,” Astyral continued, pronouncing the word with distaste and not bothering to hide his contempt for the useless document.  “We all know that agreement won’t do a damned thing to stop the scrugs.  Nor will the king do much in response to a violation . . . not while the problem is contained to Alshar.”

“North Gilmora has been ravaged, too, don’t forget,” Pentandra pointed out.

“Oh, I could not forget that,” Astyral said, shaking his head sadly.  “Lovely place.  But Rard considers it an acceptable loss in exchange for peace.”

“Peace!” snorted Azar, skeptically.  “There is no peace.  The scrugs are just preparing for the next wave of the invasion.  And we are decidedly not,” he added, judgmentally.  “Anguin can throw rebellious Wilderlords into the Iron Band all he likes, but they won’t do any better against the foe than they did earlier in the war,” he predicted.  “The Band might slow them down, but it couldn’t do much more than that.”

“Nor is Tudry or its dependents ready,” agreed Astyral.  “We can protect our immediate holdings – for a while – but if Sheruel unleashed his hordes on us we couldn’t last more than a few weeks.  And there is no one – no one! – who would ride to our aid if we needed it.”

“There is unlikely to be anyone who could do anything even if they could,” Arborn pointed out.

“Of that, we are all too aware,” nodded Astyral, philosophically, as he sipped his wine.  “We were hoping Anguin had returned with an army at his back, but . . .”

“He’s trying,” Pentandra urged.  “He really is.  While the garrison here is more gallows fruit than gallant, Count Salgo is starting to train some local militia and organize the palace’s defenses better.”

“Too little by far,” Azar said, shaking his head.  “Oh, he means well, I understand.  But when he barely can hold Vorone, much less defend it, seeking his aid while we are under siege by ten thousand goblins doesn’t sound particularly effective.”

“And if Vorone were attacked, it’s unlikely he could even hold it,” Astyral agreed.  “I like the lad, I really do.  And I like Salgo.  He’s always been friendly to us.  But if we’re going to be more than sacrificial victims in the next war, we’re going to need a better plan than that.”

“What would you suggest?” Pentandra said, biting her tongue about the politics of the day.  “Armies don’t grow on trees.  Human ones, at least.  Salgo is drilling some of the refugees already,” she pointed out.  “They can earn up to a penny a day for guard training.  And we’re talking about a general weapontake,” she added.

“Militias with spears aren’t going to hold the gurvani at bay,” Azar said doubtfully.  “We need warriors.  Infantry and cavalry.  Good ones.  A lot of them.”

“We need more than that,” Astyral countered.  “Look, I understand how the court wants to focus their efforts and energy on the restoration, Penny – I do.  With everything going into the chamberpot for so long, we’re desperate for some sense of order and normalcy.

“That being said,” he continued, pouring more wine, “normalcy is not going to happen.  The Alshari Wilderlands have lost too much.  The old families are decimated, and whatever yeomen are left are scattered and unorganized.  Relying on old feudal concepts to raise an army just isn’t going to work here, anymore.  Not if it's tied to the old regime,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

“Then there’s the issue of where to actually put an army if we had one,” Azar continued, amused.  “The few castles left in the north are bulging.  There are only a half-dozen worthy of the name, in truth, but they are stuffed with refugees.  The rest of the old fortresses are captured or in ruins.”

“Castles aren’t the only places to put an army,” Arborn pointed out.

“We’re not talking about Kasari, who can live off of tree bark and wholesome thoughts, Captain,” Astyral said without malice.  “If we’re going to present a credible obstacle to the gurvani, we’re going to need infantry.  Cavalry.  Artillery.  And a magical corps.  Not to mention provision and supply.”

“All of which takes a functioning government and economy,” Pentandra countered.  “And that’s precisely what we’re working on!  What would you have us do, Astyral?” she asked, pointedly.

The Gilmoran sighed and stared into space for a moment.  “Build,” he replied, simply, after some thought.  “We don’t have castles.  We don’t have enough jobs.  Build some castles,” he shrugged.  “It will give the peasants something to do.”

“The peasants have plenty to do, just getting a crop in for the year,” Azar said, shaking his head.  “But you could put some of those refugees out there to work.”

“Castles are expensive,” Arborn said, doubtfully.  “The duchy has little spare funds, right now.”

The Kasari had a low opinion of Narasi fortifications.  They just didn’t see the stout walls and grand keeps as particularly secure.  Most trained Kasari could ford a moat, scale a wall, and sneak into one with little problem.  The way that the Narasi Wilderlords had used their stone forts to make war on his people had made castles and towers a sign of oppression.

“Funerals are expensive, too,” Azar said, bluntly.  “And taxes are damnably hard to collect from dead peasants.  This town desperately needs some sort of fortification, for instance,” he said, shaking his head.  “It’s shocking how lax the defenses of Vorone are.  A couple of good watchtowers, a central keep, and Anguin wouldn’t have to worry much about riots or invaders.”

“Just dragons,” Astyral pointed out.  “And that wouldn’t be all.  The north needs a real citadel, not these crude little forts.  Something like Darkfaller,” he said, a gleam in his eye.

Darkfaller castle had been instrumental in Castal’s conquest of Gilmora, and like most of his countrymen Astyral had a grudging respect for the place.  “Something grand, big, hardened, and tough as old leather to crack.”

“That’s far more than the duchy’s resources could bear, right now,” Pentandra said, diplomatically.  “Even if we did have the funds, it would take years to build.”

“The Hesians could do it,” Azar pointed out.  “I had a couple of Carmella’s folk come to Megelin to do some repairs.  They did a season’s worth of work on my southern wall in four days,” he said, impressed.  “I’m not a great admirer of defensive fortifications, mind, but with the new enhancements coming out of Sevendor, Carmella has managed to speed up construction time.  Dramatically.”

“We saw what she can do when she constructed the pele towers,” agreed Pentandra.  “No doubt she could do . . . something.  Perhaps strengthen the palace, perhaps she could construct a small refuge keep . . . but the expense . . .”

“No one worries about the expense of the wall once there is an enemy on the other side,” noted Azar.

“This is a major public construction project you’re proposing,” moaned Pentandra.  “Even with Carmella’s help, it will cost thousands . . .”

“Then raise some taxes,” suggested Astyral.  “Trygg knows I could squeeze some more out of Tudry and our vassals.  And there are other resources in the Wilderlands.  The money will be there,” he promised.

“It’s also a matter of political will,” she sighed.  “The court is currently split between those who wish to immediately confront the south and go after the rebels, led by the Sea Lords, and those who want to ignore the south and pretend that Alshar stops at the Narrows.  Even the latter party would take a lot of convincing to dedicated themselves to a project that size.  The only lord who has any kind of sway over the lords around here is Count Marcadine, and he’s still cautious about Anguin’s reign.”

“Then convince His Grace to re-order the north, as he proposed,” Azar suggested.  “But truly re-order it, not just give it a coat of whitewash and pretend it’s new.  If the current system is broken beyond repair, create a new one.  But get those damn castles built, or all the wildflower festivals in the world won’t save us from Sheruel’s wrath.”

They continued to argue in a friendly fashion for several hours, interspersing their lively conversation about policy with rumors and gossip about people they knew in the profession.

The antics of Minalan were, of course, a popular topic.  Each of the magi owed the Spellmonger a debt, not just for elevating them to High Mage status by granting them each a shard of irionite, but by supporting them afterwards and keeping the magi, as a profession, somewhat united in the face of a changing world.  The astonishing results of last autumn’s magical fare were still on everyone’s mind – the incredibly useful devices and artifacts that Sevendor was beginning to produce had implications that all of them could see.

Not all of them were positive.

“I’ve heard that the Duke of Castal – the new duke of Castal – isn’t as pleased with Min as one would imagine,” Astyral said, at one point.  “Did he do something to piss the little brat off?”

“Showed him up at hawking,” Pentandra answered.  “He took Lenodara – Dara – and that monster falcon of hers to a royal hunt.  The Prince lost a bet to him over it.  Then he got humiliated by Min at the frontier, which is why he’s on house arrest, now.”

“Considering every mage in the world wants to show up on his doorstep, I don’t know how much that will annoy Min,” Astyral noted.  “Even that delicious little morsel from Timberwatch has been hanging around Sevendor . . .”

“Isily?” supplied Azar, surprised.

“Isily, that’s it – even she’s haunting Sevendor, I hear.  And she’s a shadowmage!” he chuckled.  “You’d never think they’d be that interested in base enchantment, but Min has really caught everyone’s attention over his advances.”

That was news that made Pentandra anxious, though Astyral delivered it casually enough.  Not Minalan’s impressive talent for innovation and thaumaturgy – she was well aware of that.

But Isily was another story.

Isily was worrisome, for a number of reasons.  For one thing she was firmly the tool of Queen Grendine, a trained assassin who plied her hidden dagger in the service of the Family.  That made her dangerous enough.

But she was also a shadowmage, elevated to High Mage status as a direct result of a bribe Minalan had paid the Queen.  While Isily had been helpful in the fateful battle of Timberwatch, Pentandra also strongly suspected that it had been she who had cast the spell that ensured that Anguin would become an orphan.

The idea of such a dangerous creature in Minalan’s orbit made Pentandra worry for her friend.  But she didn’t want to share her concerns with her colleagues, largely to protect Minalan’s privacy.

Few were aware of how intimate he and Isily were at Timberwatch, and before. Fewer still knew or even suspected that the pretty shadowmage had borne a child from that union, and raised her in secret, away off in Wenshar, to the east.  Isily was a cunning and devious mage, as all shadowmagi tended to be, but she compounded that cunning with the authority she had indirectly from the queen and her recent marriage to the doltish wizard Master – no, he was a magelord, now, she reminded herself – Dunselen, former Castali Ducal Court Wizard.

It was a good match, on parchment.  She was young, pretty, and well-connected, he was older, mature, and landed, thanks to a string of magically-enabled conquests.  The King had even elevated them both to the peerage.

It was Baroness Isily who stalked Baron Minalan, now, and Pentandra had no doubt that Isily meant to cuckold her husband with Min.  Minalan, Trygg bless his dopey masculine heart, would have little resistance to the attractive mage, despite his deep and abiding love for his wife.  He was just that way.  And it was in Isily’s nature to take advantage of a powerful man in a weakened state.

Pentandra had always been wary of the girl, even before she’d met Minalan.  Back at Alar Academy she must have been working for Grendine, Pentandra realized.  But she had become a power in her own right, after Timberwatch.  Pentandra also suspected that Isily had an unhealthy obsession with Minalan.

She could understand wanting to bed a man in exchange for a witchstone – she’d do it herself, if she’d had to – but Isily’s fascination went far beyond simple self-interest.  Or even political maneuvering.  Pentandra couldn’t imagine Grendine being deep enough to arrange the kind of schemes that Isily was clearly a part of.  The Queen might be ambitious to the extreme, but she did not have a wizard’s subtlety.

No, Pentandra was fairly certain that Isily had designs on her poor friend the Spellmonger.  Ever since their last encounter at Sevendor’s Magic Fair the idea haunted her that Isily had plans for Minalan.

The very thought made Pentandra seethe silently while she listened to the news.

“Don’t sell her – or her idiot husband – short, Azar,” Astyral chided.  “He’s an utter bore, and worse since he reclaimed his patrimony, but he’s brilliant, in his way.  He’s trying to reconstruct the spell that Min used to make that beautiful white mountain of his.  He wrote to me, a few months ago, asking for advice on the subject.  Very intriguing theory, actually,” Astyral conceded.  “‘Birth magic’.  Not something you see every day.  I read his thaumaturgical analysis, and I have to admit, it seems sound.”

“She’s the one I worry about, though,” Azar decided.  “Everyone knows Dunselen is an idiot.  But Isily?  She’s smart – too smart to be doing anything than using the old coot for position,” he predicted, skeptically.  “I know her sort.”

“Yes, and he’s using her for something else,” Astyral said, naughtily.  “I can’t say I blame him – Isily is quite fair,” he said with an indulgent smile.  “I’ve been considering taking a wife myself, and I had to admire his taste when I found out.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want her – trust me,” Pentandra assured her friends.  “I went to Alar with her.  She’s pretty but she isn’t . . . particularly loyal,” she decided.  “On a personal basis.  The queen is another matter, of course.”

“In any case,” Astyral continued, blithely, “Min is doing some impressive work – as your pretty little stick attests.  That is some powerful magic, there,” he nodded, reverently.

“It’s lovely,” Pentandra admitted, looking at the baculus with something akin to affection.  “I call it Everkeen.  It makes the simple spells so much easier.  Min put a paracletion spell in it, and I don’t have to do more than think what I want before it’s done.”

“Amazing,” Astyral nodded.  “Hopefully he’ll get around to make each of us one.  Until then, I’ll have to get along with old fashioned irionite, charm and envy.”

“I’d prefer a mageblade, myself,” Azar sniffed.  He found wands and staves effete, if Pentandra remembered correctly.   “Hopefully Master Cormoran can adapt the enchantments to something more worthy for battle.”

“Everkeen isn’t a weapon,” Pentandra corrected.  “It’s a powerful thaumaturgical baculus.  The first of many, I hope.”

“I do, too,” Astyral agreed.  “If we all had such tools, we wouldn’t need peasants for labor, and building castles would be easy.”

“Easy might be overstating the problem,” Arborn said, shaking his head.  “I saw what went into the pele towers.  Even with magic it still took time and many hands, not to mention a small mountain of stone.”

“Excuse me, Mistress,” came a young voice from the door.  “Would you like for me to turn your bed down before I retire?”

Pentandra looked up, startled.  It was starting to get late, she realized: the sky outside of the window was dark now.  “Thank you, Alurra; I’ll see to it myself.  Gentlemen, may I present my new apprentice, Alurra.  Alurra, these are Astyral and Azar, two magelords of great power and supreme importance.”

“You forgot devilishly handsome,” reminded Astyral.  “When did you get an apprentice, Pentandra?  I was startled enough to learn you had a husband.  A pleasure to meet you, Alurra,” he added, graciously.

Pentandra was pleased to see the girl execute a passable curtsey.  “The pleasure is mine, Magelord.  If there’s nothing else . . . uh, Mistress?  Does that mean . . .?”

“Yes, you can stay, Alurra,” Pentandra sighed.  “At least until the end of the summer, long enough to decide whether I can teach you or not.  It will be a lot of hard work, but if you’re willing so am I.”

The girl’s face brightened.  “Really?  Oh, thank you, Mistress!”

“Now off to bed,” Pentandra insisted.  “We have a full day tomorrow.  And many more after that.”

After Alurra left, Azar gave Pentandra a searching look.  “Was it my mistake, or is that girl blind?”

“She is,” Pentandra agreed.

“And you’re planning to teach her magic?  When she can’t read?”

“Plenty of illiterates managed to learn magic over the years, Azar,” chided Astyral.  “Some even pass the exams.”

“Yes, wild magi,” snorted Azar.  “I can’t imagine our Penny training one!”

“It will be a challenge,” agreed Pentandra.  “But one worth attempting.  The girl has already proven useful, and she has Talent in abundance.  She’s already a passable brown mage,” she added.

“Ah, yes, that explains the raven,” nodded Azar.  “That makes sense, actually.  Where was I?  Oh, there was one last thing I wanted to bring to your attention, while we were here,” the warmage said, casually refilling his wine glass.  “Not to alarm you, but three of our patrols have come under attack on the edge of the Penumbra in the last few weeks since the thaw.”

“That’s not particularly unusual,” Arborn said, confused.  “Doesn’t that happen often?”

“With gurvani, yes,” agreed Azar.  “But thrice, now, our men have been beset by the undead.  Walking corpses that keep fighting long after you’ve dealt them a killing blow.  Yet they fight as well as the men they were, before some necromancer got a hold of them.”

“Well, making undead isn’t exactly novel,” Pentandra pointed out.  The spells to raise a corpse to a semblance of life were just as complicated as, say, conjuring an elemental.  The effect was temporary, and lasted only as long as the decomposing body maintained its integrity, but if a warmage needed spear fodder on the battlefield, it was a quick expediency.

“Normal undead, true,” Azar reflected.  “But these were not normal thaumaturgical undead.  They reacted with far more speed and cunning than I’ve ever seen in one before.  Their eyes glow red.  They are even capable of speech, though they don’t have much to say.”

“That is horrifying,” Pentandra agreed.  “I take it the gurvani priests are refining their spells?”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Azar nodded.  “But when I did a brief thaumaturgical assay, the signature wasn’t scrug magic.  It was Alka Alon.”

“Alka Alon magic?” Pentandra asked, astonished.  The Alka Alon were supposed to be the allies of the human race against the gurvani.

“Of a strange sort, but decidedly Alkan,” he agreed.  “It’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.  We captured a few of the vicious bastards, and while they proved unreliable for intelligence, the spells seem to last an obscenely long time compared to what we can manage.   They call themselves ‘draugen’, and speak of the Necromancer, but that’s the extent of their conversation.  Two of them are still active in my dungeons. The others expired over time, but in the course of weeks, not hours.”

Most undead couldn’t be sustained longer than half a day – before irionite.  Even with irionite it was reportedly unusual for a necromancer to achieve the effect for more than a few hours.

“I didn’t think the Alka Alon used . . . necromancy,” Arborn said, concerned, as he tried the unusual word in his mouth.

“They don’t,” Pentandra agreed.  “Or, at least the ones we deal with don’t.   But there has been a rumor floating around that some old evil has been awakened in the Mindens.  I have heard that Korbal the Demon God was freed from his prison.  That myth has some credence, from what the Alka Alon have told me.”

“It does,” Arborn assured her, gravely.  “And he has been, from what I can tell.  Ill news,” he added, before continuing to puff on his pipe.

“Ah, that would explain it, then,” Azar grunted.  “And it would also explain why those undead draugen were so insidiously tough.  They are guided by some powerful dark force, that much is certain.  It could very well be Alka Alon in nature.  The draugen, they barely had the ability to speak or react to human beings when questioned, but they certainly reacted to the one they called Olum Danishan.”

“Who is that?” asked Pentandra, curious.

“Apparently it’s an old gurvani phrase,” Astyral answered, conversationally.  “For The Necromancer.”

Chapter Twenty

Trouble Brewing

Pentandra had little time over the next few days to pay much attention to the aftermath of the Battle of the Dogs and Rats, as the street minstrels were calling the episode.  With the opening of her office and the training of her staff she found herself with little time do much other than contend with her new duties.  She had a new apprentice to introduce to her life, too, with little idea of how to accomplish that.

That was just as well, she decided - something about having Sir Vemas and Arborn in the same place, at the same time, concerned her.  It was not as if she had encouraged Sir Vemas’ attentions, but neither had she discouraged them.  The fact that Arborn did not seem a highly jealous man almost made the situation worse.  Burying herself in work was preferable, Pentandra concluded, to wallowing in anxiety and uncertainty.

There was plenty to occupy her attention.

She spent a day apiece with each of her new officers, going over their duties and her expectations of them . . . and heard their list of requirements to perform those duties.  In some cases it was as simple as authorizing purchase of parchment, ink and quills, while in other cases generations of custom and procedure better suited to brighter days had to be dealt with.

It was frustrating - far more frustrating than she let on to her subordinates or her new apprentice.  Only in the quiet of her bedchamber, late at night, did she reveal her feelings to Arborn.  Mostly he just stared back, helplessly, as she related all of her problems to him, though he occasionally offered unhelpful but entertaining suggestions involving ropes.

After his extended journey he had a few days in Vorone while he attended to his own official duties, and for a brief period that late winter they enjoyed a peaceful existence.  Without his men living upstairs, their relationship was less strained.  Better, Pentandra was relieved that their old passions, forged in the forests of Kasar, were still strong after her flirtation with Sir Vemas.

And better, she decided, now that her husband wasn’t nearly as nervous as he had been on their wedding night. Though he still lacked the subtle skill of a seasoned lover, his strength, need, and passion were more than sufficient to remind Pentandra of the joys of married life.

But in the morning, the stacks of parchment were still lurking there, on her desk.

Arborn was between missions, but they both knew that he would be sent off again, and soon, as the dictates of his office required.  As Master of Wood he had duties he could not delegate, and as unofficial ambassador to the Kasari he had to show himself amongst the Narasi yeoman he ostensibly commanded, or they would be hard to govern.

While he was in Vorone, he had command over both his Kasari rangers and the more sinister “Wood Owls” who had joined the Woodsmen’s’ struggle against the remains of the Rat Crew.  After Bloodfinger and Opilio died in the bloody street battle, the few thugs from either camp who’d escaped were being ruthlessly hunted down, something Arborn’s half-dozen odd Kasari seemed to delight in.

With Sir Vemas’ guidance the rangers were roaming the streets from twilight to dawn, garbed in long gray cloaks and feathered masks in the guise of owls, their great bows concealed underneath.  Arborn had them shadowing the Woodsmen, who were patrolling the dark streets of Vorone at night, picking off the Rats they’d missed - and any enterprising independent operators who might have arisen in their absence.  The Crew might have lost strength in the center of town, but there were still footpads and thieves aplenty.

The Duke was pleased, as were the folk of the Merchant and Docks wards.  Having the Woodsmen visibly patrol in their strange gear served as both a warning to the Crew and a sign to the townsfolk that a new master ruled the night.

But eventually Arborn would depart again.  Likely for even longer, now that the roads were clear of snow.  And then she would be alone again.  She knew all of this . . . but it was still damn inconvenient that her husband disappeared for days at a time when she needed him here.

If her morning hours were spent untangling the business of her office, her afternoons were spent in service of the wider business of the court.  Every day she seemed to have a meeting with a minister or a secretary or some other official who thought she could bring her powers to bear on their problems.  Usually she had to politely say no.  Few outside of her profession understood enough about how magic worked - and how it didn’t - to appreciate what it could and couldn’t do.

If it wasn’t a business occasion, it was a semi-social one in which business actually occurred.  Her regular meetings with the Duke and Father Amus, for instance, were usually conducted over a game or some other social activity.  While Father Amus preferred the dreadfully boring game of Rushes, the Duke preferred chess - her favorite.  She enjoyed those meetings as much for Anguin’s boyish enthusiasm and Father Amus’ dry wit as she did for her exposure to her liege.

But too often she found herself at something like the Palace Maidens’ Weekly Tea . . . which had little tea and fewer maidens involved.

Ostensibly the Tea was supposed to inform and instruct the junior ladies of the court on their duties and matters of etiquette, but the event had long ago become the domain of the senior women in the court meeting without male intrusion to exchange gossip and information. The regular meeting was once a routine part of the late Duchess’ schedule, but as there was no Duchess at the moment, Viscountess Threanas had taken over administering the women-only affair.

All the noblewomen of the palace saw the weekly event as an opportunity to show off to their peers and gossip about their betters, and invitations to the event were highly coveted . . . by everyone but Pentandra.  She had skipped the first few because of her distance from the palace and her other duties, but she could only delay her attendance so long.  Eventually Threanas made a point of insisting she attend.

The old noblewoman explained: “This tea isn’t mere hoary tradition, my dear, it has purpose.  Once a week Her Grace enjoyed the opportunity to speak to her ladies candidly, without male ears around,” she confided.  “She was of the opinion that some subjects - and some matters - needed the exclusive attention of femininity.”

“Like temple donations?” Pentandra had asked, blankly.

“Like which courtier is sleeping with which other courtier’s wife,” answered Threanas, grumpily.  “I had my problems with Her Grace, Trygg rest her soul, but she did not tolerate the kind of open promiscuity known to occur at some other courts.”  While she didn’t come out and accuse the Remerans of such vices, the way she looked at Pentandra told her all she needed to know about her cultural prejudices.

That didn’t bother Pentandra.  She was getting used to the prudish descendants of Narasi barbarians acting superior about where they stuck their naughty bits, and she found their misguided and misinformed opinions about the descendants of Imperial society amusing.

“I hadn’t realized that we’d been here long enough for actual affairs to have commenced,” Pentandra reflected, in a last-ditch effort to escape the event.

“There will be,” Threanas promised, crossly.  “And when they do happen, it will be largely up to us to deal with the aftermath.  That was one reason why Her Grace kept a tight rein during her reign.  Especially on the pretty little ingénues and coquettes every pipsqueak knight in the north or ratty Sealord from the south sent to court to seek a noble match.   Rarely did they manage to find Trygg’s temple without frequent stops at Ishi’s,” she said, disapprovingly.  “Hence the Ladies’ Tea.  If there were affairs going on, Her Grace was insistent that they remain hidden and discreet, and not rise to scandal and thus affect the workings of the court.”

“Oh, I quite agree,” Pentandra said - much to the Viscountess’ surprise.

“You do?”

“Oh, of course!  Clearly the system works - I’ve yet to hear of any of your own affairs at court,” Pentandra said, mildly.

The elderly Viscountess fixed her with a steely stare.

“One would see that as an endorsement of the practice, is all, which might lead to a confusing message.” Pentandra assured.  “Well done!”

She didn’t mean a word of it, of course - the ancient noblewoman was as chaste as a nun.  More, if Sister Saltia’s lusty confessions after a few glasses of wine were any indication.  The implication that the old bat might actually have anything but cobwebs under her skirts clearly made her uncomfortable . . . and so Pentandra naturally latched on to the idea and included it in her social arsenal.

It was fun teasing her for a few weeks on the periphery of court, but eventually Pentandra realized that the old bag was correct.  The Ladies’ Tea was the quiet, unassuming hotbed of palace gossip about any number of things, and she was missing a valuable opportunity to gather intelligence on her potential social rivals at court by skipping them.

The senior ladies in the court almost always attended.  Viscountess Threanas was the senior hostess, but Sister Saltia, Lady Lasmet (the tipsy old maid in charge of Tariffs & Tribute) and Lady Bertine, the court’s scribe, were also usually present to share their views and pass causal judgments on the palace denizens. There were often three to five other ladies of standing and position who got invited to the Tea, but they tended to sit at a smaller table than the regular attendees.  They enjoyed the notoriety and social standing the invitation brought them, but the real business of the Tea was done at the high table.

Sister Saltia, surprisingly enough, was in favor of Pentandra attending.  The nun had not quite abandoned her clerical restraint and embraced the decadence of court, but she had indulged in enjoying her lofty position and the prerogatives it carried.

“You can sometimes find a decent game of dice, among the younger ladies,” she confided to Pentandra.  “I take two or three ounces of silver from them in our friendly little games.  And the sweet buns are outstanding,” she assured, with the sort of reverence only a priestess could manage.  “The palace cook really makes an effort for the Tea.”

Pentandra approached the event as an unpleasant obligation tied to her position, but she soon began to look forward to the meetings.  A surprising amount of important business was conducted there, as well, in the absence of men who felt nothing could be decided without their opinions.  Despite the veiled insults and false flattery that flew constantly across the room at the Tea, the atmosphere was generally friendly and congenial.

But only after a proper amount of gossip.

Lately the discussion had been about Duke Anguin’s chances of taking a wife - a topic Threanas insisted was far too early to discuss.

“Those who would see him wed while still a lad are shortsighted.  A man likes a few years of bachelorhood and errantry, to explore himself,” she pointed out, during Pentandra’s first foray into the Tea.  “My late husband was unwed for six years after his knighthood, and only chose to take me to wife because of my figure,” she assured.  “Let the lad have some fun,” she suggested.  “All too soon he’ll be married, and the character of court will change.  The Duchy will be better served if the Duke is happy with his life.”

“Besides, who would make a beneficial match?” asked Lady Bertine.  “None of the noble houses in the south are available, and a match with a Castali bride would be looked upon askance at the moment.”

“What about Remere?” asked Sister Saltia.  “Is it not full of dusky maidens?” She looked right at Pentandra, of course.  As the token Remeran of the group, it was assumed she had intimate knowledge of the great houses and noble families, which was laughable.  She knew about the great magic dynasties among her people, but apart from her own family’s feudal obligations, she knew very little of the Remeran court.

“To what end?” Pentandra shrugged.  “A political alliance seems pointless, now that the Kingdom puts all three of the duchies under one sovereignty.  Unless Anguin wants lands in Remere, which I doubt, there is little advantage to that.”

“Then who?” asked Saltia, rolling her dice between her hands.  “The lad can’t remain a bachelor forever!”

“Why not leave it up to the gods?” Pentandra replied.  “Allow Ishi to determine Anguin’s path, instead of deciding what would be best for him?”

“His Grace has not that luxury,” Threanas said, shaking her head.  “He must wed and produce an heir, else the duchy will fall to ruin.”

“But he doesn’t have to wed this year,” Pentandra stressed.  “Or the next.  Let him build a proper home for a bride to come to, and not force his hand.”

“Our wizard is quite right,” Threanas pronounced, approvingly.  “The advantages of an unwed duke are manifold.  The possibility of his nuptials actually serves us better than if he were to actually wed.  As we have damn few other resources,” she added with a grunt, “let us not squander one of the few we possess.  The lad is handsome enough . . . his sire and dame gave him that, at least.”

After that the discussion inevitably went to how handsome, vigorous, and virtuous Anguin was, with increasingly lurid speculation by the younger ladies of his potential prowess.  No one could claim to have personal experience with the subject, as of yet. Pentandra was reasonably certain the lad wasn’t a virgin - his brief and inglorious stint on the Castali jousting circuit would have cured that.  If Anguin was conducting an affair of his own, he was doing so with the utmost secrecy with someone who was utterly silent about the fact.

Anguin’s prospects became a regular topic of the Tea, as the weeks went by, and novel suggestions about how to pair the boy off were always flying at the event.  But today the Duke’s love life was not the focus of the discussion at the Tea.

Lady Pleasure and her abrupt appearance at court was.

“‘Lady Pleasure’, indeed!” snorted Threanas. “That old hag has been haunting Vorone since Anguin’s grandsire sat on the throne!  I recall her being presented to court: pretty, but completely vapid.  No sense of business, no sense of propriety.  There were rumors she even had an affair with Lenguin, in his youth -- if it did happen, no doubt it was over before she realized it, from what Her Grace Enora had to say!” she cackled.  The late Duke Lenguin’s marital shortcomings were well-known throughout the palace.

“Baroness Amandice -- Dowager Baroness,” Lady Bertine corrected.  “As if being married to a sot for eighteen months is enough to bear the title, after all these years!”

“Have you not heard what she’s done?” asked Lady Lasmet in a hushed and scandalized tone.  “She’s taken in a whole mob of peasant wenches, and converted her lovely old home into . . . a bordello!” she whispered in horror and delight.  “It’s on the Street of Perfume - I get my hair done a few blocks from there, the palace girls never seem to get it right.”

“Oh, I know of the place,” Lady Bertine agreed, shaking her head in sad condemnation.  “It’s out where the courtiers keep their mistresses, or used to.  A bordello, you say?”

That captured Pentandra’s attention.  A handsome widow who just wanted to help her duke and curry favor was one thing, but suddenly Pentandra saw the entire proceeding at court the other night in a new light.  Lady Pleasure, she realized, had a greater purpose in her introduction.

“Oh, yes, the House of Flowers, she calls it,” Lady Bertine said, shaking her head with shame.  “She had it painted gaudily, and she parades her . . . girls around town, all in matching outfits.”

“Well, that’s better than the average whore,” the Viscountess said, wrinkling her nose.  “The way some of them strut about so indecently . . .

“Oh, none of her girls are like that,” assured Lady Bertine, who seemed to have far more information about the place than a woman in her position should.  “They dress demurely, I suppose.  But attractively.  Nor are they like the other whores.  They flirt with every man equally, whether a lord or a churl.  They never fight with each other, or the other whores of the street.  And they are far more respectful to proper women than their peers.”

“If she’s running a bawdy house,” Threanas said, distastefully, “at least she runs it well.  But that is not sufficient to warrant standing at court.  At least in better days,” she added, wistfully.

“I wouldn’t think such a place would thrive in an environment like Vorone,” Pentandra offered.  “I mean, perhaps in the old days . . . but with so many . . . talented amateurs in town . . .”

“Oh, there are men who are quite willing to pay extra, if they have the coin for extra,” Threanas said, firmly.  “Thirty years, I’ve been at court in Vorone and Falas.  Believe me, ladies, I’ve seen it all.  While any woman will do for most men, the ones with money and power want more than a simple tumble.  If they can’t seduce the wives of their fellow courtiers -- or don’t want to go to the trouble -- then for the right price a man can be treated like a king of the savages in such a place!” she condemned.

“I’m less concerned about her commercial strategy than her political one,” Pentandra said, quietly.  “Why would she want to make such a bold introduction into court, firstly . . . and why undertake such a thankless job as running the Spring Festival, for another?”

“Don’t you know?” Threanas asked, a sly grin coming to her thin old lips.  “The Spring Wildflower Festival is sacred to Ishi . . . and it’s the official beginning for the preparation of the court’s arrival from the south.  It’s also known - locally - as the last chance the local men will have at a decent priced whore before the court comes in, and prices go up.”

“Really?” Sister Saltia said, clasping the infinity symbol around her neck.  “Whores can raise their prices?  For . . .?”

“It’s like any other enterprise,” assured Lady Lasmet.  “From what I’ve heard,” she added, guiltily.  “But the Spring Wildflower Festival has traditionally been a . . . lusty affair.  The courtesans even sometimes perform for free - in honor of Ishi, they say,” she added, with a skeptical laugh.

“While that explains her interest, I suppose, it doesn’t explain her presentation,” Pentandra said, tapping her chin with her finger.  “She’s . . . up to something.   She has designs that I cannot see, yet.”

“We all have designs, my dear,” Lady Lasmet dismissed.  “Why, no one comes to court without seeking something!”

“I just wanted a job,” Pentandra admitted.  “But it seems as if I have a mission, instead.”

“You really think the Baroness is . . . scheming?” Threanas asked, more casually than she meant.  She caught Pentandra’s eye meaningfully.  The silent message was a simple, Is This A Threat?

“I’d wager my witchstone on it,” Pentandra agreed, suddenly, without any further evidence.  Her intuition was screaming at her.  “Did it not seem unusual that every man in the room seemed instantly captivated by her speech?” she pointed out.

“She’s a pretty woman,” Threanas countered.

“No, the four maids behind her were pretty – she’s a shadow of the beauty she no doubt was at sixteen,” Pentandra said, authoritatively.  “Yet it was her, not they, who bewitched every beard in the room.  Don’t you think that odd?”

“You think she used a spell?” Sister Saltia said, making the infinity sign over her breast.

“Or worse,” Pentandra decided.  “But it’s clear that the men in the court are not likely to look too closely at what she’s doing.  Which makes me wonder all the more what she is, in fact, doing.”

“Well, we must not allow that sort of thing to stand,” Threanas murmured, nodding.  “What do you propose we do about her, my dear?”

“In my opinion there is far more going on here than meets the eye . . . and it appears that I am the only one in a position to figure it out.  Which means I must gather some information, and directly from the source.”

“You mean . . .?” Saltia asked, in hushed tones.  The nun looked scandalized.  And excited.  Which did nothing to curb Pentandra’s sudden enthusiasm for the project.

“Ladies, it appears that my apprentice and I shall be visiting a brothel.”

Pentandra hadn’t intended to visit the Baroness’ new enterprise so soon, but over the course of the next few days she began noticing an alarming rise in the number of young, sweet-faced maidens within the palace.  Not the younger daughters of the local nobles, as was frequently the case at court, but exquisitely pretty maids from the House of Flowers.

They traveled in pairs to avoid the appearance of impropriety.  Yet that did not stop them from entrancing (and occasionally embracing) the men around them.   Over the course of a single day Pentandra happened upon several spontaneous expressions of romance.

She found one young pair of maids taking turns kissing a blushing young clerk near the Office of Lands and Estates.  It happened again when she discovered two girls and two eager courtiers entangled in a secluded stairwell . . . and again when she went in search of Sir Vemas, one morning, and found his secretary lustfully humping one girl in the Constable’s office while the other kept watch.

The young and handsome weren’t their only victims – the older, more mature members of court became maddeningly distracted by the soft, sweet-smelling smiles that seemed to linger around every corner.

The “maidens” all seemed to have legitimate errands regarding the Flower Festival, too, when Pentandra stopped and questioned them.  They were all excruciatingly polite.  Some were delivering messages, some were soliciting assistance from palace offices, some were passing reports and parchments to various departments. They had business in the palace, it was true.

But everywhere they went, male heads turned and female lips pursed uncomfortably.

Even the clergy were affected.  During her long report to Landfather Amus about the Rat’s riot in the Temple quarter during Briga’s Day, she had to re-direct his wandering attention repeatedly.  While he blamed it on his spiritual investment in the approach of plowing season, Pentandra noted a message from “Lady Pleasure” on his table (sealed with a gaudy-looking wildflower sigil), and could smell the lingering ghost of the perfume of the messengers in the air.

She sighed, disgustedly.

“They’ve been here, haven’t they?” she demanded, impatiently, of the Minister of Religion.

“What?  Who?” asked the old priest, confused.

“I don’t know their proper names,” Pentandra said, flatly, “but I’m guessing they’re pretty, respectful of your masculine dignity, and young enough to be your granddaughters!”

“I-I did receive a call from some of the townswomen this morning concerning the upcoming spring festival, but—”

“They might as well still be here, and sitting in your lap, for all the concentration you’ve displayed, Father,” Pentandra pointed out crossly.  “Not that reducing the power of organized criminal gangs in the capital is important, or anything . . .”

“Huin’s holy hoe, Lady Pentandra, I don’t know what’s come over me!” the old priest admitted, shaking his head guiltily.  “At first I thought it was just being back in Vorone again, after so many years away, and seeing Ishi’s glorious gift of Spring that ushers in Huin’s sacred reign.  But now that you mention it . . . those maidens were quite . . . uh, distracting,” he finished, embarrassed.

Pentandra studied the monk’s face closely.  “Father, would you mind if I cast a spell on you?” she asked.  “Nothing invasive, just a regular passive thaumaturgical essay,” she assured.  “No harm will come to you.”

“If you think it best,” he sighed.  “You are the Court Wizard.  But this means I get to pray over you, next time I think it would be helpful,” he added, a twinkle in his eye.  “Professional courtesy.”

Pentandra concentrated and whispered the mnemonic that summoned her baculus, and in moments Everkeen had spun a web of spells around the priest at her direction.

“Just as I suspected,” Pentandra informed him, shaking her head.  “You’ve been glamoured, Father.  Nothing serious, but nothing . . . properly arcane, either.”

The priest’s eyes opened wide.  “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that whatever it is, it isn’t a normal Imperial-style spell – something I could easily identify and remove.  Don’t worry, the effect is minimal,” she assured the startled priest.  “From what I can tell it merely makes you more suggestible . . . and unbearably randy, I’m afraid.  It’s subtle.  Without my baculus I don’t think I would have spotted it.  But this confirms my theory that something – someone – is working magic in Vorone without my knowledge or consent.”

“I would assume a great number of people are,” mused Father Amus.

“Perhaps without my direct knowledge,” conceded Pentandra, “but I’m aware that they are practicing.  This isn’t that sort of thing.  This isn’t a regular adept or spellmonger at work, or even a regular psychomancer.”

“You suspect the gurvani?” Amus asked, sharply.

“Always,” Pentandra answered as she continued studying Everkeen’s reports, “but this doesn’t seem to be their work, either.  Not with that thaumaturgical signature.  Certainly not directly.  I don’t think gurvani shamanic magic is equipped to deal with subtle human emotions like this - this isn’t fear, despair or terror at work, this is far subtler.”

“Then . . . what?  Who?” demanded Amus, anxiously.

“In my professional opinion?  This is more likely to be due to the individual Talent of a magical sport.  Someone who has exceptional Talent in one or two things, but who lacks the capacity to be a full-fledged mage,” she explained, when the old priest looked confused.  “Just what did those girls want with you, if I may ask?”

“Merely authorization to use the Temple Square to hold the festival,” shrugged Amus.  “That is what their message requested, rather politely.  That falls under my purview as Ducal Chaplain.  But that is something I would have gladly done without magical . . . persuasion,” he finished, uncomfortably.

“Of course,” Pentandra admitted, reluctantly.  “They didn’t try to get you to do anything else?  Or suggest anything else to you?”

“Oh, they mentioned the idea of holding a grand ball at the palace for the occasion, and I told them I thought it was a fine idea,” he said, after a moment’s thought.  “It is traditional that some sort of celebration at the palace follow the day’s festivities.  But we were merely conversing.  What is so sinister about a ball?” Amus asked

“One might ask the same about a tournament field,” Pentandra pointed out.  “It all depends upon who the players are, and what their ambitions might be.”

“And how far they will go to see them fulfilled,” murmured Amus, finally understanding the subtle danger in the glamour on him.  “Can you remove this spell?”

“Oh, certainly, with some study.  As I said, it’s a mere hypnotic enchantment.  It does you no direct harm.  Or even clouds your basic judgment – it’s not that strong of a spell.  But I think that I want to investigate a bit before I make the attempt.  You are clearly not the only one affected by this.”

Amus looked surprised.  “There have been others?”

“The court has its share of those gentlemen whose heads can be turned by a pretty ankle or a seductive smile,” she reflected.  “If it makes you feel better, Father, most have endured far more embarrassing slips than mere distraction,” Pentandra agreed.  “I am guessing they’ve been similarly infected with this glamour.

“But there’s only one way to be certain: visit the source.  I need to go to the Street of Perfume, find this Hall of Flowers, and meet this Lady Pleasure in her home to discuss the proprieties of court . . . one lady to another.”

“Are you certain you don’t want me to escort you?” Arborn teased, as she dressed.

“My husband?  Escorting me to a brothel?  What would Mother say?” she asked, mockingly, as she brushed her hair in front of her magical glass.

“I wouldn’t know,” Arborn replied, dryly.  “I’ve never met her.”

The words were said in jest, but there was some tension behind them, she could hear it in his voice.  Arborn had been curious about her family since they’d wed, but had thus far only met her cousin, Planus.  He was particularly interested in meeting her mother.  Pentandra was particularly interested in postponing that meeting as long as possible.  She could only imagine what horrendous bile her mother would concoct against her barbarian husband.

“When you do, she won’t be happy about it.  Which means she’ll make you unhappy about it.  And she certainly wouldn’t find the humor in us both visiting a brothel together.  She would do anything to avoid the scandal.  The servants would talk, she would say.”

“Is that why you don’t want me to go?  Your mother?”

“No, I don’t want you to go because I am a newly wedded wife jealous of my husband’s roaming eye around a hundred nubile, attractive young maidens who give Ishi’s Blessing as a regular service,” she replied.

“You don’t trust me?” he teased.

“You’re the most trustworthy man I know,” Pentandra acknowledged.  “But you’re still a man.  You have a cock.  And eyes.  The two together tend to ignore the dictates of your mind and conscience.”

“Pentandra!” protested her husband.  “I would never--

“Don’t tell me what you would or wouldn’t do, in a situation you have never been in, dealing with strange magic around strange whores,” Pentandra warned.  “I might not blame you for your interest, but without my protections you would be just as subject to the potential spells as anything with a sack.  I cannot do the work I need to if I have to keep my eye on you, all the time.  And if I did catch you with one of those little . . . girls,” she said, exercising a tremendous amount of control over her emotions, “. . . well, I’d hate to burn one to a crisp just because she caught your fancy.”

“‘The servants would talk’,” echoed Arborn with a chuckle.  “At least you’re honest.  But with a magnificent creature like you in my bed, my wife, how could I possibly gaze at another woman?  Mae sgowtiaid yn ffyddlon.”

“My husband, may Trygg bless you for your loyalty.  But where we’re going not even the virtuous can tread lightly,” she smirked.  “I wouldn’t trust a monk, there.  Quite literally. And I would caution your men against going there.”

“Wife, I can face a hundred goblins and not flinch!” he said, rolling over on the bed lazily.

“But could you face a hundred nubile young tits and not stare?” she replied, gently as she picked up her hairbrush.  “My dear naive husband, brothels are designed to entice the eye.  The good ones, at least.”

“And you know this . . . how, my wife?”

“Sex magic, remember?” she said, wiggling her behind at him while she brushed her hair.  “When I studied at Alar, I regularly visited a brothel called The Bluest Sky for research purposes.  It was one of the reasons I was later asked to transfer to Inrion.”

“Research?” he asked, skeptically.

“I was fifteen – no more than a maid.  You didn’t think I could do it all at that age, do you?  No, I bribed the madam of the house to let me observe.”

Arborn looked surprised.  “The clients allow such a thing?”

“The clients pay for such a thing,” she corrected.  “At The Bluest Sky each of the patrons wore a silken mask, but it was understood that others would be discreetly watching from squints in the walls.  It was far less exhausting than actually doing all of the work myself.”

“What an interesting life you have led, my wife,” Arborn reflected, after a moment’s silence.

“And it just keeps getting more so,” she sighed, putting down the brush.  “The truth is, husband, I don’t know what to expect.  Is she merely a crafty old whore seeking to promote her enterprise at court?  From what I felt the other night, there is more to her than that.  The place almost crackled with magic.  Astyral and Azar felt it, too, as did any with Talent and the wit to see it.  No, that was a glamour of some sort she cast.  Or one of her whores did.  That is why I don’t want you to escort me.”

“Aren’t you worried you will become subject to the spell?” he asked, curious.

“I don’t think it will be an issue,” Pentandra shrugged.  “While the men were captivated, the women were put into a state of . . . call it anxious envy.  It was strange, even for magic.  Some sort of Psychomancy, perhaps, triggered by the male sexual response.  Which is why you, my husband, are staying here.”

“But . . . but I’ve never been to a brothel before!” he said, pouting mockingly.

“You aren’t missing much,” she shrugged.  “Just a bunch of pretty young women willing to take off their clothes and pleasure you in any way possible for money.  Usually surrounded by tasteful art, beautiful music, incredible food, fine spirits and wines, that sort of thing.”

“And you have to pay for that?  When you can get it at home?” he asked, amused.  “You Narasi are so odd!”

“I am no Narasi,” she reminded him, pulling her mantle over her shoulders.  “But we have brothels, too.  Hells, we perfected brothels, according to my mother.  But it is you Kasari who are odd.  I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed another culture completely devoid of brothels.  Or prostitution.”

“Our girls wouldn’t like that,” her husband grunted.

“Oh, I know,” she assured him.  “Most women cannot stand the idea of whores around them.  Unreasonable competition for attention.  Considering how well your girls shoot, I can’t imagine a brothel in Kasar or Braunsei ever prospering.”

The Kasari had a highly conservative culture, sexually speaking.  Most Kasari were virgins until they were wed.  She had never asked Arborn point-blank if that was the case for him, but she assumed it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Are you ready, Mistress?” came Alurra’s polite voice from the door.

“Nearly,” she nodded.  “You and your pigeon can wait downstairs for me, and if you can flag down a castellan to send word to equip a carriage for us . . .”

The girl smiled, nodded, and disappeared.  In the few days she’d been at the palace she had done amazingly well in learning her way around, and with the help of Lucky she was able to deftly navigate the corridors of the confusing place.  When she and her bird got confused, it didn’t hurt that she had a pretty face under that untended hair.  The guards and the castellans always seemed eager to point her in the right direction, Pentandra had observed.

In terms of magic she had been equally impressive – and disappointing, in equal measures.  While Pentandra had never had her own apprentice before, she had borrowed one of Minalan’s for a time.  She had been responsible for young Lenodara’s introduction into the arcane art, and the two girls were similar in many ways.  Both had quick minds, bright imaginations, powerful measures of Talent, and a particular natural facility for Brown Magic, the ability to use magic with animals.

But while Dara had been both curious and cautious, Alurra was bold and complacent.  Her previous work with the mysterious witch Old Antimei had given her a far different introduction to spellwork than Dara – or Pentandra, for that matter.  Pentandra had learned the Art as an academic student, not as an apprentice.  There were differences in approach, she was realizing, that were difficult to bridge.

Alurra’s sightlessness compounded the challenge.  At this point in her education, most students would be reading voraciously.  Alurra had proven that she knew her alphabet and numbers in theory, but she could not read them.  Which meant she could not read and study the way other students of Imperial magic did . . . or visualize the spells in the same way.

How did you practice magic without magesight, for instance?  That question had plagued her in the few lessons she had attempted to give the girl in the last few days.  There were so many things that had to be seen in order to be understood, and Alurra simply lacked that facility.

It didn’t help that she didn’t see much point in Pentandra’s formal exercises.  Alurra endured them because Antimei had told her to, and in that obedience she was ideal as an apprentice.  The girl genuinely wanted to be helpful.  The problem was that she wanted to help everyone else, and saw little gain in improving herself.

It was a difficult problem that she needed to solve if she was to truly attempt to teach her.  There were just too many things in the Art that required a real, honest-to-gods ego behind them in order to work properly.  Without ego, there could be no Will, which was essential.

Pentandra was far from giving up.  She had only had a few days to work with the girl, so far, and the sheer novelty of having an apprentice hadn’t worn off yet.  Of course, going to a brothel was hardly the sort of education a normal young woman apprentice was exposed to, but then, Pentandra decided, Alurra was hardly a normal apprentice.

And Pentandra was hardly a normal mistress, she realized.  She was a Court Mage who specialized in sex magic, not some demure little witch from the hinterlands.  If Alurra’s education was unusual, in that sense, she would just have to endure it the best she could.  Along the way, she could render assistance and service to her new Mistress.  Which, this evening, included a brothel visit.

There was something seriously amiss about “Lady Pleasure”, Pentandra knew, something powerful and potentially dangerous.  She needed to get to the bottom of it, and her impressionable apprentice would simply have to overcome the ordeal.

It wasn’t like she was going to see anything scandalous, Pentandra decided.

Alurra was waiting at the front of the palace with the borrowed coach – one of the perquisites of being a senior officer of the court was access to such perquisites.  The cool spring evening air promised rain tomorrow but tonight the stars shone through the cloudless sky as brightly as magelights overhead.  Pentandra inhaled deeply, the scent of spruce and juniper and pine from beyond the walls cutting through the wood smoke and less pleasant smells of Vorone.

The breath was deep and cleansing, and as she exhaled she realized for the first time that she actually liked it, here, in Vorone.

She, Pentandra anna Benurvial – no, she, Pentandra, Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar, she corrected in her mind – the pampered daughter of a decadent house of Remeran magi, accustomed to refinement and sophistication, felt at peace here in the wilderness.

Where she had once worried that the amenities of Vorone would not meet her expectations, she found herself now looking forward to a life in this strange and rustic place.  If she was going to be a court wizard, this was a nice court to be attached to.

That brought her a quiet strength and resolve, as the carriage rumbled forward and she prepared to get into a shouting match with an aging whore.

Life in Vorone was many things for Pentandra.  Boring was not among them.

Chapter Twenty–One

The House Of Flowers

During the short coach ride to the infamous Perfume Street, Pentandra did her best to prepare Alurra for what she might experience at the brothel . . . starting with explaining what a brothel was.

And then explaining to her what a prostitute was.

And then explaining to her what prostitution was, and why men (and a few women) were willing to pay good coin for the experience.

And then explaining to her some of the more basic truths about men.

As Pentandra’s exasperation grew with the length of her explanation, she realized that the challenge here was not Alurra’s blindness, it was her hopeless naiveté.  She was a young girl from a remote and unsophisticated Wilderlands culture, one whose usual rules of sexuality (and nearly every other part of life) had been disrupted by the damn goblin invasion.

She’d been raised by an old woman, protected by an ignorant rural society that had thoughtfully taken account of her disability . . . and had left Alurra, therefore, woefully ignorant of the facts of life.  Pentandra found herself explaining some very basic matters to her, while making mental notes of future discussions.

By the time the coach arrived at the House of Flowers, Pentandra realized that she would be instructing the Wilderlands girl in the arts of womanhood as much as she would be the magical arts.

“. . . but we’ll continue this discussion later,” she said, when the groom announced their arrival.  “For now, keep silent, attend me, and don’t do or touch anything.  Understood?”

“Understood, Mistress,” Alurra said, biting her lip with determination.  “Do I look presentable?”

No, you look like a backwoods wilding orphan girl who never heard of a comb, Pentandra wanted to say.

In truth, a few days of palace livery had cleaned up and fed the girl so that she at least looked healthy, now.  Her dress was clean, if worn, and slightly too large for her; her mantle had been laundered and patched, and she had found some cloth slippers somewhere - Pentandra guessed Castellan Bircei was responsible for that.

But Alurra still looked more like a beggar waif than a professional apprentice.  Her hair, in particular, was a mess.  It needed some serious care.  At the moment it looked like a perfect place for Lucky to stash shiny things and bits of string.

There was no time to do anything about that now, though.  “You look fine, dear.  Like a magi’s apprentice.”

That made the girl beam.  Thank the gods she couldn’t see herself.

As it turned out, Alurra’s blindness proved a blessing again as the door opened and they were confronted by the reality of the Hall of Flowers.

The old mansion had clearly undergone a revival and reconstruction.  The three story edifice had been draped in banners, and pots and planters scattered everywhere were bursting with spring flowers.  Sweet-smelling incense was burning somewhere – sandalwood, lepry and goss, from what Pentandra could tell – and the second floor balcony was occupied by a quartet of musicians playing lively dance music on a tambour, flute, and two guitars.

The house had been painted recently and the walkway leading to the door had been swept to a pristine state.  Torches lined the walkway and the garden, and a merry fire had been set in a brazier, adding the dancing illumination of its flames to the scene.  Somewhere someone was cooking something delicious, too, her nose reminded her.

But it was her eyes that were captivated.  There were beautiful young women everywhere she looked, as ubiquitous as wildflowers in a meadow.  On the front walk Pentandra walked by three of them dancing together for the amusement of a pair of gentlemen, while a dozen others mingled and laughed with their own callers and patrons in the front garden.  Each maiden wore a pretty but simple dress of green, without an under tunic, and bore a flower pinned to their breast.

But that was as exotic as their garb went.  Pentandra knew the madam at The Bluest Sky in Wenshar would have been scandalized at the wasted opportunity to display the wares of the girls.

That disturbed Pentandra.  She knew whores.  Whores did their best to flaunt their sexuality, not conceal it.  They often went as far in their displays as local standards allowed, but they did not dress the same.  Ever.

Human intersexual attraction dictated that women distinguish themselves to attract a mate’s attention, Pentandra knew with the certainty of the Law of Gravity or Motion.  Nor did normal whores dress at all demurely.  They revealed as much of their skin as possible, to fool the male eye into believing their fertility.  And they frequently flashed their privates to potential customers when the Watch wasn’t looking.

Yet these girls were acting as demurely as if they were at court, themselves.  Perhaps more.  But while the approach did not favor the traditional, it had attracted some early adherents.

The gentlemen who stalked between the knots of girls in the garden didn’t seem to notice the flagrant disregard for tradition – they seemed entranced by the youth and loveliness of the women, regardless of their lack of brazenness.  And the girls seemed to respond more like coquettes than harlots, Pentandra noted, skeptically.  If the plan was to insinuate as many pretty, polite whores into the Alshari court as she could, Pentandra decided, then there were worse plans to be had.

“Welcome to the House of Flowers, my lady,” a smooth and mature female voice greeted her.  Pentandra looked around and spotted the speaker, a middle-aged woman wrapped in a soft-looking mantle of yellow.  “What brings you to the brink of pleasure with us this evening?”

“It is business, not pleasure, my lady,” Pentandra said, brusquely, as she entered the hall.  “Official palace business.”

“Ah, this must be concerning our lady’s involvement in the Wildflower Festival,” the woman nodded, knowingly.

“In essence, it does,” Pentandra agreed, coolly.  “I would very much like to have a few moments to speak to the baroness.”

“Lady Pleasure is in residence, at the moment,” the woman agreed.  “I am her stewardess, Candrice.  While she is quite busy during this busy time, I’m certain she could spare a few moments for you, Lady Pentandra.”

“Oh, you know who I am?” she asked, surprised, as she assisted Alurra up the stone walkway, around the dancers.

“The most powerful woman in Alshar?  Why of course we do!” Candrice assured her.  “Indeed, I feel as if Lady Pleasure has been expecting your call.”

“She isn’t expecting this,” Pentandra muttered under her breath.  “If you could arrange a meeting in short order, I would consider it a favor,” she asked, evenly.

“As you wish, Lady Pentandra,” the woman nodded, obediently.  “Liset!  Run and inform Lady Pleasure she has a visitor, please, dear!” she called to the girls in a sing-song voice.  One of the dancing girls stopped abruptly, caught the woman’s eye, nodded, and then went inside to do as she was bidden.

That was also of concern, Pentandra realized.  It was rare for whores not to talk back to their managers, and even rarer for them to comply without complaint.  But Liset had obeyed like a soldier on duty.

“Let me escort you to her chamber, my lady,” the woman said, smoothly.  “I am certain she will meet with you directly.  Can I fetch you a drink?  Have you eaten?”

“Thank you, but I am here on business,” Pentandra nodded firmly.  The busy spectacle outside of the House of Flowers was designed to invite and disarm, she recognized.  It looked for all the world like the best party in town, and the music, smells, and sights of the place irresistibly drew the eye and the attention.  And there was a kind of pall of self-conscious enjoyment about the place that seemed infectious.

It was difficult to resist.  But Pentandra was a well-trained mage in full charge of her senses, and it would take more than a few simple distractions to make her stray from her task.

Just as she complimented herself for that realization, she also realized that her toe was tapping incessantly to the beat of the music.  It took a lot more willpower to make it stop than she anticipated, too.

“Our business is pleasure,” Candrice agreed, pleasantly, as she led them inside.  “As stewardess of the house.  I see to the comforts of our guests while they consider the pleasures available here.”

“My business is magic,” Pentandra responded, flatly, resentful of the woman’s alluring tone.  “There have been some concerns raised about your house at court.  I am here to investigate them.”

“Magic?” the woman laughed.  “We have no magi here, my lady.  Save as customers,” she considered.  “Magelord Astyral was quite taken with his amusements, when he was last here in Vorone.”

“Astyral?  No doubt,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

She hadn’t thought the handsome Gilmoran would seriously stoop to paying for his pleasures – he had no end of ready admirers amongst the maids and noblewomen of Tudry.

But the allure of the prostitute was more than mere sex, Pentandra also knew.  She tried not to think less of her friend for his indulgence, but she couldn’t resist getting in a dig.  “He’s a Gilmoran.  No doubt he has quite eccentric tastes, even for a mage.”

“He seemed like a perfect gentleman,” Candrice observed as she led Pentandra into the house.  Beyond the doors the place started to feel a lot more like a traditional brothel to Pentandra.  The hall had benches and couches were girls sat or sprawled, sometimes with their potential clients, other times with each other.  Though they all still wore the same green dress, some of them were wearing decidedly less of it than others.

A sudden moan rang through the room, though Pentandra could not pinpoint the source.

“What’s . . . what are they doing?” Alurra blurted out.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Pentandra assured her in a whisper.

“Right this way, my ladies,” Candrice said with a devilish grin.  “Lady Pleasure awaits you,” she said, after she caught the whore Liset’s eye.  The girl nodded and then headed back outside to the garden.

Pentandra took just a moment to compose herself, realizing that she was feeling far more anxiety about the meeting than she’d anticipated.  Much more, she realized.  Far more than she should.  Something was amiss, here, her subconscious whispered to her.  Something far more insidious and obscured than the brutal thuggery of the Rat Crew.  She was on her guard as Candrice opened the chamber door and escorted them within.

Baroness Amandice was wearing a long, beautiful red cotton gown cut in an attractive fashion, with wide sleeves and a daring neckline that dominated the room.  Though there were parchments and scrolls on the table in front of her, she ignored them in favor of her wine cup.

She stood and bowed respectfully as soon as Pentandra was escorted in.  Pentandra returned the courtesy automatically, if cautiously.

“Lady Pentandra, what a surprise!” she said in a full, musical sort of voice.  “What brings you to The House of Flowers? Business concerning the Wildflower Festival, perhaps?”  Then she noticed Alurra, who was stalking patiently behind her mistress. “And who is this rustic little darling clinging to your skirts?” she asked, her voice comforting and intoxicating at the same time.

She wasn’t using a thaumaturgical glamour – that much Pentandra was assured.  An observant mage could recognize one without even using magesight.

“This is my apprentice, Alurra,” Pentandra replied, smoothly.  “And alas, my business here does not concern the celebration.  Except in the most tangential of ways.”

Pentandra was instantly on her guard, but not for obvious reasons.  She didn’t sense a trap or sinister intentions, but her gut was screaming at her that there was something subtly wrong with this woman.  Pentandra couldn’t put her finger on it, but the hair on the back of her arms and neck was standing up.  “There have been concerns raised in court, after your audience with the Duke.  I’ve been tasked to investigate them.”

“Concerns?” laughed the beautiful dowager, who seemed to lack any herself.  “What about my humble little business could possibly concern the court?  Enough to convince a senior officer to pry herself out of the palace at night . . . to investigate?”

“I’ve always been more of an evening person,” Pentandra conceded.

“So I’ve heard,” Amandice said, knowingly.  She knew about Pentandra’s work with the Woodsmen, she suddenly realized.  This whoremonger was better informed than she let on.

“I’m actually here to find out just what you are planning,” Pentandra said, without further maneuvering.  She could tell that a woman like Amandice would be perfectly happy dueling with innuendo and insult indefinitely in an attempt to get under Pentandra’s skin . . . and that was not a game she had either time or patience for.

“Why, I’m planning the Wildflower Festival, my lady mage!” snorted Amandice.  Even her snorts were alluringly feminine, Pentandra noted idly.

“Yet you seem far more invested in the event than one would expect a . . . businesswoman to be for a mere civic display, Your Excellency,” Pentandra observed.  “One might wonder at the intensity of your interest.”.

“You may call me Lady Pleasure, Pentandra,” the madam said, sidestepping the accusation with a friendly gesture.  Pentandra was having none of it.  She was aware of all the ways a woman in power could use that subtle force as a social weapon.

“You may call me Lady Pentandra, Baroness Amandice,” Pentandra replied, tersely.  “I think we’re past the point of using false lovers’ names, don’t you?  This is no simple brothel.  There is something arcane afoot, here.  Which is why I was brought to bear on the issue.”

“Well, you are correct about one thing,” Amandice agreed, her tone changing slightly.  “This is no simple brothel.  But I assure you, we employ no magi.”

“Nor did I say you did,” Pentandra countered.  “Excellency, I am charged by His Grace to police all magic in the realm.  That includes wild magic, sports, and . . . more exotic forms.  Just because you aren’t waving your certification papers around does not mean you aren’t employing spellwork.”

It was a bluff, in the sense that Pentandra had yet to gather proof that the House of Flowers was employing magi.  But she had a strong enough suspicion to make the effort, if her interview with Amandice was not fruitful.  “If this is not a simple brothel, pray enlighten me to what it actually is,” she added, calmly.

“Why, Lady Pentandra, it is merely the desperate attempt of a woman to raise the plight of her fellow women, for the benefit of her beloved city!” Amandice said, with mock indignity.  “After the last few years, it was clear that Baron Edmarin was not going to do anything to help.  Far from it.  So I took it upon myself to invest the last of my savings in this effort.  It’s an exercise in civic pride,” she assured her.

Despite herself, Pentandra found herself wanting to believe that.  She forced her mind away from the easy acceptance of the proposition, and focused on the task at hand.  “I find it amusing that you see profiting by selling the bodies of the girls of Vorone as a matter of civic pride.”

Instead of growing offended, as Pentandra intended, Amandice spread her fingers helplessly.

“See?  I’ve already assisted by providing amusement for leading members of the Court,” she said, smoothly.  “As far as profits, I assure you that every ounce of silver those girls earn is reinvested in the business.  In them, in other words.”

“And I’m certain that they are all freely cooperating, unbound by obligation or coercion,” Pentandra observed, skeptically.

“Of course,” Amandice said smoothly, her beautiful blue eyes narrowing.  “I encourage you to speak with any of them at length.  Use truthtells, if you like.  I think you will find that among their greatest fears is that of being expelled from the House of Flowers.  They make a fair wage, they endure comparatively easy working conditions, and they understand that they are all working together to build something larger than any of them, individually.”

“Your retirement estate, perhaps?”

“Retire?” laughed Amandice, mockingly.  “My dear, this is the most fun I’ve had in years.  Why would I retire?  If mere financial comfort was my goal, I had enough in savings to ensure my survival well into my dotage.  But why save my pennies for my decline, when there is still so much life left in this body?” The madam stretched luxuriously, shaking herself in a casual way that would have scandalized the court, but left no doubt as to how comfortable she was with her femininity.  “This is not an enterprise motivated out of greed.  It’s a matter of public service.”

“Really?  Explain, please,” Pentandra commanded.  Her anxiety had only grown since the start of the interview.

“I spent my small fortune to take a hundred girls from the worst situations in Vorone, feed them, dress them, and educate them.  A third of them wouldn’t have lived through the winter, if it hadn’t been for me, and the rest would have risked swollen bellies and dire circumstance.”

“But the life of a whore is so much better?”

“As one of the whores of the House of Flowers, yes, infinitely so,” Amandice countered sharply.  “Have you not seen the desperate circumstances in the camps?  Deplorable, with no future for any of the girls there.  Here, they’ve not only been fed, cleaned and clothed, each been instructed in court manners, etiquette, and all the other social graces.  Some have even learned to read.  But I was careful at selecting my charges, I assure you,” she insisted.  “Each of them, bless their nubile bodies, has a true vocation for the work.  Coercion was unnecessary.  No one comes to the House of Flowers unwillingly.  And no one stays here if they desire to leave.”

“So putting a hundred whores on the street is a civic project? A training program?” Pentandra asked, skeptically.  “Then why the decision to sponsor the Wildflower Festival?” she asked.  “There can’t be much in the way of return on that.”

“Only if you approach things as a traditional madam, and not a philanthropist,” admitted Amandice.  “My girls are safe.  My girls are clean.  My girls are protected.  And my girls are getting better,” she said, happily.  “They’re a long way from where I want them, but they’ve performed spectacularly thus far.  I have high hopes.”

“I know, I’ve seen some of their work around the palace,” Pentandra shot back.  “Seducing guardsmen?  Clerks?  Knights?  What is next, ministers of court?”

“Well, we’ve only just been admitted to the palace,” Amandice pointed out.  “The novelty hasn’t worn off, yet.  We’ll work our way up in rank soon enough.”

The woman’s nonchalance and disrespectful manner made Pentandra’s blood boil, for some reason.  Partially because, had she been in the older woman’s slippers, she might have done something remarkably similar.

But she wasn’t.  She was a court minister with a job to do.  No matter how much part of herself wanted to express sympathy to the madam for her attempt to bring cheer to the depressed town, she was here to do a job.

“And where do you plan on stopping?” Pentandra asked, her voice so low it was almost a whisper.  “The coronet, itself?”

“A country looks to its sovereign for symbolic virility,” Amandice suggested.  “His Grace is a handsome young man, and possessed of an exceptional wit.  Surely you would not deny him a few simple pleasures . . . and education in the arts of lovemaking.”  Amandice stopped herself abruptly as a thought occurred.  “Unless you were planning on initiating the lad into the crimson arts yourself, my dear . . .?”

Pentandra was unexpectedly shocked and taken aback by the suggestion.

“Me?  And Anguin?” she asked, the scandalous nature of the idea driving his title clear out of her head.  “Why, he’s barely a man!  And I’m a married woman!” she reminded the madam.

“I’m certain the strength of their marriage vows gives many pause for thought before they commit an infidelity . . . but to do so with your sovereign couldn’t quite be considered breaking them, would it?” she asked, slyly.

“I have no desire for the boy!” Pentandra said, defensively.

“Not even with the power you could wield?  That doesn’t sound like the Pentandra we all know.”

“Perhaps what you think you know is mistaken, Excellency,” Pentandra said through clenched teeth.  She could feel Alurra stiffen behind her at the rapid-fire exchange.  The girl might be unsophisticated, but she understood when two mature women were arguing with each other.  “I have a husband.  I don’t want power.”

“Oh, marriage has ruined you!” Amandice said, in exasperation.  “Don’t you realize how close you could have been to being a duchess? The first mage-born sovereign since the Magocracy fell?”

“Only if I want to seduce and captivate an innocent boy,” snorted Pentandra.  “A boy whose ‘power’ right now essentially stops at the town wall.  If you are going to credit me with such opportunistic viciousness, Excellency, please also credit me with some wit, while you’re at it.  Any power I’d get from seducing Anguin I’d have to build myself, anyway.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I supplement his training with some practical experience, with some of my best girls,” Amandice continued.  “Our duke deserves no less!”

“If I don’t want power from that font, what makes you think I’d surrender it to you?”

“Because someone has to look after the lad,” Amandice said, softly.  “I knew his father, you know, before he married that . . . Remeran.  In his youth.  Anguin favors him strongly, in the face and shoulders, but has far more intelligence and vision than Lenguin ever possessed.”

“You speak as if you knew him intimately,” Pentandra observed, finally detecting a potential weakness in the dowager.

“Briefly,” conceded the older woman.  “For one glorious summer, before he headed back to Falas in the south.  And compared to is sire Anguin is a fitter Duke than Lenguin ever was.  He could become the greatest of his house.  Once he’s properly educated,” she added.

“So you wish to become the Ducal Whoremonger, then?” Pentandra accused.

“If the position is vacant,” Amandice shrugged.  “Someone needs to get the boy laid.  You of all people should know what happens when there isn’t a healthy outlet for a young man like that.”

“Again you presume, Baroness.  There are those who suspect your good intentions, and you have done little to discourage those suspicions.”

“Oh, please!” Amandice dismissed, haughtily.  “I’ve done nothing but cooperate with you.  And my intentions are pristine . . . even if they don’t seem like it, from your narrow perspective.

“Look, little mageling, I appreciate your interest in my enterprise – I really do.  Believe it or not, I have a tremendous amount of admiration for you and the work you do,” she praised.  “But I have to insist that you leave me to my business, and you attend to what is properly yours.”

She delivered the line casually, though with enough force to demonstrate her resolve.

But there was something else . . . a wave of magic that was subtle and indefinable emanated from her as she spoke.  Pentandra could feel it trying to undermine her own thoughts and feelings and replace them with a kind of blind complacency.

It wasn’t as direct an effect as a spell, but there was an undeniable attempt at arcane manipulation going on.  Before she had acquired Everkeen she might have succumbed to it.  But somehow, even from its magical pocket, the baculus anchored her mind even as her emotions invited her to surrender.

“Finding out what your business is, and how it affects Vorone and the Duchy, is precisely what my business is,” Pentandra stated, flatly.  “I’ve had enough of this dance, Excellency.  I think we should skip right to the fun.”

With that she finally summoned Everkeen to her hand.  The baculus seemed almost eager to manifest in her palm, and the smooth, cool surface gave her a feeling of strength as she faced the baroness.

But after that, all hell broke loose.

“Oh, my!” Amandice said, her eyes growing wider as the baculus appeared.  As soon Everkeen’s spellwork commenced, at Pentandra’s mental direction, some force appeared around the baroness and began to resist the artifact’s probe.

The occasion was quite a surprise to the baroness, but she did not display any of the normal human reactions to strong magic being performed in her presence.  True, she knew Pentandra’s profession, but rarely had anyone not in the profession witnessed the kind of flamboyant spellwork Pentandra was capable of now.

Pentandra held Everkeen in both hands as the woman in front of her transformed.  Nothing happened that would have startled the non-magical observers, but to Pentandra, when Everkeen began its thaumaturgical survey, Lady Pleasure’s aspect changed dramatically.

She was no mere woman – nor a mere mage, Everkeen reported after the briefest of surveys.  She had no irionite, nor any of the standard protection spells most Imperial magi walked around with as commonly as their hose and shoes.

But she was neither mortal nor mundane.  There was a tremendous power in her that Everkeen had never encountered before – a situation that sent the paraclete into a frenzy of surprise and fascination.

Before she could exercise control over it, Everkeen began saturating the air around the baroness with even more probing spells.  The information from each assay flew back into Pentandra’s mind in a dizzying flurry.

Lady Pleasure was not pleased at the unexpected intrusion.  Each spell that tickled the edge of her perceptions was met with a counter force, a type of magic that, while familiar, Pentandra couldn’t recall seeing before.  Each tendril of arcane inquiry was batted back after only the briefest of forays.  It was as if there were two or three magi standing behind her, adeptly countering every prying spell Everkeen cast.  They did not counter-attack, but they kept the inquiries at bay.

The feedback from Everkeen was just as interesting, in an academic sort of way.  It was the most responsive the baculus had ever been in her short acquaintance with it.  Everkeen was feeling, now, not just reacting and complying to her will.  It emanated the feelings of surprise, delight, and determination, the first time such human emotions had originated from the artifact.  Everkeen was confused.  Everkeen was intrigued.  Everkeen was delighted.

Pentandra honestly didn’t know which to react to – the idea that she faced an unknown Power in a seedy brothel in Vorone, or that her magic rod was behaving like a puppy encountering a badger for the first time.  Either perspective put Pentandra in the role of horrified observer, a position she was unused to.

Of course, to everyone else in the room who was not observing through magesight, it appeared that Pentandra had made a magic stick appear, and then shake it in frustration while Lady Pleasure smiled at her, amused.  Thaumaturgical assays just didn’t provide the gratifying light show and sound effects that warmagic did.

Pentandra tried to will Everkeen to slow down, but the paraclete was too intrigued to listen.  Like a puppy pulling on the leash, it ignored her desires and redoubled its efforts to pierce Lady Pleasure’s veil of protection.  Another flurry of spells crossed the room to determine what the creature was.

Petrified, Pentandra watched an even greater response appear as they were cast.  The room filled with arcane power, to the levels that were dangerous for casual observers.  Desperately she tried to reign in Everkeen’s probing, but the rod refused to heed her firmest commands.

Lady Pleasure’s will proved stronger, and her power proved greater.  With a brief expression of frustration she frowned, and yelled.

“ENOUGH!” she bellowed, and emitted a wave of thaumaturgical energy that left Everkeen in an arcane torpor.  Pentandra felt many of her protection spells fail as well.  Whomever she was – whatever she was – Lady Pleasure was far stronger and more adept than Pentandra, even with her powerful artifacts.

Pentandra was too stunned to react.  And too frightened.  She had never experienced this kind of power before, not since her encounter with Sheruel, himself.  The reminder was not helpful to her situation.

Unbidden, part of her mind reached out to an unexpected place: Well, Mother, what would YOU do in this situation?

Lady Pleasure took a deep breath and took control of the situation.  “What a wonderful toy!  That has to be Minalan’s work – it has his fingerprints all over it.  Am I wrong?” she asked, as she descended the stairs and approached Pentandra.  “The craftsmanship has some Karshak elements, but that spellwork is pure Spellmonger – tell me I’m wrong!” she said, eagerly.

This was not Dowager Baroness Amandice, anymore, Pentandra realized.  Whatever else she was, this was Lady Pleasure, now, and there was no mistaking that.  The predatory look in her eye, the confidence, the delight . . . whatever had taken possession of the body of the baroness had done so completely.

“You . . . know Minalan?” Pentandra gasped.  The closer Lady Pleasure came to her, the more powerless she felt.  The presence of the woman was like a field of lethargy, and despite her training and her remaining protections Pentandra felt overwhelmed.  She could not move.

“We’ve met,” she affirmed in a tone that implied . . . everything, while revealing nothing.  “A handsome man.   Powerful, for a man.   And terribly clever,” she admitted, her eyes flicking toward Everkeen admiringly.  “That’s something I’ve not encountered before . . . and believe me, I get around!”

“Yes,” Pentandra said, firmly.  “I can imagine.  It was a gift from the Spellmonger.  A wedding gift,” she added.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Lady Pleasure sighed.  “But magnificent nonetheless.  And quite a challenge,” she admitted.  “But I’ve handled bigger sticks than that.”

“And a gracious plenitude of them, I have no doubt,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing.  “But that merely begs the question, Excellency, what are you?” she demanded, accusingly.

“Why, a public-spirited matron doing her best to lend her talents and resources to the betterment of her town, my dear, just as I said,” Lady Pleasure purred, as she slowly circled Pentandra.  Everkeen might be frightened into quiescence, but that was not the only resource Pentandra had at her disposal.

“By creating an army of whores?” Pentandra asked, one eyebrow raised as defiantly as she held her paralyzed baculus.

“If I was a baron, and not a baroness, perhaps I’d bring His Grace an army of warriors, but I am not,” she said, simply.  “The refugees outside our gates were a resource that no one else was marshalling in this dark hour.  I took the initiative to do so.  I have adopted over a hundred girls from desperate situations on the edge of ruin.  I have fed them, clothed them, bathed them, and most importantly I’ve taught them.”

“Taught them how to have sex for money?” Pentandra asked, still not moving.

“Most had already learned that simple trick,” Lady Pleasure admitted.  “I taught them how to gain the most out of the transaction.  Those who had begun the journey did so for protection, desperation, comfort, and coin.  I taught them by working together they compound their power and increase their gain.”

“So they’re high priced whores,” Pentandra said, casually.

“Pentandra!” Lady Pleasure clucked disapprovingly in a matronly tone.  “So judgmental!  Has marriage turned you into a hypocrite?”

“Don’t act as if you know me, ‘Lady Pleasure’ – you presume too much!”

Instead of recoiling at the retort, the baroness – or whatever was in her guise – smirked indulgently.  “My dear, I’ve known you since the first time you glimpsed the gardener topping the maid behind the laundry shed,” she whispered.

The implication behind the statement stunned Pentandra.

That had been her first exposure to sex, objectively, and the occasion proved intensely formative.  It was also intensely private.  She had never revealed that curious morning to anyone, ever, nor had she committed it to writing.  She, alone, had witnessed it.

Either Lady Pleasure had invaded her mind at some point to plunder her most intimate memories, or . . .

The alternative was too unbelievable to contemplate, for anyone but a mage or a monk.  Her exposure to theurgy was minimal, just enough to inform her thaumaturgy, and she knew little about most gods and goddesses.

Save one.  She had studied the lore of Ishi for years, haunting temples of the goddess of love and beauty – and sexual pleasure – and pestering her flirtatious priestesses for the sacred secrets of femininity.

Along the way she had gathered a volume of lore on the goddess, her myths, her stories, her legends, and the particularities of her aspect of divinity.  Among the sacred lore of the priestesses was the theory that Ishi witnessed all acts of love and pleasure.

And not just the active ones.  The lore was clear on that point.  From the moment an individual recognized the existence of sex as an existential concept, Ishi had knowledge of their soul.  There was no escaping that, it was said, no matter how pious a monk or nun you might become.

“I don’t know what you are, but you aren’t Baroness Amandice,” Pentandra accused.  Sweat broke out on her brow as she struggled to resist the subtle arcane forces whipping around her, trying to convince her to relax, surrender, submit . . .

“I am her,” Lady Pleasure countered.  “All of her . . . and so much more.  Your fears are misplaced, Pentandra.  I mean you and the Duke no harm.  Indeed, I’m here to help!”

“You cannot fight her, Mistress!” Alurra said, for the first time since they’d entered the chamber.  “She is too powerful, and now is not the time!”

“Wisdom from the young,” Lady Pleasure chuckled as she circled the mage.  “And so pretty, too!  Once that hair is dealt with, and you are properly dressed . . . I swear, Pentandra, if this is how poorly you treat your apprentices it's no wonder you haven’t had one before!

“I’m new,” Alurra said, flatly.  “And I know who you are!  Who you really are!”

“Do you, my sweet?” Lady Pleasure purred as she regarded the blind girl and the raven on her shoulder with amused contempt.

“I do,” Alurra said, firmly.  “And I know nothing you say can be trusted!”

“But sweetling, we just met!  How can you say such cruel things on short acquaintance?  That’s just unladylike to be so bold and so rude!”

“You aren’t a lady,” Alurra said, calmly.  “Nor am I.  You are Ishi incarnate, goddess of love and beauty, taken the form of this poor woman for your own ends!” the blind girl accused, her brow furrowed in anger.

There.  The moment her apprentice said the words, the last of Pentandra’s doubts evaporated.

She was facing Ishi.  The goddess.  Of sex.

That explained everything.  And made her more terrified of Lady Pleasure than she had been of anyone since Sheruel.

A goddess . . . here.  In Vorone.  The very idea seemed ludicrous, but as she considered the news she had to admit that it explained a lot.

Everkeen’s reaction to her.  Her non-thaumaturgic arcane power over people.  Even that damnable glamour that made her so incredibly captivating.  A mere mortal mage might have been able to carry off such a display of power, technically, but it would take the overwhelming power of theurgic magic to side-step Pentandra’s thaumaturgic probes.  Only when her apprentice had called it out could she allow even the possibility of such a thing into her imagination.

Lady Pleasure whirled on her heel and faced Alurra.  “Well!  Aren’t you a clever little witch!”

“And you’re a powerful goddess who controls the destinies of all mankind,” Alurra responded, thoughtfully.  “And you know what else?  You’re also kind of a cunt.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ishi Incarnate

Everything was a blur in Pentandra’s mind after she left the House of Flowers, until she found herself back in her coach, on the way back to the palace, glaring at her apprentice.

“So, you knew,” she said, accusingly, to the girl.  Alurra sighed.

“Yes, I suppose I did.  But I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Old Antimei said so?” Pentandra ventured, her emotions reeling.

“That’s right,” Alurra said, simply.  “She said that if you knew before you went there, it would . . . change things.”

“Damn right, it would have!” Pentandra agreed.  “Maybe if I had been forewarned I wouldn’t have gone blindly stumbling into the lair of an incarnate goddess when I suspected mere sorcery!”

“That’s what Antimei feared,” Alurra said, swallowing.  “But you had to meet . . . her that way.  You couldn’t know ahead of time.”

“Why?” demanded Pentandra.

“I don’t know!” the girl said, biting her lip anxiously.   “Antimei told me some stories, and she gave me some instructions, but I don’t really know why or how or . . . anything, really.  I’m just doing what I was told to do,” she said, a little defiantly.  “You had to meet her that way.  Or the rest of it . . .”

“What happens with the . . . rest of it?” Pentandra asked, insistently.

“I can’t tell!” Alurra said, her tone desperate.  “Please don’t ask me to!  Because I won’t!  I can’t! Everything will go in the chamberpot if I do, you have to trust me!”

“I’ve known you for less than a week,” Pentandra pronounced.  “There are people I’ve known for years I don’t trust.”

“Then you need to make an exception, about this, at least!” insisted Alurra.  “I don’t like this any more than you do – worse, ‘cause I already know some of what happens, and it isn’t all fairy tales and feasts,” she said, uneasily.  “There is dark magic ahead.  But a way through it, if you can just trust Antimei’s vision.  And me,” she added.

“Alurra, I just came face to face . . . with a goddess,” Pentandra said, the effect of the realization just dawning on her.  “A real, live goddess.  And not just any goddess, but one who I am very familiar with.  By reputation.  And apparently she is familiar with me,” she added, more to herself than to Alurra.  “Now I find out that not only does my mysterious new apprentice know this, but she has been specifically forbidden to tell me.  Apparently for the amusement of the aforementioned deities.”

“She’s kinda mad at you,” Alurra ventured, after a few moments of silence became unbearable.  “She is, I mean.”

“I got that impression,” Pentandra agreed, dryly.  “I’m guessing you are forbidden from telling me why?  Because that might be helpful, to know why one of the most powerful goddesses on Callidore is angry with me.”

“I . . . I wasn’t told I couldn’t talk about that,” Alurra decided.  “But it’s simple, really.  She’s upset because you got married and rejected her.  She could have . . . inhabited . . . you, instead of that other woman.  You were her first choice,” she added.

“Me?  I’m not even one of her priestesses!” Pentandra dismissed.

“That wasn’t her concern.  You were the one most like her in spirit, according to Old Antimei.”

That made Pentandra feel sick to her stomach.

Lady Pleasure – the goddess Ishi – was absolutely beautiful and possessed a rare and decisive confidence, but she also had an overbearing, superior manner about her that put Pentandra on guard.  She reminded Pentandra of every woman who thought herself worthy of being the Queen Bee in a social circle, only orders of magnitude more annoying.  The idea that she was at all akin to the chaotic divinity even in spirit was not welcome, she discovered . . . despite having for years considered such praise as desirable.

“So she’s angry I wouldn’t be her vehicle towards becoming a whoremaster,” Pentandra sighed.  “I suppose I owe Arborn for that, now, as well.  So, you know the story well enough to know her mind . . . can you try to explain to me what her plan is?” Pentandra asked, patiently.   “It’s not often that goddesses set up shop in town.”

Alurra bit her lip, clearly trying to decide how much to tell Pentandra.  Finally, she broke.

“She’s trying to help,” blurted the blind girl.  “She really is, in her own way.  Just like she said.  She promised . . . she promised the Spellmonger she would,” she added in a softer voice, as if the admission cost her.

“Minalan?” Pentandra asked, sharply.  “She mentioned him, as if she did know him.  What does he have to do with all of this?”

“I . . . I just know that they are . . . acquainted,” she said, hesitantly.  “I don’t know how.  I don’t know much more than that.  Only that she feels beholden to him, for something he did.”

“That little . . . all right, all right, let me think . . .” she said, her mind whirling at the possibilities.

It wasn’t unthinkable that Minalan would have attracted the attention of the capricious gods – he’d been a sudden and important player in human politics for a couple of years, now.  Not to mention the power he commanded, both arcanely and temporally.  That sort of thing traditionally attracted the attention of the human divinities, from what the legends told.  Pentandra didn’t know a lot about theurgy, but she knew that religious history was sprinkled with divine revelations and even divine visitations for people at the center of such power.

What was unthinkable was that Minalan would indulge in such relationships without telling her.  That seemed a shocking betrayal, and it made her mad at her friend and colleague.  After all they had been through . . .

And from the back of her mind, her mother’s voice rang in her head: You know you can’t trust men!

Yet the more rational part of her mind pointed out that when the gods were involved, ascribing free will to any situation became fraught with error.

The gods of man had a long history of popping up, interfering in human affairs, and then disappearing back to whence they came after crafting chaos in the name of religion.  Assuming Minalan had been acting with independent agency could be dangerous, or at least mistaken.  She resolved to postpone indulging in being really angry at him until she got the truth of the matter.  That was only fair.

And it profoundly disappointed the voice of her mother in her head.

“Well, it seems as if I need to have a chat with Minalan,” Pentandra sighed, as the coach pulled up to the front of the palace.

“The Spellmonger?” asked Alurra, impressed.

“Yes, ‘the spellmonger’,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.  “He’s been a naughty boy, talking to strange goddesses without me.  But more importantly, I need to figure out what to do about Lady Pleasure before things get out of control.”

Alurra didn’t look impressed anymore, she looked scornful.  “She’s not a very nice woman,” she pronounced with all of the solemnity and judgment an adolescent girl could conjure.

“She’s the goddess of love and beauty,” Pentandra reminded her.  “Being ‘nice’ isn’t exactly an important part of her aspect.  On the contrary.  But if I were you, I’d be more concerned about how she felt about you, than the other way around.”

Alurra started.  “Why?”

“Because you just called the goddess of love and beauty a ‘cunt’ to her face,” Pentandra reminded her.  “Something that, in all of my years of studying the lore of Ishi, has never happened before.”

“Did she . . . look mad?” asked Alurra guiltily.  “Ordinarily I’d never use that kind of language, but—”

“I’m not saying that you were inaccurate, dear,” Pentandra soothed.  “Just unwise.  I wouldn’t plan on having any boyfriends any time soon,” Pentandra suggested, half-joking.  “Or at least no good ones.”

“Boys aren’t often interested in blind girls,” Alurra said, discouraged.  “That’s fine.  I’m not that interested in them, either.”

“That’s a very thoughtful and wise perspective . . . and one doomed to be short-lived, I’m afraid,” Pentandra said, sympathetically.  “You are very pretty, under all of that hair, even if you’ve never been told.  You aren’t even done growing yet.  Eventually Ishi wins over us all.  Save for the very pious.  Or the very ugly.”

“It all seems an awful lot of fuss over nothing,” Alurra said, doubtfully.

“Sex always does . . . until it isn’t.  Then it becomes the most important thing in the world.  And a fine excuse to make really, really terrible decisions about your life.”

“You make it sound so appealing,” Alurra said, sarcastically.

“It has its benefits,” Pentandra said, thinking for a moment about the way Arborn’s huge arms seemed to lovingly crush her within them.  “It’s not all bitter disappointment and anxiety.”

“Well, I hope it will be years before I get involved in all of that nonsense,” Alurra declared.  “I can’t think of anything more useless.”

“No doubt,” smiled Pentandra.  She’d said similar things as a child, she recalled.  Before she saw the maid and the groomsman together.

“And she really was kind of a cunt,” muttered Alurra.

Pentandra waited until the next evening before she got around to contacting Minalan.  There was a problem with procedure at the Mirror array they were establishing, so she had to straighten it out, and then she had to interview new potential Spellwardens for the town.  It wasn’t until the office was closed and she’d retired to her chamber before she composed herself enough to approach Minalan, mind-to-mind.

By that time the damage had already started to be done.  Not only were the halls and corridors of the palace filled with pretty young prostitutes working on the Wildflower Festival, but they had quickly moved their attentions beyond the young-and-handsome and toward more affluent and powerful courtiers.

Before the day was out she happened across a pair of Lady Pleasure’s agents giving Ishi’s Blessing to Sir Antinon, the Ducal Chamberlain, in an alcove, and inspiring him to call the lustful goddesses name several times during the event.  After that she walked into a privy on the second floor to discover Sir Bestus with one maiden bent over a table in secluded lounge, her skirts raised and his pants down, while another murmured encouragement and watched for interlopers.

By the time Alurra came to her at supper with a half-dozen rumors of similar encounters breaking out all over the palace, Pentandra had had enough.  She didn’t know how, but the sudden wave of determined lust had to involve Minalan, somehow.  It was time to hold him to account about it.

Are you at liberty? she began.  She didn’t want to interrupt him if he was, for instance, in the middle of a moment of passion.  Or at least not much.  But apparently Minalan was focused on his domestic affairs, not his erotic ones.

From a really good maid, apparently, he sighed into her mind.  How goes the restoration?

Well, she admitted, to her own surprise.  She hadn’t stopped to think about it in those terms in a few weeks, but Minalan’s perspective gave her an excuse to think about it and venture an opinion.  Particularly about the investment of trust and potential Minalan had made in the Orphan Duke.  Anguin is more of a Duke than I thought he would be.  He has acted with utter confidence.  It’s almost scary, how determined he is to be a good ruler.  What the hells did you give the boy?

A challenge, he answered, a cocky note in his mental voice.  He couldn’t have done it without seeing it so.  He was primed to mope his way through his reign, and I convinced him it was more challenging to rule, and rebuild what his fathers left him.

Well, he took your words as counsel, she reported dutifully.  Within a week of arriving he had the palace straightened out.  Two weeks after that he had the town in hand.  There have been a few executions, some exiles, and some imprisonments, and the Iron Band got about a hundred unexpected recruits . . . but we’re making progress.  We’re working on the countryside now – there are bandits everywhere, mostly refugees turned highwaymen for the lack of better options.  And the refugees are starving, of course.

Have you ever met a well-fed refugee?

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that – if you’d seen what I have, you wouldn’t jest.

Thankfully, Minalan changed the subject.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t one she was prepared to discuss, and his inquiry caught her off guard.  How is married life?

Married life?  What married life?  Pentandra found herself complaining, when given the opportunity.  She realized as the words came tumbling out that she had an abundance of pent-up feeling about it, and virtually no one to whom she could turn for sympathy, advice, or guidance.  If Minalan was foolish enough to ask, her subconscious didn’t see any reason to spare him the result.  And she had a lot of feeling built up inside her, since they’d come to Vorone.

I see Arborn maybe two days in a week, as he’s hunting bandits in the woods most of the time.  Which is fine, of course, because we don’t really need bandits in the woods, but we’ve got bandits actually running large parts of the town and that’s where we need his focus. When he is here he barely speaks, we sit and stare at each other, and he hasn’t . . . it’s been hard, re-adjusting, she said.  She tried hard to sound confident, but she knew it came across as misery.

It takes time, Minalan soothed.  You’ll settle in.

It’s even worse now that we’re living in the palace, she complained.  But I didn’t summon you to complain, she said, redirecting herself admirably.  This is business.  Of a sort.  I’ve run into someone you know, and she wanted me to give you her regards.

Really?  Who is that? Minalan asked, innocently.  Pentandra could tell he’d gone on his guard at the question, and the innocence was mere affectation.  That confirmed her worst suspicions.

The goddess of love, sex, and beauty? she offered, accusingly.  Ishi?  She’s been hanging around the palace.  Hanging around Vorone.  She revealed herself to me, and spoke very highly of her recent dealings with you.

There was a long pause before Minalan answered.

Oh.

That’s what I said! Pentandra exploded.  Min, do you care to explain to me how you’ve been consorting with strange divinities and not telling me about it?  Because that bitch has the entire town in an uproar, and I’ve just about had enough!

Calm down, calm down! Minalan urged, which did nothing to calm Pentandra down.  She reflected about how telling someone to calm down almost never had the desired effect.  What’s going on?

Pentandra sketched how her meeting with “Lady Pleasure” had gone, and without confirming too many specifics for him she told him how she was certain of the true identity of the woman.  Minalan didn’t sound surprised when she told him.  That just made her madder.

You realize that we’re supposed to be doing this . . . this . . . whatever we’re doing, we’re supposed to be doing it together?  That was our agreement!

I know, I know! Minalan said, lamely.  This was . . . unexpected.  And unforeseen.  Hard to drop into casual conversation, not in any way that will get you believed.  Honestly, Pen, if I had said ‘oh, by the way, Ishi dropped by the other day.  We had lunch.  It was fun’ would you have believed me?

When stated like that, she could start to see his perspective.  It was natural to take accounts of divine visitations with skepticism.  But the sudden intrusion of the deity on his life explained some of Minalan’s recent moodiness, she decided.  No.  Probably not.  I’d think you were just bragging.

Exactly.  Dealing with . . . her is complicated, by definition.  She’s very . . .

Yes, she is, Pentandra agreed coolly, without the need for elaboration.  So why does she think possessing an old bag and starting a brothel in the wilderness is some kind of favor to you?  That’s what I can’t understand.

It’s complicated, Minalan repeated sullenly.  Just keep an eye on her, okay?  Let me know if she does anything . . . untoward.

Like seducing half of the Alshari court?

Let’s hope that’s all she does.

You are not inspiring much confidence, Pentandra observed. Minalan, I know you’re under house arrest, or internal exile, or whatever it is right now, but how can I possibly deal with a goddess running roughshod over this town?

I don’t know, Pen, he admitted.  If I do, I’ll think of something.  Have you considered consulting a priest?

This is a little out of their jurisdiction, Pentandra replied.  There isn’t even a real temple to Ishi in Vorone, surprisingly.  Just a shrine.  And her activities seem far less concerned with religion than they do commerce.

Just watch her, Minalan repeated.  If things get really out of hand, I’ll see what I can do.

Pentandra spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to come to grips with her predicament.  She’d expected to have rivals at court – you couldn’t put three women in a room and not have them compete and conspire against each other – but to have one of them also be a reasonably powerful goddess was not something she’d imagined.

The insidious thing about Lady Pleasures slow and pleasant conquest of the court was that the townsfolk genuinely felt a need to celebrate.  Not just the coming of the Orphan Duke to the capital, or even the return of Spring, but there was a desperate need to celebrate just being alive after the last few years.

The townspeople greeted Lady Pleasure’s participation in the planning and execution of the festival eagerly.  They did not care if she ran a brothel.  The old standards that held such enterprises as ignoble or scandalous had eroded under the neglect of Wilderlands society to the point where having a whoremonger as a civic leader was not an impediment to her leadership.

Despite herself, Pentandra watched the preparations with a kind of anxious interest.  Regardless of her origins or intentions, Lady Pleasure’s staff of prostitutes and servants was adept at organizing and executing the festival.  The many, many obstacles to such an event seemed to fade away with a smile or a whisper when her girls were running errands on her behalf.  One by one they melted away like the last of the snowfall.

Over the next few days more tangible symbols of Lady Pleasure’s performance began to be seen around Vorone.  One by one the homes and halls of the Market ward began hanging banners portraying wildflowers on their walls or over their doors.  The stately residences in the North ward began cleaning and sprucing up for the first time in years, as pairs of maidens sweetly invited them to participate in the festivities.

Pentandra found herself in the middle of an argument at her regular mid-week meeting with the rest of the council over whether or not to attempt a tournament in conjunction with the event . . . and successfully argued that there was not adequate time to promote such a contest beyond the local region.  Anguin and Salgo settled for an archery contest and swordplay competition instead.  That pleased Salgo, as the Wilderlands folk were adept with their great bows and needed the incentive to practice.  That pleased Anguin because he positively hated jousting.

Through it all Pentandra had to suppress the urge to scream in the middle of the discussion You idiots! Can’t you see what she’s doing to you?  Can’t you see what she’s doing to us all?

The problem was that what she was doing was working.  Not since she had come to Vorone had Pentandra seen such an enthusiastic outpouring of civic pride.  People were taking responsibility for the garbage outside of their homes, the muck in their sewers, the herbs and flowers in the quaint planters and window boxes were thriving, and even the weather seemed to cooperate.  The normal spring rainstorms mostly came at night, while the days were sunny and warm.

People were excited for the stupid festival.  It was almost as if it had the favor of the gods.

In the middle of it all, Lady Pleasure was frequently seen at the palace overseeing the preparations . . . and they seemed to encompass nearly every office, including her own.  A request from the Duke for magical entertainments on the night of the festival was received, as was a request for advice about dealing with potential petty crime.

“All of this nonsense is lovely, it really is,” grumbled Sister Saltia at luncheon in the great hall, a few days after her meeting with the madam.  “But it all seems so pointless, considering the state the Duchy is in.  Thank the gods that tournament idea was killed – that would have lost us coin for certain!  The house can’t bear a big win if the players are unknown,” she declared.

“I thought Ifnites loved the thought of such contests?” Pentandra pointed out.  The temple was almost universally responsible for overseeing the betting at them, for a percentage.

“We do,” the plump nun agreed, fingering her golden infinity symbol.  “But only if they’re likely to make money.  Enough to justify the work.  This one wouldn’t,” she said, flatly.  “You were right, there isn’t enough time to promote it properly, and without a slate of popular contestants, it’s not going to draw enough wagerers to make it worthwhile.  Maybe next year,” she reflected.

“I’m more concerned that we’re fiddling around with this instead of dealing with the critical problems,” agreed Lady Bertine.  “We took tribute from four large estates this week, but because the quotas were set by Duke Lenguin, and haven’t been changed, we took them in more iron ore and timber, not grain,” she said, miserably.  “Now we have a warehouse full of yet more useless rocks and a town full of hungry people.  Have you seen what a loaf of bread is going for, Huin forbid?” she asked, scandalized.

“Father Amus assures me that this is a seasonal fluctuation brought on by the need for seed corn,” Sister Saltia said, defensively.  “Once the first crop of the season is in the ground, prices will ease up.  The grain merchants will import more and costs will stabilize.”

“Not bloody likely,” Lady Bertine, who delighted in sharing bad news, snorted.  “I’ve penned at least a half-dozen letters begging Castali merchants to ship grain to deal with the shortage.  The replies haven’t been encouraging.  Duke Tavard has imposed high tariffs on grain leaving his duchy.  And more on iron entering it.”

“Why?” asked Saltia, confused.  Her ecclesiastic training had kept her largely insulated from feudal politics, so Pentandra explained.

“Because Prince Tavard – who is also Duke Tavard of Castal – is a jealous little prick,” she provided.  “I don’t know if he’s heard about Anguin’s restoration –no, of course he heard, it was on the Mirror Array – but he doesn’t want a strong rival anywhere in sight.  If he can use his influence to keep Anguin and Alshar weak and feeble, he will.  That includes keeping grain from flowing into Alshar from Castal, and Alshari iron and timber from flowing south into Castali markets.”

“She’s right,” agreed Bertine, between spoonfuls of soup.  “The local grain merchants are in league with them, too, to keep the prices high.  Our barns and silos are empty and our warehouses are full of ore we can’t sell.  Meanwhile Castali silos are bursting with grain,” she said, miserably, “and Alshari ore commands a high price!  Tavard is starving Alshar and denying us the ability to sell iron to his own profit.”

“Well, the Duke should do something!” Saltia said, naively.  Pentandra exchanged a knowing glance with Bertine.  She didn’t like the older woman much, but she did respect her political opinion.

“Sister, he is doing something about it,” she revealed.  “He’s instructed the court to investigate the matter and take action.”

“But . . . but . . . we’re the court,” Saltia said, the realization of the responsibility just hitting her.  “What are we doing about it?”

“Discussing why this Wildflower Festival is a distraction from the impending rise in the price of bread, and how something needs to be done about it,” Pentandra replied.  “So if you have any concrete ideas on how to feed the town until the crops come in without going heavily into debt to the grain merchants, I would dearly love to hear them.”

“Can’t you just . . . just turn the ore into grain, Lady Pentandra?” asked Saltia, biting her lip hesitantly.

“Not any more than you can turn a loser into a winner, Sister.  Magic doesn’t work that way.  Oh, I suppose with sufficient time, money, and understanding you might affect some sort of transformation, but there are so many essential differences between a pile of rocks and a loaf of bread that most reasonable wizards prefer to just stop by the bakery.”

“Couldn’t he just seize the grain?” offered the nun.  “I’ve seen the silos at the docks.  They’re full of it!”

“And it all belongs to the merchant houses.  Anguin can seize it only if he wants to lose the ability to buy and sell grain in the future,” supplied Bertine.  “The merchants aren’t terribly organized, but they do have their customs.  Try to take their corn and they’ll find a way to make you pay.  Including denying you future service.  They’ve done that to dukes before,” she reminded them.  “Everyone hates grain merchants until the people are starving.  But when they are, those merchants are the only thing keeping the peasants at bay.”

“That’s a pretty cynical way to look at things!” accused the nun.

“That’s a pretty common way of looking at things,” Pentandra retorted.  “Merchants make profits when they buy at a low price – like at harvest – and wait for prices to rise.  Prices only rise when there are shortages.  The merchants who bought last year’s crop at market want to make a profit, which means keeping prices up.  But if the crop fails, or there are riots, or war, or anything else, then those cold-blooded merchants are the ones who rescue us.  Alienate them this year, and next year when you need them their prices will be even higher.”

“And if we don’t get a decent crop in and harvested this summer, we’re damn certain to need them again next autumn’s harvest,” Bertine agreed.  “But that can’t be done when seed corn costs more than milled flour.  Really, Pentandra, one would think that if magic was useful for anything, it could handle this!”

“I’m looking into it,” she promised, though she hated to do so.  Most people outside of her professional circle had little idea how magic worked and didn’t work, yet insisted they did.  As Court Wizard it was technically her job.  Promising to investigate the matter was as close as she would let herself come to trying to explain the arcane realities to laymen.  She had an entire barge full of grain, waiting for the right moment, thanks to her deal with Planus.  But if it became widely known that she was, essentially, smuggling then that might cause problems.

“In the meantime,” Sister Saltia said, looking vainly at four exceptionally young and pretty maidens who had just entered the hall, “can we all agree that we hate the Wildflower Festival?  I’ve never felt so old, fat and unattractive in my life!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wheat & Iron

When Pentandra came downstairs before the office officially opened for the day’s business, there was already a message from the Duke requesting her to attend him in the Game Room for breakfast again.

.

Pentandra had a full day’s schedule, but when you were summoned by the Duke, you went.  She scribbled a note for her assistant and shrugged into a nicer mantle, taking just enough time to brush her hair before she replaced her wimple and hurried off.

Few other courtiers wore the style, popular in Remere and southern Castal, favoring a light hood or straw hat, instead, or a headscarf.  But she preferred it not only because it suited her and was comfortable, but because it caused her to stand out.  The shiny silver headpiece clutched at the red cotton headscarf and gave her a distinctive look.

Not that anyone who mattered really cared, during the daily business of the palace.  But Pentandra knew that such subtle choices could have profound effects.

When she arrived in the Game Room, she was surprised to find Duke Anguin, alone, for a change.  Neither Father Amus or Count Angrial were at his elbow to advise, correct, and guide him.

“Father Amus is attending a council for the Huinites, to prepare for Spring plowing, and Angrial is meeting with the four largest grain merchants in Vorone this morning, to persuade them to lower their prices before planting season,” he explained as he offered his Court Wizard a seat.  “But I wanted to take a moment to meet with you and express my gratitude for what you and Sir Vemas did for Vorone.  That was an exceedingly clever bit of work,” he said, admiringly.  “And so subtle that it has barely disturbed the palace.”

“It was bloody work, Your Grace,” Pentandra added.  “Not work I prefer.  But far more praise is due the brave guardsmen who prosecuted this shadow war, and the Kasari . . . irregulars who came to our aid.  I merely helped set up the situation.  And you have already rewarded me handsomely with this new estate.”

“Oh, that’s merely a dependent estate,” the young duke dismissed, “not much more than a glorified country house.  There are dozens of them around the capital.  Not really an income-producing estate at all.  Make of it what you will, it’s been the traditional retreat for the Court Wizard when he was here in Vorone.

“But you cheat yourself of glory, Lady Pentandra.  What is it I hear about a pack of stray dogs attacking the Rats?” the young man asked, pouring tea for her.  Clearly he was interested in the details of the street battle.  “Surely the Kasari didn’t arrange that.  They are a remarkable people, but that was a magical spell, was it not?”

“Yes,” Pentandra conceded, “but not one of mine.  I have taken this opportunity to take a new apprentice.  A blind girl from the Wilderlands, already partially trained as a witch. She’s a remarkably talented beastmaster, and has potential we’re just beginning to explore.  She’s also completely blind, sadly, but she has not let that deter her from her studies.   I will introduce you, once I’ve prepared her a bit for court life.  At the moment she still looks as if she has pinecones in her hair,” she admitted with a chuckle.

“I’m eager to meet her, then,” Anguin agreed.  “I understand that you are not happy with your quarters,” he said, abruptly, “and I sympathize.  I’ve been mulling around the idea of making some changes to this old mausoleum,” he said, looking around at the antiques his ancestors had brought up from Falas to make themselves feel at home in decades’ past.  The effect now was depressing and melancholy.  “The entire place is a drafty old pit, I’m afraid.  If it wasn’t the palace, I’d burn it down,” he admitted.  “But it’s the only palace I have at the moment, and a symbol of Ducal authority out here in the Wilderlands.  One of the few.”

“Has Your Grace considered adding more?” Pentandra asked, idly, as she sipped the tea.  She was more making conversation than proposals, but the young duke leapt upon the idea at once.

“Oh, gods yes!” he said, with unexpected passion.  “Master Minalan was right: this is an amazing opportunity, if you look at it properly.  My ancestors always ruled from Falas, and merely visited here long enough every few years to ensure the Wilderlords’ loyalty and get some hunting, fishing, and whoring in,” he said, matter-of-factly.  “All of this . . . ostentation was designed to make the Sea Lords feel more at home.

“But never has the Ducal house truly invested in the Wilderlands,” he continued, thoughtfully.  “Not since the loss of Gilmora to Castal.  I could change that.”

“Your Grace, you already have,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Your sponsorship of the Long March produced the six pele towers.  One of which is named for you,” she reminded.

“I barely understood what was happening,” Anguin confessed guiltily.  “I just did what Father Amus told me.  But I’m glad he did.  That was . . . exciting.  To be partially responsible for building something, something other than a party or a joust.  That’s one reason I’m considering expanding the palace.  Or something.  I feel the need to . . . establish myself, here,” he tried to explain.  “Right now I feel like I’m wearing my father’s clothes and coronet, and at any moment someone will walk in and catch me,” the lad admitted, guiltily.

Pentandra nodded - she’d felt that way herself often enough.  “Sadly, the state of the treasury prohibits any grand works at the moment.  But if you did have the resources, Your Grace, what would you consider doing?”

“Well, it’s been said often enough that Vorone is poorly defended,” Anguin reasoned, pursing his lips.  “Contending with that weakness seems pressing, in the light of current affairs.”

“A stronghold nearby would be a comfort,” Pentandra agreed.  “It would also be a tangible sign of your rule . . . as opposed to your reign,” she pointed out.

“I’ve considered tearing down the current barracks and building it there.  It is proximate to the palace and overlooks the town.  But it also presents some defensive challenges.”

“I’ll defer to wiser heads when it comes to design - Magelord Carmella’s, to be precise -- but in general terms I would suggest that you keep your plans modest, but impressive.”

He looked confused.  “Explain?”

“You have neither the space nor the resources to build something like Darkfaller.  A small keep suitable for a reasonable garrison and offering refuge would suffice.  But it should appear far more substantial and indicate to the Voroni - and all of the Wilderlands -- your intention to stay and defend the region.  A small keep that looks like a big keep, or at least feels like one,” she recommended.

“There is merit to that,” he considered.  “Regardless of the size of the fortification, it won’t be sufficient to defend Vorone from a concerted attack.  But if it suggests to the people that there is a place of refuge for them, it will provide a sense of security.”

“And give His Grace someplace to retreat to in a time of emergency,” Pentandra added.  “May I suggest you summon Magelord Carmella to advise you in this?”

That would not only give Anguin the little castle he wanted, but by using the Hesian Order as his builders it was quite possible to raise the fortification for a fraction of what it would cost using traditional means.  Minalan’s recent fascination with enchantment had paid off handsomely, and not just in items of power like Everkeen.  His sponsorship of enchanters had led to the development of bricking wands and other sophisticated spellwork that had been instrumental in raising the pele towers quickly in the wilderness last summer.

That would also give Carmella the opportunity to propose her far grander idea: building a real castle in the Wilderlands.

Carmella and Minalan had discussed the idea extensively during the Long March, and even looked at some promising sites.  The rationale was that when the goblins did inevitably decide to break the treaty and invade the rest of human lands, the two large towns remaining in the Wilderlands, Tudry and Vorone, would be easily taken.  Neither one was designed for an extended siege, nor were they constructed for a determined defense.

What Carmella proposed was building a new fortification designed for both, and place it in such a fashion that it would naturally absorb the brunt of a goblin resurgence instead of the more-vulnerable towns.

The plan made a lot of sense to Pentandra, after what she’d seen in the invasion.  Neither town, for all of their commercial value, could sustain a defense, if the goblins weren’t worried about being attacked from behind.  A real castle – something much grander than the baronial castles that were left – would force the gurvani to factor it into their plans . . . and hopefully provide a place of refuge for the humans of the Alshari Wilderlands.

To call the plan ambitious was an understatement.  Never had such an endeavor been attempted in the northlands, not on the scale Carmella envisioned.  It would be obscenely expensive, difficult in a land that lacked skilled workers, and it could take years even with the assistance of magic.

Despite all of those compelling reasons, with her understanding of the situation Pentandra couldn’t see much other way to preserve the Duchy in the case of a gurvani resurgence.  Convincing Anguin and the rest of the court would be much more difficult, she knew.  There was still a considerable party in court who favored turning their attention to the rebels in the south as soon as the regime was on solid footing.

They were fools, Pentandra knew.  The regime would not be on solid footing until there was a reliable military force and political stability in the Wilderlands, and they were still years away from that.  Even assuming they were, challenging the increasingly entrenched rebels at this distance would be nearly impossible.  But taking the step of enforcing his rule over the Wilderlands by building a keep in the capital in the meantime was prudent, she knew.

“She’s just who I had in mind,” agreed Anguin, happily.  “I like her.  I was hoping you’d recommend her.  If anyone can make a simple keep appear impressive, it’s Magelord Carmella.”  He paused, and reflected a moment.  “What concerns me more is the political reaction, if I take this step.”

“Your Grace, the people of the Wilderlands support you,” Pentandra said, confused.  Much had been in doubt, since the restoration began, but the ire the regime had feared from the folk of Vorone had not materialized.  Indeed, Anguin had been greeted as a savior and a sovereign by the Voroni and the lords.  Only a handful of Wilderlords had even questioned his right to rule, far less than expected.

“It’s not political action in the Wilderlands that concerns me,” Anguin confided.  “It’s the reaction from Castabriel.”

“Ah.  The king,” Pentandra said, nodding.

“Less King Rard and more his wife,” Anguin said, his eyes shifting nervously.  “I’ve heard rumors that she takes a far more active hand in politics than even he does.”

“Let us be frank, Your Grace,” Pentandra said with a sigh.  “She rules, he reigns.”

“Just so,” agreed the young duke with a chuckle.  “My concern is how she will react if I start . . . acting like a real duke.”

“You are right to be concerned,” suggested Pentandra, cautiously.  “Of all of your opponents, the royal family may prove more difficult than even the southern rebels.”

“I think so as well.  And there is a danger in arousing their ire,” he conceded, unhappily.  “But I will not shirk my duty out of fear of politics,” Anguin added, forcefully.  “Alshar is mine to rule, not hers.  If she wishes to send an assassin to keep a knife at my throat while I do that, that is a risk I must accept.”

“I think we’re beyond anything so heavy-handed,” she pointed out.  “Queen Grendine doesn’t want to upset the delicate politics that’s keeping her regime in place.  Another casual assassination would be too much for her to bear, I’d venture.  But she will send someone to watch you, I’m guessing.  Perhaps disguised as a servant.  Or someone else innocuous.  But it would not be in her character to allow you to rule without a dagger somewhere near your back.”

“That does make sense.  I know it hasn’t really been a priority, but we really should do something about the lack of a good chief of intelligence for the court.  It seems silly talking about castles and legacies when we lack a basic tool of governance.”

“That shows impressive insight on your part, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, approvingly.  “In my experience the Narasi rarely give the vocation the respect it deserves, unlike my Imperial ancestors.  A fact which Queen Grendine has used to great effect.  From what I recall, your father tried to distance himself from such intrigues as ignoble.”

“And see how it profited him,” Anguin said wryly, with a tinge of sadness in his voice.  “We were supposed to go hunting when he got back from battle.  But I have learned from his mistake, I think.  And I have read the histories of the Magocracy enough to understand how vital spies are to a regime.  I understand the need . . . but I do not know anyone with skills in that realm whom I can trust.

“The former captain of the palace guard, Sir Daranal, served my father in that capacity in Vorone, but Father Amus and Father Jodas do not find him trustworthy in that capacity.  And Count Angrial dismisses him from consideration based on his talents in the world of spycraft.  It seems he was considered a reliable manager, but un-ambitious and primarily concerned with the politics of the up-country Wilderlords, not the machinations of the Sea Lords.  Which is why I made him a baron, where I can watch him more closely.”

“And seeing as how there are damn few Wilderlords left, and virtually none of the old houses, his intelligence assets are likely worthless,” nodded Pentandra.  “Your Grace, I appreciate your predicament, I do.  But I do hope this is not a roundabout method of asking me to assume the role.  I assure you, I have a plentitude of work in my basket already.”

“What? No, not at all,” he sighed.  “In fact, I proposed the idea to Angrial and Amus, after your excellent work against the Rats, and they were not in favor.  They were concerned about your competing loyalties with the Arcane Orders.  They respect you too much to put you in that position.”

She smirked.  If that was the rationale they gave the lad, she wouldn’t dispute it.  It had the merit of being diplomatic, and it saved her from the prospect of a job she didn’t want.

“I defer to the judgment of such wise counselors.  And I will be happy to assist you in finding your candidate however I may.  But I honestly do not know anyone at the moment who would serve, whose loyalties to you were beyond question.”  She considered.  “That being said, Your Grace, please understand that despite your advisors’ suspicions, if the Arcane Orders learn of anything value to the realm, I shall be certain it reaches the proper ears.”

“I am continuously gratified in the support of the Arcane Orders and its magi,” he said, with a touch of formality.  “The Magelords’ appearance at court did much to bolster my reign at a critical time.  And . . . Baron Azar’s execution in the middle of court was impressive.  It caused quite the stir among the petty nobility, from what I understand.  More so than Edmarin’s execution.  And it made the peers take notice, too.  With such vassals at my command, it proves my willingness to rule, not merely reign.”

“Don’t encourage Azar too much, he gets carried away,” Pentandra warned him.  “But he is steadfast.  He loves war, and he loves victory.  He does not love politics.  You can rely on he and Astyral to hold their lands on your behalf,” she assured him.

“Concerning that,” Anguin said, thoughtfully, “I’ve noted that the Magelords of the realm have managed to survive and even thrive where the remaining Wilderlords fail.”

Pentandra buttered a biscuit while she considered the duke’s casual words.  She sensed opportunity.

“Why, yes, Your Grace, with magic’s aid a High Mage has resources that a mere knight lacks.  And to be candid, the magelords’ approach to governance is less informed by tradition.”

Anguin chuckled, seeing through her diplomacy.  “Meaning that they’re less worried about whether their vanity is flattered than governing.”

“I would say, rather, that the skills a mage brings to management of estates are more diverse, by necessity, than those of a simple Wilderlord.”

“Perhaps,” considered the young duke.  “But regardless of why, the result is the same.  Lady Pentandra, more than half of the estates north of Tudry are occupied, destroyed, or abandoned.  Even if I give the deeds of these domains to new Wilderlords, they’re not terribly well-equipped to do much about them.  The old order in the Wilderlands has been swept away.  If the duchy is to survive, a new order has to replace it.”

“Another wise insight, Your Grace.”

“I would have magelords play a strong role in that order,” he said, earnestly.  “I’ve some notion of what you can do, more than my cousins do.  And the realm has a dire need.”

“Your Grace, on behalf of my vocation and colleagues, I’m flattered,” Pentandra began.

“But you know there are those who would never stand for it?” she finished, with a grin.

“Oh, I am well-aware, my lady.  Already there are courtiers who whisper the Arcane Orders are too well represented in court.  However, I am the duke.  If I want more magelords, I’ll get myself more magelords,” he added, forcefully.  “It would help, however, if I could help demonstrate the advantage of that strategy.”

“What would you have me do, Your Grace?” she asked, realizing that this entire breakfast meeting had been a pretext for this request.

“Show the court that magic has value,” he said with a deep sigh.  “Show them that I can trust and rely on magelords in my government beyond the Court Wizard.  Show them that we are stronger with the magi on our side than not.  Hells, show them . . . something!  Help me make the argument that a new order involving magi is essential for the prosperity of the Wilderlands.  Do that, and . . . and . . . and I’ll reward you.”

Pentandra smirked.  “Your Grace is generous, but . . .”

“Just try,” he pleaded, with just enough adolescent whining to be compelling.   He stood, signaling that the meeting was over . . . and Pentandra realized that two young maidens in matching green gowns were waiting at the door of the Game Room.  “I need to . . . confer with some . . . business matters . . . right now,” he struggled to explain, as the two pretty whores giggled behind their hands.

Pentandra’s heart fell, even as she appreciated the lad’s dedication to his duty.  Just when she thought she’d anchored him with sensible advice, Lady Pleasure’s agents were prepared to seduce him out from under her.

She could hardly object – she had no doubt that the maidens had legitimate business for the Duke concerning that damned festival.  She also had no doubt what would transpire the moment the door was secure.

It was clear that if she did not do something, and soon, it would be Lady Pleasure making policy at court.

“I will do my best, Your Grace,” she said, standing and bowing.  He smiled pleasantly at her, but his eyes had already indicated she had been dismissed in favor of the two girls nearer his own age.

It was time for her to get to work, she realized.

Pentandra’s relationship with her cousin Planus had always been more congenial than cordial – the two shared not just a passion for their magical vocation, but similar ideas about politics, fashion, and Remeran society.  Of all of her many cousins Planus had been the most reliable ally over the years, as well as a favorite of her father.

Since that relationship had lead directly to his rise in wealth and prosperity, Pentandra felt that he owed her some consideration . . . and it was time to exploit that.

So what does my cousin the court wizard desire of this humble adept? he asked that afternoon when she contacted him magically, mind-to-mind.

Some advice and possibly some assistance, she began.  I was wondering if you could assist me in a little more smuggling.

Oh, my dear!

She could hear the change in tone in his mental voice at the mention of the word.  Despite Planus’ reputation as a canny businessman and an upstanding professional resident adept, Pentandra was one of the few who knew about the less-legitimate side of his enterprises.

Simply put, Planus viewed making profit by magically evading tolls and tariffs the same way Pentandra viewed a long night of sweaty sex.  There had always been a streak in her family of people who had the talent for making and accumulating money, just as there was the trait for magical Talent.

Every generation of the Benurvial line seemed to produce a specimen particularly talented at both, and for her generation that person was Planus.  They had managed to ensure the family’s prosperity and survival during the darkest times of the Bans, keeping intact ancestral estates and ensuring that each new generation had every advantage to prosper.

Planus was particularly gifted at the art.  He had quickly used his acquisition of a witchstone (with Pentandra’s help) as leverage in his magical business, but had also expanded that business into a number of lucrative enterprises.  He used the Mirror array to hire agents in distant lands and monitor prices at market, for instance.  One (that she knew of) involved spells that reduced the apparent tonnage on a barge by half when an inspector tallied it.  You couldn’t count what you didn’t notice.

When she realized that in order to fulfill her promise to the duke she would need both a smuggler and a mage, Planus was naturally to whom she turned.

I have another problem, she began, contacting him mind-to-mind.  I need to know what the average price of iron ore is at market.

I’ll have to check, he promised.  You have more to dispose of?

I have great heaping warehouses full of iron ore.  I need silver and gold.

Not wheat?

I think our previous bargain took care of that problem, for now, but I’ll let you know.  I just need to get rid of this iron, and I figured I would give you the opportunity.

Well, I do still have all of my contacts, he agreed.  They were pleased with the last shipment.  The iron miners in southern Remere, less so.  But . . . there is no reason to restrict our activities to Remere, he suggested. I think I can find the market, if you can keep supplying it. Thank the gods for the supply wands.  Do you realize how high just the freight will be on that transaction, both ways?  Not to mention the tariffs and tolls?

Apropos to that, I’ve ordered a special set of wands from Sevendor for this sort of thing in the future, she informed him.  Just for us, she cautioned, no one else is to know.  Then I’m going to send you all the iron you can sell, and perhaps secure supply of other commodities, on an as-needed basis.  For an appropriate and modest fee, of course, she added, sternly.

Why Penny!  You know I always treat family right!  I’ve actually been thinking of ways to exploit the pocket enchantment since I learned about it.  I’m already making a small fortune speculating using the Mirror Array, he bragged.  None of my non-magical competitors understands it, yet, really.  But for you, Pen?  You’re family.

Which is why I’m reminding you.  And while you’re at it, see what other materials from Alshar in are in demand in Remere right now.  If this experiment works, there’s no reason why we couldn’t expand it.

Just don’t mention any of this to Banamor, if you can help it, he said, referring to Minalan’s main commercial agent – and magelord – in Sevendor.  If he finds out, he’ll want a piece of it.

I’ll say it’s for military purposes – the man hates anything that might put him in danger of military service, she decided.

Give me a week to talk to some people, Planus proposed.  I’ll set some things up, we’ll see where it goes.

It was a busy week.  So busy that Pentandra nearly forgot about her cousin.

It didn’t help that Arborn was headed back out into the field, this time on a three-week mission – minimum – to investigate news that the Coutu tribes were causing trouble around the Penumbra.  Pentandra hadn’t heard of them before, but she quickly learned that they were a perennial thorn in the side of the Wilderlords and had been for two centuries.  They made the kind of trouble that made the Duchy’s historic relations with the Kasari almost genteel by comparison.

There were several tribal peoples in the Wilderlands that were nominally subject to Anguin but obeyed none but their own laws and customs.  Besides the Narasi settlers, the vast forests north of the city were home to the Kasari, to the traveling merchants known as the Piar, to the warrior tribes of the Coutu, to the relatively peaceful hamlets of the River Folk who could be found there, to the half-civilized Pearwoods clans and more.  Even the wild far-northern tribes were technically Alshari subjects, though they likely hadn’t even heard of Alshar, much less its duke.

But the Coutu were special.

They had come to the Wilderlands centuries before the Narasi conquest, though from whence or to what purpose not even the Coutu could say.  They inhabited several vales and hilltop hamlets across the northern central and northwest Wilderlands, depending mostly on a marginal existence as hunters and goatherds.  But when they weren’t peacefully herding goats, the Coutu had a love of battle that frequently saw them at odds with their neighbors.

Viscountess Threanas informed Pentandra how the Wilderlords had tried repeatedly to civilize and domesticate the fierce tribe, to little avail.  Attempts to ally with the tribes through marriage had produced a dozen petty lords who, while technically vassals of Anguin, had loyalties to tribal allies that were far, far stronger.   Mostly fighting with axe, spear and shield and without the benefit of more substantial armor than leather, the Coutu had raided small farmholds and isolated settlements any time they felt they could profit from it.

Only now, with the Wilderlands in disarray and occupied, the Coutu tribes were taking advantage of the chaos by raiding much larger holds without retribution.  The only solace the local lords could take was that the wild tribes did not discriminate about their victims: by all accounts, they raided the traitors and renegades within the gurvani territories of the Penumbra as viciously as they did the Narasi.

But their recent activity was enough to require the Master of Wood to investigate and recommend action.   Arborn was apologetic about the trip, but Pentandra could also see that her husband was getting anxious being in town overlong.  He pined for the forests and fields of nature.

She was noticing a pattern in his journeys.  For the first few days he seemed happy enough to be back in the palace with her and comfortable with their chambers.  But then inevitably he began to get sullen and anxious in ways that Pentandra suspected Arborn didn’t even realize himself.  After a few weeks of town living, he started to get short with her and the servants, and even his men began to tread lightly around him.

“I won’t be gone too long,” he promised as he packed his gear up that evening.  “It should be a fairly uneventful journey.  I’m only taking a half-dozen men so that we can travel fast and light.”

“I just worry,” she admitted, watching his big shoulders as they folded and stowed his clothes and equipment in his Kasari-style backpack.  “It’s not that I don’t think you can’t handle yourself, it’s that I worry about the rest of the Wilderlands handling you.”

“It’s not that bad, my love,” he assured her as he tied the pack closed.  “The gurvani have been quiet.  The bandits are not yet in force along the roads, nor would I fear them if they were.  Even the worst of the spring floods have passed already.  I’ll be fine!”

That didn’t stop him from kissing her passionately, as if he would be gone for an extended time.  He had not grown tired of her already, she assured herself as his lips mauled hers.  And considering the unhealthy interest Lady Pleasure was taking in Pentandra’s personal life, at the moment she was just as glad to see him out in the Wilderness, away from the whoremonger’s reach.  She had no idea what kind of powers that Ishi had in this incarnation, but she could imagine with sickening vividness what affect her charms would have on even the noble Arborn.

“Just be careful,” she insisted, when she finally broke the kiss.  “There is a lot of strangeness going on right now, and a lot of enemies around.  Watch your back.”

“You, too,” he said, concerned.  “Somehow I think that the Wilderness is safer at the moment than the palace.”

“Oh, I’ve managed to keep from pissing off anyone too important, so far,” she said with a smile.  “And that is not easy.”

“Nor sustainable, knowing you,” he pointed out with a rare smile.  “To be honest, I’m amazed that we’ve made it this far without gathering a fair number of enemies.”

“It’s still early,” she demurred.  “Plenty of time to pick out some quality enemies.  And we always have the Rat Crew to fall back on.  We still need to root them out of the refugee camps,” she reminded him.

“We can look at that when I get back,” he agreed.  “Every time I ride through one, and see all those faces staring at me, it makes me feel awful.  The sooner we can get those people proper homes and gainful employment, the better.  And that can’t be done until we loosen the control the remaining Rats have over the camps.”

“When you get back,” she agreed.  That would demand that she work closely with Sir Vemas again, too.  How could she mention to him that the idea excited her . . . without mentioning why?

She had purposefully distanced herself from Sir Vemas after the last encounter with the Rats because she felt uncomfortable with her feelings about him.

His charm, his wit, his authority all had a compelling effect on her.  Not to the extent that Arborn had – a single look from her could ignite a storm in her breast – but in his absence the temptation of Sir Vemas was powerful.

“And when you get back perhaps we can take a couple of days and investigate this country estate I’ve been given use of,” she proposed.  “Perhaps a few days in the country away from court will do us both some good.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

A Goddess At Court

Pentandra knew something was amiss the next morning when she saw Sister Saltia on her way to her office down the corridor . . . with a face full of cosmetics, inexpertly applied.

Instead of her usual oblivious gait, the nun moved cautiously and seemed to take note of every man or woman who crossed her path in a most critical manner.   Her habit was cleaned and pressed, Pentandra noted, and she had scrubbed her fingernails clean, brushed her hair, and had left her habit in her cell, apparently, revealing her long curly brown hair to the palace for the first time.

It wasn’t that Pentandra objected to the look, but her brief acquaintance with the nun had informed her that she cared far more for numbers, probabilities and coin than she did men, ordinarily.  Seeing her suddenly so clearly invested in her appearance was jarring.

That was just the first jarring issue, too.  Every guardsman she passed seemed to be strutting around like a cockerel, and every woman of the court seemed to mistake the day for a festival, based on what they had chosen to wear.  When Pentandra noticed that even middle-aged widows like Lady Bertine were striving to look as they did in their maidenhood, she could begin to recognize the divine magic of Ishi at play.

It seemed as if her pretty minions were everywhere in the palace, now.  While each girl seemed on a determined errand, some of those errands seemed to involve a lot more fraternization than would seem necessary.  The maidens of the House of Flowers had invaded the palace, and they seemed to be holding it hostage with their skirts.

Pentandra didn’t realize how true that was until she stopped by the office of the Warlord, where she had heard Count Salgo was working, to discuss the potential keep on the site of the garrison.  That much was true . . . but he was working on his back, with a lovely young woman perched above him when Pentandra entered his office.

She stopped, startled, at the sight.  The maid’s plain skirt was spread around her, obscuring Salgo’s face, head and shoulders . . . but from the look of intensity upon the young brunette’s face, the old soldier evidently knew what to do “behind enemy lines”.   In her professional opinion, the evidence indicated that the Count had appetites most younger men rarely cultivated.  But which most young women devoutly appreciated.  The maiden perched on his face, now, was certainly an admirer.  Her wide eyes were dazed, and her mouth slack as she moaned with every stroke.

Pentandra just stared and sighed.  It wasn’t merely the girl’s beauty that had won him over, she knew.  The metaphorical stench of Ishi’s magic was thick in the air.

“Pardon me!” Pentandra said, loudly, just moments before the young woman’s anticipated climax.  The interruption was enough to startle Salgo out of his erotic reverie, and he ended up spilling the maid halfway to the ground, much to her disappointment and his regret.  When the old man’s face emerged from beneath her skirts, he looked appropriately ashamed . . . and immensely pleased with himself.

“Ah, Lady Pentandra!” he said, a little more loudly than usual.  He wiped his whiskers with one hand while assisting the frustrated girl to her feet with the other.  “My apologies, this young lady, Liset and I were just discussing some security matters about the festival when . . . well . . .”

“Think nothing of it, Count,” she said, casually, as she watched the girl replaced her hose in their proper position and smoothed her skirt down.  Her face was flushed and beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead, but the interruption had left her irritated.  “We all get caught up in inconsequential things, if we aren’t careful,” she added, giving a pregnant glance to the girl.  “Why don’t you go straighten up, dear, while the Count and I discuss some important business.”

“Yes, milady,” Liset said, reluctantly, her lip quivering.  No doubt she’d find a willing victim to assist her in fulfilling her desires, Pentandra thought, amused, even if he didn’t have the rank (or the skills) of the Count.  There seemed to be no end of randy men around the palace today.

“I’m terribly sorry about that, Pentandra,” Count Salgo said guiltily once the girl was gone and he had composed himself.  “I honestly don’t know what came over me . . . and that’s not the first time that sort of thing has happened, lately, either.”

“I understand,” Pentandra sighed.  “There is magic afoot at the moment.  Magic that has increased the natural biological urges of the court.  That’s why you’ve felt so . . . motivated,” she said, diplomatically.

“Ishi’s tits!” swore the old soldier, returning to his seat behind the table so recently vacated by his backside.  “I haven’t felt this full of pepper since I was a lad!”

“There’s a lot of that going around.  I encourage you to resist it.  Lady Pleasure’s motivations and loyalties are still largely unknown— “

“Her motivations, perhaps,” conceded Salgo.  “But her loyalties do not seem to be in question.  Lovely Liset was here this morning with a message from the baroness detailing a plot her . . . employees had discovered in the palace.  Did you realize that there was to be an uprising last night?  Sponsored by the faction in court who favors immediately going after the coastal rebels?”

“An uprising?” Pentandra asked, surprised.  “By southerners?”

“Sea Lords, mostly, and a few Coastlords,” he affirmed, grimly.  “They conspired to . . . neutralize Father Amus and Count Angrial, then spirit the Duke away to the Captive Havens,” he said, referring to the five ports along Castal’s coastline that were technically under the Lord of the Waves’ control.  That was widely seen as the necessary first step toward reconquering southern Alshar.  “They were planning to, at least.  I have proof of that,” he boasted.  “Several letters from Viscount Murvos, to his confederates . . . several previously loyal courtiers, primarily from Enultramar, detailing their duties in the uprsising.  But it was the maidens who discovered it.   And foiled it, if the letter is to be believed.”

“Foiled it? How?” Pentandra asked, confused.

“Apparently they . . . seduced it away,” explained Salgo, embarrassed, as he searched his person for a slip of parchment.  “According to this note, a few of her girls took it upon themselves to aggressively seduce the conspirators, which in turn prevented them from making contact according to their plan and seizing the senior ministers and the Duke.”

“What?” Pentandra asked, her eyes wide.  “There was an attempt to seize the Duke?”

“The Duke, myself, Father Amus, and Count Angrial, among a few others,” the count said, more comfortable with matters military than erotic. “Only when the principals of the conspiricy revealed themselves at the guard station late last night did they discover that they lacked the support from the confederates they expected.  It was balls-deep in lady Pleasure’s little pleasures, apparently,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I can see how that might be awkward,” Pentandra conceded.

“The palace guard was able to quickly take them into custody.  They are in the dungeon now awaiting trial for treason.  After a rigorous questioning.”

“They assumed that they could hold the Duke hostage?  What was their aim?”

“Apparently they are adamant about Anguin re-claiming the coastlands and confronting the rebellion.  The Sea Lords, damn them, splitting the Restorationists party, you could say.  We haven’t started questioning them about who ultimately hired and organized the effort, but I’m certain we’ll discover the conspiracy in full.”

“Particularly if we use truthtell spells liberally enough,” Pentandra said, angrily.  “Trygg’s twat, what were they thinking? That the rest of us would just lay down our arms and let them do it?”

Count Salgo looked surprised.  “You, Pentandra?”

She fixed him with a serious stare.  “If the Duke and his highest ministers were held hostage, I would do everything in my power to affect a rescue,” she stated, flatly.  “And my powers are considerable.”

“Good to hear!” Salgo said, earnestly.  “I pointed out to Angrial last night that the greatest weakness in their plan was not accounting for the Court Wizard.  Or the Master of Wood.”

“Or a great many other things.  It was a stupid, foolish attempt.”

The uprising was actually not that surprising – the Sea Lords who had joined Anguin in exile were an arrogant and self-interested band, and held themselves apart from the rest of the court.  The idea of sailing into the Great Bay at the head of a fleet of avenging warships was the only thing they could see.  But what was worse was that the plot had been foiled by Ishi’s tarts.  Not just exposed, but foiled.  She could see just how much credit that had given the scheming madam in Count Salgo’s eyes.  No wonder he had indulged in the benefits of the relationship.

“When will these Sea Lords understand that the south will have to wait?  We barely stand in the north yet.  We don’t have the financial or political resources for that kind of effort yet.  Even Threanas agrees with that, and she’d be on a coach to Falas the moment it was available.  We don’t even have proper military forces yet!” she fumed.

“Ah!” Salgo said, suddenly.  “To that, lady mage, I might have an answer.  Before the Sea Lords’ conspiracy came to light I had just received a letter from one of my old subordinates in the 3rd Royal Commando,” he said, as if that meant anything in particular to her.

Her blank stare was prompt enough for the old soldier to explain.  “The Third Royal Commando was one of three units I created during the invasion of Gilmora.  Professional soldiers, chosen from all over the kingdom, with an emphasis on skills and talents, not noble birth.”

“Yes, I recall,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily.

“Well, the First Commando distinguished itself in the invasion and became the Royal Guard.  They’re barracked in Castabriel now, on the grounds of the new palace, if you recall.  The Second Commando was nearly wiped out, and the few score survivors took service with me as my private guard.

“But the Third Commando finished the war intact as a unit.  Even after Rard officially disbanded them.  They’ve been bivouacked in Gilmora ever since.  They dislike Rard intently, because he disbanded them so casually.  They’d make a fine mercenary unit, except that they are too large and expensive for many nobles to employ . . . and any who did would risk Rard’s ire.”

“So what does the letter say?”

“It . . . well, here, my lady, I’d appreciate your insights, to be honest,” he said, handing the scroll of parchment to her.  “I am familiar with all manner of military communications, but this is more of a political dispatch.”

Pentandra took the letter and saw that the broken seal was of plain red beeswax, without stamp.  She saw why a moment later.  The missive was not authored by a single man, but by committee.

To His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, in his citadel at Vorone, the undersigned send greetings of the utmost respect and admiration of both His Grace and his noble house.

We, the duly elected leaders of the 3rd Commando, wish to express our support and encouragement for His Grace’s recent restoration of ducal authority under a properly and lawfully recognized heir of that ancient and noble house to his realm, and congratulate His Grace doing so in defiance of obvious political pressure.  It is understood by all with a military eye the grave and tragic consequences of allowing the Alshari Wilderlands to fall into chaos, and we the undersigned representatives of the 3rd Commando respectfully wish the blessings of Luin and Duin upon your reign as you seek to restore order.

Let it be known that we serve a similar purpose at the moment, eradicating the last vestiges of the goblin scourge from the Gilmoran countryside where it is known that Your Grace possesses considerable lands.  Indeed, the vassals of Your Grace have frequently extended a warm welcome and assistance to our independent efforts, unlike some who see our willingness to challenge the infection as incursion, and treat us as bandits.

We, the undersigned, wish you continued success, health, and the blessings of the gods as you bring much-needed order and stability to the realm.  If it please you to call upon our members for future service, know that considerable good will exists surround the name of Your Grace in the encampments of the 3rd Commando.

Yours by the Grace of Duin, passed by unanimous acclamation, signed and sealed

Sir Holsar the Mendacious, Acting Grand Captain

Sir Arscei of Elderbloom, Quartermaster of the Corps

Ancient Beverl, Senior Trooper’s Steward, Company Scribe”

“What do you make of that?” Count Salgo asked when she looked up from the letter.  His mood seemed quite improved after his office conference with Liset.

“Chaos,” she said, at once.

“Really?” he asked, surprised.  “I thought it was quite well-written,” the Warlord reflected, thoughtfully, as he packed his pipe - a beautiful wooden affair in the shape of a bear’s head, the badge of his house.

“Oh, yes, it’s quite eloquent, for a bunch of half-literate mercenaries,” she conceded.  “But it screams of chaos behind the pretty words.  See the signatures?  Two knights and an ancient.  One knight is an “acting Grand Captain’, which sounds impressive enough.  But he’s more likely a placeholder candidate, not the original commander.  The other signature is the Quartermaster.  How chaotic must things have gone for a quartermaster to be designated one of the leadership?”

“Oh, no, you are quite right.  The leadership of the 3rd was recalled and rewarded with lands soon after the Treaty,” Count Salgo said.  “On my recommendation.  I had no idea that Rard would disband the entire corps.  Or at least try to.  I figured he’d promote or replace them.”

“So they are bereft of their leaders and their political patronage.  They’ve tried to reconstitute themselves to stay together, and elected this knight to be their spokesman.  Then you have Sir Arscei, the Quartermaster.  And likely paymaster, if there was any money to pay out.  He’s responsible for feeding and clothing the unit, is he not?”

“According to the organization I set up, yes,” admitted Salgo.  He began looking around for a taper to light his pipe with, but Pentandra impatiently lit it with a cantrip before he could find one.  “The Quartermaster is responsible for all materiel in the unit.  But yes, that is rarely an office of command.”

“Which means he’s getting increasingly desperate, and probably isn’t in a position to quit,” observed Pentandra.  “No pay, food is running out, men are getting desperate.  Then there’s this ancient.  A non-commissioned officer who is clearly the elected representative of the enlisted men.  No ordinary mercenary unit is going to promote a mere ancient as a signatory unless he held real power, do you think?”

“No, that would be foolish,” agreed Count Salgo, puffing away.  “A sign of weakness to a potential employer.”

“Exactly,” nodded Pentandra.  “So . . . chaos.  They have no real leader.  They have no real purpose.  All they have is each other . . . and an abiding dislike of King Rard.”

“So what does this mean?” asked Count Salgo, pleadingly.  “All this letter says is ‘hey!  Congratulations! We hate Rard, too!’ “

“Essentially,” agreed Pentandra, glancing back at the letter.  “But it’s actually an invitation, if you read it right.  They’re looking for a purpose.  And a leader.  Are they good soldiers?”

“I hand-picked many of them myself,” Salgo boasted.  “Culled from the top mercenary units in the Kingdom, just like the First and Second Commandos were.  The fact that they haven’t fallen into base banditry almost a year after being disbanded should say something about their discipline.”

“Then they’re looking for a job, and hope that Anguin can give it to them,” Pentandra said, handing the letter back to the warlord.  “That’s what it says.”

“Oh,” Count Salgo said, puffing away.  “Is that all?  Why didn’t they just ask?”

“Because despite how they’re being forced to operate, these men never signed up to be mercenaries. They were warriors in the service of the king, not sellswords.  You, better than anyone, know how the military aristocracy views mercenaries.  If they come out and quote him a price, they’re sellswords.  If he asks them how much it would cost to employ their services, they can cling to the fiction that they are a real army.”

“That does makes a lot of sense,” Count Salgo conceded, as he examined the letter again.  “Thank you, Pentandra.  Your wisdom brightens us all,” he added formally.

She found that a lot more gratifying than she’d expected.  She and Count Salgo had always had a cordial relationship, even friendly.  But to be honestly praised by the respected soldier was something she hadn’t expected, and neither was the feeling of gratification it produced.

There were plenty of courtiers who were skeptical of any woman’s role in the business of the palace, outside of scullery maids, spinning and weaving, and drudges, and plenty more who would have been loath to admit the important part they played in its function.  It was a constant source of discussion at the weekly Ladies’ Tea that feminine efforts in court were often overlooked and rarely appreciated – likely because of the lack of a sitting Duchess.

But to be given honest respect, colleague-to-colleague, brightened Pentandra’s day . . . almost enough to make up for the unfortunate encounter she had immediately afterwards.

She was headed back to her offices and chambers with the news of the aborted uprising when she stumbled across the author of its destruction standing outside of her office: Dowager Baroness Amandice.  Lady Pleasure.

Ishi, herself.

She was in a smart long gown in a ginger color that made her hair seem much redder than it actually was under her lacy veil – but then nothing involving her appearance was to be relied upon, when it came to Ishi.

She was surrounded by four or five of her attendants, all but one of them achingly pretty.  The fifth was a far more plain-looking girl whose teeth were . . . unfortunate.  But even she shared in the natural glamour that surrounded the goddess-in-disguise, and the magic gave her an attraction she otherwise might never have been able to muster.

That caught Pentandra by surprise.  All of Ishi’s other tarts were breathtakingly beautiful.  She made a mental note of the face, wishing that she could summon Everkeen to ensure it wouldn’t be forgotten – but after the last time she encountered the goddess, she was afraid of what the baculus might do.

“Oh, Lady Pentandra, our illustrious Court Wizard!” Lady Pleasure gushed under her veil.  “How fortunate to meet you here!  Oh, where is that adorable little urchin apprentice of yours?” she asked, her venom for the plain-spoken Alurra only nominally disguised.

“Dowager Baroness,” Pentandra said as she bowed, emphasizing the first term just slightly enough to get under the goddess’ skin.  “I’m afraid Alurra is spending the day being fitted by the palace seamstress.  It seems it’s getting harder and harder to make an appointment with her, thanks to your festival.  What brings you to the palace today?”

“Oh, a thousand little details about the festival,” she said, feigning being overwhelmed.  From the look on the plain-looking girl’s face it was clear that it wasn’t Ishi who was overwhelmed by the event.  “It’s such a busy time for us!”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, knowingly.  “Congratulations on putting a stop to the uprising.  I’ve just come from Count Salgo’s department, and he was quite grateful for your assistance.”

“Why, it is both my duty and my pleasure to assist His Grace in any way I can,” she said, casting a cloak of false humility over herself.  Her attendants seemed to respond as an extension of her facial expressions, each one sharing some tidbit in reflection of their mistress’ mood.  But they all looked at their mistress adorably as she stated her considered opinions.

“Things have gotten so much better in Vorone since that handsome young man came back to lead us,” Lady Pleasure said, expansively.  “And this festival has really given some energy to the local economy.  Inns are booked in advance, the nobility are preparing parties and fetes, and we’ve decided to make the Ball of Wildflowers . . . a masque!  With a woodland theme!” she boasted, proudly, as if half of the town wasn’t already devoted to depictions of nature.  “I’ve just come from His Grace’s chambers, and we’ve agreed!  Simply everyone will wear animal masks for the fete!  I’ve heard that they’ve become very popular in Vorone again!”

The oblique reference to the Woodsmen, who were continuing their nighttime patrols through places in town the Guard feared to tread, started a smoldering fire in Pentandra’s belly.  It was insulting, what Lady Pleasure was doing.  It was almost as if she was making fun of Pentandra’s efforts.

Several courtiers paused in their errands to watch the two women meet from afar.  Pentandra got the impression that they saw the two of them as rivals.  She affected her friendliest air to the baroness, and did her best to seem enthusiastic about meeting her.  That should utterly confirm the idea to the cynical minds of the court.

“Certainly your own business must be doing well,” Pentandra ventured.  It was conversational bait, and she delivered the line cautiously . . . but Ishi took it.

“Oh, thank the gods, yes! My girls are working night and day, bless their twats, and the demand always seems to be more than we can fulfill.  We’re recruiting twice as many new girls to help meet demand over the festival.  But the daily revenue is promising, and our reputation for exquisite luxury has spread across Vorone.  Every evening is like a festival at the Hall of Flowers.  Food, wine, dancing . . . romance . . .”

“And all at very reasonable prices, I hear!” Pentandra continued, a little more loudly than was appropriate.

“Well, we do charge a premium price for a premium service,” admitted the woman, with a smile, “but there are frequent and generous discounts available, as well.  For members of the Palace Guard, for instance,” she said, loudly enough for several members of that corps patrolling the corridor to overhear.

“And hardly any pox among the girls, either!” Pentandra continued.  “Very few of them possess Ishi’s Curse, from what I hear.  Isn’t that true?”

“What?” asked the baroness with a shriek at the idea.  Ishi’s Curse was a catch-all term for a variety of diseases and ailments known to favor prostitutes and their clients.  “That’s not true at all!”

“So they do have Ishi’s Curse?” Pentandra asked in an even louder voice, her tone plagued with scandal, shock and surprise.  “That’s terrible! Someone should do something!”

“My girls are as clean as any lady of the court!” Lady Pleasure insisted, not realizing how her outburst sounded to everyone until it passed her lips.

“Oh, good, then,” Pentandra said in a quiet voice.

All around her she could feel the reaction from the passers-by at the declaration.  If Ishi had meant to charm her way into power here, she would have to contend with Pentandra’s ability to confound her.  There were plenty of women in the palace who were already upset about the whores running rampant all over the place.  Reminding them, publicly, of the dangers implicit in such commerce only served to humiliate the baroness in front of them.

Now the talk around court would involve Ishi’s girls and their alleged state of cleanliness . . . not how they foiled an uprising.

Too late Ishi realized what Pentandra had done.  Her pretty blue eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared.

“It was such a pleasure to see you again, Lady Pentandra!” she continued in her false tones, a hint of mockery in her voice.  “Do feel free to stop by the House of Flowers again anytime – and do bring that hunky husband of yours, too.  No doubt he could find some real amusement there.”

“He already has,” Pentandra assured her.  “He heard that you told someone you were only thirty years old.”

With that Pentandra left before the goddess could lose patience.  She had no idea of the extent of her powers in this form, but from what the legends said, she could be as vicious in battle as she was in romance.

By the time Pentandra made it back to her chambers, she was exhausted.  And she knew she had to do something about . . . that woman before it was too late.

But what?  How can you get someone in trouble when the only appeal to authority at your disposal involved prayer?  Finding some way to keep Lady Pleasure from flooding the court with sexually promiscuous maidens and dictating policy from behind the bedchamber curtains was rapidly becoming Pentandra’s priority.

The Goddess of Love and Beauty was notoriously capricious, and the lore suggested little that was helpful in the way of arresting her power.  She didn’t have a studly male god around to tempt her, for instance, nor was there a woman whose beauty rivaled the goddess.

After considerable thought on the subject (while inspecting the parchment files on each of the new candidates for an Adept certification) Pentandra realized that one area in which Lady Pleasure had shown weakness and attachment was obvious: Minalan the Spellmonger.

While Pentandra didn’t know the extent and level of intimacy of the relationship, she knew Minalan.  If he had a shot with Ishi, not even his precious marriage vows would stop him from acting on his desire for her . . . or any man. That was implicit in Ishi’s phenomenology.

But it did suggest that Minalan had some sort of authority – or at least leverage – over the wayward goddess.

Pentandra realized, depressingly, just what she had to do: call on Minalan for help.  Feeling annoyed, she contacted the Spellmonger.

Min, we’ve got problems, she began, as soon as she made contact with him mind-to-mind.  She knew he was busy – by all accounts he was forming a full-fledged bouleuterion to oversee his many endeavors into enchantment.  He sounded tired and a little argumentative.

What kind of problems? he asked, complainingly.  Alka Alon?  Royal?  Ducal?  Military? Cultural? Economic?

Take your pick, she sighed, realizing that any of them might be involved.  But those aren’t the problems I need help with.  Those are real problems that can be solved by real people doing real work.  Our problem has big boobs and the meanest perspective on human mating I’ve ever seen.

Ishi.

Yes Ishi.  Or Lady Pleasure, as she’s calling herself.  Which is the tackiest pseudonym I’ve ever heard.  You’re certain she’s a goddess?

I’ve recently gotten confirmation.  That’s her.

First, I want to know how you know that. The way she said it told me that there was no room for dissembling . . . and the price of dishonesty would be high, she added, warningly.  She expected Minalan to tell her everything, just like he always did.  But he surprised her by telling her up front that he wasn’t going to tell her everything.

Pen, I have to be honest – there are some things I can’t be transparent about.  For your safety, among others.  All I can say is that yes, I have had divine encounters in the past that have aided our various causes.  Some of these bore amazing fruit.  Some produced . . . well, ‘Lady Pleasure’.  Believe it or not, it’s not my fault.

He made it all sound so casual, as if associating directly with divinities (as opposed to the more regular sort of worship) was a curious hobby of his, not a bit of momentous news.

You’re consorting with gods, and it’s not your fault . . . you think?  Minalan, do you have any idea how dangerous it is to mix magic and religion? she asked, pleadingly.  He should damn well know better than that! Shall I list all the horrible, horrible ways it can go wrong from history?  Shall we start with the collapse of the Magocracy, or shall we confine our discussion to early Perwyni history?

Pentandra, I told you it wasn’t my fault!  A lot has happened, since you went to Alshar, and I’m doing my best to manage it without complicating your life.  That doesn’t mean I’m trying to keep secrets, it’s just a bit . . . awkward, at the moment, he complained.

It had to be Ishi.  Very well, then, since you unleashed this beast on me, you can help me contain it.  Duke Anguin is holding a masque in a few weeks, and half of Lady Pleasure’s enchanted minions will be slobbering around the palace.  I know you aren’t supposed to be away from your estates, but I think you should take the chance to slip away and come see what I’ve been dealing with.

Is it really that bad? he asked skeptically.

Of course it’s that bad!  She’s got every woman in town tarted-up and every man following them!  The cosmetics makers and the dressmakers are among our most prosperous businesses, now!  The inns and taverns have enjoyed an explosion of business, because of all the courting, and . . . and . . . She tried to come up with more damning examples of the woman’s insidious nature, but couldn’t.

It doesn’t sound like much of a problem, Penny, Minalan told her gently.

That’s because you aren’t here, she shot back bitterly. Gods, how could a man not see an impending political disaster when he was staring right at it?  Perhaps because he wasn’t staring right at it, she reasoned.

That cinched her plan.  She had to get Minalan here, in Vorone, and set him against Ishi.  She changed her tone to one more conciliatory and persuasive.

If you come and see it, you’ll see what I mean.  How can the Duke make policy when a flick of a skirt will change it?  How can a woman keep her husband happy at home when every maiden inside the walls believes herself to be breathtakingly beautiful?  Things are under strain, Min, in ways I never thought I’d see, because of that selfish bitch!

All right, all right, I’ll come! Minalan finally agreed, sounding highly reluctant.  But you realize, after my last encounter I’m not particularly eager to face her?

I can see why, Min, she said, understanding perfectly.  If she made the women of the palace continuously doubt themselves and find fault with everything about themselves, she could only imagine the effect Ishi’s presence would have on an ordinary man.  Even an extraordinary man like Minalan.  She was sympathetic.  She’s utterly intimidating, to man or woman.  That’s why I need you here.

What about Arborn?

Keep him out of this! she insisted.  I have him doing . . . other things, things better suited to his talents.  Things that will keep him out of that bitch’s claws.  Cleaning up the underworld here, for one thing.  I may have turned him into a murderous assassin, but I’ve kept him away from her and her nasty little—

What does Duke Anguin think about all of this? Minalan interrupted, brusquely.  Pentandra suppressed a snarl.  Did he honestly think she could not contend with this challenge without oversight?  From a fifteen-year-old boy?  She took control of her emotions and tried to give an objective response.  It didn’t come out well.

Anguin?  He thinks it’s great, of course!  Within months of his return to the summer capital, everyone is getting laid and making money.  As far as what the people think, they see him as a savior.  And now whatever it is she’s done has spread to him . . . he’s got mistresses falling all over the place.  Which is all very well and good for the lad’s disposition – don’t get me wrong – but in a generation that’s going to play havoc with the succession!

One thing that had become quite clear in the last week: whatever shreds of Anguin’s sexual innocence had once been there were long gone.  The Orphan Duke was getting cocky, by all accounts, since his evenings became so invested in the antics of the “maidens” of the House of Flowers.  While there had been no reports of pregnancy yet, with that many young maidens haunting his bedchamber it was only a matter of time.

That’s part of the problem – everything Ishi is doing seems perfectly reasonable and rational, on the face of it, but it’s starting to have dramatic consequences that those fools at court can’t see!  I need your perspective, Min, and whatever leverage you can bring to bear on her.

I’ve got to go to the Chepstan Fair next week, he told her, after a moment’s thought, and thanks to Arathanial’s little war, I’m obligated to go.  But I can attend this masque, in honor of my good friend, Duke Anguin.  I’ll risk my own duke’s wrath, for that.  If he’s even paying attention to me, he added, sounding like a sullen little boy.

You just need to get out in the world for a night or two, she proposed persuasively.  Bring Alya, make up a costume, bring a few gifts, be your charming self . . . and get this damned love goddess out of my hair for me so I can do my godsdamned job!

I will, I will, Minalan assured her.  I promise.  I’m not sure how, yet, but I’ll at least study the situation.

While it wasn’t the resounding endorsement of her efforts and pledge of support she wanted, she also knew getting Minalan involved held dangers of its own.

He’d been moody and wracked with melancholy lately, and Pentandra had no real idea why.  His lands were secure, his children and wife were safe, and he was doing some truly spectacular things with enchantment, now – things that hadn’t been done since the Magocracy.  He had the unflagging respect of his peers and colleagues and wealth beyond his wildest dreams.

So why did he sound so damned depressed?  Perhaps he really did just need to get out of Sevendor, come to the Wilderlands for a few days, and get his bearings.

Whatever you can do, Min, she said, gratefully.  Now just get this goddess out of my face, and half of my problems will melt away.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Conspiracy Unmasked

“You,” Pentandra said, a smile cracking her face, “look like a proper young lady of the court, now!”

“I hate it!” Alurra complained.  “My skin feels raw, my hair feels naked, and these clothes . . . they itch . . .”

She picked at the smart new day gown, in sturdy mustard-yellow cotton.  The shade suited her tanned skin and blonde hair, though not perfectly.  The three other bolts of cloth Pentandra had chosen for Alurra were far more complementary, once they were turned into gowns fitted to the girl. Until then, this was acceptable.

The dress had been made by the palace seamstress for a courtier’s wife years ago, paid for, but never collected -- the poor woman was consumed in the invasion   Though not a perfect fit, it was a lot better than the shapeless shift and bag-like overtunic Alurra had worn since she’d arrived in Vorone.  It actually demonstrated that she had a shape, for instance, under her baggy clothes.  And there was room to grow. Pentandra guessed by Alurra’s frame and age that she would need it, sooner rather than later.

“It won’t itch so much when your proper underthings are delivered,” Pentandra promised as she eyed the dress critically.  “You’ll just have to endure for a few days.  Just . . . try not to scratch in front of other people,” she suggested.

Alurra faced her, her eyebrows cocked critically.  “Why not?”

“It’s considered impolite.  As are a few other things I’ve seen you doing,” she added, with a sigh.  “The dresses and the shoes--”

“Oh, Ishi’s saggy titties, the shoes!” wailed Alurra, miserably.  Lucky the raven, exiled for the fitting to the top of the unused looking glass, squawked his sympathies with his mistress.  “Why does anyone wear shoes if it isn’t snowing out?” Alurra demanded, crossly.

“Because we are civilized folk,” Pentandra lectured, firmly, “not wild barbarians or freeholders.  You might have been born a Wilderlands peasant, my dear, but that is no excuse for not handling yourself in public with poise and manners, especially in the palace.”

“I just don’t see the bloody point!” Alurra fumed, squirming in the gown ncomfortably.  “Is this how noble folk dress all the time?”

“That’s how most folk dress most of the time,” Pentandra assured her.  “But to return to my earlier point, our social awareness -- how we talk and act around other people -- communicates just as much as our words.  Often much more.  In court that can be particularly important.

“At court, you should assume first and foremost that everyone you meet is working for their own best interest, and if they can see an advantage in exploiting even perceived flaws, they will.  Letting such folk know our true selves is a vulnerability few can afford.  So we conceal our true selves behind a system of conformity and society, while we each strive to further our true goals.”

“But that means you’re just lying to each other all the time to get what you want,” accused Alurra.

Pentandra frowned.  “Consider the importance of what we do here,” she began.  “This is the center of politics in the Wilderlands.  That might not sound important, but that’s because you do not understand the nature of politics.  At its root, politics is the peaceful allocation of scarce resources.  The Duke acts to ensure that the people, the nobles, and the clergy each have what resources they need to uphold their part of society.  The Duke’s job, as mandated by holy writ, is to ensure that the common folk have peace and order, the clergy has stability and resources, and the nobles have swords, horses, and castles.

“In Vorone, that is particularly difficult, because right now there is a desperate need . . . and few resources to speak of.  So unless we want to see what little society we have devolve into pure warlordism, under which no one really gets what they need, politics becomes keenly important.  And our business here at court becomes all the more vital.”

“So that’s why you get to lie to each other all the time to get what you want,” Alurra said, crossing her arms.

Pentandra struggled for patience and took a deep breath.  “In the pursuit of order and security,” she continued, beginning to wonder if Alurra would work out here at the palace, after all, “those charged with the task of ensuring them must meet, plan, and allocate what resources they have in common, under the Ducal household.

“That’s the court.  It’s made up of the senior officials, usually appointed by the Duke, who make policy and hire people to execute it.  It’s comprised of the senior clergy, who provide a number of essential services to the people and require the duke’s maintenance, oversight, and guidance.  But also his support.

“It's made up of the military, who are charged with defending the people and the clergy.  It’s made up of commercial interests, who see to the transportation and delivery of vital supplies and goods.  It’s made up of a Court Wizard, responsible for overseeing the magi of the realm and regulating their affairs.

“But it's also made up of nobles representing thousands of people to whom they are ultimately answerable.  Each of those nobles, each of those clergymen, each of those warriors are all seeking to gain the most resources they can with as little compromise as possible.

“So court frequently becomes a marketplace of power, position, money, and duty . . . but mostly money.  In the process of advocating for your office, it isn’t necessarily the best idea to reveal what resources, power, or money you have control over, lest others seek to use it as leverage in the pursuit of their own interests.  Therefore . . . we all have to wear . . . masks . . . to portray a particular appearance.  While it’s commonly understood that the appearance is false, we use this polite fiction to protect our positions and further our goals,” she concluded.

“That’s just stupid!” Alurra fumed.

“It’s as vital to human interaction as sniffing each other’s’ butts is to canine society,” proposed Pentandra, searching for a metaphor the girl could understand.  She usually had a dog or two from the palace’s domesticated pack following her around, and in a few short days she had learned the names and habits of every cat in the place . . . while forgetting most of the human names she was introduced to.

“I . . . I guess I can see that,” the blind girl eventually said with an angry shrug.  “But wouldn’t it be easier to just sniff each other’s butts instead of dressing like a bunch of mummers?”

“We dress appropriate to our station and the occasion,” Pentandra continued to lecture as she picked up a silver brush from her table and began brushing her apprentice’s hair.

The palace barber had taken especial care to comb and wash the mop of hay-colored hair before he had skillfully trimmed it . . . but the way Alurra moved her head around uncomfortably showed she was not used to the feel of it yet.  “If we were to go to a festival in a Wilderlands hamlet, then it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear a mere shift and smock, would it?”

“I don’t know!” Alurra said, annoyed.  She cringed every time the brush went through her hair.  “I’ve only been to one festival, for half a day, and I wore what I always wear!”

“Well, you aren’t in a Wilderlands hamlet anymore, you are in a town; more, you are in the capital of the Duchy.  And most importantly, you are in the household of one of the senior members of the court.  Me.  Each of those facts has bearing on your dress, your actions, your demeanor.  You can get away with some indulgence, because of your infirmity,” Pentandra said, finally being able to see Alurra’s pretty eyes behind her hair, “but blindness is no excuse for poor manners and rustic behavior.”

Alurra sighed, her shoulders sagging.  “I know,” she said, flatly.  “Antimei warned me that you would ‘transform’ me.  I was hoping it would be into a frog, or a racquiel, or perhaps a bear -- I’ve always wanted to be a bear!  Not a ‘proper young lady’!” she said, bitterly.

“Old Antimei predicted this?” Pentandra asked, intrigued.

“Yes,” Alurra said, miserably.  “It’s part of the story.  You teach me how to walk and talk and dress until I am as regal as the archmagi of old,” she said, mockingly, as if quoting her least favorite part.  “My feet will ache, my throat will be sore, and I’m going to make a lot of embarrassing mistakes.  Still want to do this?” she asked, pleadingly.

“If it is fated,” Pentandra shrugged, “who am I to argue?”

“I hate prophecy!” Alurra declared unhappily.  “You’re going to teach me how to dance . . . I’m not going to be good at it . . .”

“What about magic?” Pentandra asked, suddenly.  “Does your story give you any insight about how I can teach you magic?”

“Well, I’ve already learned a bunch of stuff,” Alurra boasted.  “I sit in the office and I listen, sometimes.  I pick up things.  I learned about atomi and some basic alchemy,” she said, sagely.  “Positive and negative charges, arcane and electrical forces . . . it made so much sense!  But the only thing Antimei ever told me about you teaching me is that you borrow a stone from the Spellmonger to do it.”

“Borrow . . . a stone . . . from Minalan?  A witchstone?”

“No,” Alurra said, dismissively, “some sort of other magical rock.  It’s supposed to help me figure out how to learn about all that . . . book stuff,” she said, distastefully.  “It’s like a bunch of them all in one . . . stone.  Does that make any sense?”

While she had initially been excited about the prospect of learning how to read, the difficult reality of the art had discouraged her progress.  The books which had once fascinated her now tormented her as Pentandra read to her from them.  Not only did Alurra not know how to read, but she had some decided opinions on the subject.

“Minalan does have a lot of magic rocks,” conceded Pentandra.  “Perhaps he has one we can use.  I’ll ask him.  In the meantime, let’s go over the first three meditations in Qera’s Fundamentals, do you remember those?”  A groan from the girl indicated she did.

Alurra’s magical education was unique, Pentandra was discovering.  Some elements of the basics she knew by rote, some she understood profoundly, others she struggled with.

After a few weeks of testing and discussions, she was convinced the girl was mostly around the Second Year range of knowledge despite her rough presentation.  That was not bad, considering both her handicap and her rustic education.

She demonstrated a basic, unsophisticated understanding of how the Magosphere worked, how a mage with rajira could access arcane power and direct it to purpose, and the twenty basic laws (and several of the advanced corollaries) implicit to Imperial style magic.

Though she lacked complete mastery over the basic runes, particularly those involving sight, she had knowledge of them.  Antimei might be a half-mad old hedgewitch training a blind wild mage in the middle of the wilderness, but she had covered the basics in tutoring her unorthodox apprentice.

Then there was her sportish talent with Brown Magic.  It was fascinating, from a thaumaturgical perspective.

Clearly she had overdeveloped a natural facility, thanks to her blindness, and the result was the ability to slip effortlessly behind the eyes of nearly any animal she made the acquaintance of.  Horses, dogs, birds, rodents, cats, cows, even the bats that were starting to flit along the palace’s eaves at twilight were all open to her. She’d established the girl’s range - which was considerable - and the impressive fact that she could even be in connection with multiple animals at once.  Not only could she witness what they did, and direct their actions in a rudimentary way, she could also share in the simple thoughts of the animals.

In Brown Magic Alurra was truly gifted.  The array of creatures in the palace served as her eyes as she moved about from one place to another.  They were her scouts and lookouts, her guides and navigators.  Often she learned far more from the contact than just what the creatures saw; their emotions and perspectives colored her communications.  She learned what they smelled, tasted, feared and desired, and sometimes more, depending on the intelligence of the individual.  It was as if she could speak directly to them, and they to her.

Alurra proved adept enough that Sir Vemas begged to use her abilities a few nights to spy on the activities of the remaining Rats, when Pentandra showed off her apprentice’s unique talent to the constable.

Sir Vemas had relocated the headquarters of his clandestine operation to the former hideout of Opilio the Knife, for its convenience and defense.  Though the Rat Crew was barely present in the ward, the Wood Owls and Woodsmen continued to patrol the night in pursuit of any who might peek their heads out of their holes.  The handsome young constable was searching for the remnants of the organization in other parts of town, now, and devoted the organization’s resources to that end.

He was particularly looking for a way to implicate their leader, Master Luthar. The criminal organization’s boss remained aloof and untouchable, in his Northwood ward mansion, and their surveillance of the man showed he appeared unconcerned, in public.  Of course, there was precious little activity to tie him to in town, these days, so most of his dealings were now in the Crew’s squadrons of thugs in the Temple ward and the refugee camps.  Since the bloody Briga’s Day riots, the Crew had been quiet.  Very quiet.

So while things were quiet, Sir Vemas began using Alurra to infiltrate their various remaining lairs around the town at night, when the Crew was most active.  Pentandra’s apprentice was eager for the work - she hated the kind of men the Rats were, and seemed to view herself as an avenging spirit - a perfect complement to the Woodsmen and Wood Owls.  Alurra was bilocating to her raven, Lucky, pigeons, cats, mice, dogs, and other creatures that were able to escape scrutiny to surveillance.

That had in turn allowed Sir Vemas to gather intelligence on who the remaining agents were, and even the direction of their enterprises.  And those few times that her investigations lead to confrontations, having the animal-headed guardsmen supported by the arrival of real animals lent a tremendous amount of gravity to the myth of the Master of the Wild.

But the intelligence reports were more important than picking off the last of the Rats.  Interestingly enough, to Pentandra’s mind, was the report that the Crew’s emergency recovery plan (after losing its two most lucrative wards) involved grain speculation.

As their other illicit sources of revenue had dried up, the Rat Crew reinvested in the pressing need for seed corn in the duchy, and using its influence planned to manipulate the vital grain market of Vorone for their own profit.

As that dovetailed nicely with Pentandra’s efforts to secure grain and lower the cost of bread before more riots broke out, she did not mind loaning her apprentice to Sir Vemas.  Alurra was happy to help, and was never in danger.  Though the Rat Crew had employed some elementary magic protections, as well as their stable of thugs protecting their leadership, Alurra’s assistance neatly sidestepped their measures and gave the Woodsmen valuable intelligence.

The Rats didn’t think of a raven or a cat or a dog as a threat.  Vemas was filling scroll after scroll with detailed notes of tidbits Alurra’s friends overheard, including the coded names of their contacts in Enultramar.  He’d even had one of Alurra’s mongrels follow a man (the former keeper of accounts to the late Bloodfinger) to discover the secret place where he lived – something he and the Woodsmen had been working on for weeks without result.

Pentandra was just as happy with Sir Vemas’ preoccupation with her apprentice.  While it was good to see him again, the brief meeting was a reminder of the dangers of temptation.  As much as she enjoyed the flirtation and excitement, her duties were weighing on her far more than those first few weeks in Vorone.

And – she admitted to herself – her relationship with Arborn was not as supple as it was just a few months ago.  She did not need the temptation of the handsome, witty young constable in her life on a daily basis, she resolved.  No matter how much she seemed to crave such attention.

When Arborn returned from a mission he was quiet and taciturn, and while he was willing to talk to her, conversation with his wife always seemed to see him at his most laconic.  The allure of loquacious Sir Vemas was powerful, after her Kasari husband’s stony silences.  She found having an excuse not to linger with him and the distraction of her apprentice’s assistance helpful . . . and her clandestine deal with Planus was taking up quite a bit of her time and energy as it neared completion.  But that, too, was fraught with complications.

It wasn’t that her cousin wasn’t willing to help – far from it.  The problem was the Planus was a perfectionist, and he continued to fiddle with the deals he made to get the best possible price long after a normal man would have walked away satisfied.

The wheat he purchased, for instance, was had at a bargain.  Two ships full of wheat were purchased, cargo and all, for a song, he reported happily, after his agents had scoured the Remeran port cities for just the right deal.  Similarly, the iron ore was distributed to four different foundries in Remere in a complex deal that each of them under the impression that they were exclusive purchasers of the famed and expensive Alshari Hematite.  He managed to make money on the transaction both ways, but it took time to arrange and work out the logistics.

Now she had a Supply Rod in hand, and he had its mate - specially-ordered from Sevendor’s blossoming enchantment industry, and arranged as a special favor to her from Banamor.  After that, Pentandra just had to wait for Planus to finalize the deals.  When he finally informed her that the transaction had been consummated, she immediately told Prime Minister Angrial . . . and the next day she and several other members of court were summoned to the Ducal Grange for a special event.

The Ducal Grange was a normally dusty cobbled yard surrounding four stout four-story silos of stone, and ringed with warehouses, behind the palace and beside the barracks.

There was a tiny shrine to Huin in one corner, where a brace of monks acted as quartermasters for the Chamberlain, Sir Antinon.  This was the larder for the palace, where the Duke received payments-in-kind from his vassals and took tribute from dependent territories.  For the last four years all four silos had stood virtually empty as both the source of the revenue and the willingness to send it to Edmarin dried up.

As this was the depot that also supplied the Duke’s many dependent estates, that had caused tremendous hardship on the farms and orchards that depended upon their liege lord’s management to see them prosper.  For the last several years the estates had either held back their rightful tribute to ensure there was seed corn, or they had been forced to purchase it at a premium from the hated grain merchants – many of whom were in Edmarin’s pocket.

As Pentandra arrived that rainy morning, she noted the four largest grain merchants of Vorone in the yard betwixt the palace and the barracks with their clerks and attendants, looking pleased with themselves.  Another dozen courtiers associated with grain in one way or another were also present, including Father Amus.  As a high priest of Huin he had ecclesiastic jurisdiction over issues of grain and the grain trade.

Pentandra was a little confused, until she found the Prime Minister and coaxed Angrial to explain to her just what was going on.  After the smiling old man received her assurances, he happily explained, letting her in on the display of power the Duke himself had dreamed up.

Duke Anguin looked very businesslike in a dark green tunic and hose, unadorned with more decoration than the silver coronet he wore and the sword at his side.  He sat under a canopied chair brought to the yard for the purpose, and for once the nominal canopy did some good in the light spring drizzle that washed the yellow pollen into the gutter.

The clerks around him shielded their parchments with their cowls until Pentandra impatiently summoned Everkeen and cast a spell that encouraged the raindrops to fall a hundred feet away from the yard instead of on their heads.  Just the sort of helpful magic a Court Wizard should be able to cast, she reflected.  It wasn’t perfect, but it kept the ink from running too badly to read.

“The shipment is ready for delivery?” asked Count Angrial, looking pleased with himself.

“Any time you need it,” Pentandra agreed, patting the supply rod at her side as she took her position.  The herald quickly called court to order, asked Father Amus for an invocation and blessing, and turned the proceeding directly over to the Duke.

Duke Anguin addressed the court directly, keeping his tone light despite the overcast and drizzle.

“As all of you are aware, the Ducal Grange is lamentably bare,” he began.  “Four years of gross mismanagement and abject corruption by Baron Edmarin saw the grain from my local estates vigorously collected and sold to speculators at a discount at harvest, only to be purchased back at a premium in the spring for seed.”  The lad sounded almost amused by the blatant corruption.  Since some of the speculators who had benefitted from Edmarin’s shady deals were present, they chuckled at their own wise business.

“Now we are in planting season, and I have no corn to give my peasants,” Anguin said, sadly, spreading his hands.  “I have heard it said that there are thoughtful merchants with the foresight to sell their surplus in times of need.  I have little experience with such things, but it is my understanding that some of these gentlemen are present, and willing to help us through our embarrassing shortfall?”

All four of the grain merchants were called . . . including, Pentandra noted with interest, Master Luthar.  The old Rat was dressed richly in court robes, and he carried his walking stick with a swagger.  He filed to the front of the throne with his comrades, allowing the tallest one to speak on his behalf.

“Your Grace, the grain merchants of Vorone are here to help you,” the merchant assured.  “Though it is true that last year’s harvest was disappointing, my colleagues and I have had the foresight to import, at great personal expense, significant corn from Castal to ease the shortage,” he said, gesturing to his civic-minded, public-spirited colleagues.

“And at what price could we expect from you gentlemen?” Father Amus asked, his voice locked between respect and anger.

The priests of Huin had always had a tumultuous relationship with grain merchants.  While the nobility saw the men as a necessary evil, the Huinites disputed the necessity.  Whenever possible they used the power of their own ecclesiastic granaries to break the stranglehold the commercial grain merchants had, and they frequently contended against them in public through sermons and public sentiment.  More than once they had incited riots among the peasantry against them.

“Why, no more than thirty pennies a bushel,” the merchant said in reasonable tones.  “Considering the high tariffs the Duke of Castal has imposed, that leaves very little room for profit.”

“Very little,” mused Father Amus, skeptically.  But he held his tongue.  If the Duchy was going to be forced to purchase grain from these men, then irritating them would not be prudent.

Pentandra was not well-versed in commodity pricing, but she knew from overhearing the arguments at court that nine copper pennies a bushel at harvest was considered a good price.  With his incessant wheeling and dealing Planus had secured his purchase at the bargain price of six and a half pennies at port in Remere.  But here the merchants, who figured they had a captive market, had increased their prices significantly.

“Thirty pennies,” Anguin said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.  “That seems extravagant, gentlemen, don’t you think?” he said, a note of warning in his young voice.

“I’m certain your advisors will inform Your Grace what is fair, under the circumstances,” Master Luthar added in a clear, educated Falas accent.  “Profit is not our consideration.  We seek only to assist the duchy.”

“Do you?” Anguin asked, sharply.  “You know, gentlemen, being a student under a priest of Huin for all of these years, I have a passing acquaintance to the understanding of the economics of grain.  My estates will need about thirty tons of the stuff to plant their fields in full this year.  At thirty pence per bushel.  That’s a significant expenditure, don’t you think?”

“Your Grace,” Master Luthar, clearly one of the more eloquent and persuasive speakers in the group, replied, “you cannot starve the peasantry!  You have a duty under the gods to preserve and protect them, and provide to them what they need to thrive.  Why, to give them less than their need would be against the Laws of Huin!” he said, reprovingly.

“As is profiting overmuch on the bread of life!” spat Father Amus, reprovingly.  The old priest did not like to be lectured about divinely-appointed duty by a criminal.

“Regardless,” continued Luthar smoothly, in the face of open derision, “shorting your estates of their full measure, regardless of the circumstances, places Your Grace and your rule in spiritual jeopardy – surely your advisors have told you that, Sire!”

“Yes, they have,” agreed Anguin, pleasantly.  “They’ve also told me that it is my duty to provide that benefice any way in my power, no matter the price.”

“I am gratified for the people that His Grace has been so wisely advised,” Luthar said with an obsequious bow.  The taller merchant continued.

“We have already agreed to keep our prices artificially low, Your Grace,” he lied.  “None of us will depart from the fair value we’ve mutually established.”

“Which will set the base price at market for seed corn,” Father Amus muttered darkly.  “With the palace paying that much, that will raise the price across the country!”

“There is only so much grain in Vorone, Your Grace, and so many bellies to feed,” a third merchant said soothingly.   “Shorting your dependent vassals of their full requests will undermine your rule, I fear.  Perhaps prices will remain high enough through the harvest to retain some of the value of your treasury,” he added.  “But there really is no other way,” he said sadly.

“Or,” Duke Anguin said, lightly, “I could call upon my court to assist me with this problem.”

That made the grain merchants laugh unexpectedly, revealing to all their opinion of the Duke’s current court.

“Father Amus,” he continued, not taking his eyes off of the grain speculators, “could you please pray for the blessing of Huin on his most humble and devoted servant?”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace!” Father Amus said, immediately launching into a prayer Pentandra recognized as Huin’s Benediction, begging for rain, sun, soil, and toil to manifest the Tiller’s Blessing.

Peasant religion, part of her sneered.  But potent, another part of her reminded.  Agricultural religions were particularly steadfast in belief and practice, and the priesthoods of the agricultural gods tended to be uncomfortably egalitarian.  Her recent experiences with the divine had renewed her interest in the subject.

“There,” said the Duke, at the conclusion of the prayer.  “That should take care of it.”

The entire court burst out laughing at the Duke’s apparent jest.  Many eyed the aging high priest of Huin with sadness or sympathy.  It seemed cruel to mock the religion that prided itself on keeping the people from starvation.  From the performance Huin’s powers were not enough to fill the Duchy’s silos.

“Well,” Anguin said, responding to the chuckles good-naturedly, “it is oft said that even magic serves the whims of the gods.  Perhaps they need a little help.  Lady Pentandra, does magic have any answer to this predicament?  For surely the treasury cannot afford to spend more than thrice the harvest price for seed corn, not and survive.”

The grain merchants all looked at her blithely, awaiting a similar stall or fruitless appeal from her as they did Father Amus.  Pentandra instead looked thoughtfully at the duke.

“Just how much grain did you need, Your Grace?” she asked.

“About thirty tons,” the Duke repeated.  “That would allow all of my local estates their proper allowance of seed for the first time in a while.”

“Then I shall see what I can do, Your Grace,” Pentandra promised, summoning Everkeen in a flashy display with her right hand . . . while taking the supply rod out of her belt with the left.  She held one rod in each hand, and used Everkeen’s amazing facility with magic to set up the parameters of the supply rod’s spell . . . and then whispered the mnemonic command.

Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, all four empty grain silos were filled to overflowing with wheat.  The rich aroma of wheat filled the air, along with a fair amount of dust as the grain settled in.

“Will that do, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, loudly, over the astonished gasps of the court.  “It’s more like forty tons, but if you don’t mind carrying a surplus . . . or selling it on the open market . . .”

“And how much am I being charged for this enchantment, Lady Mage?” he asked, directly.

“Your Grace, I could not supply it in good conscience for more than . . . nine pennies a bushel?” she asked, quoting the harvest price.  That would still give Planus enough profit on the deal, especially without considerations of tariffs or transport to consider.  “And if you throw in all that useless iron ore in the warehouse, I can drop the price another two pennies a bushel,” she added.

She watched with delight as the expressions on the faces of the grain merchants changed in light of this new information.  With all four silos full, grain spilling onto the flags, the inventory that the men had painstakingly prepared for this moment was ruined.

Not only would the Duke not be buying the wheat at a premium price, as predicted, but the additional ten tons of wheat dumped on the carefully-considered local market would depress prices even further.  Pentandra could see the sense of panic settle over the men as they struggled to calculate their sudden losses.

She was no prophet, but she foresaw a market price settling somewhere in the seven-pence range, once all of the panicked selling was done.

“Your willingness to assist the coronet in a time of need is appreciated, gentlemen,” the Duke said, lightly, “but as you can see we have the situation in hand.  In fact, if you need to supply your own estates, I think we can sell you our surplus for . . . call it twelve pennies a bushel?  That’s far less than you would have to pay for your own grain.  No reason why we can’t make a reasonable profit,” he sneered.

One of the men clearly had less control than his mates as he fumed and stomped in place.

“You!  You’ve . . . you’ve ruined us!” he nearly shouted, shaking.  “Do you have any idea—”

“No one forced you to purchase all of that wheat,” reminded Father Amus, pleased.  “Speculation is frowned upon by the Tiller.  All investment carries some risk, my children.  Those who wish to make their wealth from the bellies of their fellow man should be cautious how the favor of Huin changes!”

Pentandra was a little irritated that Father Amus was claiming credit for her work, but she could understand the man’s passionate hate of the grain merchants.

“As we are assembled here anyway,” Duke Anguin continued, “it has been brought to my notice by the Town Constable that there was an attempt to overthrow my lawful rule a few nights ago,” he said, his voice growing colder and darker as he spoke.  “Thanks to dear friends in court, the plot was exposed and foiled, and the plotters – some of them – have been arrested.

“Under interrogation their leaders and co-conspirators were revealed.  Sir Vemas, as Town Constable I call upon you to arrest and produce . . .” he said, glancing at a roll of parchment a secretary helpfully held open for him, “Lord Garay of Hardstone, Sir Bestus, Lord Purveyor of the Palace, Lady Martricia of Falas and . . . Master Luthar of Vorone,” he finished.

Three of the conspirators were already in custody, thanks to the swift action of the palace guards.  She’d heard the men name them herself, once she’d cast a helpful truthtell spell to compel their honesty.  But that fourth name, Master Luthar, the grain merchant and clandestine head of the Rat Crew, had not been mentioned.

Until now.  Sir Vemas, it appeared, had finally found a means to put manacles on the Boss Rat of Vorone.  Now the crimelord squeaked in shocked surprise as two burly guardsmen put a hand on each shoulder and locked their spears behind his back.

“But Sire!” he instantly protested.  “I am innocent of any plots!”

The other prisoners, who had spent an unpleasant night in the palace dungeons under duress, were quick to take up the cry despite their confessions.

“I am innocent, Your Grace!”  “I have made no plots, my Duke!” “By the gods I am innocent!”

But Master Luthar, to her knowledge, really was innocent . . . of the Sea Lord’s plot to overthrow the court.  Despite his involvement in many other schemes, he had not been part of that conspiracy.

Instantly her eyes flicked toward Sir Vemas, who was escorting the prisoners to the spot in front of the throne.  All four prisoners looked frightened, but Master Luthar looked shocked, as well.  He had come here expecting to sell his ill-gotten grain at a premium price.  Now he was falsely accused and in danger of losing his head.

“The four of you stand accused of treason,” Father Amus pronounced.  “Such a charge is a grave one, and not lightly made.  If one of you should be willing to testify against—

“They did it!” squeaked Lord Garay of Hardstone, a little Southerner who held considerable estates in rich farmlands of south Alshar - now in the hands of a hated half-brother.  His eyes were wide, sleepless and filled with tears.  “They did it, I’ll testify, before the gods I’ll testify!  They did it!  Bestus and Martricia and that other one, whatever his name is, they did it!  They made me do it!  I am loyal, Your Grace!  I assure you!  They forced my hand!” blubbered the conspirator.

“Your Grace, by your own ears you’ve heard the testimony implicating these people in a plot against your regime, and perhaps against your very life,” Sir Vemas said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, even over Garay’s sobbing.  “According to the confessions of their agents, these four were behind the attempt to seize the guard stations of the palace by night, secure the building against the garrison, and take control of your own noble person and your most trusted advisors in the depths of the night.  While their true purposes can only be guessed, what they plotted was, indeed, a crime of treason against their sworn and lawful liege,” he finished, decisively.

“So it appears,” murmured Anguin.  “So soon in my reign, too.  One might consider it a sign of success, I suppose, to engender such opposition so quickly.”

“Your Grace!  It was not intended to put you in danger!” Lady Martricia pleaded, wringing her bound hands together.  “It was merely to convince you to turn your attention to the important matter of Enultramar!”

“The rebellion is the real danger to the Duchy, Your Grace!” added Sir Bestus, trying to look brave and noble after a rough night in the dungeon.  “We have been back here months, and there has been no real attempt to overcome the rebellion!”

“Nor will there be, until I – and I alone! – decide to turn my attention there!” Anguin thundered, his mood and manner shifting abruptly negative.  He nearly snarled as he got out of his throne and stomped across the rain-soaked flags of the yard to face the traitors.  “I am the Duke of Alshar, and I command here.  When I decide that it is time to turn my attention to the south, then that is what will happen!”

“Your Grace, we merely wished to implore upon you the importance of the greater part of the realm!” Martrisha pleaded.

“Every inch of my realm is important, and no inch more important than any other,” Anguin shot back, angrily.  “When I brought you into my court, you swore an oath to me.  Conspiring to subvert my lawful counselors through force and influence my decisions through threats are a vile, vile repayment of loyalty, my friends,” he said, leaning sarcastically on the last word.

“Regardless of my reasoning and rationale, I will NOT be intimidated!  Not by those outside of my court, and damn sure not by those who are supposed to be my most loyal servants!  Whether you wished to compel me to invade Enultramar – however foolish a proposition that is – or whether you wished to turn me over to the rebels to serve as their puppet, it makes no matter.  You had the temerity to plot against your liege.  The penalty for that is death,” he said, with a ring of finality.

“Your Grace, surely we can argue for our innocence before the court!” Master Luthar insisted, looking around at the court angrily.  “I, for one, have not had any opportunity to defend myself as the gods insist!”

“You dispute that you are involved in this conspiracy, even though you have been named by more than one prisoner?” asked the handsome constable on behalf of his duke.

“I do!” he insisted, indignantly.  “Why, I’ve scarcely been to the palace since Yule!  I know these others either by reputation alone or not at all!  How could I have possibly been involved?” he demanded.

“So you are willing to be deposed in open court?” asked Sir Vemas, expectantly.  “Under a truthtell spell supplied by the Court Wizard?”

Master Luthar stopped his speech before he could speak a word.  “Concerning my involvement in this plot?  Certainly!”

“Well, Master Luthar,” Sir Vemas said, with an air of triumph about him, “the law makes no distinction about such circumstances.  When the nature of the accusation involves treason - particularly against the person of the Duke - there are no limitations on what questions the court may ask a witness.  And you will be compelled to tell the truth.  About everything,” he said, knowingly, enunciating the word with delight.  “Now, do you still dispute that you were involved, or would you like to confess now?  Either way, I am secure that the gods will see justice done.”

“I . . . that is . . . may I not consult with a lawbrother?” he asked, the mask over his emotions starting to crack.

“Indeed, all of you may consult with counsel, as is proper in cases of treason,” Father Amus agreed.  “If you do not wish to confess now, and earn yourself a quick and painless death, then the court is more than happy to oblige . . . the alternative . . . no matter how brutal,” he assured them.

“Then let us reconvene this case in two weeks, after there has been sufficient time for the defendants to consult with their counsel and make their final preparations,” acceded the Duke, raising his hand.  “Is there any other business before this court?  My fingers are starting to resemble raisins,” he said, earning a giggle from the crowd.

“Your Grace, there has been a petition of admittance to the court,” announced the strong-voiced herald.  “Dowager Countess Shirlin of Danavel, late of Wilderhall, begs that you recognize her and admit her to your court.”

“Countess . . . Shirlin?” Father Amus asked, doubtfully.

“Countess Shirlin . . .” Duke Anguin said, tapping his chin with a forefinger, confused.  “Danavel is in Southern Remere, but I am . . . unaware of any relation to my court.”

“Perhaps I can shed some light on that, Your Grace,” the overly-melodic voice of an older woman trying too hard to sound youthfully cheerful intruded on the event.  A mature woman of high station in a long yellow travel gown came forward, a clutch of servants behind her with her baggage.  She bowed low and respectfully.  Obsequiously, in Pentandra’s opinion.

Her intuition instantly went on alert, though there was no sign of alarm from Everkeen.

Who in six hells was this woman?

The sentiment was shared by her liege.  “And you are, my lady?” Duke Anguin asked, mildly annoyed.

“Why, Your Grace, your dear aunt Grendine sent me to look after you,” Countess Shirlin explained.  “When she heard you had struck out on your own and came to this . . . place,” she said, looking around at Vorone’s skyline with obvious dislike, “she felt remiss that she did not include a single advisor for you,” she said, clucking as if the Duke were a child.

Pentandra decided to avoid the wait and start loathing the woman now.

Everkeen might not see her as any kind of arcane danger, but the woman’s entire manner seemed calculated to irritate everyone in the room.

“I seem to have a sufficiency of advisors already,” Anguin said, gesturing to Father Amus and Count Angrial . . . and herself, she realized.  “On what else do I need advice?”

“Oh, they’ll help you with the town, perhaps,” she dismissed, “but I’m talking about the important things.  Dynastic things,” she said, knowingly.

“I’m afraid I do not understand your purpose here, Your Excellency,” Anguin said with a swallow.

“Oh, you dear sweet boy,” the older woman sighed.  “Your Aunt Grendine sent me to arrange for you to be wed.  I am to find you a bride suitable to your house and station.  You’re going to get married!  Isn’t that exciting?” she beamed.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Dowager Countess Shirlin

There was precious little information available about the suddenly-appearing Countess Shirlin, but Pentandra wasted no time in scouring her contacts for anything related to the aging courtier.  Pentandra spoke with her successor at the Arcane Orders, mind-to-mind, and urged him to discover all that he could in Castabriel.

Within a few hours he returned a report that confirmed that Countess Shirlin was, indeed, one of Queen Grendine’s trusted advisors.  Indeed, she was one of the principals responsible for her son’s union with the Remeran merchant houses through the auspices of one of their daughters.

Countess Shirlin’s reputation for dynastic match-making amongst the high nobility was profound, Pentandra learned, and her history at the Castali and Royal courts demonstrated a woman with an interest - some said obsession - in how each of the Great Houses of the Five Duchies paired up for dynastic reasons.  That made her a valuable resource for Grendine’s court . . . and an incurable busybody for everyone else.

By midnight, Pentandra had some additional information about her, largely because Astyral gossiped with everyone and Minalan’s court wizard, Dranus, was very politically aware.  Their intelligence on the woman was not thorough, but it did prove revealing.

Shirlin was the second daughter of a Remeran great house, House Porone, when she married into power at a young age.  But her high station did not shield her from tragedy in her youth.  Countess Shirlin had married young and beautiful, and like so many women of her generation she’d been left a widow after a jousting accident.  Her second husband, an elderly man of a military bent, passed away not six months after taking her to wed.

Despite her title (and perhaps because of her personality) she’d never remarried a third time.  Instead she had worked her way into the inner recesses of Rard’s court and eventually found herself the catspaw of the queen.

Left a widow by first a baron and then a count, the unlucky Shirlin had spent most of her dowry and most of her inheritance by the time her second husband died.  She was shopping around for a third husband of similar power and wealth - a difficult proposition at her age - when Queen Grendine intervened and brought her to court to handle important little tasks for her.  Like finding her son, Tavard, the heir to the throne, a perfect bride and mother for her grandchildren and heirs.  That task now successfully concluded, and the goal of finding her daughter Princess Rardine a husband becoming more difficult, the Queen had sent the old busybody to harass her nephew for a while.

That was concerning to Pentandra and the other members of the inner court.  While there was no direct evidence Shirlin herself was an assassin, she was certainly a spy.  She certainly had other spies in her large retinue.  And she certainly brought at least a few who might be handy with a dagger in an unsuspecting back.

Pentandra could see the queen’s strategy plainly, of course.  Grendine expressed grave reservations about Anguin’s rise to power in the past, in her recent letter.  She’d even warned him about the inspection tour her vicious daughter would be giving him if he didn’t run back to Castal like a good little boy.

From Grendine’s perspective, without adequate supervision there was no telling what mischief the lad would bring on the duchies through his inexperience in governance.  She could hardly insist on oversight of his military on that basis, thanks to Count Salgo, or his foreign policy, thanks to Count Angrial . . . so Grendine had attacked the lad in the one area in which he was weakest: his marital future.

By tradition it was a boy’s mother who helped with selecting a suitable bride, of course.  Especially among the upper nobility, where marriages were far more about rights and duties and land and property than they were about children or hearts.  But as Anguin’s mother was dead, it fell to his older female relatives to fill that void.  Grendine was simply trying to help her nephew by providing an experienced counselor on dynastic marriages.

Which coincidentally provided Grendine with an eye and ear, and (when necessary) a voice at Anguin’s court.

The stratagem fooled no one, Anguin least of all.  He accepted the countess’ credentials grudgingly, and admitted her to his court as a matter of courtesy.  But the next time she spoke with him one-on-one, the Duke was still fuming about the temerity of his aunt when Pentandra met with him afterward.

“Can she not be content to rule the rest of the kingdom, and leave me and my little patch of woods in peace?” he complained at the special meeting of senior officers called by His Grace that evening. There seemed no better reason to call the meeting than to complain about Countess Shirlin, which seemed a shallow purpose . . . but then most of the ministers were all too aware of Queen Grendine’s subtle way of exerting her influence.  Pentandra was gratified that each of the lad’s senior advisors took the threat as seriously as she.

“Grendine will not be satisfied until you are as much her puppet as Tavard is,” remarked Salgo, “from what my friends at the royal court say, she was extremely angry that you chose to leave her hospitality in the first place.  She’s been overheard calling you ‘that doltish boy’ and ‘the idiot in Alshar’,” the Warlord added, helpfully.  Anguin winced, but he expected no less from his father’s sister.

“Who even said I wanted to get married?” demanded the Duke, crossly.  He’d been enjoying a regular stream of young female companions from both the court and the quarters of Lady Pleasure’s brothel.  The idea that he’d have to give up those young lovelies so soon after making their acquaintance did not appeal to the virile young man.  “I’m young, yet!  The last thing I need is a wife!”

“It does seem premature to consider the dynastic issues before we have successfully established security,” murmured Angrial, his mouth sucking on his pipe stem as he contemplated the development.  “Yet her concern is not misplaced, merely . . . premature.  Nor realistically in her power to compel, if you are not happy about it, Your Grace,” reminded the Prime Minister.

“I’m not!” the Orphan Duke agreed, emphatically.  “Not at all!  My friends, Angrial is correct, we must see to it that she does not interfere in our plans.”  Whether he was referring to Countess Shirlin or Queen Grendine was uncertain, but his opposition to both was clear.  He did not want to accede to their plans.  Particularly plans that might see him wed before he was ready, apparently.

“I think we can manage an adequate watch on her,” agreed the Prime Minister, thoughtfully.  “And I do not think we need to fear her schemes.  In fact, we may well be able to turn this to our eventual advantage.  I recall the woman from court at Wilderhall.  She’s as subtle as a mace.”

“This is nothing less than Grendine’s attempt to control Anguin from afar, now that he is out of her immediate influence,” Father Amus observed, angrily.  “We cannot let her get away with that!”

“We won’t,” soothed Pentandra.  “But his capacity to wed and strike an alliance against the royal house is clearly a threat to the queen.  Until he stands before a priestess, we can delay this process and use it to our political advantage as long as possible.  As far as Countess Shirlin, I’ll keep an eye on her.  One reason that Grendine sent a woman is that without a sitting duchess right now, that’s a weak spot in court.”

“Do all courts get clogged up with dowagers like this?” Anguin wondered aloud.  “First Lady Plea—Baroness Amandice, and now this . . . woman.”

“It’s fairly common,” shrugged Angrial, smoking his pipe contemplatively.  “Some even use the occasion to force the duke to find them new husbands.”

“And now she wants me to force me to be a new husband!” Anguin said, disgusted.

“You just leave her to me, Your Grace,” Pentandra promised.  “The ladies of the court and I will keep her in line.”

After the brief meeting, Pentandra headed over to the palace office of the Constable, which made her own operations look positively expansive by comparison.  The two-room office was smaller than her reception area, and half of the second room was occupied by an iron cage.  Sir Vemas was there with another guardsman, whom he dismissed as soon as he saw Pentandra.

“So, what happened with Master Luthar?” she asked from the doorway without preamble.

“He is currently in the dungeon, awaiting his legal advocate,” Sir Vemas reported, pleased.

“But . . . he wasn’t one of the conspirators named by the rebels,” Pentandra pointed out.

“You caught that, did you?” Sir Vemas grimaced.  “No, not technically.  Technically, he had nothing to do with the aborted uprising at all.”

“Then why was he charged?” she demanded.

“Convenience, my lady,” Sir Vemas sighed.  “We couldn’t find anything to stick to Luthar, legally.  He’s too good, his people too disciplined.  Even the spy missions your apprentice has been helping me with have been frustrating, because the man never speaks of his guilt, even in private.  And he frequently uses codes and misdirection.  He’s sneaky,” summarized the constable.

“An important consideration in a crime lord,” Pentandra agreed.  “But if he wasn’t named as a conspirator how can we legally—”

“Under the Laws of Luin . . . we can’t,” admitted Sir Vemas.  “But the enterprise was a ploy.  Either he will keep his mouth shut and risk execution based on the testimony of some unnamed prisoner, or he allows himself to be questioned in court under a truthtell.  And in cases of treason, as I mentioned, there is no restriction about what kinds of questions we could ask him.  And he would be compelled to answer . . . truthfully.  That includes the names of his superiors in the south, the names of his confederates here, where his treasures are hidden and who he has turned to his influence within the palace,” Sir Vemas relayed, each item ticked off a fingertip.

“Only he’s not guilty!”

“He’s plenty guilty,” Sir Vemas countered.  “Just not of this.  So we’ll use this as a feint to get him to spill the kettle on what he knows, even though it incriminates him.  Which is perfectly legal . . . under the Laws of Kulin.”

There was that name again.  By invoking the God of Thieves and Tricksters, Sir Vemas was reminding her that they acted not merely as instruments of justice in the court, but as agents of its preservation.  The Laws of Kulin justified all manner of deceit and treachery in the name of state security, and framing an ostensibly innocent man for one crime to get him to inform about another was well within the limits of that mandate.

But it didn’t make Pentandra feel very well about the matter.  Not at all.

Her first opportunity to meet one-on-one with the Dowager Countess Shirlin came the very next day, when the Countess made the rounds of the senior staff offices to introduce herself.

Pentandra sat through her dull introduction dutifully, but without a hint of interest.  Countess Shirlin was just too disciplined and too skilled to let slip anything that could help the Duke or incriminate the Queen.  As far as anyone knew, she was merely there to advise the Duke on his marital prospects.

She stopped by Pentandra’s office mid-morning on a courtesy call, as Pentandra was approving the fourteen names of apprentices aspiring to take their master’s examinations this summer.  The dowager swept into the office in her attractive new gown, a purse full of opinions, and an arrogant, insulting attitude that Pentandra disliked at once, breezed past Pentandra’s protesting secretary, and showed herself into Pentandra’s office.

“Ah, Lady Mage!  Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial, if I’m not mistaken?” she said, when Alurra reluctantly led her to a chair in Pentandra’s office.

“Actually, I am Lady Pentandra anna Kasari, if you want to be technical,” Pentandra replied, bowing to the senior lady.  “I was married last autumn.  But I’m still settling on a name,” she added, guardedly.  The confession was a blow to Countess Shirlin.

“Married?  And I didn’t hear of it?” the woman asked, shocked.  “My dear, you are one of the most influential magi in the kingdom, and . . . no one heard of your wedding?” she asked, scandalized.

“It was a small affair, in Kasar,” Pentandra demurred.  “Very quaint.  Quite romantic.  So what can I do for you today, Excellency?”

But Countess Shirlin would not let the subject go.  As she sat huffed in the visitor’s chair, she seemed to want to accuse Pentandra of a crime.  Luckily for her, social embarrassment was akin to crime in her mind.   “You . . . married . . . a Kasari?” she asked, her eyes glazed in disbelief.

“Why yes,” Pentandra purred, enjoying the old bat’s discomfort.  It was much akin to the reaction she expected her mother would have, if she even knew about the Kasari.  “My husband is Captain Arborn, the Ducal Master of Wood.  He is a captain of the Kasari Rangers,” she explained.

“He’s . . . a tribesman!” whispered the courtier.

“Indeed, he is,” conceded Pentandra.  “The Kasari are organized in tribal-like bands.”

“And a savage!” Countess Shirlin continued, nearly shrieking.

“Hardly,” Pentandra said, gently, wondering just how quickly she could kill the woman with magic.  Then how slowly.  “He’s literate, educated, and very intelligent,” Pentandra countered, allowing the disdain to be heard in her voice as she lectured the spy from Castal.  “He’s also a senior officer in this court,” she reminded the newcomer, “and entitled to the respect due his rank.  So what can I do for you, my lady?” she finished, a tad impatiently.

“Oh, I . . . I was just introducing myself,” Shirlin said, finally marshalling herself as she came to terms with Pentandra’s supposed scandal.  “To the ladies of the court,” she added, trying to regain control.  “I know it must be a terrible burden to keep things running without a duchess to keep order,” she pointed out.

“Actually, we’ve gotten along quite well,” Pentandra said.  “The duchy had a perfectly good one for years, but . . .” she said.  If Countess Shirlin was at all socially aware, she had at least heard the popular rumors that it was Grendine, not the Brotherhood of the Rat, who had slain the late Duchess of Alshar.  “We’ll manage to survive without a new one.”

“Well, for a few months, perhaps . . . but without good, solid feminine leadership, Lady Pentandra think you will find that the court becomes wracked by scandal all too soon,” she said, looking around suspiciously.  “We can’t have that, now, can we?  Such lurid scandals are a distraction!”

“We’re less concerned with sex scandals and far more concerned with corruption, Excellency,” Pentandra offered.  “Considering how poorly Edmarin managed Alshar – he was a friend of Her Majesty, wasn’t he?  Too bad, she must be quite disappointed with his dishonor – but with the people of the Wilderlands starving and without work, they have been far less concerned with who is doing what to whom in the palace as they are where their next meal will come from.”

“Well, of course, under these . . . difficult circumstances one should expect the common people to ignore impropriety,” Countess Shirlin mused, ignoring Pentandra’s point.  “But we can’t allow people to talk about the goings-on at the palace as if it were some mummer’s play!”

“Why can’t we?” challenged Pentandra.

“Uh . . . what?” Countess Shirlin asked, confused.

“Why can’t we?  Let people talk about the palace goings-on, I mean.  What harm does it do?”

“Why, why, it undermines the respect that the people have for the nobility!” she burst, her jowls nearly shaking she was so upset at the thought of mere commoner sneering at her social class.  “If they think that the nobles go around boffing like rabbits—”

“Which, from all observations, they do,” reminded Pentandra, causing Countess Shirlin to blush.

“—then they will not invest the palace with the deference which it is due!” she finished, breathlessly.  “They will think that the nobility is no better than, than . . .”

“The burghers?”

“Exactly!” gasped Countess Shirlin.  “You have grasped it exactly!”

“No, actually, from my observations the burghers seem far, far more invested in the fidelity of their marriages than the nobility in Vorone,” Pentandra informed her, calmly.  “The common people could actually care less what happens in the palace, as long as everything else in their lives is done properly.”

“But what will they think?” demanded Countess Shirlin, clearly aggrieved by the idea of mere scullery maids and stable boys gossiping about their betters.

“But why do you care?” countered Pentandra.  “Honestly, Excellency, this isn’t Castabriel – this isn’t even Wilderhall.  This is Vorone, and if she was a horse we’d likely cut her throat and leave her on the roadside.  But she’s not.  She’s the only capital we’ve got at the moment, and its people don’t give a tinker’s piss about what – or who – Duke Anguin does for amusement.”

“That seems a terribly regressive perspective from someone like you, my lady,” Countess Shirlin sniffed, critically.

“Someone like me?” Pentandra asked, surprised.  She was on her guard for the inevitable social attack, if she was not willing to immediately support Countess Shirlin’s attempt to build consensus - this was likely it.

“Someone from a distinguished and ancient house such as yours,” the woman clarified, with an attempt at diplomacy.  “One where the rules of propriety are traditionally observed.  I’m certain your ancestors would be . . . upset by your attitude.  But perhaps it has been your more recent acquaintanceships that have colored your perspectives on what is proper and what is not,” she added with the slightest sneer.

The thinly-veiled reference to Arborn and his barbaric heritage did more than irritate Pentandra – she nearly summoned Everkeen and punished the woman arcanely.  But she understood politics well enough to know that burning the Queen’s clandestine representative to a cinder over a mild insult was likely to get her gossiped about in the wrong quarters.  And not by stable boys and scullery maids.

“Well, Excellency, while I’ll just have to muddle along with my damaged perspective, I think it’s important that you make the acquaintance of the palace ladies,” she said, in a friendly manner.  “Viscountess Threanas holds a weekly gathering, which is in two days’ time.  I’ll ensure you get an invitation,” she added.

“You’ll ensure that I will get an invitation?” asked Countess Shirlin, amused and irritated at the same time at the thought that Pentandra had more influence with such things than she.

“It really isn’t a problem,” Pentandra said.  “In fact, I believe another new face will be there: Dowager Baroness Amandice.  She’s a local noblewoman who has been appointed by Duke Anguin to coordinate the Spring Wildflower Festival.  Delightful woman,” Pentandra assured.  “I’m sure the two of you will get along like sisters!”

Later that day Arborn contacted her by Mirror.  Not the big Mirror array she’d spent weeks setting up and tuning, in a small shop across the street from the palace, but the private one she kept stored in her baculus.

Pentandra had almost forgotten the impressive gift Minalan had given her at her wedding reception – not just her baculus and a new case for her witchstone.  He’d made her a small but powerful spell using a Sympathy Stone that allowed two people to communicate across long distances, with a couple of bowls of water or the like to act as the mechanism.  What was said over one half of the stone would be relayed instantly to the other.

Arborn rarely used the device unless he was going to be unexpectedly delayed and needed to inform his wife.  It wasn’t that he was afraid of magic, as some suspect the Kasari all were, but that he preferred to limit his use to when absolutely necessary.

This time the need was pressing.  On his way back from discussing things with the wild tribes, he and his men had been overtaken by . . . something.

“I knew not what it was, at first,” he told her over the spell.  His voice was distant and tinny, as if he was at the bottom of a rain barrel, but she could hear him clearly.  “It lead two squadrons of gurvani cavalry, but it was human in form.”

“Human . . . in form?  But not in . . .?”

“You would understand if you saw it,” Arborn decided.  “He was their master, there was no doubt.  But he did not . . . act human.  Little things.  Like his eyes glowing, and his skin flaking off.  But it was a human body, human voice.  Just no human heartbeat. Or human mind.”

“How could you tell that?”

“When I stabbed him in the chest he didn’t fall down,” Arborn said over the device, dryly.  “That was my first hint.”

“That’s pretty decisive,” she agreed, crossing her arms uncomfortably.

“It was undead,” he pronounced.  “Only not like the normal undead I’ve seen.  It had intelligence, wit, and moved with incredible alacrity.  There’s more,” Arborn added through the tiny enchantment.  “More I thought you needed to know.  While we dueled, and my men had at his companions, we spoke.”

“That seems awfully friendly with a bad guy,” Pentandra pointed out.

“There was some cursing involved, I promise,” Arborn grinned, despite himself.  But then it faded.  “As we fought he taunted me, in particular.  He wanted me to know that the Kasari had failed, and that Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens was loose on the world and plotting his revenge.  I had to point out to him that the Kasari were never in charge of his security.”

“Clearly, or he wouldn’t be out,” Pentandra praised.  The Kasari might be considered barbarians by the rest of the duchy, but when they committed to a course of action they did it well.

“Exactly,” Arborn nodded.  “We do things right.  Or at least better.  In any case, he told me that Korbal was free and gathering his forces.  He’s working directly with the goblins and Sheruel, too, from what that thing said.  And there’s even worse news.  He’s specifically hunting and capturing Alka Alon.  For purposes unknown.  But if I was a wagering man, I’d consider the fact that this . . . thing in a human body was clearly not human.  In fact, it spoke like an Alkan more than a man.”

“If the gurvani are kidnapping Alka Alon, I’m guessing it’s for sacrifice, not for any particular attachment to them.”

“I figured something as sinister,” nodded her husband in the tiny piece of thaumaturgical glass.  “But in case I do not make it back, I wanted somebody to know.”

That was one of the first times Arborn had ever voiced doubts over his own survival.  From the casual way he did it, Pentandra was concerned.

“What do you mean? Of course you’ll make it back!” she chided.  “You’re just a few dozen leagues away.”

“That depends on whether or not we encounter another one of . . . those.  Or anything else vicious.  The Timber Road is littered with bones, and there are bandits and worse traveling its length.  Bandits and goblins are easy to contend with, but that undead . . . he was powerful.  He was fast.  He was strong.  It took everything we had to slay him,” he confessed, guiltily.

“Arborn!” Pentandra said, concerned.  “Are you all right?”

“Unwounded,” he assured.  “But tired.  I just thought you should know this.  From what he said, there will be many more like him, soon.  Indeed, they may already be within the bounds of Vorone,” he predicted.

“That doesn’t bode well,” she agreed, pursing her lips.  “I will inform Minalan, at least.  He should know.  And he’ll tell the Alka Alon, if they don’t already know.  We might be responsible for Sheruel, in some weird way, but Korbal is an Alkan problem.”

“Not if he makes himself our problem,” her husband countered.  “I’m serious, Penny, that thing went toe-to-toe with five Kasari raptors and nearly won.  If Jerics hadn’t bound his legs when he did we’d all be dead.  But perhaps not permanently.  This thing roused his companions, gurvan and hound, after we’d slain them once already,” he reported, darkly.

“I really hate undead,” Pentandra said with a shudder.

She tried not to get excited by the fact that that was the very first time Arborn had ever called her “Penny” as opposed to “Pentandra”.  She didn’t know why she thought that a milestone, but it was.  “By all accounts, historical and legendary, Korbal was a master necromancer.”

“And now he’s able to unleash his experiments on us at will,” sighed her husband.  “And reach out four hundred leagues from his base deep into the Alshari Wilderlands.”

As grim as the news was, this was the most substantive conversation Pentandra had gotten from her husband in weeks, even when he was home.  After she signed off, wishing him a safe – safer – journey, she immediately contacted Minalan, mind-to-mind, to tell him.

That’s when she found out her former boss and long-time friend was getting himself involved in a mage war with the former Ducal Court Mage of Castal, Magelord Dunselen.

Pentandra had little respect for the old man – he was a theoretician and bureaucrat more than a practical adept.  But he had been willing to be bribed into cooperation with a witchstone during a critical time, a few years back, and after the Battle of Timberwatch and the lifting of the Bans on Magic he had retired, re-ennobled, to his family estates in Greenflower.

That’s when he started using his nascent power to try to re-take his family’s legacy by force.  He’d been fairly successful at it, too, Pentandra knew.  Dunselen’s rise had caused her a great deal of grief while she was the Steward of the Arcane Orders.  Within just a year he had re-conquered a good portion of his lost legacy . . . but he had also stirred up substantial anti-mage sentiment among the nobility which Pentandra had struggled to counter.

Apparently Queen Grendine was just as concerned about a wayward High Mage as she was about a disobedient, unwed nephew, and so she had encouraged Dunselen to marry one of the ladies of her court to calm him down.

Lady Isily.  Pentandra knew her, back when she was a student at Alar, and they traveled in many of the same circles until Pentandra left for Inrion to pursue research in her obtuse subject, and Lady Isily had joined Duchess Grendine’s court as a lady-in-waiting.

But that was just part of her departure.  A powerful High Mage in her own right, armed with a witchstone given over to bribe Grendine into supporting Minalan’s bid to defend the duchies, Isily was a shadowmage who carried out the bidding of her Queen when someone had to die.  She was one of Grendine’s best assassins, and the news of her early retirement and marriage didn’t fool Pentandra one bit about the woman’s motivations.  Or her ambitions.

Nor was Dunselen a harmless enemy.  After many years at court, making connections and establishing a network of supporters, Dunselen was the epitome of the old order’s establishment.  He had never really liked Minalan, and from what Pentandra could tell from his encounter with the two of them at Chepstan Fair, he had no problem starting trouble for the Spellmonger.  Pentandra told her friend as much, mind-to-mind.

Min, you do realize that he puts your entire family in danger? she warned him.  Dunselen hadn’t been the sanest of magi when he’d enjoyed a position at court, and now that he had arcane power, mundane power, and position there was little to keep his ego in check, by all accounts.

I know.  So does she.  But . . . right now, all I can do is wait.  And prepare.

Perhaps, she agreed, reluctantly.  But it’s disturbing.  There’s a lot going on that’s disturbing.  Arborn’s folk brought word that confirms that Korbal the Demon God is alive – or at least not completely dead – and well in the Land of Scars.  No doubt whatsoever.  There have been some troop movements in the Penumbra that have me worried, although it doesn’t look like they’re gathering for a major assault.  And Ishi’s avatar has the entire court dangling from a string.  If something isn’t done soon, she could push this entire operation into the chamberpot.

She hated to dump all of her problems on her friend, especially when he was hundreds of miles away and unable to help, but she really didn’t have much other choice.

What do you need from me? Minalan asked, sullenly.

Just be here at the Duke’s ball, with Alya, in a mask, and be prepared to do whatever it is you need to do to stabilize the situation.  I’m doing the best I can, but the Spellmonger needs to make an appearance.

I will be there, he promised, heavily.  I’ve got one little war to deal with, but there should be plenty of room on my schedule. Shall we plan to stay the night?

Let’s see how things play out, she decided.  You might want to beat a hasty exit.  Or you and Alya could stay at Koucey’s guest house – we’ve moved our household to the palace as a show of support, and right now it’s being used as a base for the Wood Owls—

The who? he asked, interested but confused.

They’re a group of Kasari who . . . well, they aren’t raptors.  But they have a lot of skills other Kasari lack.  And far less moral compunctions.  Arborn recruited them for me to help crack down on the criminal organizations here.  She tried not to sound too pleased about that.  Most Kasari weren’t very proud of their miscreants, no matter how talented in the criminal arts they might be.

So you essentially started your own? he asked, amused.

It was easier than taking one over, she said, tiredly.  She wondered if he was actually judging her or if he was teasing, and decided on the latter.   If you want to rule – or help someone rule – sometimes you have to be willing to hurt people and break things.  And sometimes life's just better without some people in it, she added, thinking of falsely-accused Master Luthar sitting downstairs in the dungeon.

Despite feeling the entire affair was somehow wrong, after knowing what he was responsible for she could not think of much argument in favor of keeping them alive.  The Wood Owls aren’t cold-blooded killers, but they do what needs to be done.  And like most owls . . . they eat Rats.  The halls of power are soaked in blood, she added, philosophically, quoting an old Remeran proverb.

And how fares the Duke?

He’s holding power, now – barely.  The garrison is loyal, now that Count Salgo has taken charge and cleaned it out.  First Minister Angrial is surprisingly adept at the art of bureaucracy, it turns out.  Our biggest lack is a good master of intelligence.  Arborn does a reasonable job, for local issues, but Anguin really needs a professional overseeing the operation.

How do revenues look? Minalan asked, clearly afraid of the answer.

Surprisingly good, actually, Pentandra reported, pleased to be able to do so.  The Duchy collected nearly twenty thousand ounces of gold in tribute at the Midwinter court.  Several old local families who are loyal to the Ducal house have been holding back from paying for the last few years, for fear it would enrich Rard’s cronies.  We’re expecting more.

How are expenses?

That’s enough to keep us afloat without going back to the temple for more.  We’ve only used about half of the line of credit the Order arranged, so far.  It’s costing about two-thousand a month to keep the palace and the garrison running, another five hundred for city services.  We’re bringing in about six hundred in fees, so this is a big help.  We can keep running with what we have for several months without touching the reserve, and we can make payments to the Temple.

That is a big relief.  How is he playing in the hinterlands?

Are you kidding? The country knights who are left beyond the Penumbra are his biggest supporters.  They’re so damned glad that there’s a Duke in the palace again, they could care less what he does.  Not that that’s led to a flood of revenue, understand – coin is pretty thin, up here.  Most lords pay their tribute in kind, and since trade has fallen so profoundly, that doesn’t help us much.

Let me think about it, and perhaps I can offer some advice at the ball.  We’re doing a lot with enchantment, these days.  Maybe we can do something to help.

Whatever you can do, Pentandra agreed.  I’m drowning, here.  Just make sure that dealing with Ishi is high on your list.  And make sure you tell Alya I’m dying to see her again!

I will.  She’s been . . . I don’t know, just a little off, lately, he observed, troubled.

She just needs a night of dancing and drinking, Pentandra assured him.  Pregnancy is rough on a woman.  Give her some fun and she’ll improve.  Say at a ducal court function that requires you dress up like a smelly animal . . .

Chapter Twenty-Seven

An Interloper In Court

While Pentandra hadn’t been expecting Dowager Countess Shirlin to invade the court, she wasn’t unprepared for the possibility of someone like her.

Pentandra wasn’t fond of the social games most women played in competition with each other, but she was very adept at them.  Her mother had made certain of that - a woman did not thrive in Remeran noble society (even amongst the magi) unless she knew how to defend herself against the insidious attacks by her rivals.

It was easy, once you understood the fears and anxieties most women carried, how they presented them to the other women in their sphere . . . and how to exploit them.  While Pentandra had always been cautious about how she dealt with other women, particularly in groups, that caution frequently paid a profit in the coin of position as less-adept players of the spiteful game overplayed their positions recklessly.

She had noted many years ago that when women congregated together they inevitably seemed to slip into roles relative to one another that a wise woman could understand and navigate.

The woman who always needed to be in charge, for instance, or the woman who needed to complain bitterly about everything were both dangerous allies to cultivate in the cut-throat world of feminine court politics.  The former put you in peril by your association, while the latter kept you languishing on the periphery of things, just as tarnished by your alliance as by scandal.

While that had earned her a reputation as being somewhat standoffish around court, Pentandra didn’t mind one bit.  She had no burning desire to be either in charge or the center of attention.  She had enjoyed enough of both experiences in her past to know the limits of fulfillment they offered.

Pentandra wisely allowed Viscountess Threanas to assume the unofficial leadership position of the women of the court without challenge, and she deftly avoided being too closely tied to Coinsister Mereta, who (unlike her coreligionist, Coinsister Saltia) could complain about nearly anything and felt compelled to prove it.

Social positioning at court was important, Pentandra knew, not because she had a burning desire to be popular; but because she also knew the obstacles she would endure attempting to accomplish anything without at least participating in the often-inane antics of the ladies of the court.

Pentandra had long ago figured out that the most powerful position in such unofficial societies was not that of the ostensible leader, but that of a powerful voice in that leader’s ear.  It afforded her a goodly amount of influence in the group without exposing her to too much responsibility.  Hence her deference to Viscountess Threanas.

That wasn’t a reflection of her laziness; on the contrary, she had too much to do to get mired in the petty politics of the palace women.  And any place where there were more than three women had politics, as her father often said.  While it pained her to agree with such a contentious observation, her own experiences bore him out.

If Countess Shirlin anticipated a smooth coronation among the Alshari ‘rustics’, she was quickly and savagely corrected at the Tea.  Despite their many differences, none of the ladies of the Alshari court could find much flattering to say about Shirlin.  She was an interloper attempting to upset the established order, such as it was, and make herself leader without first building a consensus.

Pentandra could see it coming with the accuracy of foresight, thanks to her understanding of her sex’s approach to such things.  An important woman from elsewhere suddenly intruding on a pre-established group of women faced incredible scrutiny and criticism . . . not to mention social testing after her acceptance that men simply did not have to contend with.  Men tended to test new rivals first, and then extend them membership in the group. Women did things the other way around, usually.

First, Pentandra knew, the established group would extend a fawning invitation to the Countess that implied she was welcome among them with the intimacy of sisters.  That had been extended by Lady Bertine, who as the court secretary saw herself as responsible for such things.  At Pentandra’s direction she sent Countess Shirlin a prettily calligrapher letter invited her to attend the next Ladies’ Tea, promising friendship, fellowship, and intriguing conversation.

Of course Shirlin appeared with the purpose of dominating that conversation in mind.  The mature noblewoman arrived at the function in a new lavender gown in the Wilderhall style, with sharp lines and an efficient cut, with soft leather slippers dyed to match.  Her pretty maid followed her in a shorter version of the same gown, only covered with a long apron.

Pentandra immediately noted that the maid, not her mistress, surveyed the room with practiced efficiency.  If anyone in Shirlin’s party was one of Grendine’s “family”, it would be the maid, Pentandra guessed.

Countess Shirlin wasted no time in introducing herself and mentioning her friend, The Queen, as often as possible during the process.  She repeated the phrase “my good friend, Her Majesty, once said—” so many times that it became a palace cliché before the end of the afternoon.

The ploy to increase her social position through such references was incredibly blatant and impressed no one of her position elsewhere.  The few ladies at the function who were impressed tended to be on the margins of court life, while the rest of the court maintained the generally low opinion of the Queen.

The stony reception she garnered during her introductions to the group only got worse when Countess Shirlin began making small comments that amounted to criticisms of the ladies of the court.  Such as glancing at Sister Saltia, who was much loved by the ladies of the court despite her usually disheveled appearance, and muttering,

“I don’t know how they do things here, but in Wilderhall the nobility and the clergy dine separately!”

She compounded her social error a few moments later when she attempted a direct strike against the way things had evolved in court by wondering aloud at Viscountess Threanas’ leadership . . . based on her rank.

“In Wilderhall, traditionally the highest ranking lady of the court presides over these things, Viscountess,” she said, rather loudly, as the women seated themselves around the chamber.  As only Alshar employed the noble title “viscount”, usually reserved for the nobles in charge of the small but heavily-populated upland regions of Enultramar, it was natural for the Castali woman to employ the smear.

Nearly everyone stopped and stared at her for a moment, until proprietary forced them to continue or make a remark.  Threanas countered the veiled attack coolly as she took her seat at the unofficial head of the table.

“As I am the highest ranking Alshari lady in residence at the palace, I’m certain you will find that requirement well met,” she said, in a compelling voice.  “Until His Grace takes a wife, or we are joined at court by Countess Jaramine, I think I can manage the responsibilities seniority has thrust upon me.”

“Oh, I was just uncertain of the protocol,” Countess Shirlin assured her, fooling no one.

“We do not stand overmuch on protocol, these days, I’m afraid,” Lady Bertine said, pouring tea for the Countess.  “This early in the Restoration there is just too much to accomplish to be worried by such frivolous things.”

Countess Shirlin was not convinced.  “There is always time for proper protocol,” she said, smoothly.  “Why, Her Majesty was just saying the other day, ‘in matters of protocol and manners we elevate ourselves above the animals, the gurvani and the common folk and closer to the realms of the gods.’”

“Yes, Her Majesty is a stickler for protocol,” Threanas replied, tersely.  “Whereas here at Vorone we have always considered all the women of the court our sisters, regardless of rank or class.  If a nun is a loyal retainer of His Grace, then denying her equitable participation in the workings of court serves neither her nor the Duchy.  We learn much from having our ecclesiastic sisters here,” she said, smiling to the nuns at the table.

“Well,” Countess Shirlin said, clearing her throat nervously, as she began to see Threanas as the reigning power, here.  “Let us rejoice in their fellowship, then, for piety is the duty of us all, as Her Majesty often says.”

“Actually,” Sister Saltia said, biting her lip, “when we gather at these weekly teas, we like to . . . ‘take off the habit at the door’, so to speak,” she said, with delicacy.  “This is the one place, the one time during the week where we can put aside our piety or our husbands or our work and enjoy each other’s’ company.  We’re all just girls, here, noble, common, or ecclesiastic.  We’re just women.”

“There is no ‘just’ about us!” Threanas objected.  “My dear Saltia, whether we have taken sacred orders, become wives and mothers, or dedicated ourselves to service we are the spine that holds the palace together!” she said, fervently.  “Let there be no mistake.  Our brave men may defend our walls and command our armies, but if it wasn’t for the ink-stained fingers of femininity behind the scenes, they’d all starve to death in their helplessness.  The women of this court are its greatest strength.  Respect that,” she suggested to the nun.  “Always respect that.  Now, my dear, can you let us know about the status of payments to your temple?  I understand that we are actually ahead of our terms by a surprisingly large margin . . .”

Apparently Countess Shirlin was not anticipating such serious discussion of policy in a palace ladies’ tea, because as soon as the nun began reeling off numbers and payment schedules and monthly revenue figures, and the conversation turned to those numbers and not to whom they should marry off Anguin, the older woman’s eyes began desperately searching the room . . . as if she was seeking some ally to use as leverage as she was upstaged by a portly nun droning on about interest rates.

“This is delightful,” she lied, as she interrupted Saltia’s stirring tale of alternative repayment plans, “but I cannot believe that you ladies have an important festival approaching in a few weeks and you aren’t worried about your garb!”

Pentandra moaned to herself, but she appreciated the reaction of her fellows around the table.

Sister Saltia snorted in an unladylike fashion.  “Entropy! I think I have my outfit picked out,” she said, fingering the simple cloth of her habit she wore constantly.

Viscountess Threanas, already on guard against the Countess, sniffed derisively.  “I imagine after thirty years attending balls and masques at this palace I can find something in my press that no one currently living has seen before,” she said, snidely.

Pentandra shrugged.  “I’m going to wear something magical.  As usual,” she dismissed.

In truth she was actually concerned about her outfit for the masque . . . but not that concerned.  One of the advantages of being a mage was the ability to enchant your clothing to produce a number of impressive effects.  While she enjoyed that element of both fashion and magic, it was hardly something she spent a lot of time thinking about . . . not when she was chasing Rats, running the arcane bureaucracy, and trying to plan a long-term defense for Alshar.

“But you can’t all be ready, already,” protested Countess Shirlin.  “Usually for a ducal ball every woman in the palace is atwitter with what gown they’ll wear!”

“I’m afraid that the Restoration has interrupted the normal social flow, and we’re just getting back to the rhythm of social life,” Pentandra offered the Countess, diplomatically.  But like most diplomatic overtures, the friendly tone concealed a dagger.  “When the previous duchess was so viciously and cruelly assassinated in her bed, it took us all by surprise.   While we are restored, we are not yet recovered.”

“’We?’” Countess Shirlin asked, amused, speaking directly to Pentandra for the first time since her awkward interview in her office.  “You are a Remeran, are you not?  I’m surprised that you share the . . . Alshari perspective.”  The way she pronounced the word Alshari left little doubt in anyone’s mind how she felt about the region . . . and its people.

A quick glance told her that the rest of the court ladies felt similarly about Shirlin.  Pentandra’s ire flared as she saw the sharp looks around the room.  “I married an Alshari man,” she reminded the Countess, gently.

“I thought you married a barbarian Kasari?” Countess Shirlin asked, her tone insulting and confused.

“As I am certain any of the ladies at this table can assure you, regardless of my husband’s origins and heritage, he is one of the most admired men in Vorone.  And we are both wholehearted supporters of the rightful Duke of Alshar,” she added.   “Indeed, we are both sworn to do anything in our power to protect him.”

Countess Shirlin was quiet, after that, finally understanding that the consensus of opinion at the Tea would be against her long before it supported her.  Snubbed on her attempts to first put down the clergy and then undermine the ladies of the court in their confidence, Countess Shirlin shrewdly changed her tactics about the time Lady Pleasure arrived, late, for the event.

That’s when Pentandra started to relax about the entire affair.  Between Threanas and Lady Pleasure, Countess Shirlin had irritated two of the most powerful women in the Wilderlands.  While she thought Threanas was a stuffy old bat, she was Alshar’s stuffy old bat, and she was more than capable of defending herself from Shirlin’s feeble attacks.  If Shirlin thought that Threanas was a vulnerable target in the group, she nearly pounced on Lady Pleasure’s perceived vulnerabilities.

Knowing both women the way she did, Pentandra looked forward to the social violence about to unfold.

The Dowager Baroness finally showed up a half-hour late for the Tea – alone for once – in a spectacular pink riding gown embroidered prettily in green around the collar and cuffs.  Countess Shirlin was instantly effusive in her praise for the dress, which was cut in a Castali style, and for the beauty and poise of its wearer.

But she also mistakenly considered the late arrival of a mere baroness to the proceedings worthy of her criticism, and her target more than worthy of her disdain.  It was a cheap ploy, Pentandra knew.  Shirlin focused her conversation on the younger, less well-positioned ladies of the court and sought to unite them against the older women, through subtle (and not so subtle) social manipulation, implied threats, and flattery.

When Baroness Amandice insisted on being referred to by the court (and by Countess Shirlin) as ‘Lady Pleasure’, a steely self-assuredness came over the Castali courtier.   An old dowager, such as herself, only with the aspect of youth and beauty?  One with a quirk for grandiose names?  Countess Shirlin smiled, after the introduction. She had found her target.

Pentandra watched, fascinated, as the bitchy matron from Wilderhall decided to pick a fight with the goddess of love and beauty.

“Is that the dress you’ll be wearing to the Flower Festival?” she began, cordially enough.

“The Spring Wildflower Festival,” Amandice corrected, automatically.  She picked at the skirt.  “This?” Lady Pleasure asked, amused.  “Oh, not at all.  One must have something new to celebrate the new season, don’t you think, Excellency?”

“Well, my friend Her Majesty often says that new gowns make new women of us all,” Shirlin quoted, absently, as she tried to discover some point of social leverage against the beautiful woman.  Lady Pleasure decided not to wait on the arrival opportunity, and made some herself.

“Interesting,” Lady Pleasure observed.

“Oh, Her Majesty is filled with sage advice,” assured Shirlin, finally happy to see her name dropping had gotten some traction with the court.

“Not the observation – that’s trite and simple-minded – but your enduring fascination with the Queen.  It’s almost as if you are afraid of having an opinion she might object to, so you merely borrow hers.  Tell me, does she mind?  Or do you have her permission to ransack her conversational closet?  Oh, those are delightful slippers, are they suede?” she asked, changing the subject of the conversation far too quickly for Countess Shirlin to keep up with.

A moment later the Castali noblewoman tried again to insist on her social importance, this time through criticizing the palace itself . . . and attempting to segue into a conversation where she felt she had more depth.

“Has anyone noticed the appalling number of brazen young sluts parading through the corridors?” she asked, sniffing disgustedly.  “I understand the worldly ways of court life, but this is unreasonable!  It’s like a forest of tarts out there!  Why, on my way here I saw two of them doing . . . well, Trygg forbid what they were doing, but it was completely inappropriate for the palace!  Someone should speak to the captain of the guard about the number of filthy whores he’s admitting!”

“Really?”  Viscountess Threanas asked, mildly.

While she was of much the same opinion, she recognized that Countess Shirlin had marched herself defiantly into the jaws of Lady Pleasure.  Those were her girls, after all, and even Threanas had to admit that they were well-behaved, compared to the other courtesans who haunted the palace in the past.  The Minister of Treasure might have been unpleasant and rigid, but she appreciated the threat to the court by Shirlin’s inclusion.  She was clearly looking forward to watching the coming verbal dismemberment.  “From what I understand, the palace guard is quite in favor of the number of nubile maidens lingering in our halls.”

That was a far cry from Threanas’ usual moralizing, Pentandra realized.  Threanas had wisely recognized that supporting a mere rival, Lady Pleasure, over the interloping Countess served the court best . . . and if that meant compromising her stated principals for pragmatic purpose, she was more than capable.

The message was clear: the ladies of the court should stand firm and united in the face of the threat.

“That is precisely my point!” fumed the Countess.  “We simply must restrict those vile sluts to the street where they belong!  It’s disgraceful and improper!  It puts Duke Anguin in jeopardy.  I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” she warned, in a judgmental tone, “and it rarely ends well.  When you let disgusting sluts and vile whoremongers into the palace, soon disease and scandal follow!  Young knights become allured of the filth and do not even notice the beauty of the ladies of court, or pay them heed!  Her Majesty would never permit such indecencies!  Why, if no other reason, we must find a suitable bride for His Grace to prevent any of those whores from stealing the throne away from him!”

A hush fell across the table.  While all the women there had felt the pressure implicit in having so many young, pretty and sexually available women around all the time, none of them had been willing to challenge the maidens so rudely, in light of the special position of favor Lady Pleasure currently enjoyed with the Duke.  Indeed, many ladies of the court secretly favored or even envied the young whores who ran errands for their mistress on their days off.  Likewise, those involved in revenues were aware of the growing monthly tax payments the House of Flowers was now paying to the Duchy, and were cautious of how they spoke of the institution.

From the look on Lady Pleasure’s face, she had not taken Shirlin’s assessment well. Pentandra was the first who dared speak after Countess Shirlin, who was looking around at the faces of her fellow ladies in vain for support.

“I’ve actually enjoyed having so many bright-faced young girls around,” Pentandra offered, slowly.  “It breaks of the monotony of handsome guardsmen, wrinkled dowagers, and ugly old ministers.”

It was a conversational peace offering, an opportunity to change the subject to something less provocative.  Anything less provocative.

But having once chosen her topic, Shirlin was unwilling to back away from it.

“I don’t find anything particularly enjoyable about nasty little sluts slinking around in the shadows, hiking their skirts and preying on our young men,” Countess Shirlin said, stiffly.  “But then, you are the one who ‘studies’ such sluts, I believe.  What an amusing hobby.”

With one sentence, the Countess managed to alienate both Pentandra and Lady Pleasure at the same time, and gave them social permission to ally, despite their severe differences.  Pentandra wondered idly if the Viscountess would try to stop the impending social carnage or even join in on Countess Shirlin’s side, but Threanas proved too wise.

She sat back and watched two experts demolish the Countess instead.

“I study all forms of sex and magic,” Pentandra replied in a low, calm voice.  “Even the really boring and pathetic types,” she said, pointedly.  She looked the countess up and down.  “Somehow I don’t think you would be interested in my work, Excellency.  At your age,” she added, casually.  The dig struck home.  “But if you are, there are a half-dozen monographs I’ve written on the subject available at most magical academy libraries,” she added, softly.

“I could hardly be interested in something a woman who studies magic and whores for a living wrote,” Countess Shirlin said with a disgusted sneer, gaining confidence in her position as she savaged Pentandra.  In other circumstances she might have been on the right track by shaming the sexuality of a ducal court . . . but in Vorone, at the moment, insulting either magi or whores was not a particularly smart idea.

“You know how to read?” Pentandra shot back in a sharp murmur.  “Really, that’s quite remarkable.”

“I’ve heard the Castali have encouraged a few of their noblewomen to take up the art,” Sister Saltia said with uncharacteristic cattiness.  She was far from adept at tearing down other woman in social circumstances.  But she was willing to learn for Countess Shirlin’s sake.  “Apparently they’re eager to adopt Alshari standards in such matters.”

“Why would a Castali noblewoman ever need to read?” added Lady Bertine.  The elderly secretary might have been an old battle-axe, but she was a loyal Alshari battle-axe, and she did not care for Shirlin’s tone one bit.

“Perhaps to deal with long nights with Castali noblemen?” offered Lady Esmara with a wicked snicker.  “I’ve heard that they just don’t have—”

“The issue,” Countess Shirlin said, loudly and rudely interrupting, “is not whether or not Castali noblewomen can read, but whether Alshari noblemen can pass a slut in the corridor and not act like a hound!”

“If you can find a man who doesn’t act like a hound around a perky pair of pumpkins, let me know!” one of the younger petty nobility moaned.  She was one of the new crop of young Alshari noblewomen hosted at the palace over the summer to offer them an opportunity to lay claim to once being ‘presented at court; to their future husbands.  Most would be gone back to their farms by midsummer and await carefully-considered betrothals.  Considering the lass’ lack of perky pumpkins, she would likely be one of them with very protracted negotiations, Pentandra guessed.

“All men act like hounds,” Lady Pleasure opined.  “It’s one of the more reassuringly consistent things about them.  It’s their nature.  Just as it is our nature to take advantage of their nature.”

“By hiking a skirt to any bravo in the corridor?” accused Shirlin, contemptuously.  “How does that add to the respect of the ladies of the court?  It’s insulting!”

“Would it be better if these ladies were the subject of their crude attentions?” asked Lady Pleasure, smoothly indicating the junior noblewomen at the other table.  “You would imperil their virtue, and their chance at a good marriage, rather than allow those better suited for it to contend with the lusts of the men of Vorone?”

“No woman needs to use her sexuality to prove herself powerful!” insisted the Countess.  “It demeans us all.  Surely if you had a real duchess in court, she would say the same!  How can we, as women, win the respect of the men when they see us in comparison with those sluts?”

“Would you deny us one of the few advantages we have?” Lady Pleasure implored the Countess.

“A woman has far more to offer a man than what’s up her skirts!” fumed the Countess, angrily.

“Such as . . .?” invited Lady Pleasure, sweetly.  “Oh, do tell us what sweet allure a woman has for a man, that doesn’t involve her feminine charms!”

Pentandra never would have stepped into such an obvious verbal trap, particularly not with the avatar of the Goddess of Love and Beauty, but Countess Shirlin was out of her element . . . and she didn’t understand just whom she was arguing against.

“Well, companionship, obviously!” answered the Castali woman, sputtering at the cool challenge to what she saw as obvious social boundaries.

“He can get a dog for that, my dear,” Amandice dismissed, amused.  “And be better served thereby, for he can have more than one and get a new bitch every few years.  What else?”

“Why, to have someone to share his fortunes and his burdens,” offered Shirlin, who in her uncertainty had reached for the traditional.  Those were words directly from the common marriage vows of Trygg celebrating the institution.

“Do you really desire to share a man’s burdens?” asked Lady Pleasure, pointedly, “or do you wish merely to appear to . . . while making alternative plans?  Be honest, my dear, there’s no one here but us girls,” she urged, mockingly.

“Is that not the point of uniting in matrimony?” Shirlin returned, haughtily.

“That’s the point you shove into his gut,” Lady Pleasure agreed, casually.  “But it’s not often the reason a wife truly seeks a husband.  Indeed, in my experience, the last thing a woman wishes to do is take on burdens that are not hers.  And a man can confess his cares and burdens to a priest, if need be - he doesn’t need a woman for that.

“As far as his fortunes, well, few women can resist spending their man’s money on his behalf, so there is little benefit accrued to a man in that.  How many husbands count themselves wealthier a year after their wedding?  Oh, this is amusing!  Do you have another suggestion?” she asked, sweetly.

“Well, to cook and clean for him, and raise his children!” Shirlin said, crossly, looking around the room for any trace of support.  Or sympathy.  She found little of either, after her abrupt tirade and insulting attitude.

“Men can clean for themselves – ask any sailor or soldier,” dismissed Lady Pleasure with a sip of tea.  “Nor are they incapable of cooking, though few possess any art in it.  As far as raising children, how many men do you know who are eager to become fathers before their nuptials?”

“I’m speaking about after their wedding!” the Countess shot back, angrily.

“Yet you list only the things that allure a man after he is wed, not before,” offered Sister Saltia, thoughtfully.  “A man could care less of a woman’s companionship, position or her willingness to share his burdens.  What he desires in a woman most is . . . devotion.  Physical devotion, perhaps, but he seeks devotion in a woman, first and foremost.  I shall never take a man as husband, but even I understand that!” she said, scornfully.

“What, then, has a woman to offer a man before he consents to wed her?  What of value?” Lady Pleasure continued, amused, addressing all the ladies in the tea.  “If she has wit, then he rarely has enough himself to recognize it.  If she has position or wealth, he will be despised amongst his fellows for coveting it through marriage.

“One might offer that merely being in her presence and gazing upon her smile is sufficient recompense for his trouble . . . but only until we’re old enough to bleed,” she said, viciously.  “Then the truth comes out!”

Everyone laughed at that, even Countess Shirlin, although her heart wasn’t in it.  She was still searching for conversational leverage in this unconventional court.  Nor did she feel defeated, yet.  Still she strove to win the debate.

“So then why permit such deviance in the palace?” asked the Countess.  “It encourages disrespect, licentiousness, and unworthy behavior amongst our men.  This is why we need to see His Grace wed, and quickly!  Else the people will begin gossiping about the court, and eventually His Grace himself!  As Her Majesty says, ‘the people rely on the grace and decorum of the nobility to give their world stability’.”

“Funny how that noble sentiment doesn’t seem to include political assassination or subversive plotting,” Pentandra observed aloud, ostensibly to herself.   “One might think of those things as adding to instability, if one is as unsophisticated in such matters as I am.”

“Do you wish to see this ancient palace turned into a brothel?” demanded Shirlin, angrily.  “For that is the way you are headed, with these wild women roaming and rutting like animals!”

If the Countess had crossed a line with Pentandra over Arborn’s origins, with Lady Pleasure the boundary was the nature of her girls.  She was justifiably proud of them and what they had learned, despite the nature of their education, and she was highly protective of them.  Lady Pleasure would hear no ill of her precious Maidens.

“My girls do not ‘rut like animals’, Amandice said through clenched teeth.  “They conduct themselves with dignity and respect, as ladies, regardless of their social class, or what they might be doing.  Or whom,” she added.

“Your girls?” asked the Countess, astonished and confused.  “What do you mean ‘your girls’?”

“Those ‘little sluts’ you are complaining about running all over the palace are mostly employees of the House of Flowers, on Perfume Street,” Sister Saltia reported, dutifully.  “Which is the top revenue-producing and tax-paying businesses in that region of town,” she added.  “And it is owned entirely by Dowager Baroness Amandice.”

“Yes, my house alone has paid over three hundred ounces of silver this month as our rightful tax,” Lady Pleasure pointed out to the Countess with satisfaction.  “Yet all of my girls have volunteered their time and energy during their days off to advance the Wildflower Festival unpaid, in a show of civic responsibility.  Tell me, Countess, do the Castali whores take such pride in their towns?”

“Why, no—yes—This isn’t about Castal!” the confused old bag finally bellowed, as she battled against the confusion the goddess’ words inspired.  “This is about Alshar, and from what I see – and will report to Her Majesty -- the state of the court is deplorable!  We must find a bride for this poor boy, and soon, else the court risks descending into chaos under such . . . lurid influences!” she finished, glaring at Lady Pleasure.

“I don’t really see much compelling reason for our lad to wed, actually,” Sister Saltia said, thoughtfully, between sips of onion soup.  She was truly enjoying the social battle unfolding in front of her.  For a change she wasn’t the subject, and she delighted in watching the conflict between her social betters. “While some additional revenue from dowry lands would be nice, it would also dilute his focus on affairs in Alshar.  Assuming you have someone from outside Alshar in mind,” she asked the Countess, innocently.

Pentandra resolved to play a few rounds of dice with the nun, later, and purposefully lose.  It was a brilliant question, and gave the ladies of the court a wealth of information about the Countess’ - and the Queen’s - motivations.

“Oh, my yes!” agreed Shirlin, grateful that the matter she’d come to Vorone about was being taken seriously by someone at court.  “Her Majesty has proposed a great number of potential matches, each from a distinguished great house or suitably ancient line,” she said, removing a scroll of parchment from a pouch behind her back.  She unrolled it and began scanning through the names.  “We have an outstanding selection of matrimonial prospects, here, the real cream of the Castali lands . . .”

“Now why under heaven would our lad get himself attached to a Castali bride?” asked Lady Bertine, scornfully.  “When there are plenty of pretty Alshari maids at his beck and call?”

“These are all ladies of suitable station and birth,” Countess Shirlin answered, stiffly.  “All of whom have been properly vetted for rank and class.  Real noblewomen, as befits a sitting Duke,” she finished, triumphantly.

“Vetted by Grendine, you mean?” Lady Bertine scoffed.  “Better to be a bachelor forever than wake up a husband with a rat tail in his ear, like his dame!”

“That’s Queen Grendine!” demanded Countess Shirlin, crossly.

“I think His Grace can keep his own counsel on his romantic life,” Pentandra informed the busybody countess, her face amused by her discomfort.  “He’s barely been in power a season, yet.  Let him get used to power a little before he is forced to share it,” she suggested, reasonably.  She really didn’t want an all-out social war between courts, but she also didn’t want Anguin to be no more than Grendine’s puppet, either.

“And allow this . . . this debauchery to continue indefinitely?” the Castali noblewoman sniffed, her lip curling into a sneer.

“Debauchery?” scoffed Viscountess Threanas, speaking up for the first time in a while.  “My lady, I came to Vorone as a maid, during the rule of the Black Duke.  I assure you, the antics you object so strenuously to are a simple and wholesome pavane compared to the orgies Enguin the Black used to hold here!”

“Orgies?” asked Sister Saltia in a whisper.  “What’s an orgy?”

“That was long ago, and I’d assumed Alshar had progressed since that time,” Countess Shirlin replied, stiffly.  “It was assumed that the ladies of Alshar knew how to keep their men in order!”

“Our men do not require keeping,” Pentandra said, coldly.  “And it is insulting to them to insinuate that they do.  I, for one, can think of no compelling reason for His Grace to seek a wife, so early in his reign.  He is a young man, newly come to power.  Allow him to enjoy it as long as he can before the considerations of dynastic life intrude.”

“Do you want him to sire bastards?” sneered Countess Shirlin angrily.  “Because when you mix stupid sluts and horny nobility, you’re going to get bastards!”

Pentandra watched Lady Pleasure’s face turn from mild amusement to barely-controlled wrath.  That was an exceedingly sore subject for the courtier, and she was not about to be trifled with over it.

“Bastards?” she said, softly, her tone belying the look in her eyes.  “When a child is created out of love – or even out of base commerce – he is no less a man for his parents not having wed.”

“Some of the greatest heroes in the Duchies were bastards,” reminded Sister Saltia.

“And they often carrying the strength of the line more fully than legal children,” pointed out Lady Esmara, clearly thinking of someone in particular, and fondly at that.  “That can be a lot of strength,” she added, dreamily.

“If one scorns the laws of Trygg, perhaps one can concede that point,” the stuffy old noblewoman snarled.  “To flout the rules of marriage so blatantly invites the displeasure of the goddess!”

“Which goddess?” Lady Pleasure asked, pointedly.

“If the lad doesn’t wed, he cannot violate her laws,” Sister Saltia pointed out, fingering her dice in her left hand.  “The Laws of Trygg concern only the responsibilities a husband has for his wife and heirs, and vice versa.  They do not apply to the unwedded,” she said, authoritatively.

“Do you see why we enjoy the company of priestesses, Countess?” Threanas asked, pleasantly.  “They’re so . . . authoritative.  As there are ample means of legitimizing a bastard, it may well serve the duchy best if Anguin’s bachelorhood persists.  We can always select an heir later from one of his descendants.  There is ancient precedent for that, amongst his Sea Lord ancestors.  I don’t see it as a problem if he doesn’t wed.”

“If he doesn’t . . . wed . . .” Shirlin began, but trailed off.  Pentandra picked up on the conversational thread and could not help but pull at it until the Countess, herself, unraveled.

“If he doesn’t wed . . . what?” she prompted the woman, sharply.

“All manner of problems result!” Shirlin continued, stiffly.  “He will lack an heir, for one thing!”

“If there are no bastards from which to choose, he has two young sisters, either one of whom can marry,” Lady Bertine dismissed.  “He can appoint an heir of their ilk.  There is no succession crisis, here.”

“Well, then, to strengthen the state alliances,” Shirlin offered, more carefully.

“With the rebels in his own land, or with the foreign queen he’s not particularly well disposed to?” asked Bertine.  “Which should his people support?  Which will they support?”

“Look,” the Countess said, growing desperate in the face of such widespread opposition to her mission, “any of these noblewomen would make excellent duchesses, and any of them would strengthen the alliance between Castal and Alshar!” she burst out, slapping the scroll on the table, rattling the crockery with the force.

“And put a spy in His Grace’s bed for the rest of his life,” sneered Lady Pleasure, shoving the scroll back at the countess.  “Thank you, Excellency, but no.  Alshari women will see to the Alshari duke finding his bride . . . in due time.  When he is ready.  And not at the direction of his murdering aunt!”

Countess Shirlin glared darkly at the baroness.  It was clear she was not pleased with the direction of her mission - or the Tea - had taken.  In the face of such vocal opposition, she retreated to the one basis of power and command she felt available to her.

“Her Majesty is not going to be pleased that her nephew lives in such deplorable conditions, with such unsteady and uncertain advisors!” she nearly spat as she roughly rolled the parchment and put it back in her pouch.

“What pleases Her Majesty,” Lady Pleasure said, sweetly, “should likely never be spoken of in polite company.”  That caused a storm of whispers around the table.  “And to be brutally frank, the affairs of Alshar are none of her concern.”

“But she was raised in Alshar!  In this very court!  Of course she has concerns about how it comports itself!” protested Shirlin angrily.

“And she’s moved on,” Pentandra said, coming to the defense of her fellow courtiers.  She may have had issues with each of them, individually, but they all shared an essential and basic loyalty to Anguin, either personally or institutionally.  In the face of such a threat, Pentandra was gratified to see the ladies responsible for running the government were unwilling to use the incursion from Castal as a means of advancing themselves.  When their lad was threatened, they rallied together to his defense.

“She has her own court.  This is Anguin’s.  She might think that her pointy hat means that it is hers, too, and can be ruled by proxy through such base tools as corrupt Baron Edmarin and . . . others,” Pentandra said, her eyes lingering pointedly on the woman’s irate face.  “But in that belief she is mistaken.”

“The ladies of Alshar jealously guard our lad,” Threanas added, finding support in the eyes of every other woman around the table.  “We have only recently had him returned, and the very last thing we would permit would be for him to be subject to the romantic whims and political schemes of his . . . aunt,” she finished, turning the last term into a slur.  “Not when her interest has, historically, not always been in the duchy’s best interest.”

“Why, Her Majesty has always had her homeland’s best interest in mind!” scoffed Countess Shirlin.

That declaration produced such an unanticipated and unstoppable gale of laughter amongst the Alshari ladies that Shirlin looked around, confused and sputtering, while they sought to marshal themselves.

“Grendine had an international reputation for having it out for Alshar since she was a girl in this very palace!” laughed Viscountess Threanas.  “Shall we review the result of her compassionate interest? A third of the duchy taken by Castal, a third in rebellion, and a third invaded and occupied.  Thus far, her protection of Alshari interests has been . . . checkered, at best.  How shall we endure more of this woman’s benevolence?” she wailed, tears coming out of the corners of her eyes as she laughed.

“This is hardly the way a loyal subject speaks of her monarch!” insisted Shirlin, who was out of productive and reasonable arguments in the face of united opposition.

“We are loyal to our duke, Excellency,” Lady Bertine insisted, forcing herself to stop laughing.  “Whomever His Grace elects to swear fealty to, in his wisdom and guided by the gods, well, we will follow him.

“But this bloody-handed woman who wears three-fifths of a crown?  She does not rule in Alshar.  She hates Alshar, though she seeks to impose her will here.  She may reign over Alshar - that is not my decision.  But she does not rule Alshar.  Duke Anguin, may the gods preserve our brave lad, does!”

There was a little more, but in the presence of such strong opposition to her mission, all that the Countess could do was make a retreat as graciously and as dignified as she could.  Any illusions she had about taking control over the “simple” women of the “rustic” Alshari court were shattered, now.  If Grendine thought she could rule Vorone by proxy through this woman, she would have to go about it another way.  No one at the table wanted to see the Duke prematurely wed to some controlling Castali noblewoman whose first loyalty was to Grendine, not her husband.

Pentandra finished her meal and her tea with a new respect for Threanas, Bertine, Saltia, even for Lady Pleasure, who had not taken the opportunity to use Shirlin’s appearance to divide the court, as she could have.  Despite her misgivings about Lady Pleasure’s motivations, operations, and eventual plans, she was Pentandra’s problem, not Grendine’s – and certainly not Shirlin’s.  The two women (or one woman and one goddess) might have been at odds, but neither of them were willing to involve someone as disruptive as Grendine and her lackeys into the middle of the conflict.

No, Pentandra reflected, despite the petty differences – or very real differences – each of the women in the court had with each other over matters of policy, propriety, and appearance, those were relatively minor in the face of a threat from outside.  Countess Shirlin reminded them all that there were others watching the court, others who were all too willing to usurp control of it, if they were not watchful.  And united.

Pentandra made a note to remember to thank the Queen for that, someday, if she ever had the opportunity.  If Countess Shirlin hadn’t arrived at Vorone when she did, and galvanized the women of the court against her, there was no telling how chaotic things might get when the inevitable political or military crisis erupted.

Sometimes, Pentandra reflected as she walked back to her office, all it took to bring a group of powerful women together in consensus was one utterly irritating and unredeemable cunt.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Plots & Preparations

Pentandra began looking forward to the Spring Wildflower Festival despite herself.

It was hard not to, as the preparations started to take shape in town and in the palace around her.  Everyone else was genuinely anticipating the festival, and the season was cooperating by producing brilliant blossoms in the fields and hedgerows around the town for the holiday.

The snows long melted, the rains starting to fade, Spring was coming to the Wilderlands with a belligerent vengeance after a long, cold, snowy winter. The fruit trees burst into flower with robust abundance, filling the town with a faint, sweet scent that occasionally cut through the odor of the sewers, the animals, the wood smoke, and garbage.

Along with the flowers, unfortunately, came an abundance of pollen.  While the season conspired to produce its most brilliant gifts, the residue from the blossoms filled the sky with a yellow haze every evening, the pollen was so thick.  A bright yellow coating covered every surface, and while many enjoyed the beauty of the flowers, many others did so through a haze of mucus and congestion.

Even the open sewers of Vorone were decorated with the stuff, turning the ubiquitous river of filth running through the center of town into a deceptively gay golden path.  While the spring rains were frequent enough to rinse the worst of the pollen from Vorone’s cobbled streets every few days, the plants seemed determined to make up for the loss by producing yet more of the insidious yellow dust.

Pentandra didn’t mind the pollen – she had spells for that – but when she looked at the sewer covered with bright golden powder, it seemed to reflect her suspicions about the entire Wildflower Festival event.

What mire might be hidden beneath Ishi’s thin mantle of misdirection, she wondered?

From what she knew about the mythology of the goddess, Ishi schemed like Duin thundered and Huin worked the land.  It was part of her essential nature.  Rarely did those schemes end well for the mortals involved.  While that made great romantic poetry and good religious instruction, when you were the one who happened to be entangled in one of the goddess’ schemes, the allure of myth lost some of its appeal.

Pentandra was having mixed feelings about the matter.  So many of the townsfolk seemed excited about the coming festival, especially after the riots on Briga’s Day.  They were marking it as the first true important social event since the funerals of Their Graces.

The woodland theme of the holiday was embraced by a town that too often felt the Sea Lords had advanced their culture over the rustics in the north.  The idea of a masque was likewise greeted with particular excitement.  Despite their attempts to keep the business of the Woodsmen and the Wood Owls secret, the mystery of the apparent criminals had sprouted a romantic attachment to them.  A few enterprising merchants were already making good coin constructing masks of willow, cloth, and glue for civilians who had taken up the fashion of masks.

The festival was a good thing.  Pentandra knew that, intellectually.

While she had no real desire to see Lady Pleasure prosper – she found the woman obnoxious and hells-bent on injecting her influence throughout the court, whenever possible – she also appreciated the massive effort she was deploying on the festival’s behalf.  As it was dedicated to Ishi, in her guise as the Maiden of Spring, Pentandra found the dedication just a little self-serving.  Her girls – the “maidens”, as they were being called now everywhere in town – seemed to be everywhere, running errands and organizing events in between flirting outrageously with every man they saw.

Pentandra could not fault their industry.  Far from trying to pawn their organizational responsibilities off on the men they seduced, the girls seemed determined that the event would not only come to pass, but that it would be remembered for years for its novelty and excellence.

They were at the palace before daybreak, when the gates opened, and many ended up sleeping over (in a variety of beds) if they were caught working on the festival after the gates were locked for the night.  From what Pentandra had seen, Lady Pleasure’s maidens had arranged for ample entertainments, security, special vendors, and had even organized many of the non-military contests associated with the event, from the beauty contest to the basketry competition.

The archery competition was particularly important.  Count Salgo had been despairing over the number and types of troops that protected the town, and while he had finally pronounced the royal garrison “adequate” after sacking dozens of lackluster soldiers, and he’d made a stab at building up the palace guard, there were still far too few trained and armed men at his command for his comfort.

One of the efforts during the popular spring festival, therefore, was a grand archery competition, opened to all, with relatively impressive prizes for the difficult contest.  That was exceedingly popular with the Voroni.  While the nobility were a little irritated that their traditional sport, jousting, would not be offered at the festival, they had to concede that the novelty of a grand archery competition was intriguing.

It helped that the Wilderlords did not generally share the dismissive attitude of their southern peers when it came to the art of the bow.  There were Castali and Remeran lords who had never touched one and sneered at them as ignoble weapons of the peasantry.  Whereas, just about every man north of Gilmora could shoot a bow, and the powerfully laminated Wilderlands bow was nearly six feet long when strung.

Count Salgo was offering additional incentives than mere prizes for the winner.  Every man who presented a marshal or knight with a strung bow, extra bowstring, and a quiver of a score or more of arrows was given a half an ounce of silver on the spot.  If he had either armor or helm he was gifted a brand-new steel spearhead and a lamb, in addition.

The contest was designed to contribute to the development of a more martial commonfolk, as the Duke had directed.  Not everyone was happy with that, even if the southernmost barons of the Wilderlands had grudgingly accepted it as necessary, under the circumstances.

That was contrary to the cultural ways of the Narasi nobles, who saw the monopoly on violence as largely the domain of the military aristocracy.  The laws of the various gods assured the right of a free man to arm and defend himself, and be called to service in a time of war, but the duty of defense fell squarely to the jealous warrior class.  Preparing weapons, even ones so meek as spears and bows, assisted the common people to see that they, and not just the knights, were responsible for their safety.

That was a scandalous idea in the Riverlands, where peasant uprisings and revolts were more common and the restrictions on the peasantry having access to arms was far heavier and more enforced.

Here in the Wilderlands arming every human able to swing a sword against the inevitable future goblin invasion was just wisdom in action.  That it also helped stabilize the realm and give it order was a boon.  There continued to be a regular chorus of chivalry who dismissed peasant warriors and lobbied instead for more armor, larger horses and an emphasis on knights, but the invasion had taught the Alshari peasants that waiting to be rescued by your liege lord was a poor strategy for having grandchildren.

That was part of the argument within the court against inviting the 3rd Commando to Vorone, as well, and one that cut across Wilderlord and Sea Lord party lines.  It had become the popular topic of discussion since the news of the letter to the court became well known.  The military aristocracy disliked the idea of soldiers largely of common birth – and, more importantly, who did not see a heavy cavalry charge by a traditional and institutionalized aristocracy, as the logical course and ultimate goal of any battle – coming to Vorone and disrupting the frayed social order any further.

Some of the more ignorant and uneducated voices in court also feared the 3rd Commando would inevitably use any power or position it found itself with to take over the duchy entirely if they were invited in.  Though this sounded like a fanciful idea at best, as anyone familiar with the actual use of power in the duchy would quickly realize just how pointless attempting to impose order and control over it was, it nonetheless became a common argument against inviting the 3rd Commando to Vorone.

Others feared that the mercenaries would act as an occupying army thrice the size of the garrison and eat the town down to the field stubble.  Folks with an understanding of finance did not see any way the treasury could pay for such a large army for any length of time, and worried that unpaid mercenaries might be forced to take control of the fragmentary duchy over back pay owed.

But no one wanted to turn away help lightly, especially not with all of the recent hostile activity being reported north in the Penumbra.

When Arborn arrived back from his trip a few days later, his lieutenant Jerics and his best Kasari rangers accompanying him, he looked worn and nearly defeated.  News of his demeanor upon his return quickly circulated through the palace, and soon the wild rumors involved everything from an unexpected encounter with a dragon in the wilderness to a tussle with a brigade of hobgoblins.

The truth of the matter was rather more dire.

“It was undead, Penny,” Arborn confided to her, when they had accomplished enough of a reunion to speak again.  “Cold to the touch and no heartbeat.  But smart,” he added, sourly.

“There was just the one?”

“It was leading the others,” he said, quietly.  “And leading them well.  They were somehow its inferiors.  They all wore a man’s body, but whatever was inside them had power far beyond what a mere mortal can inspire.  It even spoke with us a bit, taunting and laughing, unconcerned about the danger we posed to it.”

“Did it use magic?” she asked, cautiously.

“Only of the most elementary sort, apart from the spell that animated it.  It seemed to delight in swordplay more than I can imagine any wizard.  Perhaps the . . . host was a knight, at one time.”

“If not mortal, is the soul human, at least?”

“I do not think so,” her Kasari husband said, shaking his head.  “It did not speak or react as a human would.  Perhaps gurvani, perhaps Alka Alon, perhaps something else.  But not . . . human.”

“Yet not immortal, either,” she pointed out.  “You slew it.”

“Only by cutting off its head,” he admitted.  “And only with Jerics’ help.  It was filled with arrows and slashed to the point of staining the ground with its blood or . . . whatever fluid runs in its veins, now.  Yet it felt no pain, no sorrow, no regret.  It did not slow at all.  It did not stop until its head hit the ground.  And five of my men lay wounded,” he added.

“So who created it?  Certainly not those gurvani shamans,” she ventured.

“No, though they have oft employed undead in battle,” he sighed.  “But never like this one.  Not this smart, this fast, this resilient in battle.  Not intelligent enough to speak.”

“So who?  Sheruel?”

“You would know better than I,” shrugged her husband, glancing at her.  “If he is the one creating them, though, one has to wonder why did he wait so long? With such warriors at his command he’d be halfway to Merwyn by now!”

“That suggests it isn’t Sheruel,” Pentandra pointed out.  “And since you’re certain Korbal the Demon God is revived and active, I’d hate to propose someone else when Korbal is just the kind of crazy undead Alka Alon renegade who might see it as his mission to improve the general quality of undead in the Duchies.”

“It does seem more like his style, according to the legends,” Arborn admitted.

“But that still doesn’t answer the question of why Sheruel even needs his assistance.  He still has great legions of gurvani at his command. Or why he helped Korbal escape from his tomb.”

“He seeks allies who hate the humani and the Alka Alon as much as he does.  Korbal is his top priority as a result.  I learned much from Ithalia,” he confided.

“Such as?” she asked, curiously.  She could never get enough of the Alka Alon’s culture, even as she was growing more suspicious of their motives.  Most of the near-immortal little beings had little care in return, but she took note when the two races decided to work together on anything.   Like most magi, she was a professional admirer.

But that professional familiarity also left her open to the darker shadows of the Alkan culture.  Their long history was ancient before humanity ever came to Callidore, and even a cursory inspection revealed tragedy and betrayal about as often as in human legends.

“But . . . that wasn’t Korbal in that body . . . was it?”

“No,” assured Arborn.  “I believe it was one of his retainers, not the Demon God himself.  A henchman who accompanied his master into the afterlife, and was returned a body as his reward for his loyalty.  What he was doing that far away from the Scarred Lands is a mystery, and unlikely a good one.  Nor do I think he was alone.  They are . . . searching for something.  Or someone.  On behalf of their dark master.”

“What do they look like?” she asked, suppressing a shudder.

“Like any other man, from a distance, though larger from sorcery and very pale from lack of blood in his veins. Once you come closer, though, you notice that his flesh is sickly. He wore mail from shoulder to knee, good steel rings of it, and an iron helm.  He bore no shield, but a two-handed sword of some strange manufacture.  His eyes bore a pale yellow glow.

“He moved more stiffly than a man at first, I’ve noticed, and achieved more alacrity as it warmed.  As if it was wearing the body as you wear a new suit of clothes, one you have yet to establish your confidence in.  This one was completely bald,” he added, “not even eyebrows.  And he fought like a demon,” Arborn acknowledged.  “If there had been but one less of us there when things got hot, none of us would have returned.”

Such a plain-spoken observation from her husband told Pentandra more about the encounter than his mere words.  Arborn was near fearless, willing to risk his life in the service of others without capitulating to fear.  When he admitted that he would have been killed otherwise, he was relating the profound truth that this . . . wraith, for lack of a more appropriate term, was his master in combat.

To a warrior the admission would have been hard enough.  But weapons were but part of the arsenal a Kasari raptor brought to battle.

“What do you think they are searching for?” she asked, mystified.

“I am unsure but . . . I believe that it might be Ameras.”

“Ameras?  The Aronin’s daughter?”

“The very same one we have been searching for in vain,” he sighed, heavily.  “And likely for the same reason: to procure weapons in this war, or at least to deny them to the foe.”

“That is a disturbing development,” Pentandra said, lightly, while her heart pounded heavily in her breast.  “If the gurvani got their hands on those weapons of power . . .”

“It is not the gurvani who are the greatest danger,” Arborn countered.  “These Alkan renegades are far more adept in your art, Penny, and they are a lot smarter than the average shaman.  As bad as it might be if the gurvani got them, things would be so much worse if the renegades get them.”

“So what can we do about it?”

Arborn shrugged, acting uncharacteristically helpless.  “Keep killing these undead?  Keep hoping Ameras stays lost?  Or dies without revealing her secrets?  I don’t know, Wife.  I merely go where I am directed and do as I am bid.”

“An admirable perspective in a husband,” Pentandra quipped, stroking his chin.  “But this is disturbing.  I shall inform the other magelords to keep watch for such things in the future.  And I must figure some counter for you to employ in the field, lest you make me a widow before we’ve had one year together.”

“Plain steel has little effect, unless you part head from shoulders,” he grunted.   “Luckily, you have time.  I do not deploy again for a few weeks, until after the damnable festival.”

“Now, now,” reproved Pentandra.  “An awful lot of terribly nice whores have sacrificed valuable earning time to devote to this festival.  Let us not see their sacrifice in vain!” she mocked.

“Is it really necessary?” he said, in the closest thing to a whine she’d yet heard from her husband.

“It is,” she agreed.  “As silly as it is, Lady Pleasure has a point.  The town needs to feel like it has a Duke again, that it’s the capital of a real duchy.  Or . . . most of a duchy.”

“Part of a duchy,” Arborn grinned.

“Just so,” agreed Pentandra.  “But the townsfolk need to be reminded of the important role they play, and that’s what this festival gives them.”

“It sounds more like an excuse to drink heavily and indulge in sport,” Arborn said, skeptically.  The Kasari had a dim view of the excesses involved in many Narasi religious traditions.

“Just so,” grinned Pentandra.  “And as such, it is entirely vital.  People need to celebrate, drink, game and laugh,” she explained.  “Especially when there has been a change in regime.  A rough night drinking and dancing helps with the transition.  And as an officer of the court, you are required to go to the official masque at the palace.  You and your men,” she said, before he could object.   “By special request of the Duke.  He’s quite happy with the Wood Owls and the Woodsmen.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re helping out,” Arborn said, sullenly.  “But if he wants to reward us, then allowing us to skip the masque sounds like an adequate bounty.”

“No chance.  I’ve already gotten the outfits together.  This is Anguin’s opportunity to show off his secret army without actually revealing that he has a secret army.”

“I have no idea what you just meant to say,” Arborn said, shaking his head.  “We are no army.  We’re just . . . hunters.”

“Who are good at hunting rats, and Anguin wants to meet and recognize you for it,” Pentandra encouraged.  “Besides, I convinced Minalan to come with Alya, so you pretty much have to go.”

“Minalan?  The Spellmonger is coming?” Arborn asked, suddenly much more interested.

Pentandra tried not to take it personally.  Sure, going to an elegant court masque at the ducal level with your beautiful new wife might be boring . . . but throw in a magical old pal, and suddenly it was a party?

“Yes, Minalan and Alya are coming,” she sighed.  “So you and your boys will have someone to play with.  But I get him first.  We have arcane business to deal with.”  And a goddess to corral, she added to herself.

“It should be . . . fun,” he finally admitted, unconvincingly.

Alurra was less excited about the masque, largely because she wasn’t allowed to attend.

Despite her position as Pentandra’s new apprentice, she felt the girl was too new to the capital and too vulnerable to politics at such an event.  Besides, Sir Vemas wanted her to monitor several alcoves and benches in the garden, the sorts of places where courtiers could speak without reasonable fear of being overheard.  Sir Vemas wanted to remove that security by having one of Alurra’s creatures nearby but concealed.

It was hardly the glamorous evening the girl expected, after weeks of building excitement about the festival, but then again she had no idea whatsoever how to dance, knew few humans by voice, and had little to contribute in the way of idle chatter.  Blathering on and on about the politics amongst the palace’s cats was not the way to garner attention, Pentandra was certain.

Besides, if things got messy with Minalan and Ishi, she didn’t want Alurra to be anywhere close.  She wasn’t too certain about being that close herself.

With Arborn home, Pentandra figured that she would be able to spare some time to spend with him, but work demanded her attention as she prepared for the coming round of examinations, the magical entertainments ordered for the festival, and overseeing the cleaning and stocking of her office.  She devoted only an hour to deciding on her wardrobe for the occasion.  She had plenty of dresses and gowns she hadn’t worn since being associated with the Royal Court in Castabriel.  They would be as good as new ones here in rustic Vorone.

Acquiring a new personal maid was far more difficult.  She interviewed four girls for the position before finding one with adequate enough basic skills to cater to her needs.  The girl’s name was Perin, a refugee from the north who had served briefly as the maid to her domain’s lady before she’d run away during the invasion.  She was a thin little thing, and quiet as a mouse, but she knew how to take direction.  She began the next morning, learning Pentandra’s personal routines and idiosyncrasies.

“Do you really need a maid?” asked Arborn, skeptically, after watching Pentandra correct the girl a dozen times that morning.

“She certainly makes things easier – or will, once she’s trained,” Pentandra said, frowning to herself.

“Is it so hard for you to brush your own hair?” he asked.

“It’s not just that,” Pentandra dismissed.  “It’s laying out my clothes, laundering them, taking charge of my jewelry and cosmetics, keeping my shoes clean and in good repair, ensuring that the bed linens are clean and well-made . . . there’s a lot to it.  Why?  Do you mind the expense?  I’m paying for her myself,” she said, cautiously.

The Kasari had strange ideas about money and property, compared to the average Narasi – or even an Imperial.  The fact that they rarely used coin was part of it.

“It just doesn’t seem . . . thrifty,” grumbled her husband.  If the Kasari were circumspect about coin, they were outright suspicious about the idea of servants.  Among the Kasari a woman who couldn’t tend to her own needs without assistance had a very low social value.

But they weren’t Kasari, living in the forests.

“If we were a couple of peasants, you might be right, Husband,” she soothed.  “But we aren’t – we’re court officials, with social obligations far in excess of a simple village.  A maid sounds extravagant, but considering my regular itinerary I think she’ll save some valuable time.”

It certainly sounded reasonable.  Yet Arborn nearly stomped off without completing the conversation.

Despite his objection, by the end of the first day Pentandra pronounced herself largely satisfied with her new hire.  She was even willing to bunk in the tiny room that served Alurra as a bedchamber.  Alurra, surprisingly, did not object to the invasion of her space.

She’d never had anyone to talk to but Old Antimei growing up, and she was excited about it.  For her part, Perin was less enthusiastic about sharing a room with not just another girl, but a raven, assorted cats, dogs, and even a rodent or two upon occasion.  Still, it was superior to the cold, wet tarpaulin under which she’d been living, so she counted herself fortunate.

The town itself was quickly transforming before the festival.  Banners featuring various wildflowers started to be hung from windows and rooftops, and nearly every planter along the High Street was bursting with fragrant wild blossoms.  The filthy gutter that ran the length of the street was swept clean of debris and flushed with river water as the skies overhead tried their best to produce a perfect shade of blue in between spring showers.  The weather was worrisome, of course, as Vorone’s climate tended to produce twice-daily rain during the spring season.

Finally, the day of the festival dawned clear, without a cloud in the sky.  Hundreds of prostitutes who had labored so long on the project spilled into the streets wearing matching green dresses and bearing huge bundles of wildflowers brought in from country estates for the purpose.  They stood, two by two, at crossings and intersections across town and passed out flowers from dawn to noon: a single blossom to a gentleman, a small bouquet to a lady, with a blessing from Ishi given with each one.

The townsfolk, for their part, didn’t hesitate to dress for the occasion.  Festival clothes that had languished in their presses for years saw sunshine again.  Vendors quit their regular haunts or shops and spread out to offer their wares to the festival goers.  Musicians, paid for by the town or independents working for tips, likewise took stations and played constantly all day long.  The main square in front of the palace was where the largest collection of musicians gathered, and as a result the people were able to dance continuously from morning until far after midnight.

Beer and ale flowed like the rivers on either side of the town.  Ducal decree had set the price of a pint at quarter penny, and a two-ounce drink of spirits at a single penny to ensure the levity was sustainable.  To keep things from getting too rowdy, however, a special detachment of guardsmen patrolled the streets day and night to calm the drunken revelers.

Pentandra’s day was spent overseeing the examinations of fourteen aspiring apprentices, which actually took less time than she’d anticipated.  She spent the afternoon watching the archery contest, which she found largely too boring to focus upon, but which did give her a better idea of the armed strength of the town.

With Everkeen’s help she counted nearly a thousand men who had brought their bows and quivers to compete and get paid for their participation.  Much of that coin ended up in the pockets of barkeeps and merchants before the end of the day, but no one seemed to mind.

At one point, Duke Anguin and his party of gentlemen happened by as they were touring the festival.  He greeted Pentandra warmly, inquired about Arborn, and asked if the Spellmonger was truly coming as promised before he continued on his way.  He seemed happy and content, self-possessed but not nervous.  He looked around at the town and its folk with a sense of ownership and responsibility Pentandra was pleased to see.

She was somewhat less pleased about the two young women on each of his arms.  They carried themselves just as the rest of the Maidens of Flowers, though they did not wear the green uniforms in favor of stunning gowns of their own.

Duke Anguin introduced them as “Lady Rose” and “Lady Marigold”, and assured her that they were, indeed, actual noblewomen and not mere courtesans.  Though the domino masks they wore during the day did little to hide their identity, Pentandra did not recognize them by sight.  Ishi had mentioned she’d recruited the daughters of noble houses as well as pretty common girls from the refugee camps.  These must be two of them, she reasoned.

She would have been more concerned if His Grace showed any preference in his companions, but from what she could gather he seemed more intrigued by the variety of ladies available than the depths any one girl could provide.  Rarely did she see the lad with the same girl – or girls – more than once.  Nor did he seem to collect a doting following of cast-off suitors in his wake.  There seemed to be an understanding around the town that no one woman was allowed to monopolize the time and attention of the handsome young duke.

That particular development was particularly offensive to Countess Shirlin, who saw it as evidence of Alshar’s steady moral decline.

“No sitting duke should flaunt his . . . his virility like this!  It’s unseemly!” she fumed, when she’d caught up with Pentandra that afternoon in front of the palace.  “What would his mother say if she could see him?” she lamented.

“Maybe, ‘hey, can someone pull this iron stake out of my ear?’” quipped Lady Bertine who was nearby.  Her dislike of both Castal and Countess Shirlin had been well-established.  Indeed, Shirlin had complained to the Duke about her behavior (and likely Pentandra’s own) at the Ladies’ Tea, but Anguin had wisely declined to intervene.  Bertine saw that as license to flaunt the popular (and probably true) theory that the Queen had been behind the former Duchess’ assassination.  Each time she brought it up, Shirlin winced.

“I was speaking of His Grace’s choice of companion!” she shot back, annoyed.  “How can you just stand there and let him flaunt those . . . those sluts!” she said, seeming to take particular relish in saying the word.

“As he is the Duke, and I am not, I see little that can be done about it,” Pentandra admitted.  “That is, if I agreed with you.  But I don’t.”

“You think he does himself favors by currying scandal so boldly?” Shirlin asked, appalled.

“Excellency, this is not Castal, this is not Castabriel, and it isn’t even Wilderhall,” Pentandra tried to explain.  “These people have had four years of torment and neglect, invasion and shortage.  They have been weak, afraid, and vulnerable for far too long, abused by a steward that was supposed to protect and nurture them.  To see a strong, youthful, intelligent young leader in their midst is like a breath of air under water . . . to see him enjoying the company of beautiful women does nothing to decrease his popularity in a climate where it is needed desperately.”

“At the risk of his reputation?” Shirlin asked, scandalized that none of the ladies of the Alshari court were taking Anguin’s bachelorhood seriously.

“What reputation?” Pentandra challenged, growing even more annoyed with the woman.  “He’s barely a man, with little to shave and little to worry about.  People like to see how attractive their liege is,” she offered.

“It’s unseemly,” the Countess repeated, watching the young nobleman dance with both of his companions at once for a while, drawing the attention of the entire crowd.

“It’s Vorone,” Pentandra shrugged.  “Honestly, why are you so concerned that people will think that Anguin is young and virile?”

“Because it indicates that there is no supervisory authority in this duchy!” she spat.  “No one to keep the dark desires of the people in check!  Do you know where that leads?”

“To victory, hopefully,” Pentandra said, watching the lad dance and laugh.  “It might be months, it might be years, but at some point that ‘young man’ will be leading his men in defending us all from the gurvani.  The more confidence his men have in his abilities, the more valiantly they will fight.”

“We have a treaty!” snorted the Countess.  “The gurvani wouldn’t dare start trouble again!”

Pentandra couldn’t stifle her snort fast enough, and looked apologetically at the countess out of the corner of her eye.

“My dear Countess, from what I can tell the only ones who think the treaty will hold back the gurvani are you and the royal family.  Everyone in Vorone understands that it is just a matter of time until hostilities resume.  When they do . . . well, do you expect King Rard to climb his arse on his horse, draw sword and protect this town from them?” she demanded.

“The King is sworn to protect every mile of his realm!” protested Shirlin.

“So why hasn’t he restored the rebellious areas after almost five years?” challenged Pentandra.  “Or driven the gurvani back to their holes in the Mindens?”

“He’s been busy!” fumed Shirlin.  “There have been important matters of state to attend to!”

“I lived in Castabriel in sight of the royal palace for almost three years,” Pentandra reported, patiently, “and the only pressing matter that Rard seemed to have was the design and construction of his new palace.  If the gurvani break the treaty, then it will be incumbent on Anguin, not Rard, to raise a defense.  Knowing their liege is a potent and popular lad among the ladies could well keep his men stalwart in their defense.”

“At the cost of appearing as barbaric as the Kasari?” the older woman said, scornfully . . . and without remembering who her husband was.

“If Anguin looked half the man most Kasari are, we would be well-served indeed,” she said through tightly clenched teeth as she turned on her heel and strode off toward the palace.

She was not an impetuous woman anymore, she reminded herself.  She was not the kind of woman who struck out at those around her blindly, or impulsively . . . no matter how enticing the transitory pleasure of violence might be.

But as she left the litany of complaints from Countess Shirlin behind her, she suddenly had a burning desire to learn the immolation spell that Azar preferred when he wanted to make a statement while he killed someone.

Something like that would have come in handy that day.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A Spell On Alya

“Pentandra!” Minalan said, eyes wide, as he materialized with Alya on his arm.  It was a fascinating thing to watch, still, the sudden appearance of people out of thin air.  It was even more fascinating to watch the look on Minalan’s face as he blushed and tried to stare anywhere but at her nakedness.

Pentandra smiled to herself.  She just couldn’t resist tormenting him like that.  And she had a rationalization ready at hand.

“What?” she said, innocently.  “There’s only two hours until the ball, which is barely enough time to get ready!”

“Min, you are dismissed,” Alya said, shoving her husband toward the rest of the chamber beyond the bathtub. Alya understood – both the pressing need for expediency and the innocent flirtation between old lovers.  Pentandra liked Alya.  She was a very sensible woman.  Besides, she reasoned, Minalan would give her husband someone to speak to.  Perhaps he could encourage him to open up a little.

“Arborn is in my chamber!  Have him get you a drink!  We’ll be out . . . soon,” she called over her shoulder as he stumbled past the screen.  “Hello, Excellency!  I’d curtsey, but that might be awkward,” she said as the new maid started rinsing her hair.  “Ishi’s’—my goodness, you look gorgeous!” she flattered.

It was not idle flattery.  Alya did look stunning.  She was wearing an emerald green gown of Gilmoran cotton, cut in the current Riverlands style, with long sleeves and wide neck concealing a gauzy shift underneath.

The sleeves, hem, and collar were all embroidered with a lighter green thread, with the occasional accent in thread-of-silver forming tiny snowflakes among the green.  The beautifully intricate silver snowflake embroidered on the breast was a credit to the needlework of the seamstress, a fascinatingly complex design that Minalan had unnecessarily enchanted to emit a cool, pale light.

Alya wore her hair in two braids, but she had them looped under her simple conical headdress.  The shape accented her face nicely, giving her the appearance of more of a chin than she actually had.  She bore that gaudy emerald Minalan liked to wave around, and the silver and snowstone snowflake pin on her pure white mantle complemented the decorations on the ankle of her green slippers.

She looked very well put-together, and clearly someone had spent considerable time at the effort – someone other than Minalan, who was largely ignorant of such things.

But there was something wrong with her friend.

Pentandra suspected something in the first few moments, when Alya didn’t react the way she anticipated to her nakedness.  A subtle difference, but telling.

“How are the children?” Pentandra inquired, as her maid fetched a luxuriously soft towel the size of a sail.

“Fine,” Alya said, absently, as she took a seat.  That raised Pentandra’s suspicions, too.  Alya was always thrilled to talk about Minalyan and Almina.  In depth.  Sometimes to the exclusion of everything and anything else.  While it was annoying, it was also expected and endearing.  For some women, the novelty of motherhood never wore off.

“Is there . . . anything wrong?  Everything all right between you and Min?” she asked, cautiously.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Alya shrugged.  It was as if she were preoccupied by something . . . without actually being preoccupied.  “Everything is well.”

That did it.  The day that Alya failed to complain about some small, irritating, but secretly endearing aspect of her life with Minalan, she was either ill or . . .

“Sweetie?  Would you mind grabbing that robe for me?” she asked, pointing toward a chair where the maid left it.  “Go fetch my clothes,” she instructed the girl, who went to open her press.

While Alya’s back was turned, Pentandra quickly summoned Everkeen and cast a quick thaumaturgical essay.  With the baculus’ eager assistance she got her answer and banished the rod before Alya turned back around.

“Thank you,” she smiled at her friend, as she helped her shrug into the robe.  “It’s still a bit chilly in Vorone this time of year.”

With the new maid’s assistance, and a little of Alya’s help, Pentandra put on the layers of finery she would be displaying to the court tonight.

As it was her first celebratory occasion as a high minister, she had elected to dress to emphasize that fact.

She’d chosen a beautiful floor-length dress in deep scarlet estate-grown silk, a fairly rare color and rarer fabric here in the Wilderlands.  The trim was done in thread-of-gold, tiny little mage stars alternating with the acorns she’d chosen as a badge at Fairoaks.

The cotton under tunic was the filmiest Gilmoran shift she could find – she’d been attending balls long enough to know how sweaty she was likely to become, even with the light weight of the silk.  She had chosen a golden belt of square links, a tiny ruby set in the center of each one – a graduation gift from her grandmother, and one she rarely had occasion to wear.  Her slippers matched her gown, although they were much sturdier and thicker than standard cloth slippers, augmented with leather soles.  She’d been subject to Vorone’s sudden rainstorms frequently enough to take the precaution.

Pentandra wore her amulet containing her witchstone around her neck.  Her hooded cloth-of-gold mantle completed her outfit, fastened with a pin shaped like an acorn.  And she’d had a cap sewn to match the dress in an approximation of a traditional wizard’s hat, but had paid to have semi-precious jewels from her collection stitched around the brim.

Lastly, she put on the simple baldric the officers of the court had been requested (instructed) by Lady Pleasure to wear tonight, denoting her position.  There would be a lot of petty nobility at the masque, bumpkin knights and lordlings who had made the long and dangerous journey to see their new Duke and enjoy his hospitality.  The baldrics were to keep her from being mistaken for a serving maid by the newcomers and the ignorant.

Both Alya and her maid assured her that the look suited her well, and whatever spell was befuddling the former dairy maid had not affected her fashion judgment.  Pentandra considered augmenting the costume with magical flames or some other showy piece of magic, as Minalan had done with Alya’s embroidered snowflake, but decided against it.

She was the bloody Court Wizard.  If people didn’t know that by now, they weren’t paying proper attention.

She allowed both women to attack her face with cosmetics and pigments, then adjusted the result herself in the looking glass.  When she got to the point her mother would have been satisfied with, she kept up the embellishment in defiance.

“Finished,” she finally declared, and then cast a small spell to keep the carefully-applied cosmetics in place.  “Let’s go dance!”

“How do you keep it from smearing all over the place, my lady?” asked her maid, who was amazed at the result.

“Magic,” Pentandra shrugged.  “It only lasts for a day or so, and it makes you feel like you have mud on your face after a few hours, but it can get you through a rough day with a pretty face.  You are dismissed,” she informed the maid.  “And you are hereby condemned to enjoy this evening’s entertainment.  Let’s get the boys and go, Alya.  I’ll get the costumes on the way.  We don’t want to be too fashionably late.”

It had been a major coup for her to secure the Spellmonger’s attendance to the masque.  Minalan was hugely popular in most circles in Alshar, with notable exceptions.  Hailed as the savior of Tudry (though he’d threatened to burn it down), the hero of the Battle of the Lantern, and the mastermind behind the Battle of Timberwatch, which had blunted the first wave of the invasion, there were few left in the Wilderlands who didn’t know who the Spellmonger was or what he’d done in defense of the region.

More, his visible and enthusiastic support for Duke Anguin was a key to the security of the realm.  While most were unaware that this support extended to loan guarantees to the Temple of Ifnia to keep the government running, enough of the right sort of people did to bolster confidence in the regime.  Having Minalan and his wife here, now, was a tangible demonstration of that support.  He was doing a huge favor for her by merely showing up.

Now it was time to return the favor – and her friend looked like he needed one.

Minalan’s face looked unnaturally tired and drawn under his smiles and grins, and he seemed as preoccupied as Alya.  Some of the spark had gone out of him, somehow, and his eyes seemed more wary than merry.  The kind of eyes that really needed to be sleeping, but were too focused on obligation to make the sacrifice.

She opened a connection to him, mind-to-mind.

You look like crap, Min, she told him.

He looked down at his spotless doublet.  Hey! I just got this outfit!

She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see the expression.  Your clothes look fine, she agreed, patiently, but your face looks like you’ve been . . . worried? Anxious? Afraid? Tired?

Well, which one? he demanded, irritated.

Pentandra snorted.  As if it made a difference.

I was just offering suggestions, and hoping that you’d supply the appropriate emotion, she explained.  The very fact he’d reacted that way told her that something was, indeed, amiss.  What’s going on, Min?

It’s complicated.

It’s always complicated, she objected.  You want to see complicated, you should see my marriage.

I am, he said, nodding silently toward her husband’s back as the descended the stairs.  It looks reasonably happy.  As long as Arborn doesn’t speak, he added, wryly.

That’s the problem, she confessed.  I can’t get him to speak.

You were the one who wanted the strong, silent type, Minalan pointed out.  That had been one of the reasons she’d claimed she could not ever marry him herself, because he was too short and couldn’t shut up.  It had been a joke at the time, but considering who she’d fallen in love with and married, she had to reluctantly admit that he had a point.  But that did not mean she could spare him a counter-accusation.

And you were the one who wanted the wholesome farm girl, she observed.  That seemed like an opportune moment to bring up the results of her cursory inspection.  A man should know if his wife is enchanted.  Or at least enchanting.   And speaking of your lady wife, don’t be alarmed, but . . . there’s a spell on her.

It’s the dress, Minalan dismissed, glancing toward Alya.  It’s heavily enchanted.

It’s not the dress, Min, she countered.  He could be so dim, sometimes.  When would he learn to trust her judgment?  I noticed something when we were talking.

Then it’s the pregnancy, he offered, hesitantly.

It’ not the pregnancy, either, she said, a little frustrated with his denial.  Magic didn’t lie.  Minalan of all people should know that.   I did a simple thaumaturgical essay, and while I can’t tell you who or why, there is a shroud of magic around your wife.  A spell.   And not one of yours.

What do you mean?  Trygg’s twat, why were all men so dim?

I mean that someone has been interfering with Alya, Pentandra enunciated in his mind with growing impatience.

Minalan halted, just for a moment, at the news.  Pentandra used Everkeen to gently urge him to resume.  They couldn’t be late, not for this.

Interfere, how? he demanded.  There was panic in his manner.

I don’t know, yet, she admitted, worriedly.  And that’s using the baculus.  All I could tell was that it was a psychomantic spell.  Subtle.  But extremely strong.

Someone is casting spells on Alya?

That seems to be the case, she agreed.  But that begged a serious question, particularly in light of the fact that Minalan had not even noticed.  It smacked of treachery.  Who might do such a thing?

I’ll look into it, Minalan offered, his tone guarded.  It was not the reaction Pentandra was expecting after informing him his wife might be enchanted.  It could be nothing.

It’s not nothing, Min.  It’s Psychomancy!  Was he really that dim?  Or that much in denial?  Or was there something else going on?

I’ll look into it, he repeated as they arrived at the Stone Hall, where the ball was just commencing.  His assurance did little to pacify Pentandra’s misgivings about Alya.  But then she wondered what her response might be, if someone told her that Arborn was under a spell.

She watched Minalan take a deep breath when he saw the mass of courtiers gathered already, masks and costumes donned for the occasion.

What kind of chaos are we walking into, tonight? he asked.

That, at least, she could answer.

A simple court, appointment of a few positions, then a reception, with dancing afterwards.  But the people you need to beware of are mostly congregating around the front table, to the far right.  You recall Count Marcadine and his wife?  The Prime Minister, Count Angrial, of course, and Count Salgo, the Warlord you picked out yourself.  That plump little nun, there, that’s Sister Saltia, and she’s the representative of Ifnia’s temple.  She controls access to the coin.  Then there’s Viscountess Threanas, who controls the flow of coin and keeps the accounts.  Then . . .

Pentandra continued a rapid-fire explanation of all of the major players in court, their allegiances and the status of their political factions, and the like.

There was a dearth of the small contingent of Sea Lords who had come to support the rightful Duke, but that was understandable, after the aborted uprising a week before.  Few Sea Lords wanted to attract the ire of the indignant Wilderlords, who viewed the entire affair as short-sighted and poorly conceived.  The former Master of Waves was still in the dungeon, along with a half-dozen of his co-conspirators.

There were plenty of local rural aristocracy at the ball as well.  The Spring Wildflower Festival was a popular shopping event – not as commercial as an actual fair, perhaps, but several noble houses used the trip as an excuse to procure supplies for the spring planting season after a long winter.  If they hurried they could return to their estates after the festival and arrive in time for plowing.  More than a score of landed knights and lords from beyond a two-day ride had made the journey, Pentandra knew, all wanting to get a look at this new Duke of theirs.

Anguin (actually, Angrial) made a point of hosting them as if they were barons.  It was good for aristocratic morale, and it gave them a taste of the life they imagined for themselves back on their humble little manors.  They danced in the palace hall and drank the Duke’s wine and feasted like kings.

They seem pretty enthusiastic about the masque, Minalan noted.

Some of these country knights haven’t been away from their estates in years and were thrilled to receive the invitation.  They’re the easy ones to impress.  Most of them live just above the level of their peasants, so any hall with more than three chambers is a mansion.  But the town’s petty nobility and the burghers are much harder to impress, she explained.

They usually are, Minalan agreed.

They’ve seen dukes and duchesses, festivals and masques before.  They’re still getting used to not having to pay for access to the court, as they did under Edmarin.  Some of them are pissed because Anguin has made regulations that have impacted their businesses.  This next round of appointments should remove the last of Edmarin’s cronies from office and replace them with more accountable parties.  While that’s great for the duchy, the new regulators are going to pinch the profits of those who are used to bribery to get their wares to market.  Ah, there’s our lad! she added, as the herald entered the hall ahead of the Duke.

Our lad? Minalan asked.

Oh, that’s just what we call him around court, she explained.  Anguin doesn’t seem stuffy enough to be a duke yet.  He’s more like that eager kid in the village you want to encourage, but who occasionally gets overconfident and irritating.

Oh, like I was, he quipped.

“Are you two speaking mind-to-mind?” Arborn whispered in her ear.

“Yes,” she whispered back.  “Why?”

“Because it’s rude, when you’re with other people,” her husband reproved.

That made Pentandra’s nostrils flare.  “This is business, Arborn,” she said, sternly.    “Magi business.  Some things should not be spoken of aloud.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Alya suggested to Arborn.  “Half the time I am speaking with Minalan, I don’t know if he’s actually listening to me or to someone else.”

“Mae Sgowtiaid yn gwrtais,” her husband muttered.

“I am not being discourteous!” Pentandra objected.  “Do I get upset if you make birdcalls in conversation?” she asked, reminding him of an episode from their courtship.

“That was different,” he said, stiffly.  “I had to signal my men!”

“And I have to brief my boss,” she hissed, insistently.  “Discussing Order business in public can be dangerous.  Speaking mind-to-mind reduces the number of eavesdroppers dramatically,” she pointed out, dryly.

Arborn didn’t respond, but it was clear he did not approve of the behavior.  Pentandra shrugged it off.  There were plenty of things about his work she didn’t like.

The herald called the court to order, and everyone stood quietly and respectfully as young Duke Anguin, wearing a cunningly-made and utterly realistic fox mask (complete with a miniature silver coronet perched jauntily between its tiny ears) and a deep blue doublet, also appeared to be sporting a ridiculously large fox’s tail on his belt that he stroked and used almost as a scepter.

He wisely doffed his mask after the processional, bowed to the court, and welcomed everyone to enjoy the masque after a short piece of ceremonial business.

Anguin announced six appointments that the court had been anticipating for over a month.  Vital offices of state: inspectors, magistrates, and civil administrators charged with keeping the duchy beyond the walls of Vorone functioning.

The Duke held control of the city, but until these men and women were in place and working, the idea of “the duchy” was a polite fiction.  Drawn largely from clerical orders, often considered less corruptible than secular appointees, these representatives of the Duke’s power were as important (if not more important) than the number of lances he could field.

Then there was the matter of the Baron of Midlands.  Possessed of one of the few fiefs remaining in Alshar that could be properly considered Riverlands, the baron had enjoyed the relative protection and safety of his distance from Vorone and the invasion.

As his Midlands fief was also strategically placed along the long, lonely road through the edge of the Land of Scars that led to the great protective fortress that was the only way to the south, now in the hands of the rebels, his fealty was considered vital by both Sea Lords wishing to restore Anguin’s rule in Enultramar, and by Wilderlords wishing to keep avenging rebel armies at bay.  Any force moving either north or south would need his support, and his castle, if they were to come through Alshar.

While some might have used this political leverage for their own gain, it was clear to Pentandra that the baron did not relish his unique position.  Indeed, he had been sending letters to the Duke for weeks, now, pretending some excuse or another for why he had yet to take his oath.

The Prime Minister’s responses had grown increasingly terse, until a personal order from Anguin forced the issue.  The baron was here, however reluctantly, and if he wanted to return to his idyllic domains he would have to do so as a loyal, sworn vassal of Anguin’s.

The ceremony went quickly and without particular note, a diplomatic response to what might have been considered a personal slight.  The look on Angrial’s face as the baron completed the oath and received back the tokens of his office was one of relief.  The Duchy could not afford even the appearance of acrimony among its remaining peers.  Calling undue attention to the baron’s tardiness was not politically wise.

Pentandra had to admit to herself, Anguin looked quite dashing as he administered the oath.  While the court had been disturbed by the scandalous amount of time the young man now spent with the Maidens, he had not been completely wasting his hours.  Under that mask he was well-groomed, his hair neatly trimmed, and his costume was impeccably brushed.  He looked every inch the vital young monarch the Wilderlords needed to look up to.

And she had to admit, there was a certain self-confidence that his time with the misnamed Maidens had afforded him.  Where he had been hesitant and cautious in his authority when he arrived at the palace, he now surveyed the hall and his court like a proper lord of his people.

Unfortunately, Pentandra could already see the price Anguin was paying for his wisdom.  It came with a growing awareness of the great responsibility he now bore.  And a certain arrogance.  While he was eager to test the limits of his power and authority, he was also appropriately scared of failure, and aware of the tenuous nature of his nascent state.

That kind of worry never went away, she knew.  She had endured it in the early days of organizing the Arcane Orders, and still felt a twinge of it when she dealt with some piece of Order business.

And, she realized, it was the same sort of responsibility she now felt toward her husband.  His failures and successes were now part of hers, and there was a heavy burden in that realization.  She looked over at her husband and looked past the ridiculous mask.

Yes, he’s mine, now.  For good or ill, he’s my responsibility.

It was a harder thing for her to grasp than she could have expected, partially because of Arborn’s brilliant competence in so many endeavors.  Had he been a normal man, that burden would have somehow been lighter . . . and her attraction to him diminished, she also realized.   There was an exciting danger to being the wife of such a man.  The risk of social estrangement was high, if things did not fare well between them.  But worse, the idea of ever being parted from Arborn made her physically ill.

Nor did he demand much from her, as a wife.  He brought tremendous understanding to their unique situation, not to mention a willingness to depart from social norms for the sake of pragmatism.  The idea that he could not cook his own breakfast or sew a rent in his stockings was laughable.  The idea that she could not contend with matters of household accounts or discuss matters of grave import was likewise laughable.  But there remained a feeling of responsibility that, she feared, would forever leave her in doubt.

Suddenly she wondered how he was faring in his own position at court, whether he needed her help, whether he was happy.  He so rarely spoke of such things.  Not to her, anyway.  Now she felt like a crappy wife for not asking him of her own accord.  The fact that she both dreaded and craved the answer to that last question was confusing . . . but then, tonight everything seemed a bit confusing.

What the hells is in this wine?

She watched blankly as Anguin graciously thanked the town watch for assisting in putting down the latest riots north of town.  She’d heard about that this morning.

This time the riots had started over a distribution of free bread from a group of abbeys in town that had purchased some of the windfall of cheap grain for the purpose.  It was more bread than most of the poor bastards had seen in a year.  Things were going well until a few of the camp’s thugs tried to take over distribution from the unarmed monks, and a fight broke out.  The fight quickly escalated to a riot.

The good news was that three of the nine people killed were identified as part of the Crew, albeit low-level members.  Their heads were now decorating the palace gate.

After a few more considered recognitions, particularly of the hard-working palace clerks and certain civic-minded townsfolk who had been vocal supporters of the new regime, he adjourned the business portion of the court by leaping boldly from the throne, replacing his fox mask and then calling for wine.

The minstrels took that as a cue to begin playing, and shortly much of the crowd thinned in the center and thickened along the walls as dancers took their places.

Everyone donned their masks at that signal.  Pentandra had hers in a silken pouch, a visage made to look like a falcon that she’d found in the market.  The red-gold feathers perfectly complemented her gown.  For Arborn she had found a handsome brown falcon, with an accent gem (augmented to glow by magic) between its colorfully-painted eyes to emphasize them.

She was pleased that Minalan and Alya had made the effort to bring delightfully detailed masks of some feline – Castali mountain lions, Minalan insisted.  The ears and cheeks were made of rabbit fur, but the craftsman had worked it closely until it actually resembled a ferocious cat.

Of course the disproportionately long whiskers gave both masks a comical aspect that kept them from being too severe.  Even more adorably, they both had stuffed cat tails attached to the back of their belts and tufts of fur peeking out from sleeves and collar.  It had to itch, but Alya didn’t seem to mind and Minalan was trying to be a good sport about the ridiculous costume.

“Time to go be the Spellmonger,” Pentandra whispered to him, and pushed him toward a crowd of officials.

Minalan stumbled a bit but kept going.  He looked rough.  More than she’d let on.  There was something weighing on him, she guessed, something he wouldn’t discuss.

Something that likely involved Baroness Isily, shadowmage and former assassin, Pentandra guessed.  The rumors of her recent pregnancy also were rife with the idea that Master Dunselen was not, in fact, the father of the child who would inherit his barony, one day.

But how the hells did that affect Minalan?

Pentandra couldn’t help but be anxious as she watched Minalan work the room.  She’d invited him here to deal with Ishi, but was he really up to that, when his heart was so miserably entangled?

“More wine, please,” she said, holding out her glass to a passing servant.  “And fill it all the way to the rim.”

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Thirty

The Woodland Masque

Minalan wasn’t exactly mobbed by the court, but the senior-most among them were clearly vying for his attention.  Pentandra was relieved to see that Prime Minister Angrial presumed upon his seniority and fell into discussion with Minalan very early on.

Next the Warlord spent a few minutes with him, until they were both laughing a bit about their costumes – Count Salgo affected a grand lion’s mask that covered most of his head.  He did a marvelous job of pantomiming the role, too.  While it was still early in the day, Pentandra figured the old soldier had switched to spirits earlier than usual.  In fact, everyone seemed quite relaxed and calm.

But then Sir Daranal – soon to be Baron Daranal – managed to sneak into line, and Pentandra’s attention was on the courtier intently.

The man wasn’t quite out of favor – he was still at court, and in the office of the Master of Horse to the Duke until he took over management of the barony of Primolar on Anguin’s behalf; but there was still much suspicion over his actions (or lack of actions) during the assassination of Her Grace, Duchess Enora.  Too much to employ him in a sensitive area without a pressing need.

Part of the problem was the man understood why people didn’t trust him, though he had never demonstrated either disloyalty or complicity with the plot.  But neither had he done anything to distinguish himself as a loyal supporter of Anguin’s regime.  It was theorized at the Ladies’ Tea that he was a consummate fence-sitter, hoping that his reluctance would be excused and forgiven if Anguin triumphed, or that it would be rewarded and lauded by the rebels who may, as many of the Sea Lords believed, try to capture Anguin for their own purposes.

Pentandra thought it was more a matter of professional sulkiness than anything else.  Sir Daranal had endure a massive failure, lost his contacts and his purpose, and worst of all, lost his patrons.  He was a capable man, she thought, but one who was waiting for a reason to invest himself.  That could be very good or very bad for Anguin, she figured, but seeing him speaking with Minalan made her instantly suspicious.  Keeping him in a largely ceremonial post, before placing him in charge of the management on one of the five baronies surrounding Vorone, was a good place to keep an eye on him.

Daranal and Minalan parted without incident, and if the former spy had revealed anything to the Spellmonger, he did not act disturbed.  Pentandra watched casually as a string of other officials made a point to introduce themselves to the famous Spellmonger.  Lady Erasma, Lord Andrien, Lady Bertine, Father Amus, even Lawfather Jodas got a moment or two in private with the famous wizard.  Pentandra relaxed a bit.  It was unlikely that things would go too awry from here, she decided.

When the young duke finally used his position to intervene, Pentandra stopped relaxing.  She was very intrigued by Minalan’s relationship with the Orphan Duke.  Part of it was pure politics, of course, but she also knew part of it was his guilt in his part in his parents’ murders, or at least their concealment.

The young monarch was flushed and sweaty from dancing, when he doffed his canine mask.  Immediately he held out his hand and one of his gentlemen handed him the cup Angrial had gifted him at Yule.  He drained it thirstily, handed it back, and began speaking with Minalan . . .

. . . when he was upstaged by Lady Pleasure.

Without warning the main doors to the hall flew open with a bang.  Spilling out of them came a riot of brightly colored dresses filled with precociously adorable girls.

Pentandra’s jaw nearly dropped at the well-executed spectacle.  Each girl’s dress was unique, though cut and fitted to flatter in similar ways.  Every one of them had bright sprays of wildflowers strung from their hair, their necks, their arms and belts that complemented her dress, and each girl bore a brilliant smile.

They danced in nearly into the room nearly in unison to the spritely number the musicians were playing in concert with their appearance.  Though they were completely demure in their dress, the way their hips swayed and their breasts were featured by their gowns left no doubt of their youth, vigor, and femininity.  From what some of the astonished and guilty looks the nuns from the more conservative orders were giving the Maidens of Spring, they bordered on the indecent.  Even the way they carried their baskets of flowers seemed provocative.

“Oh, Ishi’s tits!” Pentandra whispered to herself.  As if summoning them, a tall blonde figure followed the girls into the room, one that immediately inspired riotous applause by the court.

Lady Pleasure was decked out in a beautiful dress of many colors, each picked from a shade of spring bloom, Pentandra noted.  The mask she wore to conceal her eyes and the crown of her head was shaped like a flower made of flower petals, and was dusted with gold and silver to make it sparkle in the light.  The light seemed to seek her out, craving her attention, and once blessed it bounded away to spread the news of her beauty.

It was a splendid effect.  Pentandra wanted to be sick.  Ishi was such a showy, self-serving bitch.

“We present Lady Pleasure and her Maidens of Spring!” called the herald to the clapping and hollering of the court.

Lady Pleasure paused, basked in their adulation – ostensibly for her hard work in preparing the most excellent festival – and then invited everyone to enjoy themselves without further discussion.

The girls who were her escort quickly spread out across the room, Pentandra noted, each seeking a knot of courtiers to ennoble with their presence.  Wherever the perpetually smiling maidens went, she saw, they instantly gathered attention.

They weren’t just posturing for the men – they carried bouquets of wildflowers and called out even the aged ladies of the court for compliments.  And they had the sense to be gentle with their praise for the male courtiers’ manliness, lest they incite resentment among their escorts for the evening.

Pentandra had to suppress the urge to summon Everkeen to confirm her guess, but she was certain that there was some compelling glamour spell at work.  She could feel it . . . as if the entire world around her was inviting her to relax and let go of her inhibitions.  It was akin to being too drunk, but without the discomfort of an excess of spirits.

She wasn’t the only one being affected, either, she knew.  She stared at Minalan and watched the Spellmonger’s jaw slacken, and his eyes flit from one dainty tart to the other.  Yet his eyes always seemed compelled to return to Lady Pleasure.  She hoped he realized what kind of insidious power she was dealing with, now.  As if to answer, he shook his head and wiped his eyes on his sleeve through his lion mask.

Welcome to my trial, Pentandra spoke to him silently as he continued to watch the swaying young Maidens. They are all local girls – Wilderland refugees, for the most part – who Lady Pleasure recruited from the camps and the streets.  Some she put to work in her brothel, others she refined into real sharp pains in my ass.  Her ‘maidens’, as she calls them, are anything but.  They ply their charms among the court and entice even well-mannered ministers to do their bidding.  Organized gangs of cutthroats I can contend with, Min, but a goddess masquerading as a madam?  And making policy?  This is beyond me, she said, bitterly.

I see what you mean, he said, watching the hypnotic movements of the girls across the floor.  Has she done anything damaging?

Apart from the court’s morale?  No, not quite.  But she has caused some serious problems for the domestic situations of a dozen officers and officials, and she’s working her way into the Ducal Council, now.  Thankfully the Prime Minister’s addiction is power and control, not sex.  The Duke, however . . .

He’s a young man, with a young man’s lusts, Minalan protested.  Which Pentandra expected.  Men hated to have their sexual possibilities limited.  So did women, but they were more practical about it, and less likely to whine.  He’s enjoying his power and position.

And he’s had to thank Lady Pleasure publicly for her assistance, she pointed out.  It was an adept social move, she had to admit to herself, getting so close to Anguin so quickly.  He put forth an appeal for alms to build three new wells around the camps, to keep the people from having to walk more than two miles to the river.  She volunteered to donate an entire day’s worth of her house’s proceeds, and advertised it as a civic obligation.  She raised enough to dig five wells.

And that’s a problem?

That’s not the problem, she replied, testily.  I’m the last one to decry a woman’s right and choice to do what she will with her body – but the ramifications of those dalliances are far-reaching.  When ministers come to council too besotted by a nubile beauty to report or consider, or end up in a duel over one, or fights with his wife because his attentions are elsewhere, it starts to affect business.

And you’ve tried speaking to her? he asked, as if that might not have occurred to her.

Oh, yes, Penny said, her mental voice lowering as she watched the exercise in mass flirtation unfolding before her.  That’s when she dropped your name.  And hints about her real identity I picked up on.

What did she say? he asked, guiltily.

She told me things only the goddess would know, she answered, truthfully.  She really didn’t want to go into detail over her early childhood explorations of sexuality.  For one thing, they were horribly banal, all things considered.  Things that are none of your concern.

Sorry!  Just curious.  Who else knows? he asked, anxiously.

Just my apprentice, who guessed.  I’ll probably tell Arborn. I’ve already warned him away from the place. I have to tell someone, and I need to make him aware of the danger before it’s too late.  He’s counseled his men to avoid the house already just because of her little tarts.  And he’s agreed to wear charms that make him resistant to them, himself.

That had taken a little cajoling on her part, but once the Kasari realized that they were being singled out for attention by the pretty girls for a reason, they were on their guard.  But of course Minalan had to pick up on the one part of that discussion she didn’t want to re-live.

Penny! You don’t think Arborn would—

I’m a smart enough wife not to take chances, when a goddess is involved, she said, her teeth clenching involuntarily.  Particularly that goddess.  I knew her by reputation before, and now I’ve met her in person.

She knew Ishi would have no problem driving Arborn to infidelity.  Or worse.  As noble as her husband was, as honorable as he tried to be, no one could resist Ishi’s call if she persisted, and Pentandra knew it.

I would have thought you two would get along famously, Minalan snorted.  Smart ass.

You really don’t know much about women, do you? she said accusingly.  Nor did she expect him to, or any man, but she’d hoped Min would at least try.  Some things, however, you just had to explain yourself if you wanted a man to understand it.

Min, she’s the embodiment of female sexuality.  And that’s the one thing that women use as both a measure and a method of attack with each other.  The problem is, thanks to her divine character, regular social rules don’t apply.  I can’t very well start rumors about her, if she embraces them.  I can’t ostracize her from society, because she can retaliate through her maidens by seducing my supporters.  And I can’t challenge her publicly, because I would lose, right now, and she would conquer.  I can’t let that happen.

So what can you do? he asked, partially confused and partially curious.  As if he’d never met a woman before, or tried to fathom their methods.

Idiot! she thought to herself, careful not to send the idea to Minalan.  Doesn’t he realize what she was doing?

I can call for my good friend Minalan, who apparently unleashed this nightmare on me, right after he convinced me to quit my cushy job and go off into the Wilderlands to rescue a doomed duchy.  I’m certain he’ll know just what to say to her to get her to back off.

You certainly have a lot of confidence in me.

So justify it.  If you have leverage with her, use it.  She’s becoming a nuisance and obscuring our goal to restore and eventually unify the duchy.  It was getting worse every day, too.  All Pentandra could do was hope her interference abated after this damned festival.

I’m just glad we got most of the kids out of here before she arrived.  Pentandra stifled that mental image before it could take root.  No telling where this party might end up, she reminded herself.

She hasn’t indulged in that level of vice yet, she answered, frustrated.  But the longer she goes, the more depraved things get at her bordello.  Not everyone has Arborn’s moral strength to resist their darker urges.

No one has Arborn’s moral strength, Minalan agreed, philosophically.  All right.  I’ll speak to her.  Not that I think I can actually do anything, but I’ll try.  Just as soon as she’s done . . . enticing everyone.

Before he could find her, Lady Pleasure had the minstrels cue up a new piece while she went to the center of the hall.  With her tarts taking positions around her, the music encouraged them to spin and twirl.  That was just a warm-up for the intricately choreographed dance.  Whatever lessons Pleasure had managed to teach the girls had paid off handsomely.  They moved with little effort and a great deal of grace.   And they never lost their smiles throughout the performance.

Lady Pleasure finished her performance by having her Maidens surround the duke, cooing and fawning over him.  Anguin was clearly enjoying the outpouring of feminine attention, and ended up kissing several of the girls.  After some huddled whispers they continued to amuse the court when the girls scattered in all directions, and the bold “fox duke” chased after their fluttering skirts with obvious intent, all while the girls squealed and laughed.

It was, Pentandra was loath to admit, not only a highly effective performance for the court, but a classic method of boosting a young man’s self-confidence cloud-high.

Female attention was potent magic to a young man, she knew.  It provided confidence by the bucketful, inspired envy from other men and longing and attraction from women.  Female attention could have an amazingly transformative power over a boy, if carefully applied.  She’d seen that repeatedly, thanks to her own research . . . including with Minalan’s apprentice, Tyndal, a few years ago.  Tyndal had never been quite the same awkward lad after that night.

What Lady Pleasure was doing here was similar, but instead of using her own body to honor the duke, she was using the multiple bodies of her girls to seduce him from afar with a dazzling array of female attention.  Lady Pleasure never did more than offer the boy a chaste embrace, herself.  But there was never a doubt in Pentandra’s mind who was really in control of the public flirtation as one pretty maiden after another vied for the handsome young duke’s attention.

Though she was his senior by a lifetime, Lady Pleasure was pleasuring their lad as blatantly as any whore pleased a client in an alley.  And the court was devouring the sight hungrily, with great enthusiasm.  The public display of feminine attention - nay, she corrected, feminine adoration - served to elevate Anguin’s status among his subjects who witnessed it.

As she watched the spectacle unfold with an academic eye, Pentandra could almost see the esteem in the eyes of the men in the room, and the desire of the women.  That was only natural, she realized: when social status was reduced to its essence, she knew, it was a measure of sexual potency through social domination.  Putting a virile young lad in front of a crowd of his subjects, and then having him so lavishly fawned over, elicited a fundamental response in those who witnessed it.  It was a display calculated to not only portray the lad as a man in his own right, but one to be envied and desired by those he led.

Damn Ishi.

Despite her anger and frustration, Pentandra could see that she really had helped cement the loyalties of the court and his vassals to Anguin.  This was not the timid little Orphan Duke, under the thumb of his advisors . . . this was the Fox Duke, clever and canny, bold and arrogant, independent and potent, ready to lead his people into new prosperity and fresh adventures.  A man in his own right . . . according to Ishi.  Lady Pleasure.  Ishi.

Not everyone was pleased, of course.  There were plenty of courtiers, particularly the older ladies, who were staring circumspectly at the display, slight frowns on their face even as they laughed at the antics of their sovereign.  The twisting and turning limbs of the maidens reminded them of younger days and lighter steps, and the girls’ fresh smiles recalled less complicated, less desperate times in their youth.  Pentandra could feel a palpable resentment beginning to arise among them even as they looked upon their young duke with desire.

A few of the men shared their disapproval, particularly some of the more conservative clergymen, but the majority were enthusiastically watching the graceful dancers with undisguised arousal and enthusiasm.  Their animalistic desires were working their way to the surface with every flash of ankle or bounce of boob, and the filmy fiction of social propriety was dashed as far older, more primal emotions took hold.  Young, old, noble or common, the masculine reaction to such raw beauty and graceful movement was entirely predictable.

As the music worked its way into a climax of rhythm and melody, the girls surrounding the Fox Duke managed to use their combined strength to lift him up and carry him in unison to his throne, then kissed the nose of his mask as if he were a cherished pet before bowing and moving away, wistfully looking back over their shoulders.

The entire court cheered wildly when the music stopped, and Pentandra felt compelled to join them.  The dance had been beautiful, and Anguin’s participation in it was politically masterful.  She might have hated what Ishi was doing here, but she had to admire the way she did it.

“Thus shall even the wildflowers of the Wilderlands’ fields offer their fealty to the Fox Duke!” announced the self-important bitch, formally.  She fawned over the lad like a favorite aunt with unhealthy desires, but Anguin seemed immune to the subtleties of the display. “Let us all support him so as he labors at the challenge of bringing our flaccid realm back to its full and potent form!” she said, eliciting a wildly enthusiastic response from the crowd with her blatant innuendo.

After the musicians turned to more sedate tunes and stately pavanes again ruled the hall, the Maidens broke apart from their mistress and mingled with the guests, bringing their cheer and good nature to each group.  If the Duke’s exposure to the attentions of a comely young girl elevated him, the Maidens now shared a taste of that heady spirit with the spectators with their smiles and flirtations.

It was skillfully done, for though the entire court knew they were merely whores, they were treated as honored and respected guests . . . much to the dismay of a vocal minority.  The Countess Shirlin, in particular, made a point to criticize as many points about the girls as she could, even if she had to make them up.

While Pentandra earnestly wanted to agree with the conservative old bat and commiserate about Baroness Amandice’s temerity, the more she thought about it the more she wanted to avoid the horrid woman entirely.  And she had to keep her away from the Spellmonger.  As moody as Min was being, she figured, the likelihood he’d say or do something stupid and start a conflict between Alshar and the Queen was too great.   He had barely watched the dance, and that just wasn’t like him.

Minalan surprised Pentandra by studiously ignoring Ishi after the dance, while other admirers mobbed Lady Pleasure with acclaim and praise for the successful Wildflower festival.  Instead, practicing a studied indifference, he helped himself to food and wine and caught up with a few old acquaintances.

Of course, Ishi could not stand to be ignored, Pentandra saw.  In a short time, she sought him out and was soon leading Minalan toward the back of the hall where “lover’s alcoves” were available for intimate conversation in a blind arcade, protected by screens.  You had to give the Sea Lords who had built the palace some credit for practicality.

Once they were out of sight, Pentandra’s real worries began.  She tried to stifle them, tried to distract herself by talking to Alya (who was enchanted) and Arborn (who was laconic, and uneasy in such occasions despite appearing relaxed) but it did little to reduce her anxiety.  The longer Minalan and Lady Pleasure – Ishi – were alone, the more convinced Pentandra was that things were going horribly wrong.  She was seriously considering summoning Everkeen and going to track them down when they finally emerged.

Minalan didn’t look particularly pleased, but neither did Ishi.  He certainly was under no spell of hers, and if her charms had affected his lusty nature, he didn’t show it much.  Instead he continued to ignore Ishi and chat with a few courtiers around the room before he sauntered back over to Pentandra.

“All right, it’s done,” he said, quietly.  He looked terribly tired.

“What is?” Pentandra demanded.  “What did you agree to?”

“She’s going to stop screwing with you—poor choice of words – and try to honestly help you.”

Pentandra looked at him in disbelief.  “Really?  You trust her?”

Minalan looked a little offended.  “No.  But I threatened her.”

“You . . . threatened the goddess of love, sex, and beauty?” Pentandra laughed, despite her horror.  Pissing Ishi off was rarely a certain way to a successful future.  The mythology was replete with examples.  “With what?  Pimples?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Minalan dismissed, stiffly.  “I know her weakness and how to exploit it.”

“And remain strangely unaffected,” Pentandra observed.  “What’s gotten into you, Min?  You’re alone with a beautiful and horny sex goddess, and you don’t exploit it?”

“Who would have thought?” he shrugged, tiredly.  “The fact is, I’m a little fed up with women at the moment.  Present company excepted,” he added.  “You and Alya are about the only two I don’t mind at the moment.  Don’t ask me why.”

“I won’t . . . I’m just impressed that you were able to stand up to her,” she said, honestly.

“Well, don’t be that impressed.  I’m on the hook to build a temple to her, here in Vorone.  And probably one in Sevendor.”

“Oh.  Well, I suppose that’s a small concession,” she agreed.

“In return, after the festival is over she will defer to your judgment and leadership, and do what she can to lend you aid,” he promised.  “I’ve done what I can.  The rest is up to you two to work out.  But if she gets troublesome, let me know and I’ll . . . take care of it.”

Pentandra didn’t want to let the matter drop, but despite her better judgment, she did.  Minalan looked tired.  She saw that despite the formal affair, the costume, the mask, and being locked in intense debate with a wayward goddess – not to mention discovering his wife was under a spell – the night had taken a toll.

“You should probably get back to Sevendor,” she proposed, slowly.  “You and Alya.  You’ve done your duty here, and done Alshar a great service in doing so.  Thank you for making the appearance.”

“Anything to help,” he promised, though he looked grateful at the thought of escape.  “I really did have a good time,” he added.  “When I’m off of house arrest, I’d like to come back and see more of what you are doing here.”

“What about Alya?” Pentandra asked, nodding toward where the baroness was simply standing and staring into space.

“Oh.  Ishi – Lady Pleasure said she’d take care of it.  She can do that sort of thing, apparently.”

“That’s the least of her powers,” nodded Pentandra.  “Let us pray that she doesn’t decide to use her primal nature.”

Min smiled.  “And just to whom should we pray for that?”

“Good point.  Good night, Min,” she said, as she saw he was preparing to leave.  “why don’t we all retire to my chambers for a final drink, before you go?  You might want to use them for your transportation.  It might be, um, a little showy if you did that sort of thing here.”

He looked around at the gaily colored floral costumes and a matron dressed like an enormous turkey.  “Yes, we wouldn’t want to do anything to attract attention.  And I could use a drink.  A strong one.”

The Spellmonger and his wife did not linger, once they had a stirrup cup.  He took them both back to Sevendor by way of the Alkan Ways, and she felt a great sense of relief at his departure.  After he was gone, Pentandra and Arborn returned to the ball, and she relaxed through three more cups of wine until she could look at Ishi’s smiling face without wanting to vomit.

She was well-aware of how wine could make her belligerent.  Right now, she was embracing that.

But it wasn’t Lady Pleasure who bore the brunt of her ire.  She was angry over what Isily of Greenflower was somehow doing to Minalan . . . whatever that was.  Pentandra just knew Isily had to be the culprit, the one making Minalan so melancholy.  With all of his troubles in Sevendor of late, she seemed to be the one most likely behind the plots he faced.

Pentandra hated that – she’d always been wary of Isily of Bronwyn, even before she knew she was a trained assassin.  She was the kind of woman other women learned to fear, if they were wise.  Her ambitions were high, but murky.  Now that she’d married Baron Dunselen, and was Isily of Greenflower, she had secular power as well as arcane power.  Considering Prince Tavard’s dislike of Minalan and magi in general, Pentandra had no doubt that Isily would use that as leverage to get what she wanted.  Whatever that might be.

The disturbing thing was, Pentandra suspected that what she wanted – who she wanted – was Minalan.  She’d always been ambitious, but her recent successes had clearly fueled those ambitions beyond reason.  With the protection of the Queen in addition to her personal resources, Pentandra could foresee Isily becoming a powerful force in the politics of both the Kingdom and the Arcane Orders . . . and a potentially deadly enemy.

Isily wasn’t particularly level headed, either, Pentandra reflected as she drank and watched the ball.  Quite the contrary.  Her cool demeanor and pretty face concealed a vicious intelligence that was not necessarily bounded by good taste, ethical consideration, or restraint.  Or even reason, Pentandra knew.

Arborn interrupted her brooding a few moments later, as a new set of musicians took the floor . . . including some of the Maidens.

To her surprise, he invited her to dance.

“You know how to dance?”

“A raptor learns many obscure skills . . . including the pavane, various brawls, and the odd jig,” he assured her, taking her arm.  “Many barbarian tribes have dance as a custom.  So do the Narasi nobility.  It is best to be prepared to participate.”

Pentandra’s enjoyment of dance was usually limited to one or two slow numbers and perhaps a lively jig before she gave up for the evening.  But she also understood the importance of being seen at a court function as much as Lady Pleasure did, dancing with her handsome new husband and showing everyone how stalwart their marriage was.

And, in truth she was curious to see how well he danced.

As the fiddle began and the dance master called to places, Arborn whirled her into position on the floor with the same practiced ease he used when drawing sword or bowstring.  Or mounting a horse.  Or repelling from a rope.  Or . . .

It felt good, she realized, displaying her handsome husband to the other women.  She was proud of him, and counted herself lucky when she saw the pale, flabby specimens of Narasi nobility lurking along the walls.

Arborn’s height and broad shoulders, his long dark hair, clean shaven face and deeply tanned skin set him apart from the mustached Wilderlords physically, and the graceful, precise way he stepped and twirled Pentandra around the floor demonstrated his experience at the art.  Pentandra found herself impressed with him anew.

The pavane was lovely, and obligingly short, leading the couples on a circuit only half-way around the room . . . when the music abruptly changed.

A brass horn played a fanfare, and Lady Pleasure herself stood forth on the dais, next to the Duke.  With a smile she waited until the hall was silent, and then nodded to the minstrels behind her.  Then she began to sing as the musicians went from the stately music of court to a lively country tune.

She had a beautiful voice, a high soprano, Pentandra noted automatically, but her range was startling broad as the melodic country song demonstrated.  When she came to the chorus, three of the Maidens sang with her, producing a delightful chord that launched them into the second verse.  The crowd was enrapt - even the clergy had stopped their critical gossip from the sides of the hall and were focused on Lady Pleasure.

But there was something else going on, Pentandra realized as the other dancers pulled her and Arborn into a grand circle.  Ishi’s voice was magically alluring, the lore said, and when she sang it not only ushered in the spring season, it could affect everyone who heard it.  There were entire legends about some poor bastard accidentally hearing Ishi sing and then doing something brave, stupid, and occasionally fatal in response.  One of her daughters was even known as the Mistress of Song, Pentandra recalled.

But this was no legend, myth, or tale - this was happening to her, and everyone in the Stone Hall.  She could feel the tide of magic shift, subtly, in a way she couldn’t define . . . but in a way that definitely disturbed her.  As the music played and Ishi sang, Pentandra tried to resist, but to no avail.  She found her hands joined with the others, whose laughter and delight at the subtle change didn’t reflect any worry.

Pentandra started to panic as she looked around the circle at the other dancers, most of whom still wore their woodland masks.  It was a mad scene, and she wanted to be suspicious, but she rationalized that the wine she’d enjoyed probably contributed more to her misgivings than any sinister sorcery.

It was just a dance, after all, part of her mind whispered.  Just a song . . . what could happen?

You’re too concerned with the arcane, she could hear her mother’s voice reproving her from long memory.  Relax and enjoy yourself!

As the dancers began moving around the circle to the tune, Lady Pleasure continued to sing in a loud, low voice.

The words of the old country song were simple and quaint, discussing a young girl’s first crush on a boy, but in Lady Pleasure’s mouth they shifted and became something else.  Something lurid.  With a naughty grin and a wink to the crowd Ishi began adding new verses, each one slightly more suggestive than the last.  With every step Pentandra could feel the power build up around her, but she was helpless to stop it, or even evaluate it.  She was as caught up in the moment of the dance as anyone.

The song got faster and faster, and Lady Pleasure’s lyrics got nastier, until the promises that the girl in the song was making to secure the attention of the boy became outright obscene.

Nobody seemed to mind, save for Countess Shirlin, who glared at the Baroness and her pretty maidens from the back of the room, and perhaps a few of the older nuns.  The Castali noblewoman was visibly unhappy with the riotous way the Alshari court had evolved.  She made her disapproval of the antics – and the fawnish way the Maidens surrounded the Duke in the smaller circle of dancers at the center of the room – loudly and repeatedly known to anyone who cared to listen.  No one seemed to pay her much heed, however.  She was reduced to making sad and angry faces at Anguin and his folk.

But every frown and grimace from her seemed to egg Ishi on.  The goddess sang, and Pentandra was helpless to intervene as the focus of the magical field building around them shifted almost imperceptibly.  But of such subtleties are great works wrought, she knew.  As the song came to a climax, so did the working – it was too broadly-based and powerful to be considered a simple spell, Pentandra realized.  Ishi was working divine magic, something few human magi understood.

To what end, Pentandra did not know . . . but she suspected the worst.

Arborn seemed just as infected as the other dancers as he whirled her around the room.  A half-mad, gleeful look came upon his face, very different from his usual stone-faced expression.   Pentandra herself felt her inhibitions and worries slip away into the music even as she realized the danger.

The feeling started as a seed in her head, but quickly worked its way lower.  She could witness its effect on the entire court, a sprouting of desire and arousal in everyone who heard the music.  It was powerful, overwhelming, uncontrollable, an irresistible wave of erotic energy that seemed to saturate everything.

Pentandra looked up toward Ishi’s face.  The masquerading goddess looked supremely beautiful . . . even with that maniacal smile on her face.

This, Pentandra realized, was the culmination of her efforts.  This was what Ishi had been planning.  Unleashing the primal nature of sexuality with the power of divine magic on an unsuspecting town.

“Arborn,” she said, as she realized that there was no reliable thaumaturgical counter to theurgic magic, “we need to leave!”

“Leave?  That was fun!”

“We need . . . we need to get back to our chamber,” she said, as she felt the warmth of desire invade her loins.  Arborn looked incredibly desirable now, she realized.  He grinned boyishly.  “Now!”

“I was really hoping you would suggest that, Wife,” he smiled, taking her arm and pulling her close to him.

“It’s not what you think,” she gasped, as the dancers broke up, unaware that they – and the entire palace – had been enchanted.  “There’s a spell . . . sort of.  We need to get somewhere . . . whew! We need to get somewhere private.  Quickly.”

Already couples were seeking each other out.  Romance was not merely in the air; it was suffocating the affair.  More than one pair had started kissing passionately in alcoves, corners, or even in the middle of the room without much regard for rank, position, or propriety.

“What about His Grace?” asked Arborn worriedly.

“I don’t think he’s in danger,” Pentandra considered, as she searched the room for the Duke.  He was sitting in a corner, a maiden in his lap and three more around him.  She couldn’t see his hands.  Or theirs.

“No, he’s in good hands,” she admitted, then giggled at the joke.  Far more than she would have under normal circumstances.  It was subtle, but then subtlety was Ishi’s stock-in-trade.

“Then . . . what is happening?” Arborn asked, confused.  She shuddered as a wave of pristine desire washed over her anxious soul like a comforting wave at the ocean shore.

Ishi’s perky nips, he was a handsome man!

Pentandra felt her knees go weak, as well as other physiological effects less evident to casual observers.  She glanced around the ballroom wildly, seeing courtiers and maidens in various stages of seduction . . . and each scene seemed to warm her own desires yet further.  She had never realized how well-built Count Salgo was for a man of his age, for instance, but the way he had that maiden hoisted in the air, upside down, more than proved his virility and strength.  Damn!

When she noted how even small, reedy Count Angrial ‘s eyes were particularly attractive, Pentandra knew that they were powerless.  She wasn’t remotely attracted to the Prime Minister, but when she saw him with a petite little blonde Maiden on his knee, she was overcome with jealousy and desire.

Countess Threanas had discarded her mask and was now pressed up against a support column, a courtier’s nose buried in her bosom and his hand snaked far up her skirts.  It may well have been the first such invasion of that quarter in decades, but the Minister of the Treasury was arching her back and purring like a kitten.

Something was decidedly afoot, magically speaking.

“I’m not sure,” Pentandra said, grabbing a hold of his arm – his big, muscular, brawny arm – and pulling.  “But we need to get out of here, now!  Whatever it is, it’s going to be big, it’s going to be confusing, and if I had to guess. . . it’s going to get really sticky!”

Chapter Thirty-One

A Plague Of Passions

The aftermath of the Wildflower Festival’s signature fete, the Woodland Masque, saw a town plunged into a mesmerizing period of hyper-eroticism, thanks to Ishi’s divine intervention.  Ishi’s Night infected the townsfolk like a sickness or a madness.

Though she had pledged to the Spellmonger to be on her best behavior, to Ishi “best behavior” was a relative thing, Pentandra reflected, as she felt herself – and nearly everyone around her – become affected by the compelling wave of magical energy beyond the capacity of her protections to defend.

It happened over the course of a short time, but the effects were felt everywhere - far beyond the Stone Hall, far beyond the palace.   The entire town of Vorone was blanketed by Ishi’s design, it was said by the sages, later.  Few of the clergy could explain the phenomenon any other way.

It was as if all of Vorone had become drunk with love and lust and suffered a plague of passion.

Not everyone was affected equally, Pentandra was able to piece together later when she investigated the phenomenon critically. She felt compelled to, as a matter of professional interest as much as in fulfillment of her duties as Court Wizard.  For weeks afterwards she collected information on the four-day orgiastic excesses that came to be known in Vorone ever after as Ishi’s Night.

While some were overcome with an irresistible erotic compulsion almost instantly, for others it was a more gradual onset.  Still others found themselves unaffected until they witnessed something that inspired the madness, or simply found themselves suddenly overcome for no reason.

Pentandra collected reports of husbands and wives who had enjoyed years of marriage together and did not seem overcome suddenly find themselves tearing off their clothes in the middle of the street and rutting with a passing stranger.  Conversely, she also heard tales of couples who had been at the brink of marital war suddenly find themselves passionately engaged in the most intense erotic episodes with their tortuous spouses.

It wasn’t everyone.  But it was a significant enough portion of the population was to cause widespread mayhem – and there were plenty of townsfolk who, while not directly affected, saw an opportunity to fulfill long-held desires with neighbors and friends, employers and employees.

Commerce ground to a halt as the compelling desire to indulge in carnal pursuits overtook pragmatic reason.  The market, the day after the Masque, was a wild tangle of limbs and pleasures that kept any real business from being done.  Even the whores who poached the place around midday were blocked.  No one was paying for sex during Ishi’s Night.

Convents became temporary houses of pleasure.  Monasteries and temples were transformed into lusty centers of sexual excess.  Even the most conservative and ascetic sects were afflicted with the plague of passions, causing some among them to break lifelong vows of celibacy.

Nor was age any barrier – the effect seemed to influence anyone with a healthy and active sexuality, and quite a few who had thought their days of merrymaking were long behind them.  Old widows became as randy as maidens, and long-married wives whose looks had succumbed to the sacrifices of Trygg after many children pranced around like coquettes . . . and attracted plenty of erotic attention.

It was as if a great mist of confusion and sensual indulgence had infected them all like a sickness.

Neither the powerful nor the poor were spared.  Nor was the erotic madness confined to any particular quarter of the town, or associated with diet or consumption of spirits, from what Pentandra could determine.  The madness not only managed to pull people out of their long-held roles in society, in some cases it allowed hidden desires to manifest.

More than one poor soul found themselves erotically experimenting far from their social class, age, or even their gender.  Narasi culture was uneasy with homosexuality, in general, but there was just as much of it in Vorone as in any human society.

More than one man or woman discovered that their attraction and sexual fulfillment in the arms of someone of the same gender was frighteningly comforting or passionate.  And in the many orgies that broke out across Vorone, rarely did the presence of mind occur to refuse congress simply because it was with a fellow man or woman.  To many, it was a shock and a surprise.  To others, it was the revelation of long-held feelings that lay unexpressed until brought to flower by Ishi’s Night.

Her own magic was no protection against the phenomenon, Pentandra quickly discovered.  She summoned protective spells as soon as she realized that there was something afoot, after she and her husband retired from the Masque that night.  Each warding worked as intended . . . but nothing could stop the irresistible force of Ishi’s unique working.

The Goddess of Love and Beauty . . . and Sex had dedicated tremendous energies to the process, and it took hold with divine purpose.  Once it was active, stopping it was as pointless as shielding your face from a violent storm.  While her protections gave her some small comfort, like a hand in front of her face in a tempest, it did nothing to keep her from getting soaked.

It was a subtle effect, she recalled later.  The sort of thing that crept up on everyone, keeping their senses fogged as one small social inhibition after another was shed and overlooked.  It seemed completely reasonable for everyone to watch a handsome young guardsman strip off his shirt at the ball and dance lustily for everyone’s entertainment.  Fifteen minutes later, when one of the Maidens decided the temperature was too warm for her gown and stripped to her shift, it was accepted as equally reasonable.

By the time Lady Bertine’s sagging boobs were out, she was hardly the first to bare her breasts or remove their clothes entirely. Though none seemed to rise to her level of enthusiasm, Pentandra noted wryly.

Walking back to their chambers upstairs above her office was a journey fraught with temptation, Pentandra realized, as being alone with Arborn seemed to demand her entire attention to the exclusion of any other worry.  The couple paused repeatedly on the short walk back, engaging and breaking off just shy of fulfilling their desires in the empty corridors.  It was an intensely passionate walk, one in which every encounter with someone else – be they servant, courtier, or guardsman – became an exercise in open flirtation.

When they pulled two of Count Salgo’s men from their mutual embrace in front of her office door, Pentandra knew that resistance to the spell was pointless.  Indeed, the more she struggled to maintain her hold on her virtue, the more exciting the prospect of tossing it to the winds became.  She could no more elude the power of the spell than she could forego oxygen, she realized.  The attempt, her muddled brain insisted, was just as ludicrous.  It was in her best interest to cooperate with the spell’s inevitable conclusion.

Besides, Arborn was right there, she reminded herself, as he led her up the staircase by her hand.  She had one of the most handsome and muscular men in the duchy right here in front of her, eagerly disrobing as they made their way toward their bedchamber.  She was the undisguised envy of most of the women at court for how devoted he was to her, alone.

And she was married to him!  She was not only entitled to bed this magnificent creature, she was morally obligated to, she reasoned, as his under tunic landed on the top step of the stairs.  While Pentandra had always heard that marital sex nearly ceased after a time, a theory borne out by her parent’s miserable union and frequent infidelities, she could think of no more satisfying future than being topped by Arborn’s powerful body every night for the rest of her life.  The pure excitement of being married . . . without her mother being involved in the slightest . . . was a potent aphrodisiac.

She shucked off her slippers as Arborn tossed his boots into the corner.  Alurra had her own quarters, now, and they had the chamber entirely to themselves.  Not that she would have cared if the Arcane Orders convened a gallery to watch them -- they were past the point of propriety.  Pentandra bit her lip hungrily as she watched her husband – her husband! – peeling his hose off as he sat on the edge of the bed.

She was a master at the science of desire, a scholar of sex and magic . . . and the union of the two in divine strength was frightening to her.  She was losing control, she realized.  And that was Ishi’s specialty.

Those first few hours after they left the masque were a blur to Pentandra as they were to everyone else.  It was as if they’d entered a bizarre dream at the dance and just never quite woke up.  As Arborn led her to their large bed and pulled the canopy curtains open, she shivered as she began unfastening her gown.

Pentandra and Arborn’s passions were volcanic, each touch and caress filled with urgent intensity.  Every shred of resistance to the indulgence faded in her mind as his kisses seemed to leave a trail of lightning from the back of her tiny ears to the curve of her neck.  Every protest her rational brain made was instantly overruled by the insistence of her more animalistic nature.

Arborn, too, was affected by the spell deeply, despite his conservative upbringing – or perhaps because of it.  The look of passion in his eye was consuming.  He looked at her like a hungry man eyes a fine meal, as if he had been starving for this kind of female attention his entire life . . . and now he was loose in the kitchen.  He nearly threw Pentandra on the bed through the curtains and landed on top of her a moment later, naked and seeking.

She knew that this was a foolish thing to do – capitulate to Ishi’s scheme.  But she had no way to resist.  Her mind simply could not marshal the discipline needed to overcome the incessant need in her loins.  There was, for the moment, simply nothing more important than bedding her husband as thoroughly as she could.

Ishi’s mandate was clear.  She had no choice.  Pentandra succumbed to the blissful inevitable.

But it did not stop with that first ferocious coupling.  As soon as they were done they were preparing themselves for the next indulgence of exquisite pleasure and sensual exploration.  The sun rose, and Ishi’s Night continued.  Throughout the day, and into the twilight, the spell raged on and the Voroni writhed in divine pleasure.

For two days straight Pentandra kept Arborn confined to their bedchamber and made no secret of why, propriety long ago abandoned.  For those two days they explored every facet of their union, including some things Pentandra had vowed to save for a future when the fascination of their youth might fade.  Nothing was forbidden during that time.  In between frenetic trysts they dozed or napped, but nothing seemed to deter their most powerful sexual urges from resurging again and again.

But eventually things began to degrade.

At first Alurra, her maid or the servants would fetch food and wine for them in their enchanted love nest as they replenished themselves.  Every time they considered slowing down, taking a break, getting some air, or other excuse to stop their passions, a gleam would overcome one or the other and soon they were back at it again.  Time became meaningless, as individual pleasures stretched like eternities for the lovers.

Pentandra found herself drawing magical power from the experience almost out of boredom, the fourth time around (or was it the fifth?).  It wasn’t as if Arborn’s performance wasn’t captivating, or even novel -- but the part of her brain that did magic recognized so much wasted potential around it and began building power almost by instinct.

It was power without purpose, without aim or focus, but it was a simple task to dip the bucket of her mind into the freely-flowing energy that surrounded them as a natural consequence of their passion.  Though she was no longer control of either body or mind, doing such spells seemed easy enough.  It almost made part of her feel better that she had some little control in the situation.  In more lucid moments she realized the danger they were all in from such a raw expression of magical power, but then her desires would stir and thoughts of danger quickly receded.

At some point she even summoned Everkeen to try to break herself out of the spell.  She was just casting some basic thaumaturgical spells with the baculus when Arborn’s lips met her neck, right there, and his hand snaked around to lay upon her hipbone provocatively, just there.

A wave of id-fueled energy overwhelmed her senses after that, and her spell failed, forgotten, as she was distracted by Arborn’s many manly qualities.  The only part of her brain that seemed interested in magic was the part gathering power from all of the sex she was having.

A few hours later she awoke from a stupor and found her baculus being employed in a way she doubted Minalan had in mind when he’d designed it.

Then she remembered who she was thinking about, the shape he’d forged it into, and his general humor . . . and she burst out in hysterical laughter.  Of course he’d intended it to be used that way, at least theoretically.

After two days the servants stopped appearing.  Hunger and thirst – and the dire need for another bath – forced the newlyweds from their bower and into the real world once again.  Pentandra assumed that their absence had been noted, perhaps discussed at court in whispers . . .  but in the wake of the tumultuous masque she had been granted some leeway in the performance of her duties.

She did not expect to see the palace nearly deserted when she woke up . . . nor did she expect to find the few people she did encounter still locked in the throes of passion days after the Masque.  But wherever the two of them wandered that’s exactly what they saw.

With a growing feeling of anxiety in her throat, Pentandra made Arborn purposefully not look at her as they strolled, lest he find her too enticing again and stop the tenuous flow of rational thought she’d grasped with a caress or a kiss. Something was dangerously wrong, here, she knew.  Whatever divine sorcery Ishi had been planning was well underway . . . and she barely had the capacity to summon a magelight, much less a credible arcane defense.

“Oh, Ishi’s saggy, wrinkled tits,” she swore, imagining the goddess’ dugs in just such a condition for one moment of pure feminine anger.  “She really did it,” she whispered, as the two of them stepped around a man and woman . . . and another woman . . . entwined in a pile, naked, in the corridor.  Without clothing to determine station or status, it was impossible to tell if the three lovers were noble, common, or a combination of both.  Once clothing came off, they were all equally as naked as Trygg’s children.

“Who did?” Arborn asked, confused.  He was acting half-drunk, though she knew he’d had far less wine than her over the last few days.  “And what did they do?”

“Someone -- someone extremely powerful -- cast a spell, presumably over the entire town of Vorone,” she answered, her throat sore and hoarse.  “A love spell.  No, more properly a lust spell.  And it’s . . . ongoing,” she said, as she tried to look up from an old man skillfully pleasuring a naked young woman with his mouth on a bench in the corridor.  The lass appeared as properly enchanted at the attention as the old coot was at the opportunity.  “There really is no other explanation,” she said, simply.

“Who would do such a thing?” Arborn asked, sternly.  “Which of our enemies?”

“Silly boy, this was not the work of an enemy.  On the contrary, this is the work of a goddess.  Ishi, herself.”

There was a long silence as they trudged down the corridor.  “Really?  Ishi?  The Narasi love goddess?”

“Isn’t she the Kasari love goddess, too?”

“Depends on the Kasar,” he grunted.  “But as much as we have one, we use the Narasi pantheon.”

“Well, she’s here, in Vorone, in person, and she’s taken an especial interest in the affairs of this court.  Literally,” she said, as she heard another chorus of moans.

When she looked, despite herself, she saw an eager old dame, naked as the day she was born, entertaining a man who could have been her husband (but who was not) and a lad, young enough to be her son (which Pentandra hoped against) simultaneously in the doorway to the main hall.  The old woman displayed both enthusiasm and skills few might have suspected.  Pentandra forced her eyes up to the ceiling before she continued walking.  She had the strangest feeling she could do better than the woman, if she were in the same position . . .

Stop it! some part of her brain screamed at her.  She’s winning when you do that!

“Winning what?” Pentandra asked herself out loud.

“What?” asked Arborn, dully.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Pentandra said, sagely.  Then she tripped over the ankle of a young man who was cuddled up with another young man, and found herself sprawled between them.

“Quick!” she yelped.  “Get me up!”

“Are you hurt?” Arborn asked, alarmed.

“I will be if they wake up!  Do you see the size on that one?” she asked, pointing incredulously.  “I thought it was part of his costume, at first!  I’m no expert – well, actually, I am – but that young fellow has some talent!”

“We . . . we need to . . . get out of here,” Arborn decided, as he looked from the lust-stricken face of his wife to the overly blessed young man.  “Quickly,” he agreed.  He stooped down and picked up Pentandra in his oak-like arms and carried her away as if she were a toy.

“You’re . . . so . . . strong!” she said, admiringly, as she gazed at his bicep in a daze.

“Pentandra,” he gasped, and not from the burden of carrying her.  They had arrived at the main hall . . . and discovered where all the servants had disappeared to.

A writhing layer of bodies littered the floor from one end of the hall to the other.  Clothes, pillows, tapestries and linens had been strewn everywhere, and the naked limbs of dozens of people were arrayed upon them as they sought the pleasures of the bed in a mass.

“Huh,” Pentandra said with a single guffaw.  “Now this is a party!” she said, shaking her head in awe.  “If I knew that the Alshari celebrated Spring like this—”

“Where can we go?  A temple of Trygg?” Arborn asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.  It occurred to her that for a straight-shooting Kasari boy, the raw display of carnal lust on a wholesale level would be more than overwhelming.  Even after their lusty experiences of the last few days.

“Silly boy,” Pentandra sighed exhaustively, wrapping her arm around his big neck.  “Trygg can’t help with this.  She’s a mother goddess.  This was caused by a sex goddess.  But don’t worry,” she added, drunkenly.  “In my expert opinion, a goodly portion of those ladies out there have a chance of being in that condition, come the morn.  Except for that one,” she said, pointing out a stringy-haired skinny girl who was making the most astonishing face.  “You can’t get pregnant that way,” she assured, as the girl looked up blankly at her.  “Trust me!”

“Then . . . where?” the big, half-naked ranger asked, confused, as if the world were ending and he was seeking refuge.  “Where can we be . . . safe from this . . . from this?” he asked, desperately, gesturing to the orgy underway.

“I don’t know if we can, Husband,” she said apologetically, biting her lip.  How could you escape your own libido?  Especially when he was so damned cute when he looked helpless, like a little boy who just needed a little attention . . .

“Pentandra!  Stop it!” he reproved.  “Think!” he demanded.  “Where can we go -- what can we do -- to be protected from this?”

Pentandra really did try to stop her libido from ruling her mind, for a moment, and tried to focus on something – anything – to force that.  Unfortunately, her eye landed on a particularly intriguing quartet attempting a particularly difficult position.  She felt her concentration slip away, to be replaced by envy.

“Why under heaven would you want to miss a party like this?” she asked, suddenly of the opinion that an orgy was just what Pentandra needed, despite the painful protests her busy loins were already making.

“Because . . . because this is . . . wrong,” Arborn said, shaking his head.  “This is dangerous.  A distraction.  There could be . . . enemies . . . goblins . . . dragons . . .” he said, trailing off as a woman of around thirty years sauntered by, her plump buttocks beckoning everyone in range for their attention.

“Not to mention unintended pregnancy, infidelity, and acute embarrassment,” Pentandra said, struggling to maintain a coherent thought that didn’t involve satisfying her urges.  “No, you’re right, Husband, there is something amiss . . . something . . . magnificently . . . amiss . . .” she railed off, as two young men followed the older woman into the erotic fray.

“Damn it, Wife!” Arborn growled, dropping her to her feet and catching her shoulders.  He forced her to look him in the eyes.  “We have a crisis, here!  A magical crisis!  And you’re the bloody Court Wizard!” he snarled.

Arborn never swore.  Not unless he was under duress.  That, alone, sobered Pentandra up a bit.

“I am,” she nodded.  “I really am.  I’m the bloody Court Wizard!” she declared, resolutely, staring into the mass of rutting humanity in the great hall.  She stood, cleared her throat and addressed them in a voice just under a shout.

“I am Pentandra of Fairoaks!  I am the bloody Court Wizard!  I am a powerful mage, and we are all under a spell!  And you people should be paying more attention to me!” she wailed to them, her arms outspread and her lip pouting.  “Why aren’t you paying all of your attention to me?” she lamented, when she wasn’t mobbed by adoring admirers.

“Damn it, Pentandra!” Arborn yelled angrily, grabbing her so firmly by the shoulders that her toes lifted off the ground.  His fiery eyes bored into hers, and she could see something akin to panic within.

“Ishi’s tits, you’ve got muscles!” she said, reverently, her eyes wide.

With a wordless groan, Arborn grabbed a nearby stool with his toe and pulled it to him.  In seconds he was sitting down, and Pentandra felt herself being pulled over his knee.  It took just an instant for her to realize what was happening, and then disbelief, shock, and surprise overtook her capacity to protest.  She felt her skirt get thrown to the side, and for just a moment the cool air of the hall surrounded her.

Then Arborn’s mighty palm cut the coolness with a blinding hot sheet of fire across her buttocks.  She was surprised and startled by the slap, so embarrassed and mortified at being treated like a child or a wayward wife, she made no sound . . . until the second blow landed.  The squeak she emitted then turned into a squeal as he paddled her bare arse relentlessly in front of a hall full of people.

The pain and the sound cut through her foggy mind, but after a dozen applications of his calloused, tanned hand on her smooth skin even the pain receded as a new kind of pleasure began to overtake her.  There was no shelter from his relentless aggression, no place she could find a serenity that didn’t involve her loins.

Unless . . . there was a chance, one chance, one place she could think of where, perhaps, the insidious effects of this spell were possibly less effective.  Through the pain and the heat and the shock, she could nearly grasp the idea.  But then the heat from her bottom merged with that in her loins, and the thought receded.  She was nearing the point of senselessness.

Arborn halted just in time.

Or, perhaps, not quite soon enough.  In moments he pulled her into his lap and crushed her against his chest, his lips desperately seeking hers.  She felt her body being pushed around masterfully until she was bent over the stool.

“W-wait!” she managed to gasp out as her husband shrugged out of his jerkin.  He stopped, his shirt half-off.

“What?” he asked, his eyes dazed.  Such beautiful eyes.  So dark and mysterious, under such a proud brow.  She could get lost in those eyes, she knew, lost for the rest of her life . . . come what may.  In a palace or in a hut, she would follow those eyes wherever they led, she knew in her heart of hearts.

Those eyes . . . she was helpless against their seductive power.  They were mysterious curtains that concealed the most complex of souls, the perfect veil to the sophisticated combination of barbarian warrior and enlightened philosopher.  She could spend the rest of her life finding a way into the limitless expanse beyond those beautiful eyes and count herself a fortunate woman.

Even now, as his unshaven face was contorted with animalistic desire, his eyes bespoke a universe of fascination that drew her to him with the power of magic.  Whatever idea she’d had while he was spanking her was gone.

“Don’t tear my shift, if you can help it,” she said, huskily.  “It’s from Cormeer!”  Then she turned back, put her head down, and surrendered herself to the raging storm of desire around her.

The next thing she remembered was half-carrying Arborn, while he half-carried her, through the deserted gates of the palace.  He had lost his shirt, but retained his leather breeches and boots.  She had lost all of her clothing, including her Cormeeran shift, and wore only the amulet that contained her witchstone around her neck . . . but had had the foresight to blindly borrow something from the growing pile of clothes around the edge of the Great Hall before she went outside.

It proved to be a nun’s habit, which drove Pentandra into an uncontrollable gale of laughter.  Even stoic Arborn had to grin as she shrugged on the oversized, shapeless gown.

“If you find me attractive in this,” she said, tugging a stray lock of hair out of her face, “then I foresee a long and lustful union ahead of us.”

“Good news, then,” he snorted, and led her through the front gates.

“You’re joking, right?” she demanded, as she gestured at the sack-like garment.  “You’d do me in this?”

“If you don’t keep walking, you’re going to find out,” he gasped, shaking his head.  His hair danced delightfully around his tanned brow.  “I never thought a human being could endure so much . . . desire!”

“We’re not naturally built to,” Pentandra agreed, clinging desperately to her academic background to fight the tide of her own desires.  “Sexuality is supposed to be an occasional thing, not a constant!  Not that I don’t enjoy a good-”

“And you say Ishi herself is the origin of this?” he asked, struggling to focus as he passed a middle-aged matron taking on all comers at a pie stall a block from the palace.  He tried to avert his eyes, in vain.  Pentandra closed hers and pushed his back until they were past the spectacle.

“Damn, right, the misbehaving bitch!” she snarled, trying to stare at the flags on the street.  “This is her idea of some sacred joke, or divine retribution, or some twisted scheme she alone is aware of!”

“And she’s this . . . Lady Pleasure?” he asked, the words sounding comically foreign from his mouth.  She tried to stifle a giggle.

“You are adorable!” she cooed.  “Yes, she’s that whoremonger, Baroness Amandice!  The one from the masque, who organized the festival.  We’ve . . . had words.”

“Where . . . where does she live?” Arborn asked, as an utterly naked lad strutted by, justifiably proud of what Trygg had blessed him with on his birth.

“The House of Flowers, on the Street of Perfume,” she supplied, automatically.  Good brain, she praised.  Eyes front!

“Let’s stop and get a horse,” he decided, as if struggling through a haze, and headed for the stables.  Pentandra watched him intently as he walked away from her.  She really liked his leather riding trousers, she decided.  And his muscular back.  And—

“Let’s walk,” Arborn said, suddenly, after peering inside the dark stable for a moment.

“What?” Pentandra demanded.  “It’s two miles, at least!  Why?”

“Let’s walk,” he repeated, more firmly.  Then softened.  “You really . . . really don’t want to get a horse right now,” he said, with the intensity of prophecy.  “Trust me.”

“Why not?” she asked, confused.

“They’re . . . occupied,” he said, his face blushing hotly under his stubble.

“They’re . . . what?” she asked.  It took her a few moments to understand what he was trying, in his bashful Kasari way, to tell her.  When she did realize what he was implying, her eyes went from shock to intrigue to horror to fascination.  “Oh, Ishi’s rotten twat, you must let me see!” she said, eagerly.  “In the interests of science!”

“We’re walking,” Arborn insisted, grabbing her arm firmly and directing her away from the obscene stable.

“Were they standing on stools, or . . .?”

“Pentandra!” Arborn said, sternly.  “This is not the time!”

“Professional interest!” she protested.

“Not the time,” he repeated, dragging her away.

They made poor time moving through the city’s cobbled streets, partially because Pentandra had neglected to grab a pair of shoes and partially because most of the town seemed infected with the powerful spell.  Along the way they saw all manner of acts of love and pleasure being performed openly, without regard to modesty, some of which had devolved into the most extreme pursuits.

At one point they stopped to assist a poor woman who had somehow had a glass bottle lodged in a place it was not designed to go.  The desperation in the woman’s eyes was enough to allow Pentandra to concentrate just enough to magically melt a hole in the bottom of the bottle, releasing the accumulated vacuum that held it in place.  The woman gratefully thanked her afterwards, and promised to be more careful in the future.

“I . . . never thought I would witness . . . that,” Arborn confessed, as they continued toward the Street of Perfume.

“Under the circumstances, I’m surprised we’re not seeing more of that sort of thing,” Pentandra said, as they avoided a small orgy in progress in the doorway of a chandler’s shop.  “When sexual desperation hits, fueled by the force of divine magic, I’m actually surprised that the Voroni are being this restrained.  Of course, he looks fairly restrained,” she added, as they passed a young man who had been tied to a post, naked, save for the bull’s mask he wore.  Two girls and an older man were doing wicked things to his exposed parts, but the young man, for his part, seemed entirely at peace with his predicament.

They found themselves on the proper street by mid-morning, stopping only once to rest Pentandra’s sore feet.  The dreamy quality of the spell still enveloped them, and was even stronger the closer they came to the House of Flowers, but through Arborn’s strength of will and Pentandra’s understanding of the situation they were able to maintain their focus . . . mostly.

At one point Pentandra had to grab his thick arm and drag him away from a stall where two girls in their teens were attempting to persuade handsome passers-by to join them.  She could see the allure – both girls were very pretty, though not as well-groomed as the Flower Maidens.  The fact that both nubile young women were completely naked and making what sounded like completely reasonable suggestions was so enticing that it challenged even the ranger captain’s iron willpower.

The Street of Perfume was a riotous orgy, the erotic epicenter of the ongoing spell.  Pentandra could feel it, even without Everkeen in hand.  Men and women ran naked or half-dressed through the street in pursuit of their passions, and once they found a willing participant they indulged in their whimsies on the spot.  The closer they came to the House of Flowers, the thicker and more extreme the activity became.

“This is the place,” Pentandra said, unnecessarily, as they approached the brightly-colored hall.  The yard was littered with discarded flowers and cast-off clothes, as well as the passed-out human remnants of the previous few days’ activities.  They moved carefully around the clusters of lovers still actively engaged, more in fear of being enchanted to join them than for fear of disturbing them, and made their way inside.

There were no guards, and Pentandra did not expect to see any servants, but the young woman with the unfortunate features she remembered accompanying Baroness Amandine at court was there - Elspeth, she recalled -  and was surprisingly unaffected by the spell.

“It’s the Court Wizard!” she announced, lazily, as she recognized them both.  “And this is the Master of Wood.  And oh, what a master of that wood he is, I’m guessing.  Come to pay a call on our lady, I expect?” she added, knowingly.

“Is she at home?” Pentandra inquired politely, as if she was making a simple social call on a goddess in disguise and not completely naked under a stolen nun’s habit while standing in a busy whorehouse.

“She is,” the girl conceded.  “She’s been expecting you.  Two days ago.”

“We were . . . distracted,” Pentandra said, lightly.  The girl looked from her to Arborn’s shirtless chest.

“I bet you were!” she giggled.  “He’s dreamy!” she said with a critical eye, her eyes gleaming unnervingly.  “Goddess!  Did he come to you like this or did you have him carved out of redwood?” she asked with undisguised envy.  Arborn shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“Is the Baroness around?” Pentandra repeated, impatiently.  She did not like the way the girl was staring at her husband.

“In her chambers, second floor,” the girl said, still staring unwaveringly at Arborn.  He started to shift even more uncomfortably at the attention.  It didn’t take much encouragement to pull him away from the girl’s frank inspection of his physique.  Pentandra, for her part, had to restrain the urge to slap her freckled face for her temerity.

Arborn was hers, damn it!

The journey up the stairs was eventful, as there was a steady stream of traffic going up to the rooms, and plenty of couples who were either waiting impatiently for their turn or who had decided against waiting and were acting their passions out on the stairs.  They were all but oblivious to a nun and a half-naked Kasari.  Indeed, she could tell that she was not the only “nun” in the brothel.  Pentandra followed the clerk’s directions until she found the right chamber.

Lady Pleasure was, in fact, taking luncheon on the balcony overlooking the garden, but she was not alone.  On the floor in front of her chair was a woman being robustly serviced by a pasty, potbellied middle-aged burgher . . . or at least that’s what he looked like to Pentandra.

“Ah, Pentandra, so lovely to see you,” Lady Pleasure called to her from across the backs of the copulating couple.  “And this must be your famous husband . . .”

“Stop,” Pentandra commanded, simply.

“He’s so much more . . . more, than I’d heard,” the disguised goddess said, admiringly.  She looked at Arborn as if he were on special in a market stall and sipped her wine.  “Yes, I can see why you’re enchanted by him.  He is a beautiful, beautiful man, inside and out.  I really did you a boon by arranging your pairing.  Though I quite wonder if you are worthy of him—?”

“Ishi, stop!” Pentandra repeated, a little more emphatically.

Instead the goddess rose and approached Arborn with obvious interest, ignoring the lovers in front of her as if they were a couple of dogs.  “His strength is obvious, of course, as is his beautiful face . . . but who would suspect it hides such an intellect?  Or that his strong breast hides a heart with such compassion?  Truly, my dear, you do not deserve a specimen as fine as this!”

“Ishi, damn it, STOP IT!” Pentandra nearly screamed.  That got the goddess’ attention.

“Stop what, my dear?” she asked, amused at the outburst.

“The spell that’s turning the entire town into a giant brothel!” she snarled.  “This is no party; this is a plague!”

“It’s more than even that,” Ishi countered, calmly.  “Nor is it any idle whim. “

“So this is your doing?”

“Of course!” she asked, laughing derisively.  “Who else could do this?  In truth the roots of this undertaking were planted at Yule,” she confessed, slyly.  “My Maidens’ first outing in my service.  We prepared for a week for that, and made some mis-steps.  But that’s when the initial spell was cast.  Everyone who took my blessing with the sprig of mistletoe and spruce was affected,” she said, supremely pleased with herself.  “It was the promise of a bountiful and fruitful year, and this is where that promise is kept!”

Part of Pentandra had to admit the elegance of that kind of spell.  Few human magi had the sophistication or the foresight to use magic that way, but Ishi had both the patience of a goddess and the divine capacity to produce it.

Bitch.

“You . . . purposefully turned Vorone into one big orgy?” Arborn asked, skeptically.

“Well of course!” Ishi said, rolling her eyes.  “Spreading happy and indulging desire are what I do!  Don’t worry, virgins were not affected, nor were those of . . . deviant nature.  Mostly,” she smirked.  “Some of the strangest ones are my biggest devotees.  Not something I can help, poor dears.  But for the rest of you, you’re getting a good hearty dose of pure divinely-inspired pleasure.”

“But why?” Arborn asked, as if the goddess’ blessing was a punishment.

“Part whim, part whimsy, and part fulfillment on my promise to the Spellmonger to help,” Ishi answered, returning to her chair.  “I didn’t expect the effect to last this long, but then planning isn’t my strong suit,” she dismissed.

“And how is this helping?” demanded Pentandra, staring at the woman on the floor in front of her, who seemed about to climax.  “Apart from pushing up the birth rate?”

“Isn’t that enough?  Well, if you need further justification, you may consider this little blessing a protective spell.”

“Protective of what?  Indulgence?” Pentandra snorted.  “Good taste?”

“No, my sweet,” the goddess said, patronizingly.  “This effect is a manifestation of the pure procreative, reproductive Life Force, through my auspices.  Every act of pleasure happening now acts like a pebble in the pond of Vorone, adding to the erotic turbulence of the Life Force.  That has mystical consequences, besides being one hell of a party.  One of which,” she reasoned, “is making the environment suddenly terribly inhospitable to those who find the overwhelming presence of the Life Force a challenge.”  She said it expectantly, as if she wanted the mage to figure something out.

That got Pentandra’s attention, quickly.  “What kind of challenge?” she asked, her foggy mind racing.

When dealing with different aspects of magic, the idea of the Life Force was a common element in certain studies, Pentandra knew.  It was generated with the reproductive energies of a species – love and birth, mostly, but also mundanities such as eating and drinking.  Nor was it mere theory, there were practical applications for the intelligent mage.

The Life Force had been instrumental in transmuting Minalan’s run-down castle and the mountains surrounding it into snowstone, for instance, though Pentandra strong suspected divine agency to be involved, considering Minalan’s devotion to the fire goddess Briga – who also happened to be a goddess of childbirth.  And the Life Force was what had sustained the spells to keep the portal open, when she and Minalan had to reprise their lusty love affair for four hours to allow the people to escape.  Though it was maddeningly difficult to control or direct – hence the devotion to its study by sex magi, such as herself – it was a profoundly powerful force.

So was its opposite, the Death Force.  As the Life Force was the basic procreative energy, the Death Force was a manifestation of active entropy, decomposition, decay, and death.

But that did not mean it was impotent.  Quite the contrary.  For those magi bold enough to practice sacrifice, harnessing the death energy of those expiring in pain or suffering could produce a bounty of usable power.  That was one of the motivations for the gurvani to take so many human slaves.  After using them up in the fields and mines, the survivors were tortured to death to sustain the great Umbra within which Sheruel was nearly omnipotent.

But among other uses, the Death Force was often utilized for powering dead bodies into animation as a tool or weapon.  While not a common or preferred tactic, simple necromancy was something even an intermediate mage could manage, if they knew what they were doing.  Of course, an over-abundance of Life Force would cloud a necromantic spell as a simple result of diluted polarity.

As Pentandra doubted Ishi was warning her of a sudden interest in human sacrifice among the Voroni, fear of that was the next best explanation.  She found herself answering her own question before the goddess could.

“Undead,” she said, simply.

Ishi nodded.  “Undead.  Well done, Pentandra!  But not simple animated corpses, no more intelligent than a cockroach.  No, the force that is stalking Vorone is far darker and more dangerous than that.  It came here on Briga’s Day, under cover of the riot in the Temple ward, when the town watch and everyone else was distracted.

“It’s human in form, to blend in better with the townsfolk, but inside it is anything but human.  It uses magic, the darkest sort of necromancy, for its survival and its utility.  It is a powerful undead, the most powerful I’ve ever seen,” she confessed.  “The kind that gets raised from centuries in the past and desires to dominate the future,” the goddess supplied, playfully.  “The kind that sees all life as either an enemy or an opportunity for a snack.  Or both.”

“Enough riddles!” Arborn demanded, irritated.  “Where is this danger?”  His nostrils were flaring.  Pentandra loved it when he did that.

But this was not the time for a vainglorious charge into certain doom – this was a time for careful deliberation, no matter how difficult that was.

“It’s a powerful undead.  Like the one you met on the road, Husband,” she explained, making Ishi wince at the title.  “Everkeen may even have sensed it, but I was too distracted by the festival to take note,” she said, guiltily.

“Well, that was the intent,” Ishi said, snidely.  “But I was keeping watch while you two were working out your marital difficulties,” she said, making a sour face.  “Had I not been, this vile creature would be slaughtering its way across town even now in search of its prey.  Or it might just be here to level the place, I don’t really know.  It apparently has confederates, too, to aid it.  I’m assuming they have been . . . slowed by the blessing,” she added, smugly, “but then I know not their true purpose nor their power.”

“Gurvani?” asked Arborn, suspiciously.

“Goblins wouldn’t be kept away by this – if anything, they’d be just as affected as humans,” Pentandra supplied, the thought of a band of randy goblins running through Vorone making her shudder involuntarily.  “But she’s right.  I hate to admit it, but if you want to keep undead at bay, projecting this much Life Force in the area would probably make it feel like a thunderstorm of hellfire to them,” she guessed.

“You mean all of this . . . naughtiness will keep it at bay?” her husband asked, skeptically.

“It will keep it from moving with alacrity, at least,” Ishi ventured.  “Do not underestimate that.  It is a small advantage, but you will need every one if you intend to prevail against it, Mortal.”

“It would be like walking through hot coals, I’m guessing,” Pentandra said, looking to the beautiful goddess with concern for validation.

“Worse,” Ishi conceded.  “The spell – blessing – that I have manifested burns at the very nature of the undead.  And yes, you have guessed correctly.  Three days ago, on the eve of the festival, one of those abominations woke from its torpor, where it has waited and watched since Midwinter, and became active.  It is not merely a warrior of darkness, it is a hunter.  It has been seeking something, someone . . . and if I had not done what I did, then it would have revealed itself and devastated everything in its path to get to it.”

“So why did it not flee?” Pentandra asked, confused.

“It tried,” the goddess said.  “But it was overwhelmed and was forced to take refuge.”

“Where?” Arborn demanded, drawing his blade resolutely.

“Arborn,” Pentandra protested, “last time you faced one, it took you and all of your men to kill it!”

“I will not allow one of those things loose on the city when none can defend themselves!” he declared, sternly.

“It’s not,” Ishi said, rolling her eyes.  “As I said, it’s trapped.  It has taken refuge in one of the few places unaffected by my work.  Do please tell me you can figure that out, Daughter . . .”

The hazy, half-remembered idea Pentandra had thought of back at the palace – before Arborn had so manfully distracted her – returned to her, suddenly.

“The crypts!  The crypts behind the temples in the Temple Ward!  Arborn, if you want to avoid Life magic, then someplace like a slaughterhouse, dungeon, or a gallows . . . or a crypt will work!  All of that grief, despair and melancholy?  That’s like honey for Death Force energy.  If I was an irritated undead, then a crypt would be the best refuge from this storm of desire!”

“You will find the foe you seek in the Temple ward,” Ishi nodded, pleased.  “Currently, it is resting and restoring itself, working through confederates and agents.  Soon enough my power will wane and the blessing will fade . . . and then it will be strong enough to rise against us all.

“Should it decide to attack the town then, there will be little you can do.”  She looked out of the window.  “It is unfortunate you finally made it here at dusk.  These things are much stronger by night than under the sun.”

“We were a little preoccupied,” Pentandra said, darkly.

“Really, Daughter, I expected more discipline from you, of all people!” the goddess chided.  “One little whiff of Life Force and you’re on your back with your skirts up and a goofy grin on your face?” she asked, with mock sadness.

“You know, I AM a married woman!” Pentandra shot back, angrily.  “And newlywed, at that!  Did you think that would give me some special resistance to your godsdamned blessing?  Have we not met before?” she asked her goddess, accusingly.

Ishi made a dismissive face.  “Still, I honestly expected you days ago.  Now it may be too late.  Whatever they are planning, whatever mischief they are about, will commence as soon as they can safely come out of their refuge.  Hurry, if you value your town and your duchy,” the goddess said, waving them away.  “Let me know how it turns out.”

“Aren’t you going to help?” demanded Arborn.

“I am the goddess of love and beauty, not battle,” she scolded him.  “I am maintaining the protection spell keeping the thing from wandering through the Market ward, devouring babies and nuns and puppies in its quest.  I’ve done my part, and will do no more unless I have no choice.  It is up to you mortals to combat this danger.”

“And if we turn to the gods for help, as is our want?” Pentandra asked, patiently.

“Then it had better be a damned lovely temple the Spellmonger builds for me,” vowed the goddess.  “Now shoo!  I have enough here to keep me amused for the moment while you are seeking our uninvited guest,” she said, gesturing to the grunting, panting couple before her, as the man finally managed a climax.

“Is he done?” came the woman’s whining voice, muffled by the skirts over her head.  “Is he done?  Is there another?” she asked, pleadingly, as her exhausted lover got shakily to his feet.

“There will be plenty more, my sweet Countess,” Ishi promised the lust-crazed woman.

With a start Pentandra realized she was the new Castali “ambassador”, Countess Shirlin, who had expressed such strong disapproval at Duke Anguin and his riotous court.  Apparently Lady Pleasure was not fond of criticism.

“Believe me, every carnal excess and erotic extreme will be within your experience before you are sated, Excellency,” she soothed, looking down contemptuously at Countess Shirlin, whose ruddy face bore an expression mixed of fear and desire under a sheen of sticky residue.  “Why, I have just begun testing your limits!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Crypt of Murvos

As they ran back through the streets, dusk approaching and rain clouds on the western horizon cloaking the narrow alleys in premature shadow, the exertions of the last few days began to take their toll on Pentandra.  Merely the effort to keep Ishi’s spell at bay took effort, and her body was physically exhausted after everything it had been through.  Despite the urgency of the moment, she imposed on Arborn to stop at a deserted stall and prepare herself as she could.

Though no warmage, she had been in their acquaintance long enough to pick up a few of their basic spells, including the restorative charms they used to endure hardship in the field.  Though it promised an exacting penalty later, she needed to be at her best for the challenge ahead.  Everkeen was on the other side of the town, in her chamber in the palace.  She could not summon a baculus she had not put back into its interdimensional pocket, so she would have to proceed without it.

But she still had her amulet, in which her over-powered witchstone pulsed.  That was no small thing.

“Shouldn’t we summon the Spellmonger?” Arborn asked, uncertainly, as she began hanging what defensive spells she could around them both.  She looked up sharply at him.

“It would take too much time to explain what was happening.  And there’s a strong possibility he might be . . . compromised at the moment.”  While those were logical, rational reasons, she also knew that wasn’t why she suddenly felt hurt by the question.  Arborn compounded his folly by pursuing the matter.

“If this undead is as powerful as the last one, we’re going to want some assistance,” he said.  “It seems foolish to eschew the help—”

“Damn it, Arborn!” she swore, angrily.  “I am the help!  Why do you think he sent me here?”

“But he’s the Spellmonger—”

“And I am bloody Court Wizard of Alshar!” she said, after a moment of thoughtful pause during which she had to remind herself that she was married to Arborn, and demonstrating her raw feelings on the matter was imprudent.  But this matter needed to be settled.  “Not Minalan.  I can’t go running to him every time there’s a threat to the town.”

“But he’s the one who sent you—”

“We are both partners in a greater endeavor,” she explained, sharply.  “You all think he’s some gods-sent mastermind who can accomplish anything.  I’m not arguing that he’s bright, witty, and creative, not to mention technically competent, but apart from that he’s really just an above-average mage with a lot of field experience, a lot of toys, and a lot of friends . . . of which I am one of his oldest.

“But that also means I know him better than any of you do.  He trusts me to handle this,” she said, not entirely convinced of that herself, but trying to sound assured.  “It would be nice if you did, as well.  Husband.”

Despite her attempt to be gentle, the rebuke had a noticeable effect on her husband as he realized what his request meant to her.  He straightened his shoulders and stood a little taller, looking into her eye with an expression of contrition and respect.

“You are correct, my wife.  My apologies. Sgowt yn fyddlon,” he declared.

He was trying, she knew.  That meant much to her.  Pentandra sighed.  “Look, I’m not stupid.  If we get into trouble, I’ll call for help, mind-to-mind.  Minalan can come directly to us, like he did at the masque, through the Alkan ways.  But let’s not disturb him until necessary.  What about your men?”

Arborn looked startled, as if he’d forgotten the cadre of Kasari he’d brought to Vorone.  “They could be anywhere,” he admitted.  “They are men, just like any others, and were likely affected by Ishi’s spell.  But . . .”  He closed his eyes and whistled loudly, like some northern bird she was sure he could recite the name and pedigree of.  “If they heard that, they will answer,” he offered.

“Well, bide for a moment, and keep the lechers off of me while I do some work,” she asked.  “I need to hang some more spells.  A lady likes to be properly dressed for an important visitor like this.”

Arborn nodded, and paced around her like a wolf protecting a cub, sword in hand, while she worked.  The basic protections were easy, a matter of routine.  The more advanced spells took more work and concentration, but fueled by Ishi’s blessing (or perhaps mere desperation) she worked quickly and as efficiently as her mind would allow.

Finally, she lowered her arms, opened her eyes, and sighed.

“Done,” she stated, simply.

“That was it?” Arborn asked, stopping in his tracks.  “Nothing happened.”

“Plenty happened, if you were watching with magesight,” she chuckled.  “What did you expect?  Sparks to fly out of my honeypot?” Most magic was invisible to the untrained eye, especially the more useful sorts.  It always amused her when laymen expected more visible results from her magic.

“After the last few days, it wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, after a moment.  “The crypt is that way,” he said, pointing with his borrowed infantry sword.  “If we hurry, we can make it before it is completely dark.”

As they approached the deserted street on which the great stone crypts lay, a mist began to creep in from the riverfront, rising to their knees as they walked.  There were few homes in this spooky part of town, as there were less somber wards with less expensive rents.

What few lights they saw in windows demonstrated that Ishi’s spell was strongly diminished here, as she said it would be.  There was little sign of wild rutting in the somber neighborhood, but then there were few mourners who were so devoted to their dead that they would miss a civic festival to grieve them. Pentandra found it easier to concentrate without the overwhelming buzz of her own libido in the background.

As they came to the looming mass of the Crypt of Murvos, the dark structure’s great pointed arches towering three stories overhead, behind its own wall, it seemed to suck the life out of the air, itself.  There was little trace of Ishi’s spell left to be felt in this quarter.  If their foe truly was bothered by the energies created by procreative acts, Pentandra reasoned, this was a natural refuge from them.  Only someone obsessed by death would find the giant mausoleum even remotely conducive to romance.

Pentandra had never been to the building itself in her time in Vorone, though one could see its somber spires from nearly everywhere in town.  It was made from dark gray stone cut from some nearby quarry, a grand old ecclesiastic design that echoed the great temples of Falas, Rouen, and Enultramar in the south.  For generations the families of the nobility and even dukes and duchesses had been interred here, either permanently or temporarily before their bodies were transported back to the winter capital or their home estates for final burial.

The design was strong with the iconography of Orvatas, of course, complete with thunderbolts, clouds, suns, stars, and other celestial phenomenon favored by worshippers of the Narasi sky god.

But there were also significant elements of his brother, Murvos, Keeper of the Dead, and his six silent daughters.  Skulls, bones, and the symbolism of death were built into the supporting columns and frescos.

There were few actual temples of Murvos, as few wanted to devote themselves to the god of the dead, but his grand crypts were in every major city.  The shrines of his daughter, Brona, the Lady of Sorrows, were traditionally charged with preparation of the dead in most urban centers; Brona was the mythological guide of the recently-deceased to the afterlife, and she was frequently celebrated in song as a sympathetic figure.  But even the shrines of the compassionate psychopomp were scarce in rustic regions.  To her knowledge, this was the only temple to the god of death in the Wilderlands.

But she knew such places were also amply provided with the magical power of death, augmented by the lamentations and sorrows of the mourners who prayed here.  A great place for a holiday, if you were already dead.

“Not really my kind of temple,” she said, mildly, as she stared up at the hundreds of grinning skulls that stared back at her.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Arborn said, surprised.

“I once would have called myself a lay devotee of Ishi,” she decided, “but after recent events I might have to reconsider that.”

The Kasari tended to eschew temples, and used shrines sparingly, usually only in honor of a particularly beautiful natural formation.  They preferred a religion of animism to one of polytheism, hailing animals and the spirits of the wild as brothers.  A simple, wholesome naturalistic religion that she found utterly boring.

Pentandra caught sight of something up among the stone bones and whitewashed clouds.  A bird.  A black bird.

“Lucky!” she cried, recognizing the black raven despite herself.  “It has to be!”

‘Yes, I think it is,” Arborn said, peering up.  He was better at telling animals apart than she was.

“Which means that Alurra can see me, maybe!  Hey!  Alurra!” she yelled at the crow, until she got its attention.  “I need Everkeen!  Here!  Now!  Bring me my baculus!” she shouted at the bird.  It looked at her quizzically, took two hops, and then flew away.

“Do you think she heard?”

“If that was Lucky, and not some random crow, and if Alurra was riding behind his eyes . . . maybe,” she reasoned.  “It was worth looking foolish to make the attempt.”

“I’m certain you looked no different from any other young nun demanding a staff from a passing bird,” Arborn pointed out wryly as he whistled again, listened for a few moments, and then nodded.  “I’ve done what I can to summon help as well.  Shall we wait?”

‘Not with darkness so near,” she said, shaking her head.  “You heard Ishi.  It’s much stronger at night.  Let’s go.” She gave him a kiss for luck.  “We can do this,” she reminded him.

Arborn returned the kiss then opened the great doors of black oak and iron.  The darkness within was oppressive.  Pentandra tried to will away her anxiety and cast a magelight.  She almost regretted it.

As it flared brightly overhead, the magical glow cast disturbing shadows from the row upon row of sarcophagi and the array of macabre statuary upon them.  The fog had started to form in the damp recesses of the place, which did nothing for the charm.

“Gods, the Narasi are creepy about death!” she swore.  “What’s wrong with simple cremation?”  Her family shrine back in Remere was a simple, stately affair stuffed with urns stuffed with her ancestors.  It had flowers as the motif, in honor of the Imperial psychopomp, Perdua.  She’d even had her first kiss behind it.  Much more pleasant than this.

“They fear it,” Arborn supplied, his deep voice echoing among the crypts, as he surveyed the shadows.  “They put up these effigies and desperately hope to keep the inevitable darkness at bay.  The Narasi know how to fight, how to ride, how to plow and how to pray . . . but they don’t understand how to die.”

It was said without judgment, merely as an objective observation.  Pentandra thought it rang true, though.  Culturally speaking the Narasi were terrified about death in a way that was almost disturbing.

They started forward, their footsteps echoing through the catacombs, the magelight following obligingly overhead, casting a gleam off of the edge of Arborn’s blade.    He stood protectively in front of her.  That gave her the opportunity to cast a particular kind of thaumaturgic detection.

As she struggled to recall the particulars, she realized just how much using Everkeen had made things simpler . . . and how reliant she had grown on the enchanted rod.  The result came far slower than if she’d used the paraclete, too, she noted once she cast the spell.  But it came nonetheless, revealing a field of strong death-related energy nearby.

“Over there,” she whispered, lightly touching Arborn’s arm a few moments later.  “Down those stairs.  We’re close.”

“Beware of the voice,” her husband murmured back.  “It can ensnare you, if you let it.”

“So can my mother’s,” Pentandra replied.  “I’m resistant.”

He smiled grimly at the joke and started down the stairs.  The air was cool enough for her to feel under her borrowed clerical robe, and as damp as a dishrag on her skin.  They had to be close to the river, here.  Even with the magelight the passageway seemed oppressively dark as they descended.

“Noises ahead!” Arborn said in the quietest whisper Pentandra had ever heard.  The big ranger was as still as a stone, for a moment, as he surveyed the situation with his ears . . . and then moved forward, sword in hand, with the silent smoothness of some nocturnal predator.

Pentandra readied the few offensive spells she knew, nothing in the class of a real warmage but certainly enough to hurt, perhaps kill.

Undead, she knew academically, were powered by magic, using simple implanted enneagrams to control the motivation of formerly lifeless limbs.  In some cases, the recently-deceased’s own latent enneagram could even be used, if the necromancer was skilled enough, but the effort took immense power and control.  The result was usually short-lived, for a variety of technical reasons.

But there was a reason why such study had been prescribed as far back as the early Magocracy.  Bringing the dead back to life was just plain creepy.  And not terribly useful, usually.

Of course, she reasoned, the gurvani had managed to find a good use for brute-force necromancy.  Sheruel, the Dead God of the goblins was the result of their experimentation, an all-powerful disembodied goblin head.  That had been the one time she had faced undead before . . . and it hadn’t gone well.

She was better, now, smarter and far more powerful, but the earlier experience still filled her with sheer terror, and the possibility of doing it again was frightening.

But her husband had just plunged into the darkness without even a shirt, a crappy infantry sword in hand, to face the unknown foe.  Could she do any less?

“Sgowt yn dewr!” she whispered to herself to marshal her valor, and pressed on.

Almost immediately she heard the sounds of fighting in the darkness and summoned magesight.  The chamber they had entered was the size of a small cottage, with three or four passageways leading still deeper into the catacombs.  Grinning skulls and somber gods flanked each entrance in stone, supporting keystones depicting religious symbols for various divinities.  Under their sightless eyes her husband was fighting for his life.

The thing that Arborn struggled with was man-sized, but it moved with alacrity few men could muster.  Under the circumspection of magesight she was able to tell it was taller than the tall ranger, and broader in the shoulder . . . indeed, it appeared to tower over him to the point where it had to take care lest its bald head should collide with the vaulted ceiling. A dark robe covered it to the ankles and it bore a thick iron staff in its bony fingers.

But though it looked like a man, magesight revealed the unearthly nature of the creature.  It radiated no head, and it moved with a strange jerky motion for all of its speed.  Though it did not move naturally, it moved efficiently.  Arborn was throwing a strong flurry of slashing blows at the foe and it was blocking them each with casual dexterity, the steel of the ranger’s borrowed sword ringing off of the iron of his sorcerous staff.

Though her husband was fighting valiantly, it was instantly clear that he was overmatched.  Not only did the soulless creation have an advantage in height and with his longer arms, but his staff gave him reach and leverage, which he knew how to use to great effect.  Arborn was forced to back off his aggressive approach almost at once, and under the press of its attack he had to move quickly to the defensive.

Pentandra quickly came to his aid, first by illuminating the area with a bright light, and then by throwing her most vicious attack spell at the creature’s flank.

Neither had the anticipated effect.  Arborn blinked stupidly at the sudden light, stumbling and allowing his undead attacker to knock his blade out of the way.  The offensive spell Pentandra placed so much faith in had no visible effect on the cloaked figure who threatened Arborn.

But it did capture the fiend’s attention at a moment where pressing the attack might have meant her husband’s death.  It paused, and turned slightly toward her.  The eyes that peered out had a yellowish light in them, but it was not a human light, despite the pale human face it wore.

“Magic . . .” it breathed in Narasi.  “Human magic!”

“Best kind!” Pentandra said, throwing her next-best spell at him.  There were strong limits to what she could do without significant preparation, but the spell she cast should have had the dark creature writhing on the ground in pain.  There was no effect.

“Apparently not,” it chuckled in a voice like graveyard dust.  It blocked two successive blows from Arborn without effort.  Her husband backed off, looking over at her briefly before he returned to studying his foe for a weakness.

“I was wondering if I would have the opportunity to face a real human mage,” the horrific mockery of a man informed her.  He looked her up and down.  “I find myself unimpressed.”

“I just got out of bed!” she protested, snarling.  Damn it, did effort account for nothing in this universe?

“As did I,” it said with its evil chuckle.  “After a thousand years.”

At least it had a sense of humor, part of her mind pointed out.

“What are you?” Arborn barked, holding in a strong guard position.

“What am I?  How rude,” the beast said, lashing out suddenly at him with the back of his staff.  Arborn blocked it at the last moment.  “Is that how you humans introduce yourself?  Is there no decency in your society?  Who I am is what is important, not what I am, at the moment.”

“Then who are you?” Pentandra asked, producing flame from her left hand.  She doubted it would do much, on its own, but maybe if she set the damn robe on fire . . .

“I am Ocajon, the Herald of Korbal!” he said with a great deal of satisfaction, and with the expectation of recognition. Pentandra glanced quizzically at her husband, who shrugged.

“Your name means nothing to us,” Pentandra said, wondering if she could try a thaumaturgic disruption spell one-handed.

“That’s because the last time my eyes saw the stars this land was unblemished by your race.  I have been reclaimed and restored, after an age.” It surveyed her with a curiosity and interest that she associated with a cat’s interest in a mouse.

“So you are a friend of Korbal’s,” Pentandra suggested, surprised.  The thing apparently wanted to chat, after its thousand-year nap.  She decided to indulge it.  It was better than throwing useless spells and getting herself killed, she reasoned.  In the absence of a better plan, she kept him talking.  “He’s the one responsible for that rotting corpse you’re inside.  Usually when humani come back from the dead, they aren’t this eloquent.  It appears Korbal has improved the art.”

“That is the name you know him by,” conceded the wraith.  “Nor is this some primitive trick to reanimate a corpse.  We are the Nemovorti, those who have conquered death, itself.  Our master elected to restore me to this – temporary – form, to further his ends.  Already it falters under the power rushing through it, and will soon expire.  Yet I shall be restored into another form, one far more durable for the coming struggle.  I relish the opportunity to serve,” he added, as a point of pride.

“You said we, Ancient Ocajon . . . how many are you?” demanded Pentandra.  She might not be able to defeat the thing with magic, but if she could learn something it would be helpful.  If it didn’t kill them.

“And what are you chasing?” added Arborn, never dropping his guard with the short sword.

“Five of the most loyal, Korbal has restored, thus far . . . though only in poor humani vessels, such as this . . . hairy beast,” he said, distastefully, though there was not a hair left on the walking corpse.  “Supposedly a valiant warrior of yours and I suppose the form will do; as ungainly as it is, there is great strength in it.

“But scores more of us await the opportunity to be restored to our previous glory.  And then we shall descend upon you humani, and put you in your proper place.  Our age is finally at hand!” it said, menacingly, as it circled Arborn, striking and feinting as if in sport.

“You are one of the renegades Alka Alon the Wise of the Alkan Council spoke of,” Pentandra continued, doing her best to draw the beast out.  Her accusation irritated the enemy.

“Renegades?  Because we are loyal to our heritage?  Only because our society was ruined by timid fools like those on your council!  Once we were mighty, and the secrets of life and death were ours to command, before we found ourselves led by those fools.  We wish to restore to greatness what was once glorious in our kind,” it said in a low, compelling monotone.  “There is no shame in that.”

“Which presumably includes being the lackeys of the gurvani,” Arborn said, with purposeful derision, to divide the Nemovort’s attention. It worked.  The pale figure whirled on her husband, who blocked his sudden strike with his sword.

“We are no more lackeys than we are renegades,” the abomination said, haughtily.  “For a thousand years, we Nemovorti were locked in prison.  Now we are free.  In desperate times we turn to the best opportunities,” he continued, pausing the combat by taking a step back.  “Sheruel offers us the chance to return to life.  What we do with that chance is ours alone to determine.”

“Which is why you are so eager to run his errands in Vorone?” taunted Pentandra.       “Does he need his garments retrieved from the tailor?”

“Fools! This is the age of fools!” Ocajon declared, angrily.  Though the face was human, neither the voice nor the words were.  “Sheruel sees nothing here but grist for his mill of sacrifice and fodder for his slobbering troops.  One humani life at a time, he plans to take in his short-sightedness!  He ignores the folly of his enemies and their capacity to destroy themselves.  His vaunted generals think in terms of battles and invasions, not true victory!  His methods will take centuries to erase your kind from this world!”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Pentandra shot back.  She fed more power to the flame in her hand, though Ocajon did not appear concerned by it.   “His last few forays have been failures.”

“As we pointed out,” Ocajon said, enunciating every syllable.  “Humani are highly adaptable, and ingenious, in their way.  There are better ways.  The gurvani see every problem as a foe to be struck, not a problem to be solved.  If they would just be patient, use the great power they’ve contrive with some intelligence, then they may yet win this pathetic war of theirs.  We seek to show them the value of that plan while Sheruel’s cubs squabble amongst themselves.  When the moment is appropriate, even those animals will have a role in our restoration!”

“You are forgetting the human magi, who stand in your way,” Pentandra said, hoping she sounded more threatening than she felt.  Dear gods, why didn’t she send for Minalan earlier?

“Forgetting? They are intrinsic to our plans, Mage!  You are few, with little understanding of the great powers you control, and you are subject to the same frailties as the rest of your race,” Ocajon said, arrogantly.  “A . . . robust people,” he admitted, looking at his bony human hand, “but, ultimately, not as rugged or powerful as even the Alka Alon.”

“I thought you were Alkan?” Arborn asked, realizing Pentandra’s plan.  “Are you not a spellsinger of great power?”

“Do I look like some atavistic tree-dwelling poetry-reading savage?” demanded the creature, angrily.  “I am the master of my race, and not ashamed of it!  Once we had true power . . . now we hide in trees and pretend we are animals, ignoring our past greatness.  Bah!  Once this land is returned to its proper heritage then you shall see what glories we can truly produce and wonder why you ever tried to rival it!”

“That’s going to be difficult, if we’re extinct,” Pentandra said, hearing something on the stairs.

“Some believe your full extinction is short-sided, or even impossible,” dismissed Ocajon, whose undead ears apparently missed the noise.  “I, myself, see great potential in maintaining your race, in a servile position.  These bodies are strong, and reasonably intelligent, if short-lived.  They have their uses,” he said, grinning. “Your descendants will look up at our glories and despair of their low station . . . but take pride in the brilliance of their masters.”

“Interesting,” agreed Pentandra, trying to distract Ocajon.  She boldly walked fully into the chamber, pushing her protection spells to the limit.  “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here, in Vorone, lurking in a crypt and likely doing unmentionable things to the corpses.”  Yes, she was certain she heard something on the stairs . . . and felt something, too.

“Simple: I observe, and I seek, as befits the Herald of Korbal,” Ocajon reported.  “I am observing your wretched little civilization and finding its weaknesses.  And I am seeking the key to our greater dominion over it and that wretched little council!”

“The keeper of the arsenal,” Arborn supplied, realizing what he was talking about.   “Ameras of Amergin, daughter of the Aronin.  So you do not have her.”

“No.  Not yet.  But I seek one who can lead us to her, and perhaps much more.  A blind humani girl, ironically, who escaped our clutches in the north,” he admitted.

Pentandra’s heart sank.  He had to be talking about Alurra.

“What possible use does a blind human girl have?” Pentandra said, hoping she was convincing in her skepticism.

“She shall lead us to a . . . book, I believe they are called?  One of your barbaric tools for writing, I believe, from what this host has informed me.  A fascinating method for stupid fools to record their stupidity . . . but that is what Pakost the Seer informs my master we need, and this urchin is to lead us to it.  She is here, I have seen her.  So I will have this blind girl . . . as soon as this damnable spell fades!” he said, looking around the room angrily.

He was speaking of Ishi’s spell – which meant she really was helping, Pentandra realized.  Bitch.

But why did a pack of undead want Alurra?  How did they even know about her first mistress, the mysterious Antimei?  It did explain how Alurra made her way to Pentandra, finally: she needed protection against the Nemovorti.  But that also presupposed that she could actually protect Alurra, and at this point that was highly in doubt.  Arborn’s cheap city-issued infantry sword had been more effective than any of her spells.

But then she saw the two eyes staring intently at her from the darkness of the stairwell.  Canine eyes.  They inched forward, and Pentandra saw that it was a dog – one of Alurra’s strays, a medium-sized black street mutt with one ear perpetually folded back.

It had Everkeen in its mouth.

Good girl! Pentandra thought to herself, not knowing if she was referring to her apprentice or the hound.  She let the spell she was working on her right hand fall, and stretched it out.  On cue, the little mutt raced into the room and let Pentandra snatch the rod from its jaws.

“I wouldn’t plan on it, Ocajon,” Pentandra said, confidently, as Everkeen came awake in her hand.  She felt a surge of power as the paraclete tapped its own witchstone, recognized the danger at hand, and began spinning a web of protective spells without being commanded to.  “I am the Court Wizard of Alshar, and you are banished from this city!”

The sudden appearance of Everkeen in the fray took Ocajon by surprise, but not enough to keep him from blocking a sudden flurry of blows from Arborn.  When Everkeen slowed its protections and turned its attention to Pentandra’s desires, she silently commanded it to be ready to attack.  Pentandra might not have known many warmagic spells, but Minalan made certain that Everkeen held a goodly variety.

“What is this pretty toy?” he asked, in genuine wonder, as he regarded the rod.  “It is familiar . . . the rod of weirwood was crafted by Oruzar and given to a vassal, but . . . it has been transformed!  What is that within?” he demanded.  “I must know!”

“A paraclete more ancient than your race and mine combined,” Pentandra said, as the tip of her rod ignited with a pale blue glow.  She inwardly winced when she remembered just where that tip had been, earlier.  “Withdraw, Ocajon, or I will shred that body you wear like a rotten sack of grain!”

“Oh, this is exciting!” the fiend said, unexpectedly.  He gave her a smile that was as horrific as it was genuine.  “I was told you magi were crude and lacked imagination, but this . . .!” he said, gesturing toward her baculus.

“Unless you want it crammed up your undead arse, withdraw!” Pentandra said, menacingly, poking the air with the tip.  “I will not tell you a third time!”  Arborn moved to her side, still holding his blade protectively in guard.

“Nor will you need to,” Ocajon said, still fascinated.  “I have learned far more valuable intelligence on this expedition than merely where the blind girl is.  We had no idea that you magi were this magically advanced, yet.  This speaks of a deeper knowledge of magic than we knew you possessed!”

“We’re highly adaptable,” Pentandra reminded him.  “And ingenious.”

“So you are,” chuckled the beast.  “Here I thought I would merely be venting my rage on this miserable settlement before I returned to my master . . . not meet a foe worthy of my notice!  Bearing a weapon of such crude elegance!”

“I tire of our discussion, Ocajon!” Arborn said, darkly.  “Heed Pentandra’s warning!”

“You think that toy frightens me?” he asked, snidely.  “You are not the only one who may stall for time until allies arrive.”  At that a shadowy figure intruded from the passageway behind him, half of Ocajon’s size.  And where the Nemovorti was completely hairless, the newcomer was covered in shaggy black fur.  “Let me introduce Prikiven, agent of Sheruel the Dead God, assigned to Vorone.”

The goblin bowed as perfectly as any courtier . . . and indeed he was dressed as one.  A plum-colored doublet and hose in the southern style, complete with a well-made burgundy mantle.  From the neck down and wrists, up, he appeared to be a squat, short burgher of some means.”

“Delighted,” the gurvani said in perfect Narasi.  “I’ve seen both of you around court,” he added.

“Around court?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“A long story,” the gurvani said.  “But thank you for bringing masks back in fashion in court.  It has made moving about town much easier.  Now, I know not how you discovered our refuge, but we cannot permit you to expose it.  So you both must die.  Nothing personal,” the goblin added, congenially, drawing a slim but sturdy blade from behind his back.

The mutt immediately began growling and circling the goblin.  With a wave of his staff, Ocajon sent a magical wave of force that threw the dog against the stone wall with some force.  It gave a frightened squeal and was silent.

“Was that necessary?” demanded Prikiven, angrily.

“It was in the way,” the Nemovort said, unconcerned.  “Such sentimentality.  Is he secure?”

“I like dogs,” Prikiven said, defensively.  “And yes, his people just brought him in.  He is ready to depart.  I still don’t see the point,” he grumbled.

“Your folk continuously miss opportunity when it lands in front of you,” chided the undead.  “You see a condemned rat of an exterminated nest, a piece that has lost its usefulness that can be sacrificed without concern.  I see a potentially valuable weapon that can be used for useful leverage.”

“I defer to your superior wisdom,” the goblin said, sarcastically.  “But if your obsession with the blind girl is behind you, we may safely depart.”

“For the time,” conceded Ocajon.  “Let us dispose of these pests and return to our master.  We have much to report.”

“You may find that harder than you think,” Pentandra said, angrily.  She felt Arborn prepare for action, his muscles tensing almost imperceptibly.

“Not really,” Ocajon said, gesturing with his staff again.  Though Pentandra’s protections kept his spell from affecting her, Arborn was suddenly flung against the wall with as much force as the poor hound.  He slumped to the floor, unmoving.

Her danger forgotten, she ran to her husband’s crumpled form, Everkeen held in her left hand.  Arborn was still alive, she saw, but wounded and unconscious.

Raw rage flashed through her as she whirled to face the pair, her baculus in hand and spells flying.  But as the first volley of Everkeen’s wrath impacted on the Nemovort’s protections, the gurvani pulled something else out of his mantle – a rough metal sphere – and twisted it.

The magelight overhead failed, and Pentandra felt her protections go down.  In fact, all of her connections failed: she no longer felt the attachment to her witchstone.  Everkeen was suddenly a dead stick in her hand.

Or the warmagic spells that were sustaining her.  It was a thaumaturgical annulment.  Again.

She collapsed across Arborn’s body, barely conscious.

“Leave them,” Ocajon commanded, as Prikiven started toward them, his knife at the ready.  “They may yet prove useful.  Perhaps they will lure that sightless brat here.  If they aren’t dead of their injuries by morn, the rats will finish them off.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Ocajon the Nemovort

Pentandra did not know how long she lay there, atop of her unconscious husband in the damp darkness of the crypt, but when she finally regained some sense of awareness she knew, without evidence, that darkness had finally fallen over Vorone.  Her grasp on consciousness tenuous, the mage did what she could to evaluate her situation, but the haze of the aftereffects of the annulment spell were just too great.  Not only could she not restore herself magically, she could barely move her body.  The fatigue and exhaustion her spells had kept at bay were back with a vengeance, now.

And she heard the skittering of rats and perhaps worse in the darkened catacombs.  That did not bode well for an extended nap.

Yet as much as she knew she needed to do something about their situation, her mind was not inclined to cooperate.  Neither was her body.  For several long moments she could do nothing but cling to Arborn’s quietly rising and falling chest and weep in the darkness.

But then her innate stubbornness came into play.  It wasn’t the prospect of allowing a Nemovort loose on an unsuspecting Vorone or the idea that her new apprentice was in mortal peril that motivated her.  It was the potential for embarrassment at being found - dead – in a nun’s habit in a crypt.  While it would likely mortify her mother delightfully, Pentandra’s subconscious reasoned, she could not allow her professional reputation to suffer even in death.

She, Pentandra of . . . Vorone, Ducal Court Wizard, was not going to her own funeral defeated and nibbled to death by rats.  Her subconscious would not allow such an indignity.

There was precious little she could do about her situation, she knew.  Magic, as such, was out of the question.  Though Everkeen was a tantalizing few feet away from her hand it might as well have been back at the palace, for all the use she could employ it.  The annulment spell affected nearly all magic, she knew, even the powers of her paracletic baculus.

But that did suggest something else to her hazy mind: while an annulment affected nearly all magic, clearly it hadn’t affected the Nemovort’s function, else it would have collapsed like the corpse it was.  The goblin’s sphere seemed to affect standard Imperial vibratory power, but if it did not extend to Death Force, then it likely did not prohibit working with the Life Force, either.

That was a lot harder said than done, even her sleepy mind knew.  Life and Death magic were difficult powers to control under optimum conditions, and the nature of the energy belied easy mental domination.

But Pentandra realized she didn’t particularly need control.  She just needed to send a message for help.  And there was only one way she could think of doing it.

Climbing up her husband’s muscular body while he slept was far more difficult than Pentandra expected, partially because she faded out and became distracted every few moments.  But when her lips finally made the acquaintance of his face - unshaven in three days, now, and full of scraggly stubble -- for the first time since they’d met the Nemovort she began to feel hopeful.

“Oh, you’d better be paying attention,” she whispered in silent prayer.  It was about as coherent as her thoughts could get, in the darkness, but it was sufficient.

She leaned down and began kissing Arborn.  Kissing him passionately, if not neatly.

Her lips seemed unwilling to obey her commands, but they knew the road well enough by now.  Pentandra allowed her emotions to unfurl themselves in the darkness, and as she kissed her unconscious husband she poured every bit of devoted longing she’d accumulated while he’d been out on the road into the kiss.  She cupped the back of his shaggy head with one hand to steady it, and then Pentandra kissed him as thoroughly as she ever had on her wedding night.

During the entire episode, while her tongue was busy dancing against Arborn’s, her mind was calling: “Help us!”

She had no idea how long the process took.  Time was meaningless in the darkness, nor would her befuddled mind have appreciated it.  Once launched on their mission, however, her lips knew their business.

“You two should consider getting a room,” a female voice finally said in the darkness.  “This crypt is kinky, but you’ll catch your death screwing here all night.”

“Ishi!” Pentandra whispered, hoarsely, into the oppressive darkness.  “We failed!”

“Only in a matter of speaking,” the goddess said, standing and reaching out her hand.  From the moment Pentandra touched her dainty fingertips, her fatigue fell away from her like a sodden cloak.  Pentandra pulled herself to her feet, her limbs restored from their lethargy but still tingling from disuse.  Under her, Arborn’s breathing changed, and he began to stir.  “While you were keeping it preoccupied, I managed to prohibit it from leaving Vorone.”

“I thought we wanted it to leave Vorone!” Pentandra said, confused, as she bent to retrieve her baculus when summoning it to her hand did not work.

“We do, but not before we’re ready,” Ishi replied, casually.  “If it merely escapes to harass us again another day, we’ve gained little.  If it escapes with its prey, we’re . . . screwed,” the sex goddess admitted.  “But if we can both deny it its quest and drive it forcefully away, then we will have gained some valuable knowledge about these . . . these . . .”

“Nemovorti,” Pentandra supplied.

“‘Conquerors of Death’?” the goddess asked, surprised.   “Arrogant bastards!”

“That’s what they call themselves,” Pentandra nodded.  “There are at least five of them, he revealed, and they’re all ancient Alka Alon released from their prison along with Korbal.”

“His servants, I’m guessing,” Ishi nodded prettily.  “Well, there’s only one of them here, from what I can tell.  The hunter.  The irritating thing about them,” Ishi continued as she assisted Arborn shakily to his feet, “is that even if you do manage to kill one, Korbal can merely forge one anew from the same enneagramatic pattern.  Asshole,” Ishi accused, sullenly.

“I don’t understand,” Arborn said, dully.

“It’s as if you wore a glove, Arborn,” Pentandra tried to explain through her fog-shrouded mind.  “You can use a glove until you’ve worn the fingers out and it’s falling off . . . but it’s easy enough to toss it in the rubbish and put a new one on.  It can have the same shape, size, and materials, but it’s still fitting over the same hand.”

“I still do not understand,” he repeated.

“It’s magic,” Ishi explained, irritated.  “Imagine Korbal has a well.  Each of these . . . Nemovorti?  Nemovorti is a bucket from the well.  If we tip that bucket over, the water is lost forever . . . but he can refill the bucket from that same well.”

“That . . . almost makes sense,” Arborn conceded.  “

“Not that it will do you much good,” Ishi shrugged.  “They’re still immortal.  And passionately devoted to Korbal and his experiments.

“They are powerful fighters,” Arborn agreed, gravely.  “Strong as any man, and they retain the physical skills of their hosts.”

“They also smell vile,” Pentandra added.  “Their dead flesh is kept from decomposing by their spells, but they are only partially successful.”

“Are you certain that wasn’t you, dear?” asked Ishi, concerned.  The goddess leaned into Pentandra and sniffed in the darkness, before she could react.  “I detect the faint aroma of sweaty nun, horny wizard, dust, mud, mildew and . . . six or seven doses of high-quality prime randy Kasari?”

Pentandra glared at the catty goddess in the darkness.  “Are you certain that’s not yourself you are smelling, my lady?” she returned in a similar voice.  “I understand it’s been a busy few days.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m as fresh as a daisy!” Ishi riposted, an edge in her voice.

“I assume that ‘Daisy’ is the name of the lass who was taking on all of those lads so energetically from behind, back at your place, then,” Pentandra finished, smoothly.

“Oh, you are such an evil bitch!” Ishi said, with a note of admiration in her voice.  “You would have made such a magnificent avatar!”

“I’ll be content with wife and Court Wizard, once we settle accounts with this Nemovort,” Pentandra assured her.  “Apropos to that, did you just want to insult me all evening, or did you arrive with a plan?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Ishi replied.  “But in this instance confrontation is likely to be as good a tactic as any.”

“The last time we tried that,” Arborn pointed out, “we ended up in a pile on the floor.”

“You weren’t supporting a goddess last time,” Ishi replied, a confident tone in her voice.  “I was afraid they would try to use this avenue to gain entry to Vorone.  An old Alka Alon waypoint, here beneath the temple,” she pointed out, indicating the staircase the Nemovort and its goblin counterpart had disappeared into.  “Not only did it let them in, the Death Force obscured their arrival from me.”

“That is rude,” Pentandra agreed, gripping her powerless baculus.  “Anything you can do about the annulment spell?”

“Alas, until it’s closed, we must endure it,” the goddess sighed.

“Which makes me as powerful as the nun who was originally wearing this habit,” Pentandra said, frustrated.

“I still have my sword,” Arborn pointed out.

“We will find additional weaponry.  And you will both have my blessing,” Ishi said, shaking her head.  “Here,” she called, and reached out her hands in the gloom.

Pentandra felt the nimble, long fingers find where she was clutching her baculus, and then a faint magical glow came over them both.  Arborn looked surprised in the brief flare, but as the light faded Pentandra felt strangely energized.  Everkeen was still ‘asleep’, she realized, but she could feel some sort of power buzzing within the rod.

“Let’s go chase this thing,” Ishi said, when she had blessed them both.  “Right now it seeks your apprentice like the falcon seeks a hare.  The moment it finds her, she will be gone, likely beyond any of our aid.  We must not let that happen,” she declared, as she led them down the stairs to a yet lower level.

“Why is Alurra so important?” asked Arborn, confused.

“Because she can lead them to a secret prophetess in the wilderness,” explained the goddess.  “One who has mapped out the future with breathtaking detail.  Including elements that our enemies would find most helpful.”

“I thought prophecy was forbidden.”

“So is poaching,” pointed out Ishi.  “Yet there is no lack of poachers.”

“These prophecies could be instrumental in our failure or success, Arborn,” Pentandra explained as she followed the tall blonde goddess.  “They could also be very helpful if Sheruel or Korbal used them to frustrate our efforts.”

“Either outcome is equally likely, I think,” Ishi agreed.

“Well, can’t you just ask Ifnia what we should do?” Arborn asked the goddess.  “She’s the goddess in charge of luck . . .”

“That crazy bitch?” sneered Ishi.  “Believe me, she’s the last one you want to invite to the party.  Sure, she’s fun – skating the edge of probability has to be fun – but unless you’re in a really, really serious game of dice, I wouldn’t bother.  People call me capricious, but I always have a plan and a purpose.  That crazy goddess will do nearly anything, if the odds are against her.”

“So you don’t want her to manifest?”

“Ifnia brings luck,” Ishi explained, slowly, as they descended.  “Not good or bad, just luck.  Random factors operating in the favor of one thing or another.  Ifnia herself takes no sides, and delights in the outcome regardless.  When she manifests, she causes all sorts of completely unlikely things to occur.  Her influence can even break the bounds of prophecy.  Which means that half of the time her amazing wonders don’t involve good fortune, but calamity.  I can think of a dozen other deities I’d prefer to see manifest,” she added.

“Well, Duin would be a good start,” Arborn whispered, as they came to the bottom level of the crypt.  “I’m feeling a little inadequate, with this thing,” he said, waving the short infantry sword around.

“He’d be worse than Ifnia,” snorted Pentandra.  “He’s not exactly the subtle type, from what the myths say.”

“The myths grossly overestimate his grasp of subtlety,” Ishi agreed.  “My belligerent brother is as dumb as the axe he carries.  His horse is fairly smart,” she conceded, cocking her head.  “But Duin?  Idiot.”

“Is there a divinity we could summon that specializes in eradicating undead?” Pentandra asked in a whisper, as they heard noises in the darkness ahead.  “Because that would be handy, at the moment.”

“Just my sweet little tush,” Ishi said, rolling Lady Pleasure’s buttocks around invitingly.  “The Narasi didn’t even encounter undead until they took Vore, so they didn’t really have a mythological response, apart from my dull uncle Murvos.  But this shouldn’t be as hard as you think,” the goddess lectured, quietly. “The two in that chamber are awaiting a third party, someone they want to rescue from Vorone.  Let us find some cover and observe, before we go charging in, shall we?”

“Who do they know in Vorone?” Arborn asked, surprised.

“The Brotherhood of the Rat,” Ishi answered.  “Haven’t you understood anything, Pentandra?  The Crew was acting as an advanced force for Korbal, and they didn’t even know it.  That was what the fifth crew of the brotherhood was for: infiltrating the human gang.”

“They were?

“Something they’ve been doing for over a year, in southern Alshar.  That’s how they managed to free Korbal in the first place, by using gurvani and human confederates.  Then the Rat Crew were manipulated by Korbal’s undead lieutenants to prepare this place for them.  And now that the purpose of the Crew in Vorone has been fulfilled, they wish to take their stalwart allies home for their reward.  Yes, this should be close enough,” she said, nodding at a spot in the great vaults.

“For their reward?” Pentandra asked, intrigued, as they took cover behind a wall of crypts from ancient days.  The bays ran from floor to ceiling of the dark, cramped catacomb, housing the dead of Vorone’s glorious past.  They were close enough to witness the

“The usual: immense power, great wealth, slaves, palaces, that sort of thing.  That’s what they’re being told,” smirked Ishi.  “Their actual ‘reward’ will be great power.  And virtual immortality.  Of course,” she continued with a smirk, “it will only be their bodies which enjoy that.  As Korbal inserts the enneagrams of his creations into their bodies, their minds will be utterly destroyed in the process.  They have been promised immortality, but they have not been told the form in which that gift shall be disposed.  When Korbal has his willing sacrifices I would wager that all of them will emerge from the rite bearing the mind of one of his long-lost fellow wraiths, not an illiterate bookmaker from the docks of Vorone.”

Pentandra shuddered, imagining what it would be like to have her self-awareness stripped from her mind magically . . . and then replaced with the inhuman (and possibly invertebrate) enneagram from something whose entire species had gone extinct millions of years before humanity arrived at Callidore on the horizon.  “That is not a particularly good reward,” she finally managed.

“They aren’t particularly good thugs,” Ishi replied.  “But they have reasonably intelligent minds, nimble fingers, decent fighting skills, and they can likely pass for human after they’ve been transformed.  That’s all that Korbal really needs.”

“To what end?” Arborn asked.

“Infiltration,” answered Pentandra.

Ishi nodded.  “Sabotage.  Assassination.  Espionage.  Rebellion.  Take your pick.  With his deviant Alka able to walk amongst humanity, Korbal can extend his power to a far greater distance, and to much greater effect, than Sheruel ever did.  Shhh!  Someone is coming!” the goddess whispered, taking refuge behind a thick stone pillar holding up the temple overhead.

The arrivals proved to be the Rats Ishi had spoken of . . . and Pentandra’s long acquaintance with their dossiers, complete with sketches of each face by Ancient Andolos’ neat hand, told her exactly who they were: the remaining bosses of the Crew and their most trusted thugs.  She recognized Harl the Huntsman who controlled the refugee camps, and Jarek Blackcloak, the leader of the gang that had once controlled access to the ducal palace.  A half-dozen of their lieutenants accompanied them, looking nervous and resigned.

Then she noted the distinctive form of Master Luthar, the Crew’s king rat in Vorone.  The last time Pentandra had seen him was weeks ago, when he’d been arrested (and framed) for being behind an abortive palace uprising.  From what she knew, he’d been in the dungeon under the palace ever since.

He looked like it, a bit, too, she decided as she watched the man nervously greet his undead savior.  His pale face and thinning flesh had a deathly pallor not too far removed from his master’s, Pentandra saw.  Apparently the Crew (and their arcane allies) had affected a raid and rescue on the palace dungeons for the purpose of rescuing him.

Before they could do anything to stop the distant conversation, the Nemovort Ocajon swiftly pushed them out of existence as he sent them through the Alkan Waypoint in the crypt.

“My tits!” Ishi swore.  “I was hoping to take out those vile men before they got away,” she sighed.

“I’d rather they go on to their ‘reward’,” Pentandra countered, in a whisper.  “This way they won’t be around to torment the people for the rest of the summer.  I wanted to get rid of all the Rats,” she pointed out. “And now he’s getting rid of all the Rats.”

“The senior Rats,” corrected Ishi.  “There are still plenty of thugs around.”

“I’ll take what I can,” shrugged Pentandra, knowing that the folk of the camps would be in much better shape without the “protections” the Crew demanded they pay for.  If they, indeed, were going to be “rewarded” by having their souls ripped out and replaced, Pentandra couldn’t think of a more suitable punishment for such vile criminals.  “Are we going to let the undead escape, as well?”

“Oh, hells, no!” Ishi assured her.  “That is an abomination unto me.  And I’m in the mood for a smiting.  But that clumsy sword will not be sufficient for this task, I’m afraid.  If you want a good smiting, you need the right tools.”  The goddess looked around a bit, and then slid open a sealed stone crypt like she was opening a hat box.

From within she withdrew a short spear, a votive weapon about five feet long, with a rusty steel head that was still serviceable.  The Narasi frequently buried their warriors with ornate weaponry to impress the girls in the afterlife, Pentandra knew.  Ishi looked at the weapon critically for a moment, then touched it deliberately and spoke a few words.  The rust fell away from the point, revealing a shining blade, and the entire shaft glowed with Ishi’s divine magic for a moment.

She handed the weapon to Arborn.  “Your sword is mere iron,” she explained. “This spear was pre-enchanted, forged from meteoric iron by some enterprising warmage in the mists of time.  A treasured heirloom from the armory of an ancient house of valiant Wilderlords no one remembers anymore.   I just . . . dusted it off and sharpened it up, so to speak.  When we attack you’re going to need more of a weapon than that paring knife to take on that abomination.”

Arborn nodded as Ishi turned her attention to Pentandra.  “As long as he’s got that annulment device, you are powerless,” she said, stating the obvious.  “Completely useless, in other words.  While Arborn and I contend with the Nemovort, you get that artifact the hell away from that goblin and deactivate it,” she warned.  “It’s even discomfiting my power.  Once you have your powers back, I’m certain you’ll be able to plan your next move.”

“I’m ready,” Arborn reported from behind them, grasping his spear in front of him.

“I’m not!” Pentandra protested.  “Arborn gets a spear?  What do I get?  I am not completely useless!” she declared, irately.

Ishi looked irritated.  “I suppose you won’t be content to just stand there and look pretty?”

“No, I really wouldn’t,” assured Pentandra, coolly.

“Fine!  Here, let me see,” she said, opening a second crypt drawer, and then a third until she found what she sought.

“Here, you lucky girl, a gift from a dead admirer - Lord Fismar of Prin’s Landing, killed in Vorone during a friendly joust about two decades before you were born.  And it’s just in your size,” she said, removing a steel short sword from inside the tomb and drawing it from its dusty scabbard.  “If you aren’t willing to slum it out with that piece of scrap on your husband’s hip, then perhaps this might be an acceptable alternative.”  She handed the small sword to Pentandra with a bit of ceremony.

The blade was around twenty-five inches long, Pentandra saw, and slightly curved to a sharp point: a Sea Lord’s blade.  The edge was still sharp after all of these years, but the blade itself was heavy enough to hurt with its dull side at need on its own: the perfect tool for gutting a boarding party or hacking through rope and sailcloth.  The bronze bell guard was in the shape of a scallop shell and swept back to the pommel, gilded in silver.  Despite how heavily ornate it looked, the sword – scimitar, she corrected herself – was well-balanced and surprisingly light in her hand.

Pentandra did a few cautious sweeps through the air of the crypt, then practiced her stance for a few moments while Arborn offered suggestions.  She was familiar with swordplay, though she hadn’t studied it, as such.  She wasn’t a warmage nor was she from a house of noble cavalrymen.  Her people preferred wands or daggers to settle their differences.  Swords were for the guards.

But Pentandra had been on her own for years, now, and throughout her adventures she had occasionally picked up important points of lore from other disciplines.  She’d fenced with Minalan or his apprentices more than once, and she and Arborn had even traded blows with practice weapons in Sevendor, after their wedding.  The principle seemed simple enough: stab them with the point, slash them with the edge.  Everything else seemed superfluous.

“And this will kill the Nemovort?” she asked, curious, as she studied the blade.

“If he doesn’t die of old age first, waiting on you to figure out which end the hilt is on,” chided Ishi.  “Are you ready or not?”

Pentandra gave one final sweep of the blade.  “Ready!”

“Let’s go,” Arborn said, as they watched the last of the Rats disappear through the Waypoint, headed toward an uncertain (but probably dire) future.

A guttural war cry erupting violently from his throat, Arborn sprang on top of the sea of crypts between the stairs and the Waypoint, startling both undead and goblin.  Ishi stood and followed behind the ranger at a slower, more stately pace, a grim expression on her lips as she walked purposefully toward their foe.

“They live!” cried the goblin, grabbing a variety of sacks and packages stacked on a nearby crypt.  “You must get me away, quickly!”

“Bide,” Pentandra heard the undead monster breath, as he turned to face Arborn’s oncoming assault.  As the big man wound up to strike, instead of dodging the blow Ocajon calmly raised his hand . . . and took almost a foot of sharp, rusty steel in the center of his palm for his troubles.

As soon as the point stopped its progress, Ocajon turned to the goblin.  “Go now!” he ordered.  “Summon my brothers to avenge me.”  Then he turned back around, just in time to see Arborn drop the spear, still embedded in his palm, and draw his sword.

The fight that resulted was impressive, but Pentandra had other duties.  As soon as she saw Ocajon turn away from his ally, she slunk quickly up the shadowed rows of stone crypts until she was near the fight.  Ishi was standing behind Arborn, she saw, muttering words of encouragement as the ranger dueled the Nemovort, spear impaling his left hand, sword on iron staff.

“You really don’t know when to give up, do you?” the undead creature remarked, impressed, as the Kasari warrior tried a furious combination of blows that clanged against his iron staff.  “Don’t you realize?  I cannot be killed,” it boasted.  “Slay me, and my master will merely call me forth again and see me in a better body.”

“Slay me,” Arborn said, through gritted teeth as he tried desperately to avoid the strikes the undead monster returned, “and my wife will gut you like a river fish!” he replied.

“Your wife?” chuckled Ocajon.  “How quaint.  Was that the girl upstairs?” he asked, spinning with his staff in an attempt to strike Arborn in the chest.  The ranger found his blade just barely stopping the powerful strike.  “Pity she had to die like that.  Pretty girl, I suppose . . . for a humani.”

Pentandra wasn’t quite ready to strike from her position, but she could not allow such an insult to stand.  Instead of attacking Prikiven as she’d planned, she contented herself with a wild, well-placed slash that separated his hand mid-way between elbow and wrist with a bright spray of blood.  The heavy-bladed scimitar sliced through sleeve, fur, meat and bone without effort.  The Annulment device fell to the floor with his hand, followed quickly by Prikiven, who screamed and clutched at his stub of a wrist.

Instead of picking up the sphere and deactivating it, as she’d intended, she overheard the snide way Ocajon addressed her husband about her death and vowed to respond.  She slipped up near to the undead’s back, took careful aim . . . and when Arborn brought the Nemovort around, without thinking about it, her mind saw an opening and she struck.

With one decisive thrust she quickly stabbed her new curved blade directly through Ocajon’s head, impaling his brain temple to temple with the sharp point of the scimitar.  She struck hard enough to bury the tip of the blade in the top wooden crypt door, pinning the monster to the tomb.

Whatever dweomer Ishi had laid upon the ancient sword discharged into the creature, igniting a smoldering burn in response to the blade’s touch in its flesh.  An eruption of evil-smelling fluid - it was too thin and too blackish to be blood – erupted from the wound, making the bile rise in the wizard’s throat.

But Pentandra could not spare the effort to vomit.  She was being dramatic.

“No,” Pentandra answered, quietly, as she watched the life – undeath? – leech from Ocajon’s dead human body.  “I’m a pretty girl for any species,” she said, her chest heaving slightly from the exertion of her sudden blow.  “And you really, really shouldn’t . . . piss me off,” she sighed, and nearly collapsed, though she never let loose the hilt of her blade.

The Nemovort quivered and jerked as the blade that transfixed its dead brain twisted what remained into a putrid pudding.  It even tried to get out a few words, but Pentandra was too tired to listen.  With a twist of her wrist she wrenched the long-unused sword to the right and left, doing as much damage as possible, before she pulled her blade free and watched the former human/Alkan hybrid fumble to the ground.

“That was nicely done,” Arborn said, picking up the iron staff from the floor.

“I thought you said . . . they were . . . hard to kill,” Pentandra panted, her head swimming.

“I guess you got the runt of the litter,” he ventured as he pulled his ancient spear from the corpse’s hand.

“What about the goblin?” Ishi asked, pointing to the wounded gurvan, who was clutching his wrist painfully and watching his powerful patron expire.

“Let’s find out what he knows,” Pentandra said, picking up the Annulment sphere and deactivating it.  She felt her arcane power return to her in an overwhelming wave, and Everkeen quivered as it “awakened” and flew obligingly to her hand.  “I’ll just cast a truthtell . . .”

“I regret I cannot allow that, my lady,” Prikiven gasped between clenched teeth.

“I really don’t see how you can stop it,” Pentandra said, preparing the spell.

“I couldn’t have,” the goblin agreed, “until you turned off that sphere . . .”

Too late, Pentandra realized what she’d done.  While the sphere was active, neither she nor the gurvani shaman had access to their powers – Ocajon likely used his Death Force, perhaps channeled through the iron staff, to power the Waypoint spell, just as Ishi had used the Life Force to destroy him.  Once dead, his gurvani confederate was trapped without power . . . until she’d deactivated the sphere that bound them both.

The gurvan turned his face away from her, his eyes scrunched closed, and muttered something before Pentandra or Arborn could stop him.  Her husband tried valiantly -- Arborn threw his spear quickly and with great force . . . but Prikiven was already fading into the Waypoint spell he’d cast.  The weapon clattered harmlessly against the flags of the crypt’s floor, the gurvan nowhere to be seen.

“I think I can follow him!” Pentandra insisted.  “I can use Everkeen!”

“Penny, no!” Arborn shouted at her.  She was about to ignore him and try to trace where the goblin had escaped to.  But a sharp wave of sudden force sent her baculus skittering back into dormancy.

“Enough, Daughter!” snapped Ishi, irritated.  “You’ve slain your foe and driven the others off.  Your apprentice is safe from pursuit, for the moment.  And you are utterly exhausted, both physically and magically,” she pointed out.  “Go home and get some sleep before you fall over.”

“But . . . but Everkeen can track him!  I can see where he’s going!” she said as she hurriedly cast a magelight above them.

“We know where he’s going,” Ishi insisted.  “The lost citadel of Anthatiel, the cursed City of Rainbows.  Now the city of cruddy ice and dirty slush, enfiefed to Korbal by Sheruel,” she said, rolling her eyes, “and absolutely crawling with all manner of foul folk.  Not the sort of party to which one arrives unprepared.  While you and your pretty stick might be able to trace him, should you even discover how to follow him, you would be dead within moments.”

“So what are we supposed to do now?” Pentandra asked, despairingly.

“Get some sleep!” ordered the goddess.  “Have you not had enough excitement for a while?  You have done your part, and I mine, in slaying this abomination and protecting Vorone.  Sleep, mortals, and know the town is safe . . . for now.  In fact,” she said, listening for something Pentandra could not hear, “I believe I must prepare for today’s meeting, in just a few short hours.”

“Meeting?” Arborn asked, curiously.  “With the priestesses of Ishi?”

“Those boring old sluts?” dismissed the goddess.  “No, no, this will be much more exciting.  I’ve invited all of the other managers on the streets of Perfume, Glassblowers, and Jewelers to my hall to discuss a cooperative association,” she said, smugly.  “What they don’t know is that the House of Flowers has been doing so well that I’ve managed - with the help of a few stalwart admirers of more than modest means - to buy up the debt of each house.”

“Managers?” Arborn asked, confused.

“The other madams and whoremasters,” Pentandra explained to her naïve husband.  “You bought out their debt?  You plan on shutting them down?  That would give you a monopoly on . . . lust,” she said, choosing her words wisely.

Ishi looked horrified.  “Of course not!  Are you mad?  No, I merely want to better coordinate our efforts.  Ensure all of our employees are treated well, keep our pricing fair and reasonable, establish certain professional boundaries . . .”

“Ishi’s tits!” Pentandra said, automatically, as she realized what Lady Pleasure intended.  “You don’t want a monopoly . . . you want a cartel!”

“I like to think of it more as a guild,” Ishi said, demurely.  “Indeed, your work at the Arcane Orders was an inspiration.  After all, if the magi could manage to make a pretense at organization, why cannot whores do the same?”

“Won’t that . . . anger some of the managers?” Arborn asked, diplomatically.  While he was not nearly as familiar with Vorone’s nightlife as Pentandra, he’d seen enough of the worst of the violence and degradation of the slums around the nicer quarters in town, and knew that most pimps were not nearly as reasonable about their businesses as Lady Pleasure.

“Let them be angry,” Ishi said, with a sneer in her voice.  “No man should have a right to the trade between a woman’s legs - it’s indecent.  All of the male pimps will be turned out of the business by the time we’re done,” she vowed, proudly.  “Any who are reluctant . . . well, they shall face some consequences,” she said, batting her eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion.

“What kind of consequences?” Arborn asked, innocently.

Before Ishi could replay - and likely scandalize her husband into impotence for months - Pentandra intervened.

“Let the nice goddess play with her toys, Arborn,” she said, with a yawn.  “Besides, after a few days of spontaneous orgies, somehow I think that trade will see a downturn for a while.  With the Rats mostly gone, there shouldn’t be too many ‘managers’ left to cause a problem.  Now,” she said, repeating her yawn as she tossed her sword and baculus into pockets in her ring, “take me home and put me to bed and don’t touch me for a week . . . or there will also be consequences!”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Conclave

Pentandra was almost unnerved by the quiet that broke out in Vorone after the confrontation between Ishi and the Nemovorti Ocajon.  But in the days that followed Ishi’s Night, Everkeen detected no signs of the undead anywhere near the environs of Vorone.

Whatever Ishi had done to ward the town with her unorthodox magic had driven away the vile monster and its companions . . . though their matter-of-fact use of the Alkan Ways was disturbing to Pentandra.  She shuddered to think what might have happened had the vile beast unleashed its powers on the unsuspecting citizens of Vorone before it left.  Considering their collective state at the time, it would have been pure carnage.

The town barely knew the danger it had been in.  It was dealing with a municipal hangover of legendary proportions.

Four straight days of revels culminating in orgies all over town had dealt a powerful blow to all involved.  As memories were hazy, at best, over the experience, much was denied or forgotten.

But the lasting consequences of the event – known ever afterwards as Ishi’s Night, though it lasted four days – haunted hundreds of Voroni.  Pregnancies, infidelities, and erotic transgressions of all sorts caused widespread domestic strife.  The Town Watch was too busy just keeping jilted lovers and distressed spouses from each other’s’ throats to have responded in force to an attack of undead.

Father Amus ordered the ecclesiastic courts, which heard cases involving moral issues, to devote a week to untying the complicated knots the divine visitation had created.  He also convened a quick ecclesiastic council to verify and announce that it had, indeed, been a divine event, citing Ishi as the likely divinity involved.

No one argued.  Indeed, that seemed to be the only rational explanation for the irrational behavior.  But that also made it possible for the ecclesiastic courts to hand out writs of forgiveness and exemptions to religious students under vows of celibacy and the like, grant divorces in some cases and marriages in others, and otherwise contend with the aftermath.  While that didn’t eliminate the consequences, it did mitigate them.

In a week the event was like a dim memory, and in a month it was a legend.  Everyone had a story or three from that fateful period.  And some had a bit more as a result.  In a month the natural consequences of the excesses of Ishi’s Night began to appear as unexpected pregnancies took root.  A lot of pregnancies, in a lot of unexpected quarters.

Not everyone was upset by Ishi’s Night.  The Duke, at least, seemed quite pleased that the goddess had blessed his reign so rigorously.  He was strutting through the palace like a cockerel, now, far less hesitant and far more confident than he had been when he first arrived in Vorone.  He was agreeable to all sorts of accommodations resulting from the affair and liberal in granting exemptions and pardons in court.

The one bit of frustration that remained for Pentandra was how stoically Alurra took the entire thing.  She was focused neither on the carnal excesses of the event or the storm of gossip that followed.  She wasn’t even particularly perturbed at the news that she was being hunted by undead.   In fact, the girl seemed far more interested in her lessons than anything else.

When questioned about the events of that faithful night, she had answered readily enough . . . but there was a hesitation that told Pentandra she was holding back information.

“So, you knew that you were being pursued by these undead?” she asked Alurra at breakfast, a few days later.  “Is that why you left home?”

“Old Antimei said it was the only way to protect the village,” Alurra said, sipping her watered beer.  “It was after me, for some reason, and if I left then it would leave everyone else alone . . . for now,” she added, thoughtfully.  “I was ahead of it by three or four days the entire way,” she boasted.  “My friends kept us in front of it.  It doesn’t travel well during the day,” she reported.

“And it didn’t occur to you to mention you were being followed when you arrived?”

“Antimei said not to,” Alurra said, shrugging.  “She also said not to breathe a word of it to the Spellmonger, else he’d drop everything and come here, and that could be disastrous.”

That was the end of it.  No amount of prying could persuade Alurra to reveal information once Old Antimei told her to keep it confidential.  It was frustrating, but it also told her that the girl could be trusted with information of import.  The dictate not to inform Minalan had her worried, however.  Not because she was afraid she would need his help and not get it, but because it suggested that there was far more going on with the Spellmonger than her friend was telling her.

But he did confirm, mind-to-mind, that the spell on Alya had been broken . . . but only when Sevendor enjoyed an abbreviated version of Ishi’s Night itself.  Even in lending assistance, the wild goddess could not be content with anything less than riotous excess.

Within a week, the court had resumed business more or less as usual, and Pentandra found herself catapulted from the exciting life of a protecting enchantress to the far more mundane – and boring – life of a professional court wizard.  There were meetings to be held.  Examinations to be scored.  The Mirror array to be overseen.  Discussions with the Spellwarden of Vorone about a better magical defense against future incursions of undead and gurvani were put on the agenda for consideration.  And the Duke had to be informed, discretely, about the new threat to his realm and his capital city.

Arborn, thankfully, was not seriously injured from his battle in the crypt, though he had sustained a number of serious bruises and minor injuries from Ocajon’s iron staff, including three broken ribs.  The Duke allowed him to postpone his planned excursions into the northern woodlands, once Pentandra explained the danger he had saved the town from and begged the boon during a personal meeting with the lad in the Game Room.

Anguin was impressed with the tale of their struggle in the crypt (she wisely omitted Ishi’s role, as explaining Lady Pleasure’s dual nature could complicate things, she could see) and it really didn’t matter to him if the ranger took a few days’ rest before he continued his duties.

Duke Anguin was too full of Spring and a young man’s attitude to worry about schedules and such, anyway.  His mind was elsewhere.

“I was talking to Count Salgo about the 3rd Commando,” he said, changing the subject during their discussion toward one he was more interested in.  “After discussing things with the Spellmonger, I think we’re going to invite them to Alshar.”

“We’re hiring them?” she asked, surprised.

“More like inviting them to take our allegiance,” Anguin said, thoughtfully.  “We can’t afford to hire them outright, so the plan is to ennoble their leadership and divide the men among them, for the time being, to shore up a couple of different weak points in our defenses.  After a year of faithful service, the non-commissioned officers will be granted estates and the men will be granted the right to freehold with Ducal support.”

That was an important right, she had learned.  The scantly-populated Wilderlands had always suffered a large population of squatters who settled any piece of land they could get away with.  Sometimes the local lord, seeing a well-managed settlement would grant them freehold status in return for taxes or rents; other times they were evicted and their holds were taken by the legal lords of the lands.  In either case the potential for hostilities was strong.  There were several small-scale feuds that had erupted over the years due to squatting.

But the Duke could give any man a Writ of Freehold, that allowed settlement on any unclaimed or undefended property in his realm.  If a man could maintain a freehold for five years or more, he was entitled to status as a yeoman, under the law of the Wilderlands.  Unlike the Riverlands, where communal agriculture encouraged cooperation, the far-flung freeholds of Alshar saw the greatest prosperity when individual families or households focused their efforts to develop an estate.

There were few villeins in the Wilderlands; yeomen were seen as much higher status than the average Wilderlands peasant, serving in lords in all but name in the hinterlands.  Freeholders also attracted itinerant warriors as their holdings and families grew.  There were some prosperous settlements which could field as many men as a formal domain.  Providing writs to the two thousand men of the 3rd Commando would be as good as seeding the Wilderlands with a future army.

“It’s not like we don’t have the land,” he sighed.  “And some of the Royalist Gilmoran barons are starting to discuss forming an army to drive them out, anyway.  Salgo hand-picked many of them, so they’re good warriors.  Too good to become bandits.  So if we provide them a place to come, free land, and . . . other things,” he grinned.

“Ah, you heard my plan to offer our surplus whore population as wives?” Pentandra grinned.  That would put a dent in Ishi’s aspirations, she knew.

“Whether wives or sport, fair Vorone definitely does offer a man a treasury of femininity,” Anguin sighed, happily.

“Then let us spend that treasury quickly, before it depreciates,” Pentandra said, warily.  “If young wives and free land get us an army, then that’s a boon.  But that does beg the question what your dear cousin will say about the development.”

“I’m certain it will irritate Duke Tavard to no end,” Anguin said.  He wasn’t just unconcerned, Pentandra realized, he seemed genuinely pleased.  “For Alshar to go from helpless to having one of the finest corps Salgo has ever trained will be a blow to the honor of Castal, I have no doubt.”

“And a threat to his power.  But what will he do about it?”

“What can he do about it?” Anguin chuckled.  “He can’t very well get the 3rd to stay – his vassals are angry about them, and they aren’t particularly well disposed to the Castali ducal house right now.  But then my royal relatives aren’t going to be happy to have the 3rd under Alshari banners, either.”

“Would Tavard respond, if the 3rd Commando suddenly pulled out of Gilmora?”

“He would have no legal right to do so, though that might not deter him,” Anguin explained.  “Just to be safe, I’ve ordered Salgo to suggest that they send their men out a few hundred at a time, to avoid attracting too much notice.”

“Your Grace, my encounter with this Nemovort convinced me that we need to be prepared for some serious strike in the near future.  The gurvani were enough of a threat, but if what I suspect is true, these . . . undead Alka Alon, commanded by the necromancer Korbal, are currently working with the renegade mage known as Mask . . . and we know for a fact that they are working with the gurvani to improve their war against us.  All of my intelligence in the matter points toward an attack, soon.”

“That is worrisome,” agreed Anguin.  “You think the 3rd Commando will be insufficient?”

“I think Duin the Destroyer would be insufficient,” confessed Pentandra.  “From what we learned from the Nemovort and his gurvani ally, Korbal has plans to raise many, many more of these Nemovorti.  Possibly other kinds of undead, too.  Kinds that have only been seen in legend.”

“I leave that for the warmagi to deal with,” Anguin decided, shaking his head.  “I have no real choice in that, I suppose, but the warning is appreciated.  The news is not all dire,” he continued, searching for some optimism.  “In addition to the 3rd Commando, Salgo told me that over fifteen hundred bows were produced at the festival’s weapontake.  Those are fifteen hundred archers we can call upon, at need.  He suggested we hold regional weapontakes around Tudry, in the south, and up in the eastern reaches, too.”

“The arms are helpful,” she conceded.  “And it would be a good way to pump some money into the economy, and encourage the people to prepare for an attack,” Pentandra reasoned.  “Can we afford that much silver, though?  To pay for weapons that people already own?  I’m certain Count Salgo was uneasy about that.  And Viscountess Threanas.”

“It was worth it,” Anguin said, shaking his head.  “To see how everyone looked at the archery contests, to see how eager they were to compete . . . better to get them used to a bow in their hands in front of the butts than when the foe is at the wall, as my father used to say.”

As it turned out, the Wildflower Festival had been a financial success as well.  Sister Saltia told her how the receipts from the vendors and the admission to the many simple contests had made the entire event profitable, much to her surprise.  Though the accounting became ragged, as Ishi’s Night stretched into its third and fourth day, enough coin had changed hands before then to more than pay for the festival.  Indeed, Saltia had bragged, the duchy was running ahead by a few hundred ounces of silver this month.

Then she started talking about how Lady Pleasure was an economic savior, and that’s when Pentandra had to excuse herself . . . before she threw up.

Despite the success of their unconventional partnership, Pentandra still could not stand Lady Pleasure . . . and she was having misgivings about Ishi, herself.  She made a point of avoiding any occasion where the whoremistress might appear.

Thankfully, the stress of the festival had worn out her entire corps, so the doors to the House of Flowers were closed, and Lady Pleasure was taking some time to rest and recuperate.

That suited Pentandra just fine.  She’d had enough sex-goddess fueled excitement for a while.  Enough for fodder for four or five academic papers on Sex Magic, if she felt so inclined to study them.

Pentandra did not.  She had real work to do.  Devoting her time, energy and attention to the phenomenon, however fascinating, to produce a work that would be read by few and understood by even fewer just did not seem like a productive use of her time, anymore.  There had been a day when she would have leapt upon the opportunity to demonstrate her professional prowess to the magical world, but now . . . now she just wanted sleep.  In better quarters than she had.  Without undead or goddesses or troublesome apprentices complicating what was supposed to be a cushy job.

After the furor of Ishi’s Night died down, she found she could turn her attention to the upcoming Arcane Conclave in Castabriel. While Arborn sent his men off on their next mission to the skirts of the Penumbra, she focused on making a good showing at the conference.

At first she was hesitant to even plan to go, but when she mentioned the Solstice meeting in the far winter capital of Castal to the Prime Minister, Angrial all but insisted she attend as a matter of national pride.  Not merely attend – Count Angrial wanted to make a point that the wizards of Alshar were thriving as magelords of power when their colleagues in Castal and Remere saw them.

“The easier we make it to recruit magi to Alshar, the more warmagi we have at our disposal,” he explained, against Pentandra’s objections over mounting such a grand retinue for the Conclave.  “It is the festival of Midsummer,” he reasoned.  “The crops are planted, the walls are mended, and it is a time of repose.  There is nothing pressing going on in the middle of the growing season.  And if the goblins were going to attack in force, they would have begun preparations at the very beginning of spring – or so says our wise Warlord.”

“But— “

“Go,” the slender man insisted, “and take as many of our magi with you as you think will impress your colleagues.  The Duchy will pay for it,” he added, dismissively, forestalling Pentandra’s inevitable question about expenses.  She nearly asked how the duchy would pay for it, but she’d gained enough experience in her months as a civil servant to understand the folly at questioning any gift from the bureaucracy.

So it was settled.  Pentandra couldn’t argue with the Prime Minister’s reasoning, though she thought the expense was a bit much for the struggling duchy for so small a potential return.  She wasn’t even certain if many of her colleagues would be interested in the boring, dry and tedious annual Conclave.

But when she contacted Astyral, Azar, Carmella and Wenek, the four most powerful magi in Alshar after her, they all expressed great enthusiasm in the plan – even Carmella, who Pentandra knew usually hated such social events.  She wanted to recruit more warmagi specializing in defensive magics and battlefield construction, she claimed in her mind-to-mind conversation.  If she was going to build a keep in Vorone – or anything larger than a pele tower – then she and the Hesian Order needed more competent magi.

But her friends weren’t merely magi anymore – they were magelords, too.  They all had responsibilities and lands of their own, and they were starting to see past their personal careers and toward a larger picture of regional stability and prosperity.  In some ways they were actually starting to think of themselves as Alshari, regardless of their national origins.  Or at least loyal vassals of the Duke.  All four pledged to gather as many magi as they could and make the journey to Vorone, before the larger journey to Castabriel.

Arborn recovered quickly, thankfully, after a few days rest in their chamber.  Mostly he just slept.  The palace physician tended his bruises and Pentandra monitored him regularly.  Jerics, his lieutenant, stayed steadfast by his side and acted as nurse, which produced a few tense moments.

Jerics had never been in favor of Arborn’s marriage to her, despite his enormous respect for the man and a reverence for his decisions.  Nor was it that he disliked Pentandra – they had a fairly congenial and even friendly relationship.  But Jerics – and many other Kasari rangers under Arborn’s command – felt that by committing to her he had betrayed his commitment to their corps.  The rangers were the elite of Kasari society, respected above all others, and Arborn was the greatest ranger of his day.  To marry a woman outside of the Kasari, much less a full mage from a distant land, was a challenge to their sensibilities.  Indeed, to marry at all seemed an aberration.

Such excellence as the Kasari rangers demonstrated relied on devotion and commitment to the mission, not to a woman.  Romantic entanglements bred complications in a ranger’s life, they felt.  Ordinarily a ranger postponed matrimony until he grew old enough that he was a liability in the field, if he considered it at all.  Few ranger Captains ever took a wife.  It was a testament to his men’s great loyalty to Arborn that they tolerated his unusual decision.

That had led to some conflicts between Jerics and Pentandra.  She had tried to gently impress on the stern-looking Kasar, over and over again, that she was his wife now.  That gave her certain duties, responsibilities and privileges that had previously fallen to Jerics, and took some getting used to.  Despite the friction, Pentandra tried to be understanding.  When you’ve known your captain since you were both boys, it was hard to give up the duty of caring for him.

Once Arborn was able to stand under his own power again, a lot of the tension evaporated.  While far from hale, he was out of danger and that was a relief to them both.  He seemed to bear no lasting damage from his brush with the Nemovorti.  Or witnessing untold acts of carnal debauchery.  Pentandra found herself equally relieved at both.

Pentandra was relieved about more than that, she was afraid to admit.  She had steadfastly not informed Minalan about the undead incursion, on Alurra’s insistence, and if Arborn had been seriously injured or killed she would have been forced to.  As it was, she could safely tuck the episode away until some future day when it no longer mattered.

If there was one other benefit to Ishi’s Night, it was the disposition of Countess Shirlin.  She had virtually disappeared from court life after the festival, and at least one report had her stumbling back to her rooms in the palace five days after the festival, looking and smelling like the most popular girl at the brothel – which was not far from the truth.

While few in the court besides Pentandra and Arborn knew the lurid truth of the matter, the noble matron was mortified, at least of the parts of the experience that she could remember.  She was even more frightful of the parts she couldn’t, Alurra confided in Pentandra, once she’d spied on the woman using one of the palace cats as her agent.

Pentandra almost felt sorry for the matron and her lost dignity.  But as that mortification kept her clear of the court as Lady Pleasure seemed to be making herself, these days, and Pentandra relished the peace.  Shirlin did not show up for three consecutive Ladies’ Teas, and the old guard of the institution were delighted.  In fact, it seemed as if most of the older ladies of the court were in good spirits these days, despite the horrific impropriety of the divine visitation.

The fact that some of the old bats had gotten more male attention than they’d had in years during Ishi’s Night might have helped their disposition, but Pentandra was too gracious to mention it.

Carmella arrived early for the Conclave expedition, and she’d brought a friend.  The Karshak builder Rumel.

Pentandra remembered the Karshak (who was actually a member of a cadet tribe or ethnic minority of the race – the facts were confusing) from the Great March, where he assisted in the six major construction projects in the form of the pele towers.  Unlike the stonemasons that were turning Minalan’s magic mountain into the most secure castle in the world, Rumel’s folk were actually closer in spirit to the woodsmen of Alshar than any stonemasons.  Hailing from a tribe of Karshak woodsmen, essentially, Rumel was much different in attitude and manner than the often-arrogant stonecutters Pentandra had met back in Sevendor.

“You said you were interested in building a keep here in Vorone,” she reminded Pentandra, when they’d adjourned to her office for wine, late in the day.  “I’d like to take a shot at it.  With Rumel’s help.”

“Pardon me,” Pentandra said, diplomatically, “but I thought your folk preferred to work in wood?”

“Oh, aye, as a rule,” Rumel said, in accented Narasi, grinning with far more teeth than a human could manage.  “But I’ve learned a fair bit of stone from Guri and his crew, and to be honest, I think there’ll be as much woodwork as stonework involved.”

“This will be a keep belonging to a palace, after all,” Carmella pointed out.  She wore a dark gray smock that was unadorned, save for a sash that bore her arms as the master of the Hesian Order.  “It needs to impress as much as protect.  I’ve brought some initial designs and drawings for you and His Grace to look over, but I think you’ll be pleased.”

“And I can get a cadre of my clan to come and work on it, quietly,” Rumel added.  “I’ve got a bunch of cousins who would be interested in that work, and who like the area.  They aren’t part of an official lodge, so we’ll have to do the work under-the-table, but if you don’t tell the Karshak, I won’t.”

“Your folk can’t work outside of a lodge?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“It’s a . . . cultural thing,” Carmella tried to explain.  “The Karshak lodges are very picky, and have long codes about that sort of thing.  Rumel’s people are not very high status – wood isn’t as glamorous as stone, or something like that – and the Karshak frequently discriminate against them.  That’s why they’re known as Yglakarshak, which means ‘petty Karshak’, a derisive term, to the four main clans.  They prefer the humani term ‘wood dwarf’ to that.”

“Are there enough of you around to form a lodge?” Pentandra asked, curiously.  She’d only rarely heard of the Karshak themselves, much less their poorer relations.

“There are three or four little families of them in little settlements in the Wilderlands, all kin of Rumel and part of his clan,” Carmella answered.  “Mostly they’ve kept to themselves, like the Alka Alon and the wild River Folk tribes, but that’s mostly because they fear the wrath of the Karshak, if they engage overmuch in commerce.”

“That’s terrible!” Pentandra said, imagining that kind of existence.  The fact that her own family’s Remeran estates kept serfs in bondage in much worse conditions didn’t occur to her.  The thought of good craftsmen denied the right to ply their trade was what troubling.  “By all means, let’s use them.  Trygg knows the place could use a little sophistication, and something that didn’t look like it was imported from some Sealord’s sanctuary.  We can get Anguin to set up a charter for a construction crew – open to all races – and keep you out of Karshak jurisdiction.”

The idea seemed to please Rumel.  “It will be fun – your woodwork here is vibrant but . . . crude.  I’m not even worried about the money.  The Sevendor job was the first time in a century any of the lodges has employed us in two centuries, and sitting in the woods rebuilding our own homes over and over gets boring.

“Besides, your folk do know their way around a brewery,” he added, respectfully.  “Seems a shame to let that noble art go without proper appreciation.”

“Why don’t you survey the site while we are at the Conclave?” Pentandra suggested to the Karshak.  “See what is feasible, work up your ideas, and I’ll sell them to Anguin when we return.  And then we can use that as a stepping stone toward getting him to approve that other project.”

“The Anvil?” Carmella asked, excitedly, naming the mountain site deep in the northeastern Wilderlands she favored for building a truly strong fortress upon.  “You think he’s considering it?”

“Minalan is pushing it, quietly, I’m pushing it, and once the court is firmly established, they will want it.  But money, political issues and a firm commitment are still lacking, even if the desire for a stout refuge is rising.  There have been some . . . incidents in Vorone that have made everyone uneasy.”

“So we’ve heard,” chuckled Rumel.  “Sorry we missed it.”

“I’m not!” Carmella said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not speaking of the festival,” Pentandra said, gravely.  “Gurvani agents sowing subversion, undead sent from the Necromancer in the Mindens, and a smoldering gang war, and those are merely the highlights.  Vorone is being stalked; prepared, almost.”

“But you seem to have things well in hand, Pen,” Carmella pointed out.  “Despite all of that, the place is still here.”

“Let’s toast to low expectations, then,” Pentandra said, raising her glass.  “Which seems appropriate, on the eve of the Conclave.”

The other magi arrived in Vorone in two larger waves.  Astyral, Azar, Bendonal, Master Cormoran and the warmagi from Tudry and the Penumbra came to town in one long column as near to a parade as one could wish.  A parade complete with magical fireworks and other wonders, thanks to the showy nature of the average warmage.  The second group arrived from the east lands a day later, led by Baron Wenek, and including the magi clustered around Timberwatch.  Ormar the Alchemist, Landrik of Honeyhall, and a half-dozen other minor magelords gathered.

The Prime Minister graciously put most of them up in the palace, with the overflow encamped in the courtyard overnight.  Count Angrial and the Duke personally feted the magi before their departure in a magnificent feast in the Stone Hall.

Count Angrial seemed particularly pleased at the turn out and the political message it would send to his rivals in Castal and Remere.  Anguin seemed genuinely enchanted at the sheer number of wizards in one place, and the feast quickly became a contest of who could dazzle the duke more with their magical displays.  Pentandra had other issues in mind.

“You know,” she said to Astyral, mid-way through dinner, “this has the seeds of an Alshari Wizard’s Council.”

“We’ve already discussed it,” agreed Astyral.  “It’s unofficial, at the moment, but that’s only because we lack the leadership of the ducal court wizard.”

“Don’t I lead enough?” Pentandra protested, disgustedly.

“We’ve seen what Minalan has accomplished with his local Sevendor Council,” Astyral pointed out.  “Banamor, Olmeg, the enchanters of the Bouleuterion . . . he’s even included sports like Sire Cei and that funny knight of his, Sir Fes.  Look what it’s done for his country.”

“He’s also poured gold into it like a bottomless pit,” Pentandra reminded him.

“And became rich in the process,” Astyral riposted.  “We both know what snowstone is really worth, not to mention the other pretty rocks in his collection.  Part of that is sheer magical power, but part of that is letting complementary wizards work together for the improvement of all.”

“Well, it’s well-known that Anguin favors the settlement of more magi in the Wilderlands, particularly warmagi,” she nodded.  “Any you can persuade to join us would be seen as a boon.”

“Well, it’s not like there is a dearth of abandoned estates and freeholds,” agreed the charming Gilmoran mage.  “But protecting them is the problem.  Anything close to the Penumbra requires a damnable amount in security costs.”

“Which is why we’re looking eastward, beyond the Danz River.  That region was already sparsely populated before the invasion, and there isn’t a lot of gurvani activity there, from what we’ve heard.”

“Ah, the magical land behind the pele towers,” Astyral nodded, enthusiastically.  “Apart from the number of wild tribes, bandits, refugees and dangerous wild animals, it’s completely safe.”

“Nothing a High Mage couldn’t contend with,” Pentandra shrugged.  “It’s land that Anguin technically owns, and now that the 3rd Commando has started arriving, there will be experienced soldiers to help hold it.”

“Then let us, indeed, initiate an Alshari Wizard’s Council,” Astyral approved, congenially.  “I nominate the Court Wizard as titular head and principal officer.”

“Go to hell, Astyral,” sighed Pentandra.  “I have enough to do already!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find someone else to actually run it,” he proposed, soothingly.

The matter was tabled until the next day, when the long line of carriages and horses departed for the journey to Castabriel.  It was a merry column, as old friends reacquainted and stories were swapped.  Along the way a few stragglers joined the caravan, and an inevitable wake of fellow travelers joined the journey as it made its way south along the Timber Road into Gilmora.

Along the way, three days into the journey, they passed a large column of 3rd Commando infantrymen who were willing to camp alongside the magi and get to know their new employers.  Some of them Pentandra had encountered before on the battlefields around Castle Cambrian, and all of them impressed her as good, professional soldiers.

More, they were genuinely eager to be quit of Gilmora, which had turned into an unfriendly place for them.  They were very enthusiastic about the welcome they were promised they would receive in Vorone and the Wilderlands.

Once the caravan of wizards passed through Barrowbell, a week later, and hired a barge to take them the rest of the way into the Riverlands, proper, Pentandra started to relax a little.  Unlike previous Conclaves, she was not in charge of every little detail, and she found the prospect of enjoying the event she’d organized for years quite appealing.  She was looking forward to seeing how Genthil, her protégé at the Order, handled the Conclave, for one thing.

At the busy docks at Castabriel she had her servants from Fairoaks meet her with her coach with a few dozen blue baldrics with the arms of Alshar (the antler portion of the arms, at least) embroidered upon them.  Getting them made upon such short notice merely took coin, but they did add a handsome splash of color and uniformity to the magi from the north.  She handed one out to each Alshari mage in their party, reminding them that they were representing the duchy . . . and exhorting them to make a good showing.

They arrived at the city at dusk, casting beautiful magelights to hover over their procession as they made their way through the crowded streets of Castabriel.  That attracted a lot of attention, particularly from the clergy whose evening services were disrupted by the spectacle.

“That was impressive,” Minalan told her, after a footman assisted Pentandra from her coach in front of the looming tower of the Arcane Orders’ headquarters. Liveried grooms came out and led the horses to the stable, too, which she found impressive.  That hadn’t happened when she was in charge.  She liked it.  “I’m surprised you didn’t arrange for a fanfare at your arrival,” he teased.  He looked older, more worn and tired, but genuinely pleased to see her.  She couldn’t help flirting a bit.

“Please, Minalan! I’m an old married lady now.  Such conceits are for young girls who need the attention.  It was honestly more about national pride than personal vanity,” she added.  “Anguin wanted us to make an impressive entrance to send the message to Castal that Alshar is alive and well.”

“Half-alive and coughing up blood, but I see his point,” Minalan agreed, only half-joking.  “You seem to have brought an awful lot of warmagi south.”

“The frontiers are quiet,” she shrugged as she followed him inside the great Chapterhouse.  How could she distract his attention from Ishi’s Night and the new threat of the undead?  Probably with politics, she decided.  “Anguin’s brought several important local barons under his sway and started re-organizing the nobility over what’s left of what he controls.  Vorone is relatively peaceful and enjoying some prosperity.  We didn’t even need to borrow to make payroll this month.  By next conclave he should actually have a real statelet to run.”

“That’s really amazing, Penny,” Minalan sighed, smiling.  “One little victory that will hopefully lead to many more.  Is Arborn with you?”

“No, he’s resting after a mission.  Is Alya with you?”

Minalan looked troubled.  “No, she . . . well, we broke that spell, with Ishi’s help.  She’s recovering.  I thought this might be a little much, after that . . .”

“Well, we’ll just have to entertain ourselves then,” she decided.  “To be honest, I’m eager for the break.  I never thought just being married would be so . . . tiring.”

“Just wait until the children start coming, then you will know the meaning of tired!” he said, ruefully.

Another subject she didn’t want to discuss – what was he, her mother?

Instead she asked about the enchantment enterprise in Sevendor, and she was safe.  No man can resist talking about his work, she knew, and Minalan was eager to update her about their progress.

After that she lost herself in agendas, committee meetings, social events, parties, and all the other fare of the Conclave.  She genuinely enjoyed throwing herself into the work, and was actually able to take advantage of some of the amazing opportunities afforded by the Conclave for a change.

She kept in touch with Arborn daily by Mirror, and managed to communicate with Alurra often enough to assure her that all was well back home.  She went shopping, this time among Castabriel’s familiar cosmopolitan markets, and bought gifts for her staff and servants back in Vorone.  She met with many a mage who was considering the opportunities that Alshar offered.  And some who had already taken advantage of them.

Pentandra thoroughly enjoyed her time catching up with her cousin Planus (including a private conversation about their continuing smuggling efforts), discussing commercial plans with Banamor, validating Gethlin’s efforts with organization of the Order, and even meeting with a group of magi who were interested in pursuing a life in the Wilderlands.  It was as if she had never been away from the big city and its busy life.

But she could not shake the feeling that something was afoot.

Perhaps it was the way that Minalan was dealing with the secret war the renegade Mask was waging against him, perhaps it was the rumors that Baroness Isily and Baron Dunselen were scheming about something (unlikely, with Isily in the late stages of her pregnancy, but Pentandra wasn’t sure that would stop the ambitious sorceress).

But the longer she was away from Vorone, the more uneasy she got.  Even her dreams were filled with forebodings that could not entirely be attributed to the rich and varied amount of alcohol she consumed.

The most difficult meeting was with her father.  Orisorio was enjoying his status as one of the leading magi of Remere, but when he sat down with his youngest daughter his face looked almost stricken.

“Do you have any idea the stress you’ve put your mother under?” he demanded.  “Running away to get married to some . . . some tribal nearly put her over the edge, Penny!  Are you trying to make my life miserable?” he complained.

“This was not about your life, Daddy,” she reproved.  “This was about my life – and Mother stopped being concerned about my future the moment I got my Talent, you know that.”

“That was when you had little expectation ahead of you save being a Resident Adept,” he pointed out.  “Now that you and Minalan have re-ordered everything, she felt you had plenty of potential.  Too much to waste on some . . . rustic!”

“Arborn is no mere rustic, Daddy,” she frowned.  “He’s a magnificent warrior and one of the highest ranked Kasari in the Wilderlands.  He is a ranger without peer.  And I love him,” she stressed.

Orisorio’s eyebrows jumped up skeptically.  “Not mere infatuation, Penny?”

She glared at him.  “How many times have I allowed infatuation to guide my life, Daddy?  That’s my sister, not me.  If I was going to be ruled by infatuation, would I not have pressed to make Minalan my husband?  Which you – and Mother – specifically warned me against?”

“Oh, your mother has reconsidered how she feels about Minalan,” he was quick to say.  “She would be quite in favor of you marrying him, now.”

Pentandra snorted.  “Only because he’s a baron, and the most powerful mage in the world.  When he was a pimply Narasi boy up her daughter’s skirts she wasn’t so forgiving.  But he is already married, to a dear friend of mine.  As am I, now,” she declared.  “Mother will just have to accept that fact.”

“I don’t think it’s the marriage that concerns her, as much as the fact that you did it all in secret,” Orisorio confided.  “That’s what’s really getting to her.  She wasn’t involved.”

“By design,” Pentandra said, sternly.  “I had enough of her interference when she was organizing tea parties with the handsome young boys in Remere before I was even a woman.  I’m not about to give her the means to torture me about something I hold dear.”

“She’s just worried,” Orisorio insisted.  “She doesn’t want to ruin your life; she merely wants to make certain that her little girl is happy.”

“So please let her know she can best accomplish this by not interfering with it,” Pentandra said, sweetly. “That’s what my sister is there for.”

Her discussions with her cousin were shorter, and less acrimonious.  Planus embraced her in the great hall between sessions on the third day of the Conclave and quietly handed her a leather purse heavy with coin.

“About two hundred and ten gold and some silver,” he murmured.

“What?” Pentandra asked, confused.

“That’s your share of the commodities deal,” he informed her.  “Split evenly between us.”

“I didn’t do that to make a profit!” she protested.  “I was just trying to help out the duchy!”

“And so you did – and your favorite cousin, too.  Now shut up and enjoy the rewards of your corruption like a proper Remeran,” he insisted, closing her fingers over the small, heavy bag.  “And let me know when you can get another few tons of ore together.  I’ve got more buyers,” he confided.

Pentandra didn’t know what else to do, so she tucked the bag into a pocket in her baculus and kept to her schedule.  It was enough money to purchase a fair-sized estate, she knew, but she didn’t really feel as if she’d earned it in the slightest.

On the second-to-last day of the Conclave, during a banquet, the quiet was broken by an urgent message from Alurra.  She’d used the Mirror array, in the absence of any High Magi to speak with her mistress mind-to-mind.

The message was simple but devastating: several bands of gurvani were infiltrating the lands outside of the Penumbra in an apparent, widespread and coordinated raid.  Anywhere from five to eight breakouts had been reported by the Iron Band warriors who watched the Penumbra.  Tudry, Megelin, Lorvay, and Yellin were all attacked, as were numerous smaller settlements.

Nor was the north the only apparent target, they learned as more information began to pour in by way of Mirror array.  Great packs of fell hounds carrying gurvani cavalry were suddenly fanning out across the hills and vales of the Wilderlands, attacking and slaughtering everything in their path.  Platoons of hobgoblin infantry and troops of raiders were striking dozens of villages.  Details were sketchy, at this point, but the message was clear: there was an assault underway, hundreds of leagues from her.

The news wasn’t all bad – Anguin had taken the opportunity to put his new men on alert, giving the first elements of the 3rd Commando who had arrived a chance to demonstrate their mettle in defense of Vorone.  The garrison, likewise, had been mustered and placed in defensive formations around the town, awaiting an assault.  Though there had not been any direct attack on the capital, yet, there were apparently large bands of gurvani in the area, headed in the direction of the town.

With a sinking heart, Pentandra realized that she’d left the duchy virtually unprotected.  And essentially advertised the fact to their foe.  A rising sense of panic jolted her brain out of despair, however, as she realized where she was . . . and what resources she currently had at her disposal.

When Minalan descended the podium after his amazingly boring speech, Pentandra didn’t hesitate to contact him mind-to-mind in the crowded room.

Word just came from Alshar, she told him.  Apparently someone has taken notice of our agenda.  A few hours ago several large bands of gurvani, some as large as a thousand, emerged from the Penumbra and are raiding the vales of Alshar at this very moment.

Ishi’s – damn.  How is Anguin contending with it?

Well, she admitted. He had the garrison put on alert and deployed about a third of the 3rd Commando to screen the town as cavalry.  My apprentice is overseeing the situation from Vorone and reporting.

That’s great.  When will – wait, your apprentice?  When did you gain an apprentice?

Perhaps you should have kept in closer touch.  You picked up one of your own, and didn’t tell me.  But we can argue about that later.  She tells me that there are at least five to eight separate columns leaving the Penumbra.  Right now, I need a way to get all these warmagi back out into the field quickly, and I don’t see any Alka Alon songmasters around.  Where the hell are they?

They’re still dealing with their own issues.  We’re on our own.  The good news is that I can take one and maybe two people back to Vorone, at a time.  The even better news is that I recently discovered that any of the Alkan Seven stones have the proper song in them to activate the Waypoints . . . I just haven’t had time to teach anyone else.

I’ll start picking out who needs to go first.  You start working on a good headache compound.  It’s going to be a busy night.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Midsummer Raid

Word of the sudden attack on Alshar spread quickly through the Conclave, particularly among her Alshari wizards.  The news was outrageous, after the many months of relative peace, and the Alshari delegation was angry that their absence had been taken advantage of by the gurvani.

Magelords were not the type to file a complaint about a treaty violation through the proper authorities, Pentandra realized.  The warmagi of the Penumbra were angered, and wanted a direct response to the attack – after they defended against it.

Some, led by Azar, Bendonal and the other Horkan Order warmagi, wanted to leave at once to go defend their lands as fast as their horses could carry them – or magic could propel them.  Minalan gave them fifteen minutes to prepare before he transported them by the Alkan Ways, while Pentandra went to organize a more coordinated response with Astyral and Carmella – two of the cooler heads of the delegation.  As Alshari Ducal Court Wizard, she realized suddenly, Pentandra was automatically in charge of the duchy’s Magical Corps.  And Alshar was at war.

Her blood was racing as she imagined the mayhem of the sudden and unexpected attack back in the Wilderlands.  Just as life was getting back to normal (or, at least, wasn’t catastrophic) the folk of the Wilderlands were struck again at high summer.

Part of her mind tried to soothe her by pointing out that it was likely merely a series of raids to probe defenses, not a serious attack.  That would be little comfort to the hundreds who would perish, however.

She felt helpless to stop their deaths and suffering, hundreds of leagues from Vorone . . . which was a dozen leagues from the nearest attack.  From what the quick, oftentimes panicked dispatches made clear. there were at least a dozen separate offensives issuing from the Penumbra, all at once.

She was the damn Court Wizard.  She had to do something.

Pentandra spent ten minutes in conversation, mind-to-mind, with the few High Magi she could contact back home.  After the initial reports, it appeared that the thrusts toward stout Megelin and powerful Tudry were only feints, as the hordes turned aside and raided nearby villages instead.

Azar wisely called it an apparent attempt to draw out the defenders, and praised the Tudrymen from afar for not falling for the lure.  That was good news, in a way, Pentandra decided.  Despite the horrible price the peasants of those villages would pay, if the gurvani weren’t attacking the strong points of the duchy’s defenses, it was unlikely that this was a real resumption of hostilities.  She went on to check with magi she knew in Lorvay, Yellin, and the pele towers to verify their status, to verify the reports.

She only came out of her trance when Minalan’s old apprentices, Tyndal and Rondal, unexpectedly appeared at her chamber.

She was confused at first until they explained that while the Spellmonger felt he did not have the political authority to interfere, he had used the Ways to bring them back from their mission to Enultramar to assist her.  They weren’t on house arrest, and they were actually real Alshari knights magi, as well.

Minalan’s assistance made sense, but it was also another blow.  Minalan could not, she knew, very well take part in a war in Alshar when he was supposed to be in internal exile in Sevendor.  That was a pain – Minalan was an astute military leader – but probably just as well, she decided.  Her powerful friend had enough in his bowl without her adding more from hers.

She appreciated the loan of his apprentices, at least.  Tyndal and Rondal were worth more than a handful of regular wizards in a situation like this.  They were already geared for war.  They were adept warmagi, competent wizards, and brave leaders, when necessary.  And they had grown so much since she’d seen them last, both in height and build, that she barely recognized them.

Tyndal looked at her sympathetically.  Rondal looked determined.

“Master Minalan suggested that you might need some help,” Rondal said, gently.  “We are completely at your disposal.”

“We’re between assignments right now . . . what can we do?” Tyndal asked, firmly.

“Go see how many warmagi want to pick up bounties from Duke Anguin,” she suggested, her eyes darting back and forth between them.  They were men, now, she saw, not the boys she’d met a few years before.  Confident, bold, strong and determined men.  The kind she needed in a situation like this.  “And if you want to participate, prepare yourselves.  We’re leaving as soon as Minalan can figure out how to get us there through the Ways.”

As it turned out, that wasn’t quite necessary.  Minalan came to her with important news, as Tyndal and Rondal were gathering up volunteers to respond to the crisis.

The Spellmonger explained that Gareth (a failed warmage but one of Minalan’s prized magical retainers) had figured out how to use the Alka Alon songspells embedded in the special witchstones they’d given to Minalan – and he in turn had given to the top magi in the two militant orders, as well as Pentandra herself.

So instead of rushing around the Order Motherhouse packing furiously and getting ready to beat a team of horses until she was in Vorone, she and two dozen other magi ended up getting a crash tutorial in how to use the Ways from the bird-chested mage.

It was simpler than she’d anticipated.  Alka Alon magic wasn’t complicated, she was realizing, it was just different.  And it helped if you could sing, which was not one of Pentandra’s native talents.  Thankfully she didn’t have to – the spell in her perfect sphere, within its perfect torus, already knew the trick.

She watched as one warmage after another made the trip, first with Gareth or Dara the Hawkmaiden, then more on their own as they mastered the spell and discovered Waypoints that would allow them to get to the action.

Pentandra did her absolute best to coordinate as the forces were hurtled back to the Wilderlands.  That challenged her ability to dispose of the forces she had available, in context of the human warriors already meeting the foe.

Azar and Bendonal went back to Megelin, that was easy enough, and Astyral and his magi were returned to Tudry.  Carmella returned to Salik Tower, to coordinate the defense of the six pele towers in the crisis.

But that left a lot of spare magi around the hall who were still eager to fight, but had neither duty to do so or lands to compel them – including Terleman.

Among the greatest of the warmagi, according to his peers, Terleman was nearly sulking with the disastrous outbreak of peace that had accompanied last year’s treaty. As had the three great Commando units Count Salgo had recruited, the cadre of royal warmagi dedicated to actively fighting the goblins in Gilmora had been disbanded after the Treaty.  Though he had been awarded lands for his service to crown, coronet, and humanity in general, Terleman didn’t seem to have much interest in being a magelord.

He was more than eager for the chance to go to battle again, particularly against the gurvani, and when Pentandra extended the invitation to spearhead the defense of Vorone, he leapt at it.  She had Dara take him through to the Waypoint associated with the Crypt of Murvos, the same one the undead had used to escape, with a quick warrant she’d scrawled across the back of a piece of parchment declaring him her deputy.

His immediate duty once he crossed the threshold, Pentandra insisted, was to post a magical guard upon the crypt.  It was the only Waypoint she knew of within Vorone, proper, when her personal equipment wasn’t there, and she knew that the Nemovorti were well aware of it.  The last thing the town needed was an assault on the walls while it was being gutted from within by immortal undead.

After dispatching one warmage after another across Alshar, a process that took hours, Pentandra finally realized that she was running out of magi to deploy.  The pele towers, Vorone, Tudry, and everywhere else she could think of was reinforced, now.  It was about time for her to return to the Wilderlands and take a more active role, she knew.

She sought out Minalan, who was sleeping in his chambers, guarded by his two young apprentices.  Pentandra wanted to let him know she was going, as well as brief him on the situation.

He was clearly exhausted.  Too many Waypoint trips too close together, she realized.  Thank the gods Gareth had figured out how other magi could use the Waypoints, she decided, as she insisted that Minalan let her handle the Alshari situation.  He needed rest, she could tell, and she would update him if she needed him.

Then she used the Waypoint spell for the first time . . . and found herself back in the depths of the Crypt of Murvos.

The sudden assault of the musty air on her nostrils and the dampness against her skin instantly recalled the horror of that terrible night, but instead of goblins and undead she was greeted by Ormar the Alchemist, who had agreed to coordinate from the Waypoint site.  She conquered her nausea at the transport, proud of herself for not vomiting.

“Most of the crew are up at the palace,” the short, curly-haired warmage informed her, “trying to get a handle on the situation and prepare a response.  They’re waiting for you.”  He bore a battle staff just slightly taller than he was, of strange configuration.  Instead of the usual gems, crystals, coral and such, Ormar’s staff seemed lined with copper and silver and other strangeness.  Alchemical tubes, she realized.  But that’s not what was confusing her.

“Why are they waiting for me?”

He looked at her like she was crazy.  “You’re the Ducal Court Wizard!  You’re automatically in charge of the Magical Corps during a military crisis, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Pentandra said, chagrinned.  “I suppose I am.  Has the city been attacked yet?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Ormar reported, scratching his long black beard.  “But there are at least three bands of them stomping around outside, terrorizing the refugee camps.  Landrik is chasing them down with a few squadrons of volunteers.  He loves that sort of thing,” he confided.

“I guess I’d better go, then,” she agreed, biting he lip nervously as she started up the cold, dark stone stairs.  “It’s a long walk back to the palace.”

“I believe someone sent a carriage for you,” he called after her.  “It should be waiting!”

When she exited the oppressively dark doors to the crypt, there was, indeed, a buggy waiting for her – with Arborn uncharacteristically droving.  She looked at her husband in surprise.

“What are you doing here?  Aren’t there goblins attacking or something?”

He grinned, sheepishly.  “That’s what I said, but Jerics insists I’m still too injured to be considered hale enough for battle.  I think he just wants a chance to prove himself for once.  I feel fine.”

“Tonight might be that night,” she said as she hoisted herself into the light little buggy next to her husband.  “From what I can tell, there are dozens of raids going on.”

“That’s too much to be a coincidence,” Arborn observed, urging the horses forward toward the palace.  “They have to be coordinating.  Probing our defenses, perhaps?”

“That’s what I’d say,” Pentandra agreed.  “But they waited until the magi were gone.  So what did they hope to gain?”

“You’re asking me to second-guess goblins?” he asked, surprised.

“More thinking out loud, Husband,” she smiled.  She’d missed his calm, grounded manner after the inflated egos of the Conclave.  “Just trying to see what they’re after.  That damned undead, Ocajon, warned us that there would be something coming – maybe this is what he was talking about.”

“Doesn’t this violate the Treaty?” he asked, as they left the Temple ward and headed for the palace.

“Do you think it matters?” she shot back.  “That treaty was for us, not them.  Something to make Tavard think of himself as a hero, nothing more.  What are we going to do about it – complain to the gurvani?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking about doing,” he grumbled.  She could tell he was hurt by being put on reserves by his own lieutenant – but he also was not the kind of man to doubt the judgment of his subordinates in such a case.

“Don’t worry, Husband,” she sighed, as they rounded the corner and the palace – with far too many lights on inside for this time of night – came into sight.  “I have a sinking feeling you’ll get all of the fighting you want, before this is over.”

Her office was crowded when she arrived, as Terleman had taken over the examination room as a headquarters and had even procured a map of the Wilderlands from somewhere.

To Pentandra’s eye he looked better than he had since Rard had dissolved his position as Knight Commander after the treaty with the goblins was signed – the same bureaucratic bloodbath that had removed Count Salgo and a dozen other military commanders.  Seeing him in front of a map, focused on work he knew best, put life in the man she thought he’d lost.

Terleman had wasted no time in using it to determine the nature and the extent of the incursions, and after he’d issued some quick orders he’d begun noting the situation on both a magemap and a parchment map of the entire region, so that the non-magi could witness the battles unfolding.

He took a moment to fill her in on the situation.

“Sorry if I overstepped,” he began, as he led her to the table where his map was laid out.  “But no one else was taking the lead, and Count Salgo kept asking me for help, so . . .”

“I honestly appreciate the initiative,” Pentandra assured him.  “That’s why I deputized you.  I don’t really have a warmage on staff at the moment, and this sort of thing isn’t really a strength of mine,” she confessed.

“Well, the good news is that between that ratty old garrison and the 3rd Commando, Vorone hasn’t had any serious issues with the gurvani,” he reported.  “They’ve even been able to protect the larger villages and estates in the valley.  But many of the outlying baronies have been hit, some hard.

“How hard?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“I just received word that Count Marcadine is leading a force against a particularly aggressive band that crossed the frontier and attacked the Iron Band garrison closest to the Umbra,” he said, gesturing to a pile of dispatches that were flowing in.  “Baron . . . Daranal?  He was in town on a shopping expedition, and volunteered to take his own guard and a score of militia to keep the roads clear to the west.  I had a few of the warmagi you sent posted to the walls or leading skirmishers outside of them, but so far no one has had the balls to challenge them.”

“How are we getting word so quickly?  Magic?”

“Some,” admitted Terleman.  “But those Kasari of yours are adept at communications.  I don’t know if they’re turning themselves into birds or what, but three times, now, Kasari have brought word of movements no one else has learned.”

“My men are good at what they do,” Arborn said with a shrug.

“What about Tudry?  And Megelin?  And the pele towers?”

“Still awaiting word,” Terleman said, grimly.  “But we’re certain now that all six towers have been attacked.  Someone inside the Penumbra doesn’t like the new construction.  Tudry itself was not attacked, but its dependent villages were.  No one in their right mind would attack Megelin without a full artillery train.  And there doesn’t seem to be much other activity beyond the river.  Now, if you can help me sort through these dispatches and place these markers, let’s see what kind of battle we’re really dealing with, shall we?”

For the rest of the night and long into morning Pentandra oversaw the sudden defensive campaign.  Count Salgo sent several dispatches to her, and a few requests, and when he got back from a patrol at dawn he brought her a basket of biscuits from the kitchen.

Even as the palace woke up around her, she was still involved in coordinating the defenses of the duchy against the far-flung attack.  Alurra brought her tea and she barely realized it.  Breakfast appeared and she ate without tasting it.  But the string of new updates from the field kept arriving by Mirror array, or mind-to-mind, or by more mundane means, and she had to keep updating the map.

At some point Minalan checked in with her. While she dutifully reported the status of the several battles evolving in the dawn twilight, she was anxious to get back to work – she really didn’t want Minalan here, right now.  Not when he had so much going on.

Besides, Terleman wanted to prepare a surprise counterattack, using several units that had been mobilized but had not been used in the defense, and she had to clear that with the Duke.

Luckily, Anguin saved her the trip to his quarters by appearing in her office with the Prime Minister to inspect the conduct of the battle.  She was delighted he kept his mouth shut as she and Terleman issued the final orders to put their pieces into place before she turned to speak directly with her superior.

“Things are going well, Your Grace,” she said with a tired sigh, when he invited her to report.  “We think that the gurvani took advantage of our reported absence and struck, figuring that it would take us a week or more to return.  Thankfully the Spellmonger has resources,” she said, proudly.  “We were able to get our magical corps – including a gracious number of volunteers – back into place using magic, and that stopped their advance along most lines.”

“The Alkan Waypoints?” Anguin asked, curious.

“Your Grace has been paying attention,” Terleman nodded, appreciatively.  “Master Gareth of Sevendor discovered how some of us can repeat Minalan’s feat and use them ourselves.  Which took the foe utterly by surprise.  Azar and Bendonal are both leading punitive expeditions to chase the raiders back into the Penumbra, at dawn,” he reported.  “Sir Landrik has attacked a band of a hundred, ten miles north, northeast of town, but that was no threat to us.  They took a few small hamlets and tested the defenses of the pele towers.  Whatever inspired the gurvani to strike, it wasn’t a quest for conquest.”

“We should be able to keep them at bay from most of the major settlements,” Pentandra added.  “We’re going to send a relief expedition from Megelin to Salik Tower, where Carmella and her folk have been attacked most viciously.  It’s the closest pele tower to there, and the one attracting the most goblins at the moment.”

“Let me armor up,” the Duke decided.  “I think it’s time I took my new gentlemen of the 3rd Commando on a walk.”

Pentandra looked at the lad, concerned.  “Your Grace, do you think that wise?”

Anguin chuckled.  “Not particularly.  Angrial and Amus will be having conniptions if I go.  Nonetheless, my realm is under assault.  It is my place to defend it,” he said, resolutely.

After the Duke left, things started to slow down as the bright morning sun forced the nocturnal goblins to take cover.  The only exception was Traveler’s Tower, in the north, which was being assailed by as many undead corpses as goblins.

Pentandra was particularly interested in that, and spent a goodly amount of time in mind-to-mind communication with the keeper of the tower to learn specifics.  Thankfully, the undead seemed to be of the stupid-and-slow-moving type, not the Nemovorti she feared.  Still, the presence of so many, all in once spot, suggested that the Necromancer of the Mindens was playing this game in earnest, now, and not merely working with the gurvani.

That did little to ease her mind.

At some point, Terleman summoned Arborn to put Pentandra to bed.  She tried to protest, but the yawn that erupted from her lips the moment she opened them undercut her argument.  She reluctantly followed her husband upstairs to their chamber and allowed him to tuck her in.

She was asleep the moment her eyelids closed.

When she finally awoke, several hours later, darkness was already beginning to set.  Pentandra’s heart started racing as she remembered the attack, and she nearly flew downstairs to see what had transpired while she napped.

“Things have been quiet,” Terleman told her, tiredly.  “After you went to sleep, it was mostly coordinating troops to interpose themselves between vulnerable villages and the goblins.  The undead were cleared from Traveler’s Tower, and the Duke is leading a relief expedition to Salik Tower.”

“Is Carmella in danger?” she asked, concerned.  Terleman chuckled in response.

“No, actually, the gurvani haven’t breeched the walls, they’re still formed up beyond her ditch.  She’s using the opportunity to test out some of her crew’s siege engines, though,” he explained.  “Whatever goblin captain is in charge of the attack is tenacious, I’ll hand them that.  From the dispatches it sounds like every time he gets within a hundred feet of her walls, he retreats with another dozen casualties.  But they are getting annoying, so Anguin is riding north to join a party of Megelini to relieve them.”

“What about Salgo?”

“Leading three hundred 3rd Commandos up the road toward Tudry, as of noon,” he supplied.  “Along the way they’re planning on relieving an Iron Band depot under siege.”

Pentandra considered.  “So, in your professional opinion, what was their goal?”

Terleman looked thoughtful.  Of all of the warmagi she knew, he was the one who approached his art with the passion and dedication that she devoted to her own studies.  She respected his opinion about warmagic and warfare more than even Minalan’s.

“Honestly?  I haven’t the faintest idea.  It makes no sense, strategically speaking, and not much sense tactically speaking.  Look at the places they’ve attacked: Reeveshaven, Miller’s Mount, Foranz, Ostel, Yellin – apart from the pele towers, they haven’t attacked anything worth having,” he said, disgustedly.  “If I had to guess, I’d say this was merely a terror raid.  The gurvani letting off steam, like the Pearwoods tribes do when they raid lowlanders.  Unless there is some deeper purpose to this that I can’t see, that seems to be the best explanation.”

Pentandra sighed.  That was both good news and bad news.  Good news that Alshar wasn’t being overwhelmed by the gurvani, bad news that their effort seemed to make no sense.  “Blowing off steam?”

“Well, we just don’t know enough about gurvani internal politics,” conceded the warmage, “but if I had to guess I’d say that the new influence of Korbal is having a transformational effect on the goblins.  This may have been a way of working out some of the friction that results, kind of like when Castal and Remere went to war twenty years ago to keep a couple of counties from getting too cozy.  Which means this war is spoiled, now,” he said, with good-natured disgust.  That took Pentandra by surprise.

“Spoiled?  How?”

“Because when it started, it was an invasion, purely genocidal war.  Very straight-forward.  Delightfully free of politics.  Now we not only have politics on this side of the battle, but we have it on theirs.  And politics always screws up war.  That’s why Luin and Duin don’t get along,” he added, philosophically.

Pentandra was tempted to explain, upon the strength of her recent experience, a multitude of other reasons why the god of War and Battle might not be congenial with the god of Law and Reason, but she held her tongue.  If the other gods were anything like Ishi, she didn’t want to invoke them just on the off chance they might manifest.

“That’s a fascinating perspective,” she nodded.  “I suppose war without politics does sound like a good thing to a warrior—”

“It would be a bloody paradise,” Terleman assured.

“But the fact is, war is the alternative to politics,” she lectured.  “It’s just politics with swords.”

“But ever so much more satisfying,” he mused.  “Say, do you think Anguin would have a position open for an advisor?” he asked, suddenly.  “Not that I want to take your spot, of course –I’d rather have a tooth pulled – but I’m sort of between postings right now,” he admitted, gloomily.

“Are you broke?” she asked, surprised.

“Me?  Good gods, no!” Terleman laughed.  “I’ve got more money than I could spend in two lifetimes.  I’m just bored.  I bought a little estate in Gilmora, and figured I’d be happy puttering around there, but . . . well, let’s just say I wasn’t designed by the gods for estate administration,” he said, blushing a little.

“I can’t promise anything, but Anguin is making a point to reach out and recruit new warmagi to settle the eastern reaches,” she volunteered.  “We’ve been kicking around the idea of building a real fortress out there, something that could distract any further incursions from the Penumbra.  If last night taught me anything,” she decided, “it’s the merits of that argument.  The gurvani wouldn’t have come near the pele towers if there were a few cavalry regiments in a castle on the other side of the hills,” she proposed.

“Would Carmella be involved in that?”

“She is one of the leading warmagi of the region,” Pentandra answered, dryly.  “And the head of the Hesian Order.”

“Then count me in!” Terleman said, enthusiastically.  “It’s either that or go play mercenary in Castali or Remeran dynastic wars.  Talk about boring . . .”

“That certainly sounds more lucrative,” Pentandra pointed out.

“Yeah, but money isn’t the problem,” Terleman replied.  “There are too many rules.  Kill that guy.  Don’t kill this guy.  Kill that guy’s family, but not that brother.  It gets confusing.  It’s easier when everything small, black and furry is a target.  Less room for complications.”

“What about undead?”

He shrugged.  “I’ve faced them before.  The Mad Mage used them abundantly, in the last days before the assault on his palace,” he reminded her.  “Min and Sandy and I used to have to hack our way through them just getting home from patrol.  They’re tough, but they’re slow and stupid.  Like fighting a really determined cow.  They don’t scare me.”

Pentandra considered.  She really wanted to share the news of the Nemovorti with Terleman, but she worried he would share it with Minalan – and the Spellmonger had enough on his plate as it was.  She didn’t know the warmage well, but Terleman was universally respected among his colleagues, and had a reputation for reliability and trustworthiness she wanted to take advantage of.

“If I make a recommendation to Anguin about you, can I invoke your discretion about something?”

That caught his attention.  “Uh, sure!  What’s on your mind?”

“There have been some recent incursions of undead into Alshar,” she explained, slowly.  “Not the simple and stupid variety, either.  One of Korbal’s lieutenants – his herald, if he is to be believed – infiltrated Vorone a few weeks ago.  Arborn and I and . . . some other agents managed to drive it off, but before it went we learned that we’ll likely be facing a lot more of these undead – they call themselves Nemovorti – before long.”

“Undead?  Smart undead?” The big warmage looked worried, as he stroked his clean-shaven chin.

“Well, smart enough to talk.  And use magic,” she added.

Terleman frowned. “Magic?  Oh, that’s not good.  That’s not good at all!  It’s bad enough when they’re slow and stupid . . .”

“Well, these aren’t.  Nor are they merely human corpses raised and commanded.  They are autonomous, and they have tremendous power.”

“Where the hells did they come from?  It sounds like Sheruel is getting creative.”

“Not really – they’re allies, not vassals, apparently.  Minions of Korbal the Demon God.  They appear to be ancient Alka Alon souls whose spirits were captured by Korbal, before he was entombed, and they shared his fate.  And they appear to have some living Alka Alon assistance, too,” she added.  “If they are giving aid to the gurvani, we have a problem.  If they’re leading the gurvani, we have a huge problem.  They aren’t easy to kill, either.  It took Arborn and an entire squad of Kasari to decapitate one of them.  And it took a goddess getting really pissed off to banish another.”

“A . . . goddess?” Terleman asked, skeptically.  “Ishi’s tits, Pen, what the hells have you been doing here?”

“Long story,” she said, shaking her head.  “But at the end of it, we’re going to be playing a much tighter game up here in Alshar, now.  This raid has clinched it.  This Nemovort is subtle, devious and powerful.  He’s also in the body of an incredibly muscular Wilderlord, minus the mustache, and can pass at a distance as human.  He and his kin were tracking something – someone – here to Vorone, but didn’t find them.  I doubt they’ve stopped looking.  If what the abomination said was true, then there are going to be a lot more of the active on the field, too.

“But for a variety of reasons, I don’t want to alarm Minalan about that, yet.  He’s got a lot on his mind.”

“You’re telling me!” Terleman snorted.  “For the last year he’s been like a mopey boy, boy, not the half-decent warmage I knew I Farise.  I thought it was just marriage and property getting to him, but when I saw him at the Conclave, I knew there was more to it than that.”

“There’s a lot going on with him right now,” she agreed.  “I’d rather not make this his problem until we need to.”

“Agreed.  But at what point do you think he should know?”

“When we have to tell him,” she shrugged.  “To quote the Spellmonger, ‘I don’t know, I’m making this up as I go along!’.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re not watching out for them, now.  If we need him, we can call him.  Hells, we can call any of the High Magi who have Seven Stones, now, and that’s a lot of powerful friends to have.  Besides, there isn’t much more Minalan could do about it than the rest of us could.  Don’t worry, I can keep it quiet.  Especially if it’s part of my job,” he added with a wink.

Pentandra felt relief at securing the big man’s concession.  The last thing she needed was Minalan thinking he needed to come to Alshar to save her.  With Terleman on her side here, Min wouldn’t have any reason to think she needed help.  And she had no compunctions about recommending him for a post to the Duke.  He had taken over her responsibilities as head of the military Magical Corps better than she ever could.

“Oh, I meant to mention,” he added, “while you were asleep some non-military messages came through the Mirror array.  I saw one that might interest you.  Your old friend Isily and her dotard husband are apparently delivered of a baby boy.  Mother and child are doing fine at home in Greenflower.”

Suddenly so much made sense about Minalan and his moods that she felt her world wobble a little as all the details clicked into place.

Of course she’d heard about Isily’s pregnancy.  That was the sort of mundane gossip  about the nobility that everyone was interested in.  But despite the novelty of a magelord and lady producing an heir to a mageland, there wasn’t much else of interest in it.

Except when Pentandra’s mind went to work on the problem, everything made perfect sense . . . if you assumed that Minalan, not Dunselen, was the father of Isily’s child.  If you postulated that, then everything – his attitude, his fearful demeanor, his melancholia – all of it made sense in that perspective.  It explained his reluctance to cause political waves, his insular attitude of late, and even his nervousness at the Conclave.

Pentandra was already aware of the first child – a daughter – that Isily had contrived to have from Minalan.  To compound her betrayal by forcing him to sire a second child, when he was well-established and she was newlywed, not only made Pentandra’s soul burn in bright disgust for her former friend, it gave her new sympathy for Minalan.

She started to do the math in her head.  That would place it around last autumn . . . about the same time as the Magic Fair in Sevendor.  Pentandra had been too busy with the novelty of her new husband and the prospect of changing positions that she hadn’t really been paying much attention, but of course she remembered seeing Isily there.  And Minalan.

And that’s about when Minalan’s melancholy began.

The more she thought about it, the more astute guesses she could make.  Such as Ishi’s involvement – how could the sex goddess fail to notice such an important infidelity?  Despite her claim to being a goddess of “love”, Ishi’s dedication was to the erotic moment, not the long-term consequences of the act.  Or to commitment.  Hells, Ishi hated commitment.  That was Trygg’s domain.  Ishi was all about passion and immediacy.

Suddenly Pentandra became that much more pissed off with her goddess.  Regardless of her sphere, to brazenly manipulate her friend like that . . . that violated nearly every rule of sophisticated sexual ethics.  She could just imagine Ishi hovering to the side, cheering on Minalan as he betrayed his wife with his former mistress.

Bitch!

“That . . . oh, gods,” she shuddered.  “That explains a lot.  Hells, that explains everything!”

Terleman didn’t understand.  Of course, she didn’t expect him to.

“What does?  What the hells are you talking about, Penny?” he demanded.

“Just putting the pieces together,” she admitted.  “Be happy you hate politics, my friend.  Even those of us who do play that horrific game have a hard time facing the results.  Minalan is going to need us – need us all – before long, I fear, and depending on what he does, it may make this unfortunate raid look like a children’s picnic in comparison!”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Magewar

The palace was surprisingly quiet when she finally used the Alkan Ways to arrive back in the crypt, despite its horrific associations, long past midnight.  She hurried through the town as quickly as she could, thankful she did not meet any of Vorone’s indigent nightlife.  Even though she had Everkeen with her, ready to strike at need, she did not have the time.  The Wilderlands were burning, and she had to see to their defense.  By the time she came to alert guards at the palace gate, her cloth slippers were nearly destroyed and she was out of breath.

Most of the court was asleep, blissfully unaware of the scattered attacks on settlements throughout the Wilderlands.  Only her office and Count Salgo’s seemed to have any measure of activity around them, with magelights beaming from the former and tapers flickering from the latter.  But there was little activity elsewhere at this hour.

Terleman was already sitting in the examination room, his witchstone on the table among dozens of slips of parchment as he was trying to construct what was happening on an old map of the region Pentandra had found in her office when she moved in.  Three other warmagi were also assisting, she saw, two by scrying and scribbling down their results, one by contacting High Magi mind-to-mind to coordinate a strong defense.  As all four men were contributing information, they had selected a parchment model to a magemap.

She glanced at the thing as she came in, long enough to notice the widespread nature of the attack against various points in the north . . . and, perhaps more telling, the points which were not being attacked.

When Pentandra summoned Everkeen to assist, she was amazed as the baculus took her desire to understand the attack and manifested an impressive magemap filled with the positions on the parchment map on the table.  Both knots of known enemies and concentrations of allies were displayed on the magical representation, and as she viewed the result with magesight she noted something else: no settlement large enough to mount an effective response was attacked.

Tudry, Megelin, some of the other baronial castles left in the north had all been spared the raid.  Plenty of large villages or small towns had been hit, as had several pele towers and older manors now held by the Iron Band, but nothing that would change their strategic disposition in the north.

When Everkeen had provided as comprehensive assessment of the situation as it could, it surprised Pentandra even further when it began making suggestions about how to respond to the incursions.

In moments she began suggesting troop dispositions to Terleman as she figured out which points were actually in danger, and which were being used as feints.  Sending a platoon of Tudry infantry to the village of Gael, for instance, or a contingent of mounted Iron Band troopers against a squadron of Fell Hound-mounted gurvani who were holding a ford against them.

But just as soon as she’d determined one solution to a problem, new information would arrive that forced her to change her plans.  Goblin units appeared and disappeared across the map, seemingly by magic . . . when usually it was an error in observation at fault.  Using the adepts’ scrying reports and cross-referencing them with eye-witness accounts being forwarded by High Magi across the Wilderlands kept her from sending their limited forces chasing shadows.

Everkeen helped her keep up with the diverse field reports and troop dispositions better than any map.  At one point she went down to the Mirror array herself to send explicit instructions to Tudry, when all the High Magi there had been deployed.  But her quick action led to a decisive victory at a nearby village that Everkeen suggested was the real target of the goblins.  That was but one of many close calls that evening.

By dawn’s twilight it was clear that the goblins had predicated their attacks on the idea that the High Magi would be gone.  If they were merely testing defenses, Terleman reasoned, then they’d learned a valuable lesson: Alshari magi were not to be trifled with.

The field report of Azar’s skirmish with a legion of hobgoblins bore this out when he determined that not one in a hundred had escaped his arcane wrath.  It helped that his old comrade Baron Wenek, one of the warmagi who specialized in destructive combat magic, was riding with him and was able to unleash some spectacularly deadly spells; but even when the relatively restrained warmagi, like Bendonal the Outlaw or Sandoval, encountered the foe they were likewise victorious.

“It was like they were trying to lose on purpose,” Pentandra said, an hour into the new day, wiping the sleep from her eyes.  She was about to ask Alurra for another cup of strong tea, but she saw her exhausted apprentice was asleep in a corner, huddled against her maid, her crow between them with its beak under its wing.  A dog she didn’t recognize was sprawled under their skirts.

“No,” Terleman said, thoughtfully, “but whatever their objective was, it clearly was tied to the magi being gone from here.  We could theorize that this is because they are weak, and thus ripe for a strong reprisal or resumption of general hostilities.”

“But you don’t think that’s correct,” Pentandra ventured.

“No, I really don’t,” Terleman yawned.  “As much as I’d like to believe it, that isn’t corroborated by what we know about their forces inside the Umbra.   You saw what their column looked like at the Poros,” he reminded her.

“Yes, it was horrific,” she agreed, recalling the hideous black ice and the stain the gurvani left behind upon it.

“Now look at what attacked us: Fell Hounds, light infantry, skirmishers, a few heavy infantry units in tougher spots, some general raiding by their tribals, a few dedicated raids, like those at Salik Tower,  Anguin’s Tower and Traveler’s Tower, and that’s it.  No trolls, No dragons.  No siege worms.  No nightsails.  In fact, from the reports there were damn few shaman involved at all.  And no Black Skulls,” he said, naming the dark priesthood of Sheruel who had overseen his troops thus far.  “That, itself, is telling.”

“So what is it telling you?” she demanded.  “My brain is asleep, my mouth just doesn’t realize it yet.”

He grinned.  “Welcome to guard duty!  It’s telling because it suggests that this little midnight garden party was not sanctioned by the Big Green Marble.   Which indicates a bit of a power struggle amongst our foes.”

“Well, you might be right about that,” Pentandra agreed.

As Pentandra mulled over the weighty news of Isily’s birthing and Minalan’s shame, she tried to get back to work.  There was plenty to do, especially in terms of tidying up the duchy after the abortive raids across the country.

As she filed through the morning’s dispatches, ignoring Terleman snoring in the corner, she saw that most of the incursions had been defeated or forced to withdraw.  The damage reports were still being assembled, but the news from Tudry, Megelin, and most of the pele towers was good.  The magi at Traveler’s Tower even succeeded with a spell that had proven effective against undead – which Pentandra found splendid news.

Even better, politically speaking, was the news that Duke Anguin and three hundred 3rd Commandos, as well as fifty gentlemen of his court, had ridden to relieve SalikTower successfully.

The 3rd had formed up into two divisions, one cavalry and one infantry, and managed to drive the gurvani between them.  After a brief but bloody battle the remnants withdrew in chaos and the tower was relieved.  Anguin was still there, helping with the damage and celebrating the victory with Carmella.  Hopefully that would help sell him on the idea of her building him a great fortress in the north.

Alurra brought her tea and biscuits while she worked, uncharacteristically quiet.  The third time she checked on her to see what she needed, Pentandra looked up sharply.

“What seems to be the matter, Alurra?”

“Uh . . . sorry, Mistress,” she said, contritely.  “I’ve just never experienced war before.  Hearing tales of battles fought hundreds of miles away, hearing about casualties and such . . . it’s just a bit overwhelming.”

“I understand,” Pentandra said, sympathetically.  “This is not what I went to the Academy for.  But let it instruct you: as magi, we are often called upon to deal with challenges outside of where we are comfortable.  As powerful as magic is, our ability to think and adapt is more powerful.  You aren’t training to be a hedgewitch anymore, Alurra, you’re learning how to be a real wizard.  Which means that you often will find yourself doing things you never imagined you could do.”

“What if . . . what if that . . . that thing comes back?” she asked, in a voice just above a whisper.  Her sightless eyes looked stricken with anxiety.  Lucky, on her shoulder, was looking away pointedly.

“Then we, as wizards, will deal with it,” Pentandra said, firmly.  “Why was it pursuing you?  Old Antimei’s . . . book?” she ventured.

Alurra bit her lip nervously, then nodded.  “It has all her stories in it,” she answered, hoarsely.  “All the stories she’s known for all the years she’s lived there.”

A book of prophecy . . . from a prophet with thirty years of experience.

Despite her terror at regarding such a thing and the dangers it posed, Pentandra could not help feel a hungry curiosity about what was within.  Would Old Antimei’s tale of the future show the magi triumphant?  Or would it see the gurvani devour all of humanity?  And would Pentandra be able to resist her own curiosity if she was ever faced with the temptation to look upon the pages of that book?

Prophecy was dangerous, she reminded herself.  And then reminded herself again a few moments later, when she found her mind asking the same question.

“So . . . why would an evil undead want to know the future?” Alurra asked.

“The same reason anyone else would,” Pentandra shrugged.  “To see what happens.  To avoid tragedy and folly, and pursue that which is rewarding.  To cheat fate of the burden of free will,” she said, feeling philosophic.

“Then we definitely don’t want to give it to them,” Alurra vowed.  “My head is spinning from just a few months of stories.  Knowing about the undead, the rats, the riots, the undead, the goddess, Greenflower, all before it happened . . . it’s more than my poor mind can take!”

“What, Greenflower?  What do you know about Greenflower?” Pentandra demanded.

“That I shouldn’t have said it!” she said, slapping both hands over her mouth.  “Damn it to bloody hell!”

She left her office with all the drama a teenage girl could muster.  Pentandra stifled a smile, then let it happen anyway.  It wasn’t as if Alurra could see it.

An hour later there was another visitor at the door.  The attendant who oversaw the Mirror array appeared at her office and told her that she had an urgent personal communication waiting for her . . . from the Baroness of Sevendor.

Pentandra almost ran to the array.  If something had happened to Minalan . . .

But when she arrived, the sealed message bearing her name didn’t inform her of the Spellmonger’s death.  But what it relayed was almost as bad.

Dear Pentandra,

I call upon you now as a friend of mine and of Minalan’s.  Sevendor has been attacked and robbed, and while Lady Mask is now in our dungeon, her confederates were able to make away with several valuable artifacts.  Upon questioning it was revealed that Lady Mask has conspired with Baroness Isily of Greenflower, among others, against our barony, our home, and our family.  Due to her collaboration with Lady Mask, the renegade mage allied with the enemies of all humanity, Baroness Greenflower has committed treason against the state and ethical violations of the codes of conduct governing magi under the Arcane Orders.  Therefore it has been determined for the Order to demand the return of her witchstone and take other just and reasonable actions against her and Baron Greenflower, her confederate.

To that end, I invite you to participate in the disciplinary action ahead.  As a former Steward of the Order, your reputation for fairness and competency is well-known, and your inclusion in this process should help alleviate the idea that this is at all a response to a political issue.  My home has been burgled and my children threatened by this mage.  I ask my good friends to help me get justice.

Alya, Baroness of Sevendor

Pentandra looked at the note thoughtfully as her mind worked furiously.

This explained so much, she realized.  If Isily had been working clandestinely with the renegade warmage Lady Mask, whose old staff she now bore as Everkeen, and both of them were working with the renegade Alka Alon fanatics known as the Enshadowed, then the entire conspiracy demonstrated the power of a new player in the dark game of Rushes that was playing out across the Wilderlands.  It also demonstrated the lengths to which Isily would go to achieve her boundless ambition.

Pentandra wished she could say she didn’t understand Isily’s motivations or her strategies, but it galled her to find just a hint of admiration in her thoughts about the shadowmage.  Isily had been a product of her upbringing, which (from what she knew of the Family) included murder, mayhem, torture and abuse.  Add to that the inherent frustration of being a mage under the Bans of Magic – and then release the limits imposed by those bans – and she could easily see how Isily had rationalized her actions to herself.

All she had to do was ignore the issue of accountability and totally misplace her reason, and any mage might have done the same.

Pentandra found herself growing more and more angry with her former friend, the more she contemplated Alya’s message.  Regardless of her role as the puppet of Her Majesty’s clandestine assassination service, Isily was theoretically retired, ennobled, and raised to the peerage as a reward for service well-rendered.

So why would she imperil that reward and the great secular power she’d accumulated merely for the hope of higher ambition?  She could not hope to replace Grendine at King Rard’s side, nor had she made any overt designs on Prince Tavard – which would have found herself arrayed against her former bloodthirsty mistress – so pursuit of pure secular power did not seem to be her motivation.  But what position could be higher than that of queen?

There was no archmage at the moment.  Imagining a future where there was one, and you were his wife, was beyond adolescent fantasy.  It was a real sickness.

It made no sense . . . unless you had an obsession with ambition.  And Isily was just the kind of woman who saw herself emerging from the shadows, the secret player in a game only she knew the rules to, to become the center of power, control, and attention.   Pentandra was well-aware of the type: her sister suffered from the same delusions of importance.  Though she was prettier than Isily, at the moment, she did not have the power or the drive that Isily possessed.  Thankfully.

But Isily was so much more dangerous than her self-centered sister.   Her long association with Queen Grendine’s organization, the Family, had given her a warped sense of what was permissible in the pursuit of her ambitions, Pentandra knew.  And her possession of a witchstone and knowledge of the obscure branch of photomancy known as shadowmagic made her exceptionally dangerous.  Her use of a spell on Alya proved her willingness to use magic to ruthlessly achieve her political – or personal – goals.

Add that to the power she’d accrued through her own ambitions and her rank and position she’d gained through her decrepit old husband, Dunselen, and she was an even more formidable opponent.   Being a peer of the realm granted tremendous influence.

So did having a few illegitimate children by the most powerful mage in the world, one of the few who might stand in her way and hold her to account.  By using her womb as leverage against poor Minalan, as disgusting as the idea was to her, Isily had ensured that she could operate without accountability.  It sickened Pentandra to think of children being used as political tools like that – though it was common enough, particularly in Remeran households.  It was also completely within her expectations of Isily.  She had warned Minalan of her enough times.

But Pentandra never thought she’d stoop to treason to advance her goals.  Yet her collusion with Lady Mask could be nothing else.

As she re-read the message, she could also see how Isily had failed.  Thanks to Ishi’s interference (and, she was forced to admit, her own) Alya hadn’t been enchanted into stupefied complacency and suggestibility, as she had planned.  Minalan must have confessed his affair to her, and instead of blaming the poor man she had acted like a defiant wife.

It took the realities of matrimony for Pentandra to really understand the power in that.  A year ago she might have been amused at the idea of a wronged wife making a scene about her wayward husband.  The theme was certainly a popular one in Narasi culture, from puppet shows to mummer’s plays to epic poetry.   The antics of Trygg, the Great Mother, in response to her wandering husband Orvatas encompassed an entire dramatic cycle of myth within her cult.

But only now, with the perspective of a wife in fear for her husband, did Pentandra appreciate the potency of Alya’s response.   She did not seem to blame Minalan, it appeared from the message.  And where he was unable to hold her account, Alya did not hesitate.

A calm fell over Pentandra as she thought of herself in Alya’s position.  If some bitch had launched an entire conspiracy to bed Arborn – say, the way Zuska had, during her Matrimonial Rites – what would she do?   How would she feel if she had not only bedded her husband . . . but conspired to have to children by him merely as a means of controlling him?  What would she do if her rival had position, authority, and influence at court, was protected by a castle and a small army of warmagi, and political favor?

There was no question in Pentandra’s mind.  She’d tear the fucking castle down around the bitch’s ears and invite every woman she knew to participate.

Pentandra might have felt that way anyway, but the fact was she liked Alya, personally.  Though they were as different in background and vocation as was likely, they had overcome their mutual mistrust and bonded, originally, over their mutual devotion to Minalan.  Alya had quite graciously overlooked both the fact that Pentandra and her husband had once been intimate, and the even more mortifying episode in which Pentandra had mistaken her for Minalan’s chambermaid at their initial meeting.

But she had grown to like the bold peasant woman with whom Minalan had fallen in love.   She was kind, pleasant, and wholesome, with just enough evil in her to keep her interesting.   She had accepted Pentandra before Pentandra had accepted her, fully, and she’d insisted that she come to their wedding despite the idea that it might be awkward.  Not only had Pentandra’s presence been a tangible sign of her endorsement and approval of the union, it also had saved the bride and groom from capture, incarceration, torture and death at the hands of the old Censorate.

Since then, Alya had graciously made room in her home and her life for Pentandra when by rights she did not have to.  She entrusted her children to her, upon occasion, and had included her in Alya’s circle of confidants as Pentandra had helped her adjust to first the life of a noblewoman, and then to the life of a baroness.  And she had been enthusiastically supportive of Pentandra’s pursuit of Arborn.

She was, in other words, a friend to Pentandra when fate could have quite easily made her a foe

She looked up at the attendant – Lacnei, originally a spellmonger from some northern village.  “Send a reply: I’m on my way.”

“That is all, my lady?” he asked, surprised.

“That’s all that needs to be said,” Pentandra agreed.

Let’s make this snotty bitch pay for what she’s done to our man! she was thinking to herself.

“I have to go somewhere,” she told her husband, when she got back to her chamber.  He had finally returned to duty as Master of Wood, taking over from Jerics.  His men were no worse for wear after the goblin’s midsummer raid. They’d assisted in the defense of several villages around Vorone as they screened the town, and Pentandra had no trouble imagining the black furry bodies they’d left in their wake along the road.  Arborn was eager to return to action, too – there were still gurvani bands roaming the southern vales.

But he was not very enthusiastic about Pentandra’s news.

“But . . . why does Minalan need you?” Arborn asked, concerned.  “Wouldn’t this be more of a job for warmagi?” he asked as she conjured first her baculus, and then her clothing press.  The heavy wooden cabinet appeared in the middle of the floor and she pulled open the door.  Just what did one wear for an assault on a magical castle?

“Minalan didn’t summon me,” Pentandra answered as she thumbed through the possibilities.  “Alya did.  But the need is the same.  And in this case I might be every bit as valuable to the effort as a warmage.  I know Isily, or I did.  More importantly, I know what kind of woman she is.”

“But are there not others—”

“When the duke sends you to oversee some important aspect of the wood, my husband, does he not know there are others who could do the job?”

Arborn stiffened at the comparison.  “I see your point, Wife . . . but does this have to happen right now?” he protested.  “Setting aside my concern for my wife’s safety, the Wilderlands were just attacked.  There are still troops in the field and danger to the duchy.  And you are still Court Wizard of Alshar . . . not Castal.”

“My husband, you excel at rationalizing your fears, something I find particularly endearing,” she said, indulgently, as she selected the outfit she thought would be best-suited for the night’s activities.  “I discussed the situation with Terleman on the way over, and he assured me that the Wilderlands can spare me for a day or so.  Duke Anguin is already returning from Salik Tower, cleaning up stragglers and scouts along the way.  Things are well in hand,” she promised as she stripped off the finery she’d been wearing since . . . since the banquet at Castabriel?

Had it been that long since she’d changed clothes?

“But it is still dangerous,” he said.  A statement, not a question.

“I would be shocked if it wasn’t,” Pentandra admitted as she pulled a clean shift on over her head.  “Isily is what we professional sex magi refer to technically as a ‘slippery little cunt’, and she’s had every opportunity to prepare for this.”

“So you’re walking into a trap,” Arborn said, disapprovingly.

“More like we are going to overwhelm whatever trap she thinks she’s constructed,” Pentandra corrected.  “For all of her power and her obsession, Isily is going to be facing some of the deadliest warmagi in the world . . . and one really, really pissed-off wife.  To be honest, I’m not even certain Alya will leave anything left for me to do.”

“But Alya isn’t a mage,” Arborn protested.

“She’s the wife of a mage and likely the mother of two of the most powerful magi of the next generation – so far,” corrected Pentandra as she fastened the belt she preferred for active occasions around her waist.  It had several pouches and pockets she found convenient if she was in a hurry.  “She’s my people even if we aren’t officially related or anything.  More importantly, she’s my friend,” Pentandra stated.

“I do not like you going into danger,” Arborn said, quietly.

Pentandra looked up sharply.  “Nor do I like you going into danger – but we live in a dangerous world, my husband.  You are not going to be able to protect me from it completely, no matter how you might wish to.  Nor am I able to protect you from it, either.   This is an arcane matter, and it is my duty as a High Mage to see it through.  And this is a personal matter, and as such it is my duty to my friend Alya to be there to support her.”

“You aren’t planning on just . . . rushing in, are you?” he asked, having seemingly given up on the idea of stopping her from participating.

“Of course not.  Minalan is smarter than that.  He has Lorcus scouting the castle they’re staying in, in Greenflower, and once he gets back with a report they’ll formulate a plan of attack.  And hopefully it will be something more sophisticated than rushing in.”

“Minalan is sneaky,” Arborn conceded.

“Not nearly as sneaky as your wife, and I’ll be assisting in the mission plan,” Pentandra said, pausing to give him a brief kiss.  “But he needs my help.  The idiot fractured his witchsphere in battle, and he’s operating without access to his accustomed power stream.”

“This seems like an awfully large response to a simple infidelity,” Arborn pointed out.  She’d filled him in on the details of Isily and Mask’s conspiracy, including the strain they’d inflicted on Minalan.  Arborn had a lot of respect for the Spellmonger, and he was genuinely angered to hear him treated so poorly.  But he still did not approach the matter as a mage.

“This is not about infidelity,” Pentandra objected.  “This is about treason.  Minalan captured Lady Mask in the process of robbing his castle with confederates from the Enshadowed.  They left her behind, of course, but Minalan persuaded her to confess the nature of her relationship to Baroness Greenflower.  The two are, in fact, co-conspirators against the realm.  Therefore this is about treason,” she repeated.

“Then why not invoke His Majesty’s assistance in this?”

“Because the only thing Rard can do is look at the Arcane Orders and tell us to handle it.  Which is what we’re doing – but without his involvement.”

“Which helps preserve the independence of the Arcane Orders,” Arborn reasoned.  “If you go to the crown first, then it demonstrates your subservience to it as a matter of precedent.”  Arborn might have been a ‘tribal barbarian’, as her mother’s latest letter had said, but he had an intensely intelligent mind, and knew Narasi law like a lawbrother.  She’d often thought he would have made a magnificent adept, had he been blessed with rajira.

“Exactly,” she sighed.  “It sounds like you are beginning to understand the politics of court, my husband.”

“Aren’t you proud of me?” he asked, affecting his goofy, boyish grin as he kissed her.

“Saddened for you,” she sighed, returning the kiss.  “You were so innocent, once.  Now you’re headed down the inevitable path toward jaded cynicism.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” he asked, one last time.  “I’m certain Jerics can lead the men until I return . . .”

“This is magi business, not Kasari business, dear husband,” she said, shaking her head.  “Not even Alshari business.  No, this is a real, honest-to-gods Magewar, the first one since the Magocracy fell.  As much as I would value your strong arm and your sword protecting me, in truth I would spend more time worried about protecting you from the arcane than you would protecting me from the mundane.”

“I . . . understand,” he sighed, resigned.  “Where exactly are you going?”

“First, to Sevendor, to plan,” she answered, breaking their embrace.  “Thence to a small castle in Greenflower barony, in the Castali Riverlands,” she said.  “Someplace called Salaisus.”

When Pentandra returned from Salaisus a few days later, she was drained beyond all accounting.

The aftermath of the Battle of Salaisus Castle was brutal, and word of is result quickly spread through the magi running the kingdom’s Mirror array.  The Magewar of Greenflower had taken one night, and a brutal toll on the Spellmonger.

Though victorious, the battle with Isily and her foolish old husband Dunselen had required a high price.  Alya was utterly catatonic, now, her mind shattered by her role in destroying Isily’s powerful lacis of enchantment.  Though it had also shattered Isily’s mind and slew Dunselen in the blast as well, by some miracle (and Pentandra had her suspicions) the Baroness of Sevendor was alive . . . but maimed.

Alya was unresponsive to all but the most basic stimuli.  Though Minalan had summoned the best magical healers in the kingdom to come diagnose her, their conclusions were not good.  Despite the fading hope he placed in them, Pentandra was certain that they would not be helpful.

Pentandra hadn’t taken part in the actual fighting; instead she supported the attack by handling the wards and other passive spells that allowed the attack to proceed . . . yet the battle had taken its toll on her.  She felt as if she had jogged her way back here from the Riverlands, not slipped through the cracks of reality to find herself back in that nasty old tomb.  Luckily she did not have to go back to Murvos’ temple so frequently in the future, having begged a Waystone from Minalan’s store to install at the palace.

Alurra met her outside of the gloomy place and helped her walk home.  Her apprentice looked quite different now than she had just a few months ago.  Her hair was brushed and plaited, and she wore a sturdy brown gown as the townswomen did, though in place of an apron over it she wore her apprentice’s baldric.  Lucky was perched on her shoulder and a brace of hounds accompanied them all the way back to the palace.

Pentandra told her the entire story on the way, omitting only the roles of the gods in the tale.  Alurra listened thoughtfully, nodding the entire time.

“Yes,” she agreed, when Pentandra’s tale wound to a close, “just like Antimei said would happen,” she said, sadly.

Pentandra said, stopping in the street and grabbing Alurra’s shoulder.  “Old Antimei knew about Greenflower?  All of it?”

“Oh, gods yes,” Alurra assured her, sadly.  “I cried and cried when she told me that part of the story!”

“It wasn’t any gods-damned story, girl!  I was there myself!” Pentandra nearly snarled.  Alurra looked stricken, and Pentandra instantly regretted snapping.  She had gotten a dozen hours of sleep in Sevendor at the Chapterhouse, but she barely felt it.  “What did Old Antimei tell you about Greenflower?” she continued in a more reasonable tone.

Alurra apparently didn’t take the outburst personally – probably a practiced skill, when dealing with the results of prophecy, Pentandra realized.

“Greenflower was very, very important,” Alurra assured her, gravely.  “More important than you realize.  I . . . I can’t say much,” she continued, struggling, “but as sad as it is, Mistress, please understand: it had to happen.”

“My friend had to lose her mind?” Pentandra demanded, wondering what kind of sick jokes the gods were playing with them now.

“She did,” Alurra said, heavily.   “It’s part of the story.  The big story,” she emphasized.

“So if you knew that Alya was going to . . . to . . .”

“Be maimed?” supplied Alurra.

“Yes, if you knew that, why didn’t you warn me?  Why didn’t you let me know so I could . . . oh.  You couldn’t,” Pentandra realized, “because Alya being wounded is . . . responsible for other things, right?” she asked, hesitantly.

Alurra nodded solemnly.  “It plunges the Spellmonger into despair,” she replied, reluctantly.  “Really, really bad.  But it also motivates him,” she added, hopefully.  “When . . . stuff happens later, it is his need to restore his wife that drives him.”

“Drives him where?” Pentandra demanded.

“I . . . that might be too much of the story, for now,” Alurra said, uncertainly.

“Damn it, Alurra, what is the use of prophecy if it can’t be used to help?”

“But it was!” protested Alurra.  “If you hadn’t gone with the Spellmonger to Greenflower, like Lord Arborn wanted, then things would have been much, much worse.  So I spoke with him,” she said, with just a trace of smugness, “and suggested that it would be a good idea for you to go.”

Pentandra just glared at her apprentice.  She was angry, at both the ancient prophetess she’d never met who seemed to know more about her life than she did, and at the young girl who so casually discussed the fates of her friends.  Part of her was thankful the girl could not see the face she was making, while another part wished she could.  The very idea that this . . . this urchin felt obliged to interfere with her husband . . . !

Then she calmed herself, putting herself in Alurra’s position for a moment.

The poor girl had been entrusted with information far beyond her abilities and experience, and was doing the best she could in a strange and complicated situation.  It must have been hard enough to leave the rustic existence that was all she had known behind and make the journey to Vorone – blind, at that.  But then to have placed herself in the charge of an unknown woman with only the barest of assurances that everything would work out . . . well, in her position, Pentandra wasn’t so sure she could have been as calm as Alurra, at her age.

She heaved a great sigh.  “It’s not your fault,” she said, as much to herself as to her apprentice.  “It was a . . . it was an impossible situation.  If Alya hadn’t done what she did, we might all be dead now.  Yet if I had known what she was going to do . . .”

“That’s the problem with prophecy,” Alurra said, heavily, “when you know the whole story, the parts you hate are sometimes the most important parts.  Lady Alya needs to be . . . to be . . . shattered, right now,” she said, though it pained her to speak the words.  “And the Spellmonger must be despondent, if things are going to play out right.”

“Any hints about what happens next?” Pentandra asked, cagily.

It was Alurra’s turn to heave a great sigh, as they entered the palace gates.  “I think you’re about to find out,” she said, as Lucky’s head suddenly shot up.

Ahead of her – waiting for her – was the Dowager Baroness Amandine.  Lady Pleasure.

Ishi.

She was wearing a cunningly-made emerald green gown cut in a southern Alshari style (and popular two generations before amongst their Cormeeran forebears) which complimented her golden hair perfectly.  Three of her Maidens – well, two, not counting the bucktoothed girl, Elspeth – were behind her, waiting.

Waiting for Pentandra, as it turned out.

“Ah, our illustrious Court Wizard!” Lady Pleasure announced in syrupy tones.  “Returned from the Magewar, victorious!”

“Lady Pleasure,” Pentandra said, pointedly, “in the last week I’ve had a major conference, repelled a widespread attack on the duchy, and helped my Order eliminate a traitor.  As much as I’d like to play courtier at the moment, I must warn you my patience and fortitude are as worn as your bedclothes.”

“Oh, but of course!” the baroness clapped, ignoring the barb.  That didn’t bode well, Pentandra noted.  “That is entirely why I have sought you out!”

Pentandra did a double take.  “To irritate me apurpose?  Because—”

“No, no, no, you silly dear!” Lady Pleasure nearly sang.  “I sought you out to honor you!  I am holding a feast in your honor at the palace, to thank you for your quick and heroic response to the recent attacks.  I spoke with His Grace just an hour ago, and he is entirely in favor of the idea.  Once I pointed out that you and your brave magi were instrumental in throwing back the gurvani hordes, he—”

“There weren’t any hordes,” Pentandra said, sharply.  “It wasn’t a full-scale invasion, they were merely testing our defenses.”

“And you demonstrated just how stout they are, which is a feat to be honored!” insisted Lady Pleasure.  “My dear, if we do not stop the world and force it to honor the achievements we women make, then soon it would be all too easy for men to dismiss them altogether,” she said.  Then she added, in a more serious tone, “And considering the great sacrifices and effort you have devoted to this duchy, I think such an honor is the least the duchy can do you in return.”

“I am guessing that His Grace agreed to the honor because you said you’d pay for the entire thing?” Alurra said, unimpressed by the goddess in human form.  Pentandra smirked at her apprentice’s impertinence despite the rudeness of the comment.

It made sense.  With the budget as badly strained as it was, after the unexpected attacks, the only way Viscountess Threanas would approve of a lavish celebration not tied to a pre-existing holiday was if it was paid for already.  And by all accounts the House of Flowers was doing well.  Sister Saltia had mentioned that their tax payments to the burghers’ reeve had been far more than anticipated.  Regardless of her other failings as a deity, Ishi knew how to run a whorehouse.

“Well . . . yes,” admitted Lady Pleasure, frowning.  “But that should in no way detract from the need of the court to honor one of its most loyal and effective officers.  And Duke Anguin agreed wholeheartedly,” she added, pleased.

Of course, Pentandra realized, with the two cute-looking brunette whores flanking her, Lady Pleasure could have proposed wholesale castration of the entire court and Anguin would have at least listened attentively.

She was about to protest when she realized it was futile.  Ishi was determined to “honor” her, and as miserable as she felt after the events at Castle Salaisus, she was too aware of the need of the people to honor those they saw as heroic.  No matter how unheroic they might feel.

“Fine,” she finally said, irritated beyond belief.  She began walking toward her office, desperate to get home and in her own bed.  “I’ll be honored to attend.  When is it?”

“In a week – enough time to have a new gown made, if you like,” Lady Pleasure told her, as she fell into step next to her, her attendants falling in behind.  “And you really should consider it,” she said, giving Pentandra’s gown far too much of her attention.  “I’ve hired a band of musicians from Wilderhall, too, and of course my Maidens will be happy to serve,” she added.  “I just think it’s criminal that all of these sword-swinging warmagi get all the credit when it’s your thoughtful planning and flawless execution that got them to the battlefield in the first place!”

“That sounds lovely,” Pentandra said, unconvincingly.  “Be certain to let my office know when precisely it starts.”  It was unlikely that she could find a good excuse to not attend a banquet in her own honor, but then Pentandra always prided herself on her creative approach to social problems.   “And if you could invite a few friends from Sevendor, who were helpful.”

“I don’t think . . . I don’t believe Minalan will be able to attend,” Lady Pleasure said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.  “He is dealing with the consequences of that little war in Sashtalia, or wherever, this week.  But I will extend an invitation to your other professional colleagues and interest parties, if you’d like.”

“That would be grand,” she dismissed.  Nothing sounded worse to her than being forced to stand up and bear the acclaim Ishi was attempting to brand her with . . . but then she wasn’t a freelance sex wizard anymore.  She wasn’t even a senior bureaucrat.

No, she was the Court Wizard of Alshar, and she had a social and official responsibility to fulfill.

What made it worse was that none of her male colleagues would understand the devious nature of Ishi’s proposed celebration.  Men saw such honors plainly, and accepted them for what they were, independent of context.

But in a struggle between women, honor and praise were but two arrows in the feminine quiver.  Ishi, damn her, was forcing social prominence on Pentandra in a way that, while elevating her and bringing her notice, would also attract the resentment and ire of the other ladies of court regardless of how they felt about either of them.

Pentandra had never taken the position of court wizard for self-aggrandizement, though plenty of other wizards had in the past.  She neither wanted nor craved glory and acclaim.  But she could not refuse the gracious offer of Lady Pleasure or the honor she and the court apparently wished to bestow on her, regardless of how badly she wanted to.  She might feel like a complete failure as a court wizard, but she couldn’t allow that to communicate to the rest of the court.

No, standing there in unbearable silence while Lady Pleasure extolled her supposed virtues to the crowd was a duty she had to perform, Pentandra knew.  As painful and humiliating as it would be to her, personally, (which Ishi would find gratifying, she knew), such official recognition meant just too much to her subordinates, not to mention her allies in the greater court.  Being honored so early in Anguin’s reign promised much for the other women of the court, and she could not let them down by trying to dodge the honor.  Regardless of the personal cost.

Nor could she allow the warmagi who had volunteered to leave the comforts of the Conclave to plunge into danger unexpectedly in the middle of the night to go un-honored for their service . . . and she would ensure that this stupid event was focused on their efforts, not hers.  She had merely coordinated the response – they had risked life and limb defending the duchy.

“I would be delighted to attend,” Pentandra finally said, sounding far less than delighted as she mentally counted the steps between here and her bed.  “Really, really delighted.”

Lady Pleasure, of course, ignored the sarcasm and took her words at face value.  “Oh, I am so happy to hear that, Lady Pentandra!” she said, clapping her hands together.  “I shall construct the most enchanting entertainments, I promise!”

“I am curious how you got Viscountess Threanas to go along with this,” she said, a thought suddenly occurring to her.  She knew that the Minister of the Treasury held a strong antipathy for “Lady Pleasure” and her blatant manipulations of court.  She couldn’t see the two women coming to terms on whether the sun was hot or the rain was wet, much less “honoring” Pentandra.

“Oh, Threnny?” Lady Pleasure dismissed.  “We’re old friends, now.  Actually, I’ve known her around court and around town for years.  Once she learned about how I . . . introduced Countess Shirlin to some of the deeper mysteries during the Wildflower Festival -- and believe me, they got really, really deep! – in front of half the court, her tone softened.  Threnny might be a dried-up old dishrag, but she’s a loyal Alshari noblewoman of an ancient and distinguished house who could not stand that Shirlin woman.  Which indicates an impressive amount of taste,” the hidden goddess admitted.   “Shirlin has kept to herself since then, if you’ve noticed.”

“I hadn’t,” Pentandra confessed as she gratefully rounded the corner that led to her office.  “I’ve been a bit busy with arcane affairs,” she reminded the madam.

Then she stopped.  Why would Lady Pleasure be bringing her up?

“Why?  What has she done, now?”

Lady Pleasure smirked, the amused goddess peeking through the countenance of the baroness like sun through the clouds.  “Oh, she proposed – in open court the other night, no less – that His Grace ban prostitution outright in Vorone.  She was looking right at me when she said it, too,” she mused, indulgently.

“The temerity of some people!” Pentandra said, partly in jest.

“She also proposed that he make a public offering to Huin and Luin to beg their forgiveness for the ‘horrific events’ of the spring.  Lastly, she recommended that His Grace seriously embark on a course to secure a bride at the earliest possible moment,” she reported with obvious relish.  “She recommended Lady Maronina, eldest daughter of Count Harle of Lemey, in southern Castal.  She is six years His Grace’s senior and has a face like the back end of an ox,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Gods, what did Anguin say?” Pentandra asked, despite herself.  She hated gossip.  When she didn’t love it.  This, however, was important gossip, as it involved a threat to the political stability of the court.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

“His Grace very graciously declined,” Lady Pleasure reported, smiling.  “Our lad is not so green as to be tempted by the charms – and I use the term with the utmost convenience – of a Castali bride.  Not when he’s experienced just a taste of what the Wilderlands has to offer,” she said, confidently, as she glanced at the matching brunettes walking behind them.  “When the old bat had the nerve to debate with him, thankfully Father Amus came forward and declared that His Grace would seek no wife until the realm, such as it is, was secure.  And that he had sworn a solemn oath to Huin, Duin, and Luin to that effect.”

“Ouch!” Pentandra winced, good-naturedly.  A Duke could not lightly back away from a vow made so publically.  That would put a stop to the murmuring about marrying the lad off – for a few months, anyway, Pentandra knew.  She could easily appreciate the utility of the move to Grendine, as it would have saddled a potential weak rival with feudal obligations and alliances that would have bound him more closely to Castal.  “Well, that should end her tenure here, then.  How did she react?”

“Poorly.  But graciously.  You might want to have someone keep watch on those two maids of hers,” the goddess suggested.  “I don’t know if the Queen will decide to push her agenda, but if she does those two maidens are the instruments through which she will, not the old biddy.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Pentandra asked, quietly, as they came to the doorway of her office.

“Because I really am trying to help,” Ishi insisted, through Amandice’s mouth.  “I want nothing more for this realm to survive and thrive.  To do that it needs intelligent, capable ministers like you.  Ministers who are informed.  More informed than you.  While you are watching for the arcane realm, I am defending the social and political.  When we work together, His Grace rises, the fortunes of the duchy rise, and we all benefit.”

“So this means that we are . . . at truce?” Pentandra asked, pausing a moment with the madame before she went inside.

Before Ishi could answer, a familiar voice cut through the air in an accent unfamiliar in these northern halls.

A voice that sent chills of horror, regret, and fear down Pentandra’s spine.

One of the last voices she ever expected to hear under these circumstances.

One of the voices she prayed furiously was a mistake of her ears.

“Pentandra anna Benurvial!  It’s about time you wandered into your own office!  To think I came all this way to see you, only to find you off wiping that Narasi boy’s arse, again!”

Pentandra glared at Baroness Amandice as she struggled to breathe.

No.  Not here.  Not now.

“A truce?” Ishi snickered.  “More or less.”

Ishi watched Pentandra’s face with the interest of an artist watching her art be revealed.

Did she not realize the duchy was in crisis?  That I just returned from a conference?  That I just returned from a successful Magewar?  I thought she wanted to help!

Taking a deep breath, and giving one last hateful look at Baroness Amandice, Pentandra plastered a smile across her lips and stood a little straighter before she turned to face the doorway.

“Why hello, Mother!” she said, as cheerful sounding as she could manage.  “What a wonderful surprise!”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lady Amendra

Pentandra stared at the woman who had given her birth, standing in the shabbily grand office that was hers by virtue of her hard-won and well-earned position, and felt herself crumble inside.  It was as if twenty years of her life were stripped away in a second, and  she was five-years old.

Not that her mother was terribly imposing in appearance.  While slightly taller than her father, Amendra anna Benurvial still had the slender build and mild stature of most Imperial-descended Remerans; that was reflected in her dusky features and the long black ringlets that cascaded from under her yellow silk headscarf.  The kind of headscarf a proper Remeran noblewoman wore.

But Amendra’s presence was not constrained by her physical presentation.  Her dark yellow traveling gown and bright scarlet mantle seemed out-of-place among the darker, more woodland-oriented colors of the palace, a contrast that served to make her more prominent in the halls of the palace.  The cluster of servants and retainers at her back, the small stack of baggage around their feet augmented her position, as it was designed to.

But it was the eyes that truly commanded attention.  Amendra had famously beautiful eyes, large, bright, and perfectly formed.  They were compelling and demanding, and she used them with the mastery of an adept.  She’d inherited enough of the look that her own pretty eyes were a trait Pentandra had traded upon often enough.  But on her best day, neither Pentandra nor her sister had a tithe of Amendra’s blazing eyes.  It was as if they naturally demanded the attention of every other eye in the room.  And then, once her eyes had your attention, Amendra’s real weapon emerged: her voice.

As Pentandra stared helplessly at her mother, she noted something else about those eyes, something that startled her: they were filled with genuine worry and concern as much as judgment.  While that would not diminish the row to come in the slightest, she knew, Pentandra did have a sudden and unexpected flash of sympathy for the woman.

She had not really seen her since her cousin’s wedding, more than two years ago, and she had been sparse and terse with her correspondence since.  Of course, considering their last few conversations, “sparse” and “terse” was likely a good idea when it came to speaking with her mother.

“Well, is my daughter going to embrace me,” she asked, patiently, as she raised her arms, “or must I make an appointment through your secretary?”

Pentandra obediently gave her mother a hug, and received a matronly kiss on her forehead as she had as a child.  Her mother felt small and a bit frail, in her arms, though her figure was far curvier than Pentandra’s.  When she stepped away to look at her, she realized that she was starting to age, despite the deft use of cosmetics and glamours.

“Mother, what are you doing here?” she asked, trying to sound pleased.  Not shocked and horrified, she realized belatedly.  Pleased, she reminded herself.

“I was invited,” she replied, her eyes narrowing.  “Not by you, of course, Pentandra, but I did receive an invitation to honor your service.  As I was not too far from Gilmora, anyway, it only took a few days to get here once I received word.”

“But how did you . . .?”

“I was traveling to see your Great Aunt Ardra in Barrowbell,” she explained.  “Your father’s message caught up with me there.  It seems an invitation to a feast in your honor was sent by this gracious woman, Baroness Amandice through those magic Mirrors,” she said, bowing her head respectfully.  “Orisorio was kind enough to ensure it got to me in a timely manner.  It was an important occasion, he thought,” she said, casually.  “He wanted your family to be represented, and I was closest.  Not like a wedding or anything, but something professionally important.”

“Mother, I—”

“I think we will have plenty of time for . . . catching up,” Amendra said, with exaggerated lightness.  “But I’ve just ridden in the most devilish coach across a wasteland of Wilderlands roads, and if I don’t find some corner to throw myself into soon, I may just faint.”

She did not look in the slightest danger of fainting.  Rising up and destroying them all, perhaps, but not fainting.  There was an awkward silence, as Pentandra’s mind struggled to supply coherent thought to the situation.  It seemed unwilling to act.  It was still five.  It was torn between cowering in girlish fear and wanting the distraction of a cookie.

“I’ll just leave you two to catch up,” Lady Pleasure said, sweetly.  “We mustn’t interfere with such a joyful reunion after so long an absence.  That would offend Trygg,” she said, with mock piety.  “Come along, girls!  Let us seek out the Warlord, to see what we can do to aid the realm. Family is so terribly important,” she added, as her attendants fell into line, each one smiling about the delicious awkwardness their mistress had contrived.   “We don’t want to stand in the way of such a cherished visit.  We have a feast to plan!”

As the treacherous madame retreated, Pentandra finally found her tongue.  But not for her mother.  She had to take control of the situation before it escalated into chaos.   “Alurra, please track down Castellan Birsei and have him prepare suitable quarters for Lady Amendra and her party,” she commanded, quietly.

For once the girl didn’t question her – in fact, she gave her an almost-acceptable curtsey and a “Yes, Mistress!” and ran off.  Her mother despised impudent servants more than anything, and even though Alurra was technically not a servant, she had an even lower opinion of apprentices.  Alurra’s compliance was gratifying.  Even her raven was well-behaved.

Pentandra was about to thank the gods for small favor, when she recalled why she was in this position in the first place.

There were three servants behind her mother who Pentandra recognized from home, surrounded by her baggage.  “Leave that here,” she commanded.  “I’ll have the castellans remove it to your quarters.  Why don’t you three go to the main hall for something to eat?  Have it charged to the Court Wizard’s account,” she added.  “They won’t give you any trouble.  I’ll send word where you can find your quarters,” she promised, shooing the servants out the door into the corridor.  “Down this hall, on the left, take a right at the statue of the Maiden of the Havens, and straight until you can smell the food.”

Once they were gone, she turned back to her mother.  “Why don’t we go to my office for a cup of wine while we await Castellan Bircei?” she proposed.

“That’s the first civilized thing that has been said to me, today, since I arrived in Vorone,” she grumbled, eyeing her daughter circumspectly.  “I asked your secretary – I had to ask! – and she looked at me like a drunkard.”

“In the Wilderlands, wine is usually reserved for evenings,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Not at breakfast and luncheon, like in Remere.  They drink beer, instead.”

“How . . . charming,” Amendra said with a delicate shudder, as she entered Pentandra’s office.  She stopped and inspected the place by eye, making Pentandra thankful that her mother was not a mage with the capacity for magesight.    That would have just given her one more thing to criticize.

“This is the Court Wizard’s office?” she asked, skeptically.  She was clearly unimpressed.

“For the moment,” Pentandra said, apologetically.  “Don’t forget, this is merely the summer palace.  It wasn’t intended to be used constantly, so there wasn’t as much emphasis on presentation as there was utility.  Please, have a seat while I pour,” she said, leading her mother by the elbow to the chair in front of her desk.

“No windows,” Amendra pointed out, critically.  “Hardly larger than a coach, in here.  And you clearly are not beating the maid hard enough,” she sniffed.  “Or is dust a cherished Wilderlands tradition, as well?”

“I’ve put in a request for larger and more functional space, Mother,” Pentandra said, evenly.  “The duchy is in a state of flux right now, but it has been noted.”

“You’d just think that an important post like Ducal Court Wizard would demand something more . . . appropriate,” she sneered as Pentandra poured two silver goblets full of a decent Taro Bikavar red Bircei had discovered in the cellars.

“Mother, I am here with all of the other great officers of the duchy,” she reminded her.  “We all have jobs to do, and the palace is only so large.  I’ve got twice the space that the Warlord does.  Arborn doesn’t even have an office in the palace, proper.  The Master of Wood’s office is in the stockyard, near the stables.”

“What does a tree warden need an office for, anyway?” Amendra complained, rhetorically.  “But that does brings us to my next topic: your . . . husband,” she said, solemnly, pronouncing the word with the slightest hiss.

Pentandra swallowed, hard, and realized that she wasn’t breathing.  All of her attempts to control the situation were dashed by that one word.  She tried to rectify that, marshal her resources and respond as an adult woman in her own right, not a naughty little girl whose truancy had been discovered . . . but she found it took effort.  Her mother’s eyes bored into hers, reproving her for daring to escape her influence.  As if it were pure folly to suffer under the illusion that Pentandra had any idea of how to run her own life.

It was an old story, and one at the root of their relationship.  Pentandra’s older sister was the genuine image of her mother; Cartelendra was, if anything, even more beautiful than her famous mother, and just as lacking in rajira.  A goodly portion of Pentandra’s childhood had been spent witnessing Amendra conspiring to arrange the best possible match for her pretty daughter . . . and educating and shaping her into being the best possible match for the highest-ranked husband she could find.

No effort or expense was spared as Cartelendra learned dancing, singing, reading, and all of the other virtuous arts a man sought in his wife.  Amendra had even hired an older priestess of Ishi to tutor the girls on the Crimson Arts of the bedroom (for which Pentandra was actually grateful, as the woman had taught her far more than Amendra could imagine).

Amendra had started to invest the same effort in her second daughter’s future, despite looking slightly more like her father and less like her mother. With Cartelendra’s stunning face and figure as a guide, there was always the chance that Pentandra would be a late blooming flower, she reasoned.  And the girl was unusually bright, the one concession Amendra was happy to repeat when discussing her younger daughter.

Unfortunately for Amendra, Pentandra developed her rajira shortly after menarche, and when the tests confirmed that she was Talented, much of that attention stopped – for better or worse.  As a mage, Pentandra was unable to marry a nobleman, under the Bans.  Or at least it was highly unlikely a nobleman would be attracted to a woman who could not share his title.

Either way, Amendra’s dreams of a grand wedding, a great match, and a social coup around her second daughter were dashed.  She redoubled her efforts for Cartelendra and mostly ignored Pentandra, as her father eagerly began her magical education.

After that, the two became estranged.  Pentandra plunged into magical studies with her father and cousins, while Amendra focused on her elder daughter.  While Pentandra was pleased to escape the exhaustive lessons on dance, flower-arrangement, and estate management her sister was forced to endure, she was also disappointed in the development.  Cartelendra seemed to not only attract plenty of attention from suitors,  but she had nearly the entirety of her mother’s attention.  Once Cartelendra was officially searching for a husband, Amendra had very little time for her younger daughter.

Then Pentandra went away to Alar Academy in Wenshar when she was fourteen.  After that the gulf widened.

Each interaction with her mother after she left for school was fraught with conflict.  Every family event she attended brought a stream of harsh criticism from Amendra, until Pentandra found herself living her life almost in defiance of her mother’s ideas about how she should properly conduct herself.  Even her area of study had been chosen in part to mortify her mother in the Remeran social circles she found so important.

But after her sister and her cousins had been successfully married off to good matches, Amendra found herself with one single daughter and too much time on her hands.  A few years ago she began corresponding with Pentandra while she was at Castabriel, urging her to look for a worthy husband while she was staying in the new Kingdom’s capital.

Pentandra had returned each missive with snide comments and joking references to entirely unsuitable suitors, until Amendra gave up in frustration.  It was easier to taunt her mother through correspondence than face-to-face, when she did not have to bear the brunt of her displeasure.  The last such letter had been four parchment pages detailing what an ungrateful and disrespectful daughter she was, and how Amendra would no longer attempt to assist her.

That had suited Pentandra fine, at the time.  The suitors her mother proposed were hardly worthwhile, to her standards, chosen more for their pedigree or their treasury than their character.  She was not the type of woman upon which to base dynastic alliances, she’d pleaded with her mother.  She was a career woman with an important position.

Which was the basis of Amendra’s ire today.

Here it comes, Pentandra steeled herself.  Keep your mouth shut and just let her talk, she reminded herself.  That was her father’s only advice for dealing with her.

“When your father told me that your cousin Planus told him that you had wed a barbarian tribesman in secret, I’m sure you would have appreciated the look on my face,” Amendra began, evenly.  But the tone was reminiscent of many such lectures she’d endured in childhood, so Pentandra prepared herself for the inevitable ritual of her mother’s displeasure.  “No doubt your purpose was to embarrass and humiliate me by doing something like that.  After all the hard work and endless money we poured into you as a girl, I would think that my daughter would have the sense and decency not to ruin her life on a fantastic whim.

“After all the other scandals you have inflicted on me,” she said, pointedly, making Pentandra wince at the memories, “I had hoped that this sense of rebelliousness left your spirit.  But it seems you felt compelled to throw yet one more insult in my face.”

Pentandra realized she was waiting for some response.  Despite her pledge to herself to keep things civil, and her father’s advice to just shut up and listen, Pentandra found her emotions rising in her voice as she spoke.  But instead of being upset about Arborn, she was more irritated that her mother felt so involved in a life she had ignored for so long.

“Mother, I did not get married out of some sinister plot to embarrass you,” she said, with a trace of disgust in her voice.  “Credit me with some basic intelligence, at least.”

“You certainly didn’t see fit to include me in your search,” Amendra shot back, the hurt feelings apparent in her voice.  For once, Pentandra didn’t care.

“That’s because I wasn’t searching for a husband,” Pentandra riposted.  “My purpose was not to find a ‘good match’.  I married for love,” she added, knowing as the words fled her mouth that her mother would pounce on them.

“Love!” she scoffed, predictably.  “What does love have to do with marriage, you foolish girl?  A lovely tumble with a brawny man is one thing, as long as one is properly discrete.  But to pledge yourself to some illiterate barbarian in the middle of the wilderness with some wild, tribal ritual—”

“Mother, not only is Arborn literate, he reads as many languages as I do,” Pentandra said, flatly.  “And he’s not just ‘some barbarian’, he’s a captain of the Kasari rangers, a ranked raptor in his tribe.  That’s the highest rank a Kasari man can earn,” she added, proudly.  “And Arborn is among the most respected Kasari rangers in the Wilderlands.”

“So you married an important barbarian,” Amendra said, snidely.  “I feel so relieved.”

“He’s also the Ducal Master of Wood,” Pentandra pointed out, sullenly.  “Does that not count for anything?”

“It does,” admitted her mother, condescendingly.  “I suppose I can mention that, and hope no one asks too many questions.”

“You are so gracious, Mother,” Pentandra said, sarcastically.  “What a horrible oversight that we neglected to invite you to our barbaric fertility ritual.”

“Was there at least a priestess involved?” she asked, her brow wrinkled in concern.

“Most of the Kasari worship the Narasi gods,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.  “Yes, there was a proper Priestess of Trygg officiating.  I can show you the certificate, if you wish,” she added, airily.  “All the parchment is in order.”

“I’m just pleased your husband could sign it,” her mother snorted.  “Penny, why under heaven did you do this?” she asked, a tone of lament in her voice.

“Everyone else was getting married,” Pentandra shot back, snidely.  “My mother taught me to conform and blend into society, so . . .”

“You are so insolent!” snorted Amendra.  “Where is that wine you mentioned?  I swear this is watered,” she said, looking into the chalice of bold red suspiciously.

Pentandra considered calling for one of the clerks to run up to the buttery and fetch a bottle, but she felt a demonstration was in order. Her mother was impressed by social status and displays of power.  She had yet to see what her daughter could do, now.

In quick succession she summoned Everkeen to her hand, then used it to summon a silver plated tray with two silver wine glasses and a decanter of expensive Cormeeran red.  She’d prepared the wine as a contingency, placing it one of the many useful magical pockets within Everkeen’s extensive thaumaturgic inventory.  The tray appeared on the desk between them, and Pentandra made Everkeen disappear with a flash.

“Is Cormeeran all right?” she asked, casually, as she used magic to remove the cork and the beeswax that sealed the vintage.   “I picked it up in Castabriel the other day.”

“It will do, for this time of day,” her mother conceded, as Pentandra poured.  She sipped it appreciably.  “First decent cup I’ve had since Gilmora,” she mused.

“I try to keep the creature comforts in stock,” Pentandra said, casually.  “It impresses the barbarians.  Mother, let’s dispense with the verbal fencing, shall we?  It’s exhausting, and I honestly do not have the capacity at the moment.”  That was telling.  Amongst Remeran noblewomen that sort of innuendo-laden duel was a practiced art.

Pentandra had witnessed hours of adept sparring between her cousins, sister, aunts, and friends of the family over the years.  Remeran women rarely spoke plainly, and when they did it was as a last resort, when all of their artful insults and attempts to undermine had failed.

“If you’d prefer,” Amendra conceded, reluctantly, after some consideration.  “Something on your mind, my daughter?”

“I take issue that you disapprove of a man who you have yet to meet,” she said, simply, directly, and – to anyone who was familiar with the two women – aggressively.

Amendra responded in kind.  “And I take issue that you turned your back on the family that raised and supported you, and let your future be decided by your loins and your heart, not your head.  And then you compounded your rebellion when you didn’t even have the decency to inform us yourself, much less invite us to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?  I was reluctant to expose my husband to the withering criticism I expected – rightly, I see,” Pentandra added, coolly.  “After what I had to endure to convince him to marry me, I didn’t want to ruin my marriage prematurely by showing him the kind of family he was marrying into.”

“You didn’t want me to ruin your marriage, you mean!” her mother said, acidly.

“No, my marriage is my responsibility,” Pentandra replied, calmly.  “If it fails, it will be because of what I have done or not done.  And as such, I thought that the wisest course of action was to learn how to live with my husband before exposing him to the vitriol I expected from his new in-laws.”

“Live with him?” scoffed Amendra, drinking the dark Cormeeran lustily.  “Pentandra, if my marriage has taught you nothing else, it should teach you that you don’t have to live with a man in order to have a successful marriage,” she said, sagely.  “Trygg’s holy twat, if I had to live with your father every day, there would be blood,” she said, shaking her head at the idea.

“And you count that as a successful marriage, Mother?” Pentandra asked, pointedly.

“We are not peasants, Pentandra!” Amendra scolded.  “In our social position we marry to continue the line, support the institution of the family, and conserve assets.  We cannot let such clutter as love and romance and misguided ideas of happy peasant families distract us from that.”

“And we are not noblemen, Mother!” Pentandra shot back, harshly.  “We’re magi who have been pretending to be nobility for four hundred years!  Now that things have changed, we magi will decide our own society, thank you very much!”

“And that society includes barbarian chieftains and . . . other exotic alliances?”

Pentandra thought about the goddess masquerading as a madam down on the Street of Perfume, the blind girl with the troubling secret stumbling around the palace, the quirky little nun of the goddess of gambling who was running her fictitious criminal organization’s underground lending operation – at a profit – and the odd Kasari assassins who eschewed their tribe’s reverence for life for the opportunity to skulk around Vorone and shoot people in the darkness.

“Yes, Mother, it does.  Everyone from the Alka Alon to gurvani traitors to Karshak builders to wild tribal warriors to illiterate Alshari Wilderlords . . . our world is changing, and we must do what we can to protect it.  With the assistance of who we can find.  That’s made all the more difficult when these . . . exotic allies of ours encounter the prejudiced, bigoted, and ignorant opinions of our nobility.  Which might explain to you why I was reluctant about introducing you to my husband!”

“We . . . can be a bit judgmental,” Amendra conceded.  She’d made her point, and was ready to strike from a different direction.  “But the very idea of a daughter of mine having to convince anyone to marry her, when they should be willing to kill for the privilege, is—”

“It wasn’t Arborn’s inclination that I had to overcome,” Pentandra interrupted.  “It was his devotion to duty, and obedience to the laws of the Kasari.  Many raptor-ranked Kasari men, and especially their rangers, don’t ever marry, or marry very late in life, if they’ve survived the harshness of that vocation.  Arborn made himself an exception, which did him no favors among some of his people.  It was not a welcome pairing to many Kasari, and I did not want to compound the discomfort by showing him just how judgmental my own people were.”

“What?” Amendra asked, scandalized.  “Do they not realize who you are?”

“To them, I am merely another non-Kasari,” Pentandra explained.   “My rank and position means nothing within their tribe.  My ability to practice magic means nothing.  Social status?  Wealth?  Family?  Title?  They mean nothing.  I still had to go through the same rites that every adolescent Kasari girl must, just to be considered.  And even then there were no guarantees that Arborn would select me.  I count myself fortunate I was able to overcome my own sheltered upbringing and manage the basics of domesticity that every peasant girl seems to master before she bleeds.”

“Pentandra, that’s servant’s work!” Amendra dismissed.  “So what does this young man bring to the marriage?” she asked, after a few moment’s thought.  Pentandra was certain she could imagine all of the nosy questions she had discarded in favor of this one – as intrusive as it was.  Asking about her husband’s resources was Amendra’s idea of verbal restraint.

“A kind heart, a strong arm, a keen eye, and a devotion to your daughter that is unmatched,” Pentandra said, proudly.

That did not impress her mother.  “Hmmph.  So, no holdings to speak of?  No estates?  No treasury?”

Pentandra gave an exasperated sigh.  “Mother!  The Kasari do not measure things like that!  They grant rank and position in their society based on achievement, merit, and competence, not wealth!”

“Barbarians,” sighed the Remeran woman, amused.  “No sense of—”

“One of those barbarians is now your son-in-law, Mother,” Pentandra reminded her, sternly.  “And imagine what he would think if he heard you speaking of his people like that!”

“I mean no offense,” Amendra said, unconvincingly.  “I merely want what is best for my daughter.  When we invested in your education, we anticipated something more than a kind heart and a strong arm for your dowry.”

“I have more wealth than I can spend in this life,” Pentandra dismissed.  “Between my inheritance, my stipend here, and what I earned as Steward of the Arcane Orders, coin is not a problem for my marriage.  I have more than enough to support us both, when needed.  Nor is Arborn destitute, in Narasi terms.  He is the Master of Wood for the duchy, you know – and the duchy with the most wood.  There is a stipend involved, as well as other remuneration.”

“At least he has a job,” sighed her mother, after a few moments’ consideration.  “He’s not . . . tattooed or anything, is he?  Ritual scarification?”

“He’s perfectly acceptable at the court of a sitting duke, Mother!” Pentandra said, her jaw clenched.  “If His Grace sees no issue with having him at his table, I do hope you can find it within yourself to extend him the same courtesy.”

“A mere duke is not a choosy as your mother, Pentandra!” Amendra corrected.  “If I seem circumspect about your new husband, perhaps it is because I was not afforded the opportunity to make his acquaintance in the usual manner,” she pointed out.

Pentandra had little to defend herself with on that.  In Remere, as in most places, weddings were family oriented.  After all, a wedding was as much the union of two families as it was two people, and all the more so when it united the interests of two houses.  To turn her back on all of the hallowed traditions and social obligations usually involved in two families getting to know each other before the event had deprived her mother of much-needed intelligence.

But then another part of her mind chimed in, pointing out the obvious.  “Mother, had I thought you would have given him a fair hearing and an honest, objective assessment, instead of inspecting him like an old horse who has gone out of fashion, I might have.  But as it was I had to make my own choices and my own decisions – something I’ve grown comfortable with, over the years.  Surely you can appreciate that.”

“Not at the expense of your family, Daughter,” she said, flatly, as she sipped more wine.  “I had no problem with your profession – half of my family are adepts.  We always expected you would marry within your craft, before your friend the Spellmonger shook up the social order.  But now that your options have opened . . . you choose a barbarian from the far side of the world?  When you could have married into nobility?”

“I am married into nobility, Mother!” Pentandra said, flatly.  “Arborn was ennobled before we got here!”

“Oh, surely, but he’s a noble in name only if he has no holdings, no treasury,” Amendra dismissed.  “And yes, I do know you have your own money – remember, my mother and aunt granted you quite the legacy when they died.  But a woman who has to support her husband . . .” she said, shaking her head sadly.

“Oh, Ishi’s saggy tits, Mother, I don’t have to support a fellow officer of the court!” Pentandra spat angrily.  “Nor do I have aspirations of being landed nobility!  I’m a magelord, for Trygg’s tears, I don’t need to be a baroness!”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt!” Amendra declared.  “What happens if your fortunes change, and you and your husband are dismissed from service?  How will you eat, then?”

“Well, I’ll just have to fall back on the fact that I’m the second most powerful mage in the world and my barbarian husband’s ability to construct an entire civilization out of two sticks and a bit of rope!  Honestly, Mother, you haven’t been worried about my upkeep since I left for Alar – why does it concern you so now?” she demanded, hotly.

“Because when you went to Alar, you were just a girl!  Now you are a grown woman who went off and got married . . . without even telling me!” her mother exploded.

“How about you actually meet my husband before condemning him?” Pentandra challenged, quietly, after a moment of reflection.  “Perhaps you will be less angry if you see the man who compelled me to give up my lifelong obsession with rebellion against my mother and actually consider marriage!”

When put like that, Amendra had a difficult time finding an argument.   She calmed, visibly, at the idea.  “Is this husband of yours in the palace?  Or does he sleep in the trees?”

“Only when he’s in the field,” Pentandra replied, calmly.  “And yes, he is in the palace, or was the other day.  He’s still healing from . . . well, it’s a rough job,” she said, lamely.  “He’s around.  How about we have dinner in my chambers tonight?  Then you can decide for yourself if I’ve made my usual horrible mistake and ruined my life or not.”

“I look forward to the opportunity,” her mother said, haughtily, as castellan Birsei knocked quietly on her door.  He stuck his head in cautiously – which bespoke uncommon good sense on his part.

“My ladies, Lady Amendra’s suite is ready,” he reported, dutifully.  “Sir Antinon has agreed to lodge you in the Hawking Room,” he said, pleased.

Pentandra nodded – she’d have to thank the Chamberlain in person, for that.  The Hawking Room was usually reserved for visiting religious dignitaries, diplomatic ambassadors or nobles of rank.  Needless to say it was empty at the moment.  “That will be fine, Birsei.  Have the drudges take my mother’s luggage there, and see that it is well-supplied – on my account,” she added.

“What a thoughtful and generous gesture,” her mother said, her tone unconvinced.  “If this nice young man will escort me to my quarters, I feel the need to refresh myself before dinner,” she announced.

“Please ensure my mother has adequate supplies for a bath, Birsei,” she instructed.  “I’ll see you this evening, Mother.  Oh . . . and just how long were you planning on staying?” she asked, lightly.

“Oh, since your sister and your father are preoccupied, I figured I’d stay through the end of the summer,” she replied casually as she stood.  “I’ve never been this far north, and I’ve always been told that this is the prettiest part of natural Alshar.”

“That’s . . . that’s fantastic,” Pentandra said, as her mother left.  Her mind was spinning.

All summer long.  And it was only past midsummer.

Princess Rardine was due this autumn.

There were undead skulking about Vorone.

The duchy was just attacked by gurvani.

The first Magewar in four hundred years had been waged and won, with disastrous consequences.

And there was a mischievous, devious goddess doing her best to upset her.

Pentandra put her forehead down on her desk for a moment, letting the cool of the wood absorb the heat from her suddenly-pounding brow. Then she sat up, looked absently into space . . . and poured herself another glass of wine.

All the way to the brim.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dinner With Mother

“You realize that no matter how perfect it is, it will never be enough,” Arborn commented, unhelpfully, while Pentandra was setting the table.

She had imposed on Bircei to serve and attend for the evening, but she wanted to see to the details of the place settings personally.  She was counting on the castellan’s smooth manner to reduce any comments her mother might have about the servants - one of her favorite points of criticism.  Bircei was no Remeran, but he understood how to serve properly and maintain protocol.  Having her inexperienced maid or her blind apprentice trying to serve would have been a disaster.

Bircei also had the benefit of understanding the nature and gravity of the situation in ways that completely escaped her husband.

“Well of course not,” Pentandra shot back as she replaced the large magelight over the table with four smaller ones in the corner of the room.  Indirect lighting provided a more casual mood, she decided.  “No matter what I do, it will be wrong.  It’s how I am wrong that is important.”

Arborn looked confused.  “Important to whom?”

Pentandra looked up at her husband sharply.  She realized that he possessed only the vaguest of ideas of what was about to happen -- the subtle interplay, the oblique references to years of past history and remembered slights, the insidious need to please and defy at the same time.  She felt sorry for him, for what he was about to witness.

“You didn’t have any sisters, did you?” she guessed.  Then she realized she knew almost nothing about her husband’s family, and life growing up.

Did I marry a stranger? part of her mind suddenly asked, throwing the rest into turmoil.

Pentandra summoned her Will, developed through years of disciplined magical meditation, and forced herself to postpone the painful speculation and emotional tempest that question would inevitably inspire.  She just didn’t have the capacity for it right now.  One catastrophe at a time, she warned herself.

“Actually, I have two half-sisters, but they’re much younger than I am,” he admitted.  “I grew up with two younger brothers.”

“Well, right now you are about to see the brutal result of years of pent-up matronly guilt and emotional history amongst the noble class,” she warned.  “I’m going to get savaged for the temerity of wanting to live my own life, and she’s going to get smothered in guilt for years of neglect and emotional warfare.”

Arborn looked to Bircei as the castellan adjusted the place settings, and the thin man nodded sadly.  “I really don’t think it will be that bad,” Arborn suggested, hesitantly. “What could she possibly find fault with?”

She stifled a mad giggle.  “Would you like the list alphabetically, or in order of importance?” Pentandra challenged.  “Everything I’ve ever done since I was a child will be on the table for discussion,” she predicted, her voice quivering.  “Every imagined slight, every embarrassing story, every awkward moment will be turned into an ‘endearing’ tale designed to belittle me.”

“I did have the fortune of escorting the lady to her quarters,” Bircei ventured.  “She seems a . . . formidable woman.”

“She can’t be that bad,” Arborn said, trying desperately to gain control of the situation.

“Oh, she makes the ‘courtiers’ around this mildewy old place look like kids in temple classes!” Pentandra said, hands moving to her hips of their own accord.  “There is no social situation that she cannot dominate, no conversation that she can’t turn to her own purpose, no compliment that isn’t wrapping an insult!”

“Pen, I’m sure she won’t be that bad with me there,” he ventured, cautiously.

“You?  Oh, you are going to be the main topic of conversation,” Pentandra said, angrily.  “How you are an ‘illiterate barbarian’ from a ‘forest tribe’ that I’ve ‘surrendered’ myself to purely because of your virility and sexual prowess!”

Arborn looked confused.  “Other than the fact I speak nine languages and read six, what’s wrong with that?”

Pentandra’s head felt like it was going to explode.  Luckily, Bircei came to the rescue.

“If I may, my lord, what my lady means to say is that, according to her mother’s ideas of proper social positioning, your rank amongst the Wilderlords is unlikely to overcome her misgivings about your origins.  Nor is your rank amongst your own people,” he added, sympathetically.

Arborn looked at Bircei thoughtfully.  “So tell me, based on your brief meeting with the woman, can you imagine any man of any rank or position that would satisfy her requirements for a son-in-law without complaint?   And your candor is appreciated,” he added.  Arborn disliked the double-talk and obfuscation implicit in court life, but he was starting to understand it.

“My lord, in my candid opinion, the lady would find fault with Luin the Fair himself as a son-in-law,” Bircei declared, emphatically.  “But the servants should not gossip.”

“Then if all paths are equally cursed, take the one that’s easiest on your feet,” he advised his wife.  “Pentandra, you’re a successful woman in your own right.  Don’t let her cloud your judgment with anxiety before she even arrives.”

“She’s been doing that since I was born!” Pentandra exploded.  “Nothing is good enough for her!  And the moment she brings up my sister--”

“I will do my best to avoid such unpleasantness, my lady,” Bircei assured her.  “There are all manner of strategies servants employ to steer the conversations of their betters.  In such an intimate setting, there should be ample opportunity for that.”

“Thank you, Bircei,” she sighed.  “Arborn, you have just enough time to dress before she arrives, and the food starts coming up from the kitchen.  We have sufficient wine?” she asked Bircei.

“Why do I need to dress?” Arborn complained.  In truth, he was clothed in his dark green tunic and Kasari mantle, and looked as neat and handsome as ever.  But it was entirely the wrong appearance for the occasion, for far too many reasons than she had time to explain.

“I have six bottles of a sweet, hardy red from His Grace’s Gilmoran estates,” the castellan reported, “as well as a bottle of Cormeeran dessert wine.  There will also be a bottle of the spirits in the buttery,” he added, “for medicinal purposes.  For the servants,” he added.

Drinking spirits during a dinner function was a gross violation of custom.  Pentandra appreciated Bircei’s foresight.  She wasn’t exactly fond of drink, the way Minalan and Terleman were, but tonight she anticipated needing as much liquid courage as she could find.  “And Lord Arborn, I have laid out your clothes for the evening on your press,” he added.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

Pentandra vowed to double what she was paying the man.  He’d just eliminated a painful conversation and potential argument with her husband.

Arborn sighed.  “I shall do my best,” he vowed, in Narasi, instead of Kasari.  Then he went to get dressed.

“Pardon me for saying, my lady, but I think your anxiety over your lord husband is misplaced,” Bircei offered.  “Lord Arborn seems more than capable of handling anything the gods put in his path.”

“He’s never had my mother in his path before,” Pentandra sighed.  “That woman could teach dragons how to intimidate.”

Amendra appeared with her maid at the door of the office at the precise time specified; she looked stern and judgmental despite the gaily-colored yellow Remeran gown she wore.  Arborn met her, looking positively intimidating in his preselected finery.  The fine woolen tunic of dark green was cut in the simple Wilderlands style, but was well-fitted to Arborn’s muscular frame.  It was tastefully embroidered at the neck and sleeves, and the bright white linen undershirt that peeked out had tiny lilies, the Kasari symbol, stitched in a slightly darker white for a subtle but elegant effect.

Bircei had chosen well.  The black leggings and hall slippers he wore accentuated his well-developed calves.  Instead of the full Kasari cloak, he had chosen a short black half-cloak, pinned with a striking eagle-shaped brooch that added just a touch of barbaric splendor to the outfit.  The ornate leather belt, on which he wore a jeweled dagger she’d never seen before, was heavily tooled and gilded in places.  On his brow he wore a simple silver circlet.

It was the best blend of sophisticated court garb and homage to Arborn’s Kasari heritage that she could have asked for.  Pentandra didn’t even know her husband had such clothes in his press -- sparking another pointless emotional discussion with herself about her inadequacies as a wife -- but she was impressed and pleased with the result.

Even Amendra was unable to criticize his appearance on their first meeting, though she inspected him as thoroughly as an old horse in the market.

“Mother,” he began, politely and respectfully, “it is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You must be Arborn,” she said, her eyes falling on him like a heavy rain.  “Big fellow, aren’t you?”  Pentandra, standing behind him, held her breath.  It was a trap.

“And I see where Pentandra gets her radiant beauty,” he said with a charming bow.  “Come, be welcome in our home.”

“Polite,” Amendra grunted, as she took his arm and let her son-in-law escort her up the stairs.  Of course she could not be satisfied without criticism, but she felt compelled to obscure it, saying to herself -- and Pentandra -- an old High Perwynese proverb instead, in the dead language itself: “A fair face and good manners obscures intent”.

Pentandra was about to whisper something back, but Arborn beat her to it.  Replying in the same language -- flawlessly pronounced -- he quoted “Where there is no advantage, there is likely no duplicity”, one of the famous sayings of Archmage Derendi.

That made Amendra’s eyebrows go up.  Not only had he called her out on her attempt to shame him, he had done so with a diplomacy that had revealed his scholarship and understanding, not to mention his knowledge of Imperial history and literature.

One point for Arborn, Pentandra told herself.

When they sat down to the first course, all bets were off.

The dinner itself was exquisite.  Bircei (with Pentandra’s financial backing) was able to coax an enticing repast out of the court’s kitchens, starting with delicious white bread and a selection of Wilderlands cheeses, complimented by some seasonal fruit just coming into ripeness.  The porridge course featured small bowls of a delicious wheat and barley with honey and dried berries, served with tiny fingerling sausages fried to a delicious golden brown.

The first meat course was a brace of fat pheasants stuffed with onions, bacon, and barley and served with roasted honeyed carrots.  The second was an incredibly well-seasoned herb-wrapped loin of pork baked into an amazing crust of bread with more mushrooms than Pentandra thought possible, oozing with juices and filling the air with its inviting aroma.  Lastly, the dessert course featured an amazing three-sectioned pie with apples, cherries,  and blueberries warring for culinary attention.

Pentandra didn’t remember tasting a bit of it afterwards.

The initial conversation was cordial enough - well-wishes, a toast to their meeting, a belated toast to Trygg to bless their union, even a few good-natured jokes.  But before the porridge arrived, Amendra began her dissection.

“I cannot help but feel saddened by not attending my daughter’s nuptials,” she offered, in her best Not-Angry-But-Deeply-Hurt voice.

“The Kasari marriage rites are a religious mystery,” Arborn explained.  “Usually they happen in private, and the families celebrate the new union afterward.  Since there is often no idea of who the young people will have paired up with, it would be confusing to try to invite family to the actual ceremony.”

“That sounds like a terrible way to run a culture,” Amendra said.  “How do the Kasari arrange to conserve their wealth, if they do not make marriage alliances?”

“The Kasari aren’t farmers, Mother,” Pentandra tried to explain.  “They don’t own land, individually, they work it communally.  Marriage alliances don’t matter when there is no land to conserve and distribute among heirs.  The Kasari marry based on compatibility, suitability, and . . . luck,” she added.  “It’s a fascinating culture.”

“I have no doubt.” Amendra said, though her answer left realms of doubt about other things implied.  “I’m certain your sister would have hated that manner of selecting a husband.”

“She would have done well, actually,” Pentandra considered, remembering the weeks of training she’d endured with the other outsiders to the closely-held Kasari way.  “She’s a much better cook than me, and doesn’t mind needlework.  She would have ended up with a raptor, I have no doubt.  That’s the highest rank of the Kasari tribes,” she explained.

“I’m sure she’s more satisfied with her current husband than she would have been drawing lots for one,” Amendra said, with a great deal of judgment.  “He’s building her a new villa.  For her and the new baby,” she added, with a note of triumph to her voice.

“She’s pregnant again?” Pentandra asked in a whisper.  Though her heart fell through the floor and her anxiety level rose significantly at the news, she found herself squealing uncontrollably and embracing her mother over the news.  “Trygg’s blessings!  When?”

“She announced it right before I left Remere,” her mother said, smugly.  “She must be . . . eleven, twelve weeks along, now?  Doing well, according to the priestess,” she added.  “Her husband is pleased as a pirate.

“But that does beg the question . . . now that I’m about to be a grandmother again, when can I expect that rare pleasure from my younger daughter?”

“More wine, my ladies?” Bircei interrupted, expertly.  “The next course is arriving, may I clear this away-- oh, dear!” he said, as he accidentally dropped the bottle.  Pentandra noted that while the earthenware bottle shattered, neither shards nor droplets of the dark red wine splattered the guests.  It was a most expert accident she’d ever seen.  She resolved to give the man a bonus.

“Clumsy churl!” Amendra swore, inspecting her bright yellow garment for damage.  “Ishi’s tits!  I swear, they must pull you people right out of the mines and forests!”

While Bircei offered abject apologies, the time it took to repair the damage, clean up the mess, decant another bottle and pour, and then serve the pheasants was enough to occupy Amendra and distract her from the question she let hang in the air.  By the time they were eating again, Arborn was inquiring about their estates in Remere.

That didn’t eliminate the question, and Pentandra knew it.  Amendra had purposefully inflicted the social awkwardness, knowing that it would gnaw on Pentandra and spark a later discussion -- or argument -- with her husband.  She didn’t need to pursue it that night.  Just the kind of nasty trap Pentandra had been wary of.  And one Arborn would not even recognize.

But while she was musing, her mother had continued on her verbal rampage, finding some means of segueing a discussion of the family estates into an entirely embarrassing tale of Pentandra as a child in the bathtub, and how she had treated a favorite toy most inappropriately.

She feints towards my womb, then strikes me in my vagina, she observed to herself while the shock and horror of what her mother was saying washed over her.  She’s really an adept, in her way, she had to admit.

Thankfully, Bircei kept the wine flowing . . . and she noticed that her mother’s cup was never empty.  Despite a few disparaging remarks about the vintage, she was absorbing it eagerly enough.  Hells, Pentandra thought bitterly as she and Arborn laughed over the story, she’s enjoying this!

“So why don’t you give me a tour of the rest of the Court Wizard’s office, while we await whatever that incredible smell is?” Amendra proposed.

“Uh, apart from my bedchamber and the clerk’s quarters, this is about it,” Pentandra had to admit.  “There’s actually a dependent estate with the office, a few miles out of town, but we haven’t had time to visit it yet.  But from all accounts it’s just as inadequate as this.”

“It is not Pentandra’s doing,” Arborn chimed in.  “Vorone was ever but a temporary respite from the oppressive heat of the south, and was not designed for prolonged use as a ducal capital.  There were just enough facilities built here to contend with the essential business.  Once the south is restored, as many in court favor, her quarters will be considerably improved.”

“I would speak with His Grace about this, if I were you,” Amendra pronounced.  “It is not proper that someone with your rank suffer with such inadequacies.”

“Times are hard, Mother,” Pentandra said, a little more sternly than she intended.  “The Restoration is not yet a year old.  It takes time and effort to re-create the architecture of a duchy from scratch.  Resources are hard to come by.  And this is, for the moment, adequate for my needs.”

“Yes, I suppose you need a bedchamber more than a laboratory for the work you do,” she said, casually, as she took another sip.

Arborn did not pick up on the remark, but it stung Pentandra deeply and even Bircei winced.  Her mother had always had a perverse fascination, even pride, with her study of Sex Magic, but she’d also cultivated a well-known disdain bordering on horror for the social scandal implicit in such work.

Pentandra’s face burned.  Then her mother compounded the dig, glancing ever-so-briefly at Arborn.  “And I see you’re well-supplied with material, for the moment.”

“Mother!” Pentandra protested, automatically.

“What?” Arborn asked, confused.  Bircei winced again painfully.

Amendra continued to speak, like a runaway cart on a busy town street.  “Nothing at all like that boy, Minalan -- sorry, Baron Minalan,” she corrected herself with a slight smile.  “Now that was a studious boy.  I always liked him.  When Pentandra brought him to the family estates, back during her tenure at Inarion, it was so adorable the way he followed her around like a puppy, terrified that we’d be at his door with spears and a noose if we found out he was topping our daughter.  As if she hadn’t humped half the servants into oblivion already . . .”

“Mother, you disliked Min the moment you met him, and told him so to his face!” Pentandra accused.  She did not register the stricken look on Bircei’s face, or the growing tide of confusion on Arborn’s.  She stared relentlessly into her mother’s barely-wrinkled eyes.

“Oh, we had a talk, certainly,” she admitted.  “At the time it looked like a poor match -- you had such potential back then, my dear!  But then we couldn’t have known about his ambitions, back then, could we.  The Narasi are usually so blatant in their pursuit of power, but he’s handled his rise with the subtlety of a Remeran.  In a few short years he went from a knight with a single estate to a baron of incredible wealth and power.  Two children, too, from what your father says,” she added.  “Now that’s a man who understands ambition.”

“And who do you think helped him get there?” Pentandra demanded.  “If it wasn’t for me, Min wouldn’t have half of the successes he’s had!”

“Yet what have you gotten for it?” her mother shot back.

Too late, Pentandra realized the trap she’d fallen into.

“A fancy title for a crappy post?  A position in a laughingstock of a court, pretending to rule an entire duchy?  You could have been by his side, sharing in the wealth and power and position.  Instead you were beaten out by a peasant wench with the stink of cow dung on her shoes.  One who gave him heirs while you were taking his messages in Castabriel!  Really, Pentandra, you had a perfect opportunity and you let it slip through your fumbling fingers!  I raised you better than that!”

“Mother, you as much as forbid Minalan to pursue me!  Not to mention that I wasn’t interested in him that way!  I was a working woman, with a career ahead of me!  The last thing I wanted to do was get married!”

“And he took that seriously?  Or did he just find a better match?” her mother dared to say.  “You were there in that castle alone with him, when he’d just handed you irionite -- I’m no mage, but I know what that means!  And then you screwed him for days, by all accounts, and still got left with nothing.  What, by Ishi’s abundant blessings, is sex magic for if you can’t manage to get one half-witted Narasi spellmonger to commit to you?”

“We were there with his pregnant woman,” Pentandra pointed out, forcefully, “and I’m sorry if our impending deaths didn’t make him out to be a terribly bright marriage prospect!  Or if the four hour -- not four day -- sex magic ritual we used to save everybody’s lives wasn’t the height of romance, with thousands of terrified peasants marching past, including his pregnant woman!  But if I wasn’t interested in marrying Minalan then, why did you think I’d be--

“It broke my heart, when she told me that she was going to his wedding,” Amendra told Arborn, sadly.  “She was so close, and she could have done any number of things to repair the situation.  Instead she saved his entire wedding party.  She loaned them her personal barge for their honeymoon.  And slunk back to Castabriel like . . . like a dismissed maid!”

“. . . to take up the second highest and most important magical post in the Kingdom!” Pentandra sputtered.  “And be a member of the royal court!”

“And where did that get you?” Amendra asked dismissively, looking around at the palace she clearly did not find palatial enough.

“Married,” Arborn finally spoke.  “To me.  My lady, as delightful as this pie is, and as pleasant as this evening has been, the palace bells have rung.  If you are to enjoy the palace’s famous matins in the morn, it might be best if you retire.”

“Why would I want to attend matins?” Amendra asked, confused. The dawn service was usually the province for the most devout . . . or the most desperate for divine attention.

“Why, to pray to Trygg to find it within her divine grace to grant you the son-in-law you feel you deserve,” he said, quietly, as he rose.  “Or the daughter that you clearly desire.  I hope you can find both, in your stay in Vorone.  May I escort you back to your quarters?” he asked in a formal tone that was nonetheless commanding.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Amendra said, her lips tightly pursed.  “I find myself overcome with the joy and delight at my reunion with my daughter after so long a silence, and am afraid my age has given me little energy for late nights . . . and intimate discussions.  If you would fetch my mantle,” she asked, pointedly.  Arborn nodded, and made his way to the bedchamber where it was stowed.

The moment he was out of earshot she turned to Pentandra.  “Despite what you might think, I find him entirely adequate for you, dear.  And exceedingly polite.  You managed that, at least,” she said, with a crooked smile.

“Mother, this discussion is not over,” Pentandra hissed.

“Of course not, dear,” Amendra assured her.  “It’s just after midsummer -- I figured I would stay through Luin’s Day, at least, and see you settled in, here.  Your sister won’t be due until late autumn, and I do dread enduring a Remeran summer with a pregnant woman in the middle of constructing a new home.  Not when my other daughter is in such dire need of my attention.”

“Luin’s . . . day?” Pentandra asked, as Arborn returned with her mantle.  The harvest festival honoring the god of law, order, and the apportionment of resources and duties was not for weeks.

Right around the time Princess Rardine was due for her inspection.

“That’s right -- unless your sister needs me before then,” she said, casually, accepting Arborn’s assistance with her cloak.  “Thank you.  Tomorrow I search for proper quarters in town for my stay.  This palace looks lovely from the outside, but it’s no better than a second-rate inn.  If I am going to look out for my daughter properly, it will be from my own quarters.  Good morrow, my sweet.  Arborn, I’m ready.”

When the two had left, with Amendra’s maid, Pentandra slumped down in her chair and drained her wineglass.  She looked around for more, but Bircei was two miles downriver from her.  The castellan abandoned protocol and sat in Arborn’s abandoned chair.  The moment that the downstairs’ door closed, he produced a small bottle of Pearwoods brandy, strong enough for medical use, and poured slightly more than half of it in her glass.

“That could have gone worse,” he commented, taking a sip directly from the flask.

“Yes, I suppose it could have,” Pentandra said, dazed, as she took a sip of the strong, sweet liquor.  “All things considered, she was on good behavior.  Not the best behavior, but--”

“Oh, I have no doubt that she could be quite . . . formidable if she got truly aroused.  I assumed she was merely exploring you for weakness.”

“Oh, yes, she’s formulating her strategy for the next engagement, even as she interrogates Arborn for more intelligence.  I’m glad you appreciate the situation, Birsei.  Not many men would.”

“I have a mother and sisters, my lady.  And a wife.  And a mother-in-law,” he assured her, with proper gravity, as he continued sipping.  “Which brings to mind an issue that, perhaps, you have overlooked.”

She looked up sharply at the castellan.  “What?”

“The effect this evening may have had on your lord husband, my lady,” he supplied, with some reluctance.  “Some of the topics could not help but be understood, even by someone with Lord Arborn’s . . . noble perspectives,” he said diplomatically.  “And some of those subjects nearly any man, noble or common, would find a challenging issue in his new marriage.”

Pentandra considered the idea . . . and realized with some horror that the castellan was correct.  She had lightly glossed over her tacit admission to dozens of lovers - and the glorification of a former romantic interest -- as well as publicly stated her reluctance toward marriage at all.

“Damn,” she whispered to herself.  “You’re right.  Arborn is strong, noble, and . . . but he’s not . . . oh, Ishi’s tired twat, I really humped that up!”

“Nothing is beyond repair, with the help of the gods,” Bircei said, philosophically.

Pentandra looked at him again, considering explaining to him how one of the gods, in particular, had helped orchestrate this entire disaster.  Not that he would have believed her.

“But from my small store of wisdom, might I suggest that you demonstrate to your mother how happy you are?  That, in my experience, blunts a number of stings in such situations.  A mother cannot argue overmuch if her daughter has built a life for herself, though she will criticize it relentlessly.  And a daughter who is happy with her husband and her life will give her more peace than a string of titles and a dozen domains.  Though she would never admit it.”

“No, my mother never would,” Pentandra agreed.  “But she’s not the one I’m worried about now, thanks to your observation.  How do I repair things with Arborn?”

“Oh, that?  If the man possesses the smallest wisdom – and in my experience Lord Arborn is blessed with an abundance – then he will excuse any discussion betwixt mother and daughter as he would two friends drinking in a tavern.  By morning’s light, much will be forgotten and more will be consigned to evenings past.  Especially,” he added pointedly, “if he’s given cause to remember why he married her.”

Pentandra took the hint.  He wasn’t discussing her profound magical abilities.  She also took another sip of liquor.  It was going to be a long night, she foresaw.

“And I wouldn’t worry about your mother overmuch,” Bircei continued, with increasing familiarity as the flask emptied. “In my experience, no one has more power to bring tortuous embarrassment and turmoil to a mother’s soul than being confronted with her offspring.”

Suddenly, several things clicked in Pentandra’s mind at once.

She realized an answer to several problems, if her suspicions were correct.  Abruptly she set her wineglass down and summoned a small bag of gold she had tucked away in a magical pocket in her necklace.

“That’s about three times what I promised you, and then some,” she said, as she put the heavy purse in the castellan’s hand.  “After you’ve cleaned up, I want you to deliver a message to the attendant at the Mirror array for me, on your way home.”

“My lady?” Bircei asked, confused.

“I just had the kind of fiendish idea that would make my mother proud!” Pentandra explained.  “Thanks to your brilliant insight!”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Pentandra’s Report

Amendra spent the next few days seeking a suitable residence in town, giving Pentandra a much-needed respite from the constant flurry of challenges.  She had a job to do, after all, and as much as waging Magewars and repelling invasions was part of that job, so was making certain that the regular business of the office continued.

She spent much of the next day - after a busy night trying to distract Arborn from the disastrous dinner with her mother -- ensuring that examination schedules were made, the Mirror array was staffed and functional, and that minor requests from members of court were handled or rejected, as appropriate.

That did not even contain the voluminous amount of correspondence that was piling up.  Or her apprentice, who needed specialized training.

She was in the middle of answering letters resulting from the recent Conclave (there was always an eruption of business after a convention) when a page from His Grace appeared with a request that she attend him in the Game Room.

Pentandra didn’t even bother to change.  His Grace had the usual male blindness when it came to such subtleties as wardrobe, and she just didn’t have the capacity to give it much thought.  She grabbed her bag and her baculus and went.  Her arse was starting to hurt from the office chair, anyway.

Anguin appeared in good health and excellent spirits when she arrived - if anything, leading a force to relieve the tower bearing his name had given him a victorious glow that Pentandra found endearing.  He was in conference with Count Salgo, Father Amus, and an armored knight Pentandra hadn’t met.

The stranger was in his early thirties and clearly a military man by his bearing and raiment.  He wore plain, serviceable mail that was nonetheless made of good steel and well-constructed.  The sword at his waist was no courtier’s toy.  Across his chest he wore a simple leather baldric as the only token of his rank.

“Ah, our Court Wizard, the famous Lady Pentandra!” Anguin said, enthusiastically, as she bowed.  “Thank you for joining us.  Just a casual meeting to introduce the inner members of court to Commander Kersal of the 3rd Commando.  After some negotiations, I think we’ve reached an accord. Sir Kersal is to become the new Master of Arms, under the command of Count Salgo.  His men will be tasked with training our folk in defense, organizing and strengthening the militias, and responding to any threats to the realm expediently.”

“That should give me time to raise troops, if needed,” Salgo pointed out.  “But if Kersal’s men are doing their jobs, hopefully I won’t have to.”

“A pleasure, Commander,” Pentandra smiled and bowed.  The man was not handsome, and his face bore scars from many engagements, but there was no denying his compelling presence.  He gave her a curt bow in return.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, my lady,” he said in a low voice thick with the mud of the southern Riverlands.  “Indeed, I was at Castle Cambrian.  I have heard you were in no little part responsible for the outcome.”

“It was a team effort, my lord,” she assured him, lightly.  “And it was only the one dragon.”

“And one goblin army,” he reminded her.  “My thanks for your part in that.  And I do look forward to working with you,” he added.

That was politically important.  Traditionally the military had been skeptical of what magic could do, and the long-running rivalry between “grunts” and “sparks” bred mistrust.  But there was growing number of knights who were realizing the powerful advantages magic could bring, and were interested in exploring a stronger cooperation between the two.

“And I, you,” she assured.  “Commander, it was my impression that the 3rd Commando was rent by political issues – merely my observation from your correspondence,” she added.  No need to spook the man.  “Yet you seem firmly in command, now.  May I ask how that came to be?”

“Simple, my lady: when His Grace’s generous proposal arrived in Gilmora, we discussed it and voted on it, in the style of the Free Companies.  Most of the 3rd favored His Grace’s plan, as we were being pressured by the local lords who feared such a mighty army in their midst . . . and grew tired of the demands we were making on their resources,” he admitted.  “When we sat in counsel, a call was made for new leadership, and my sword brothers voted for me,” he said, humbly.

“You are a Castali?” she inquired, helping herself to the wine on the table.

“I was raised in Castal, squired to my mother’s brother, Sire Kalastor of Dunnex.  But I was born here in Vorone - one reason that my sword brothers favored my leadership.”

“Sir Kersal is the youngest son of the late Baron Edmarin,” Father Amus offered.  “He and his father had a strong antipathy.  He bears His Grace no ill for his execution.”

“Indeed, he saved me the trouble,” the soldier growled.

Pentandra studied his face.  Yes, she could see the resemblance, particularly through the eyes and forehead.  Yet this warrior was as far removed from the overfed parasite whose death she’d witnessed that fateful Yule as a tiger was from a tabby.  “I hated my father.  As long as he lived, I could not return to Vorone.  His Grace did me abundant favors by ending his life.”

“Do you plan on contending for his estate?” she asked, hesitantly.  That could be problematic.  “For, legally, his barony and all of his lands were forfeit upon his execution.  It has been already reassigned.”

“I want nothing of my father’s,” Kersal said, defiantly.  “I am my own man and have built my own career of arms.  If anything, I seek to repair the stain he cast upon my family line.  Any fortune I have, I have myself to credit.”

“Well spoken!” Salgo said, enthusiastically.  “I recruited Kersal myself; excellent soldier, outstanding command potential.  His time in Gilmora has seasoned him well.  As Master of Arms, he will provide the coordination of our military defenses.  Provide a common point of reference between the traditional feudal military, the local militias we have to train, and the magi.”

“Apropos to that,” Pentandra said, suddenly, “Your Grace -- my lords -- I wish to recommend Magelord Terleman as my . . . military attaché.  He was instrumental in coordinating our response to the recent goblin incursions, and he has more experience in the arcane war than anyone but Minalan.  Maybe more.  He doesn’t have a job at the moment, and he’s willing to come work for us.”

“What does he want?” Salgo and Father Amus both asked at the same time.  Even Kersal looked interested.

“Terleman?  Get him!” the soldier insisted.  “I worked with the man briefly in Gilmora.  There are few warmagi who would be soldiers if it wasn’t for their sorcery, but Terleman is one of them.  One of the better ones,” he added.

“He doesn’t want much - mostly a worthy purpose where he can practice his abilities.  The commander is correct: he is perhaps one of the best warmagi of our age, and he has the favor and backing of the Spellmonger, as well as the confidence of the Arcane Orders,” she added.

“All right, all right, give him a job,” the teenage duke grinned.  “If he’s not too picky about how he gets paid . . .”

“Not at all,” Pentandra assured.  “And in all candor, Your Grace, we need a coordinated response against the goblins.  At the moment this garrison and the stipend we receive to support Tudry are the King’s only real contributions to the defense.  No doubt he would raise a grand army to repel a threat to the Riverlands, again, but only after Alshar has fallen.  No, if we are to survive, we must see to our own defense.  Military and arcane.  There are dangers to the realm that are only suspected by my Order at the moment, gentlemen, but dangers that we are ill-prepared to defend against without sufficient preparation.”

“What dangers?” Sir Kersal asked, his smile fading. Pentandra took a deep breath.

It was time to explain the entirety of the situation.

“An ancient evil loosed from its tomb in the Land of Scars, who has recently occupied an even more ancient Alka Alon stronghold of untold power.  Oh, and he’s in league with Sheruel.  Perhaps even in a management role,” she began.

“Gods save us!” Salgo said, his face looking pale.  Father Amus made Huin’s holy sign of warding, wiping the sacred sweat from his brow.

“They have, at least once, already,” Pentandra admitted.  “I cannot go into details, but I must report that there has been at least one attack of these undead on Vorone already.  This spring.  If you recall the . . . strange events of Ishi’s Night, I can personally attest that the goddess, herself, was involved in repelling the threat to the town.”

Father Amus looked startled.  “There really was a visitation?  I thought we just made that up!”

“Did you think that half the town spontaneously humping everything in sight was the result of really good maywine, Father?” chuckled Count Salgo, recalling the events of that strange night.

“Ishi protected us - that is all you need to know, for now.  My lords, I feel it is time for me to make a full report, now that the crisis has – I pray! – passed.  And, yes, Ishi herself plays a role in how it developed in the first place.”

That had the attention of all of them.  You could not discuss the Goddess of Love and Beauty (and Sex) without inspiring the interests of most men.  Even granting dispensation to Father Amus for his piety, he was likely intrigued from a professional standpoint.

At least, that’s what Pentandra tried to convinced herself.  She took another deep breath.

“I cannot speak to her methods or mechanisms.  I dislike the Arcane Orders speaking for a realm that rightly belongs to the clergy, but I know that much for a fact: Ishi intervened to preserve Vorone.  The danger is real enough to attract the assistance of the very gods.”

“Well, that hardly bodes well,” Count Salgo said, frowning.  Pentandra nodded grimly and continued her report.

“We need to prepare ourselves for the fact that Sheruel, as demonstrably terrifying as he is, is not the only evil confronting us anymore.  This new threat is armed not only with forbidden Alka Alon sorcery, but apparently has a cadre of powerful undead Alka Alon renegades at their disposal . . . as well as a very alive faction of renegade Alka Alon, known to them as the Enshadowed.  They are the fanatics largely responsible for the rise of the traitor warmagi known as Mask and the other human renegade warmagi.”

“I was wondering who was doing that,” Father Amus admitted.  “Infiltration and base treason do not seem to be the goblins’ style.”

“It’s not, but the renegade Alka Alon are apparently far more devious, and willing to use our own weaknesses against us,” she agreed, thinking back to all she had learned in the crypt that fateful night.  “Mask in particular was been sent to strike at us,” she continued.  “She had some special enmity for the Spellmonger--”

“The lad does have a talent for pissing people off,” conceded Count Salgo.

“--but her plans seemed to have involved much more than simple domination of the Penumbra in service to Sheruel.  I thought as much last year, when we encountered her on the field and defeated her, but now we know for certain.”

“New intelligence?” Salgo asked, surprised.  Anguin, too, was paying rapt attention to her report.

“Even better: we took her prisoner,” Pentandra revealed.  “Lady Mask and a group of Alka Alon conspired to rob Sevendor of some of its precious magical items, but she was tripped up and left behind by her comrades.  Lady Mask was captured by the Spellmonger and imprisoned in Sevendor.  Under his skillful interrogation she has given us some details as to our enemies’ plots.”

“That is fortunate,” Anguin said, eagerly.  “I remember you telling me about her.  Wicked woman!”

“But willing to talk,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Of especial note in her briefing was detail confirming the alliance between the Enshadowed, the renegade warmagi, and this new player . . . Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens.”  She knew she sounded a bit dramatic when she said it, but she didn’t anticipate a giggle.

“Korbal!” chuckled Sir Kersal, amused.  “They call him Korval, in Castal, I think, but is he the funny little figure with the enlarged—?”

“That is mere folklore, Sir Kersal,” assured Father Amus, gravely.  “The being we contend with is quite real, it appears.  We’ve heard rumors that some ancient evil had awakened from the Kasari.  We were hoping it was a myth.”

“He is no myth,” Pentandra explained, “in human magical terms he is a powerful necromancer.  Perhaps the most powerful necromancer there has ever been.  I have seen but a tithe of his powers, in the encounter with one of his lieutenants, and they make the gurvani shamans look like footwizards.

“More, they have no compunctions about inhabiting a human host.  And utilizing human weaknesses to achieve their ends.”

“Apart from being pure stinking evil, what are their ends, Lady Pentandra?” asked Angrial, politely.  He looked deeply concerned about the very idea of Korbal being loose.

“We have come to understand that the gurvani and the undead have corrupted and infiltrated the criminal organization known locally as the Rat Crew, and more widely as the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

“The godsdamned Rats again?” swore Duke Anguin, shaking his head.  They might not have actually been to blame for his mother’s death, but Anguin had a low tolerance for the gang.  “Of course they would.  Evil attracts evil.  And that gave them some access to Vorone.”

“They’re moving quickly and consolidating power, and while we have all but driven the Crew from Vorone, they are ever eager to return.  Worse, they have a wide network of spies, assassins, thugs, smugglers, pirates and thieves to call upon to aid them, from here to Enultramar.”

“So the rats and the undead – what common issue could possibly brought them together?” asked Amus.  “And why?  What could those thugs possibly have to offer the undead?  Or the gurvani?”

“It is clear from what the foe let slip in our struggle that Korbal’s strategy depends on subversion and sabotage, among other insidious acts, to gain control of humanity before they destroy it,” Pentandra supplied.  “We are just beginning to uncover the extent of their infiltration, but from what we’ve seen so far it doesn’t bode well.”

“That would explain the ease with which Master Luthar managed to quit the dungeons under the palace on Ishi’s Night,” conceded Salgo.  “We thought the guards were just . . . distracted, but if he had assistance from outside, I may have put some guards on report who didn’t deserve it.  He wasn’t the only one, either.  They let the Sea Lords imprisoned there escape as well.  There was no sign of them.”

“Haven’t we been fighting the Rats since Yule?” asked Anguin, confused.  “I thought they were no longer a threat to the realm.”

“Unfortunately, while the local Rat Crew is no longer dominant in Vorone, the larger Brotherhood is strongest in Enultramar and the cities of southern Alshar, where neither the Arcane Orders nor the Duke has any power to speak of at the moment.  That must change,” she said, insistently.  “If we do not actually re-take the south, we must at least have a means of projecting power and influence there to counter such threats.  Currently we have neither, and it will be to our detriment for that to continue.”

“Agreed - and I have heard of little else from the southern party, since the Restoration began,” Father Amus said, tiredly.  “Believe me, restoring his rule over Enultramar remains high on His Grace’s priorities.  Yet without a spymaster or a navy . . .”

“We aren’t ready to mount an invasion, yet,” Count Salgo cautioned.

“Nor do we need to, yet,” Pentandra nodded.  “In the meantime, we build up our military.  Until we have one adequate for our needs, we will have to improvise.  Bringing on the 3rd Command will help, but the restructuring of the northlands must continue, or there will be no restoration in the south.  Making Terleman the center of the effort against both of our foes will be instrumental.  No one is better suited to understanding all of the contingencies of the present conflict, save perhaps Minalan, himself.  And Terleman is personally a powerful warmagi, on par with any in your service.  He may well have been able to destroy the undead lurking in Vorone this spring by himself,” she boasted.

“Also agreed,” Duke Anguin said.  “But while I’m impressed with his powers, it brings up another nagging question, my lady: what was a powerful undead doing in my town in the middle of a fertility festival?”

“Observing, spying, hiding, and searching,” Pentandra reported.  She omitted exactly what – whom – the fiend had been searching for; no need to add mud to the already turbulent waters of this report.  “And of course helping Lord Luthar escape from the palace dungeons.  As the local head of the Rat Crew, he has some value.  Apparently the undead have plans to exploit that relationship.  To our detriment.”

“How does one combat . . . undead?” Anguin asked, uncertainly.

“They die as the living do, if you hack at them long enough,” Count Salgo assured him.  “That’s what worked in Farise.”

“Not these,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “With all respect for your experience, Count, these are not mere animated corpses mindlessly fighting until they are taken down.  These undead possess advanced intelligence, tremendous strength, and the ability to use magic like a warmage or a spellsinger.  Dark magic,” she said, for emphasis, although the term had little technical merit.  “They use the same power of death energy that Sheruel uses to maintain the Umbra . . . only they use it with far more precision and efficiency.  That is a power that neither Alka Alon songspells nor Imperial magic is well-equipped to contend with,” she admitted.

“Can the Spellmonger not counter this threat?” asked Father Amus, confused.

“Minalan is . . . preoccupied at the moment,” Pentandra explained.  “Two of our High Magi, Baron Dunselen and Baroness Isily of Greenflower, were complicit in conspiring with both Lady Mask and the Enshadowed faction.  Once we had Mask’s confession, Minalan moved swiftly.  He convened a unit of warmagi and stormed Castle Salaisus a few nights ago.”

“Dear gods!” Father Amus said, making another holy sign.  “What was the outcome?”

“Victory,” conceded Pentandra, “but at a terrible price.  Master Dunselen is dead.  Lady Isily is . . . well, she is utterly witless.

“But then, so is the Spellmonger’s wife, Baroness Alya, who was included in the assault.  By all accounts her mind is gone from the struggle.  Though the Arcane Order has confiscated Dunselen’s estate and all of his papers, it may be years before Minalan can effect a cure.”

“Why not?” Duke Anguin asked, curious and horrified.

“The two of them were working on some very, very obscure aspects of magic.  And with their help, Mask was not only able to invade Sevendor but also help the Enshadowed steal some of Minalan’s magical treasury.  While Mask was caught, the Enshadowed were able to get away with a small trove of unique and powerful artifacts.  No doubt they will be in the armories of our foes before long,” she added, with a sigh.

“That does not bode well,” agreed the young duke. “The Spellmonger attacked?  Master Dunselen dead?  Baroness Alya is injured?  Renegade Alka Alon?  And here I thought we were making progress,” he said, discouraged.

“We are making progress, Your Grace!” Pentandra insisted.  “Compared to where we were at Yule, we have a functioning state, we are re-establishing infrastructure, and we are reorganizing the order of the Wilderlands from scratch to see to our sustained defense -- those are not small matters, Your Grace!”

“As important as armies and castles,” agreed Father Amus, nodding thoughtfully.  “We have made progress, Your Grace.  But we must know the full extent of the challenge we face if we are to continue to be successful.  Lady Pentandra is merely advising you as to what that truly is.  Your rule is not served by ignoring the realities we face.”

“I understand, Father,” Anguin said, apologetically.  “I just feel discouraged, after all of the hard work we’ve done.”

“Governance is a voyage, not a harbor, your grandfather was fond of saying,” Father Amus pointed out.  “Do not diminish what you have accomplished, Your Grace.  But neither should you think that you are at all close to achieving your goals.”

“Take heart, Your Grace,” Pentandra offered.  “We have gone more than half a year without any serious challenge from either your vassals or the kingdom.  That is when few thought you had the courage or resources to make the attempt at all.”

“I know, I know,” grumbled Anguin. “It’s just depressing to consider yet another dire foe to challenge my rule.  Especially one we are unsure of how to best.”

“That we will discover in time, Your Grace,” Salgo assured him.  “Until then, we will strive to protect you and the duchy as best we can.”

“To that end I would like to propose stronger patrols around Vorone,” suggested Sir Kersal.  “When my men approached we were not challenged until we were within half a mile of Vorone, and we came by road.  Gurvani tend to travel overland. If we had regular cavalry patrols north and south and west of the city, we might be able to intercept some of these fellows before they can begin their mischief.”

“We have not had the trained manpower for that, to this point,” Count Salgo admitted.  “Now that the 3rd Commando has arrived, it might be a good opportunity to familiarize your men with their new home.”

“Just what are the terms of the accord?” Pentandra asked.  “Just curious.”

“Generous,” Sir Kersal admitted.  “Each captain shall be given a domain as tenant lord, to convert to a titled lord after five years’ service, and two years abeyance of tribute and taxes.  Each petty-captain and lieutenant officer gets an estate, a charger, a brace of oxen and six sheep.  Each ancient, sergeant, and corporal receives a freeholding, twenty silver, and two cows.  Almost all of the territory given to them is in the eastern portion of the Wilderlands, behind the pele towers, largely unsettled and fairly free of goblins at this point.  The men understand,” he added, “that not all of these estates and holdings are . . . well-developed.”

“There’s more,” added Father Amus.  “The Duke shall pay a bounty for all those archers who participated in the spring contest and weapontake who choose to join one of the new estates.  Each Ancient in the 3rd shall be assigned as many bowman as we can divide to become yeomen and freemen on their new holdings.  They will be responsible for training those men.  And the 3rd will be working with both the town militia and the various barons to improve the quality of men on the field.”

“That should go a long way toward re-settling the north,” Salgo said, satisfied.  “And Kersal’s men seem eager to take up the challenge.”

“Being hailed as bandits and worse for a year has made the appreciations they have heard in Vorone sound like hymns of praise,” the knight agreed.  “It is too late for them to get a real crop in their new holdings before autumn, but they can at least take stock of their lands and prepare for next year.”

“We shall make the announcements and present the grants of deeds at court during the Feast of Greftor in a few weeks,” Father Amus told her.

That made a fair amount of sense, she reasoned.  The minor god of artisans was popular among the smiths, jewelers, weavers and other craftsmen that were so important to the economy of Vorone that it was, apparently, one of the summer’s major festivals in town.  “That is when Lady Pleasure has organized a recognition banquet for our illustrious Court Wizard and her fellows, anyway.  What better way to usher in a new order in Alshar than by welcoming the 3rd Commando while honoring our magi at a feast of artisans?”

Pentandra felt like shouting that she didn’t want any kind of honor from Lady Pleasure, but that would have been politically difficult to explain.  Instead she nodded serenely, smiled and tried to have good posture.

“An excellent plan, Father.  Though . . . I was wondering if it would be possible to scheduled a . . . tournament for the occasion.  Nothing fancy,” she hurriedly added, “but while the archery and such during the Wildflower Festival was popular, the nobility would appreciate the spectacle of even a modest tournament.”

“That’s . . . a surprising suggestion, coming from a mage,” Anguin observed.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Father Amus informed his young sovereign.  “Lady Pentandra is quite correct.  There are usually three or four tournaments in or near to Vorone during the summer, so that the visiting knights from Enultramar and Falas can cross lances with their Wilderlord cousins.  For many in the Wilderlands it is the only time such opportunities present themselves.  And the common people do love the sport.”

“Some of my men could use the practice,” conceded Count Salgo.  “Particularly in the garrison.  Some of those sots haven’t couched a lance in practice in years, and many more have never crossed one on the tourney field.”

“I . . . I loathe jousting,” Anguin said, shaking his head.  “But I can see the utility of the plan.  There are still plenty of Wilderlords who have offered more excuses than oaths in support of my reign.  A tournament would help lure them to town to pay homage.”

“And we can offer one of the many - many! - abandoned estates as a prize,” suggested Amus.  “Anything to get them productive again.”

“Make it happen,” Anguin ordered with confidence.  “It might be short notice, but it’s also less likely to draw a more professional element.  As much as I hate jousting I suppose I can manage an afternoon in the stands, as long as it’s not me on horseback.  And gods know we need the revenue,” he added.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Pentandra bowed.  “I am certain it will be a most educational entertainment,” she assured him, smoothly . . . while inside her head she was spinning cartwheels.  Anguin had agreed to the tournament.

Her plan was in motion.

Chapter Forty

Attack On The Palace!

The days that followed the announcement of the tournament at summer’s end were bleak and gloomy, as a summer haze set in over Vorone and refused to let up.  Though the river valley the town lay in was protected from the worst of the Wilderland’s famous winters, they also had a tendency to trap the summer humidity.  While the temperature was lower than a summer back home in Remere, the water in the air made everything feel that much hotter.

Apart from the heat, however, the town seemed to be thriving.  Despite the presence of her mother, Countess Shirlin, and a vengeful sex goddess haunting the court, Pentandra actually got a good amount of work done.

The list of candidates for journeyman and master certifications was settled, apprentices were registered, dues were collected and the Mirror array was in fine working order.

She even managed to get in a little instructional time with Alurra.  She had occupied her time with trying to discover a way to help teach the blind girl to read - it was nearly impossible to master the basics of Imperial magic without understanding the runic expressions of pure thaumaturgical thought the way human magi had done since the first Archmage.

Pentandra finally hit on a solution, of sorts.  Alurra was clearly sensitive in the same way many people who lost a sense overcompensated.  Her fingers were adept at picking up minor variations.  So Pentandra had one of the palace seamstresses create a special “text” using soft Gilmoran cotton cloth and rough jute thread.  Each of the runic letters was large enough for Alurra to decipher by touch, alone.  With some patient instruction and careful explanation, her apprentice slowly mastered the first six runes of the initial series.

It took far longer than Lenodara had taken, but Alurra seemed to pick up on the concepts once she broke through the barrier of writing.

Of course Pentandra couldn’t translate the entire traditional curriculum into cotton and jute, but the breakthrough gave Alurra a basis on which to build.  By the end of the first week she had undertaken to master the entire first series, and Pentandra had every confidence that she would.

Their lessons gave Pentandra an intimate look at the girl’s mind, as she parsed through the complicated lessons made more complex by the need to work around her disability.  But all of that changed at the end of the week.  Arborn was deployed to the north, once again, to introduce the 3rd Commando’s officers to the perils of the Lumber Road, and Pentandra was focused on explaining the electromagnetic spectrum to a girl who couldn’t see a rainbow . . .

. . . when Minalan appeared out of nowhere.

Dead drunk.

“Why don’t you call it an evening, Alurra?” Pentandra suggested, gently, as the Spellmonger stumbled toward the chamberpot and threw up.  Lucky the Raven eyed the puking mage with interest from her shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose I should.  You must be the Spellmonger,” she said, respectfully, handing Minalan a towel to wipe his mouth.

“And you must be . . . must be Alurra,” he said, straightening.  “Pentandra’s new apprentice.  Thanks,” he said, gesturing with the towel. “The Ways always make me a little ill.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Pentandra said, unconvincingly, as Alurra bid them both good night.  “What the hells are you doing here, Min?”

“I needed to talk,” her old friend admitted, sprawling in Arborn’s favorite chair by the bed.  “Do you have any wine?”

“I’ll get some . . . and some water,” she decided, heading for the buttery.  “Don’t move.”

When she returned she made Min drink the water first, and then sip the wine slowly.  She could tell he was already three miles downriver from sobriety and headed into a tempest of drunkenness, if he wasn’t careful.

“It’s Alya,” Pentandra stated.  Minalan looked up and nodded at her, miserably.

“You just don’t know, Pen,” he said, shaking his head.  “The kids crawl into her lap, she doesn’t even feel them.  I can kiss her . . . nothing.  Say her name, tickle her feet, poke her in the ribs . . . nothing.  She can crap and eat, and that’s about it.  Her mind is . . . gone,” he admitted, with a sob of despair.  “It belies the very gods, Pen.  Briga, Ishi, even Herus took a look.  They’ve done what they can to make her comfortable, but . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“Hells, how many gods have you been hanging around?”

“They like me,” he shrugged.  “I dunno why.  Not that it helps.  They still can’t fix her.”

“Then we’ll find someone who can,” she promised.  “There are powers on Callidore we’ve never even heard of, Min.  Someone, somewhere, will be able to help.”

That Pentandra had no idea who that might be didn’t bother her.  She couldn’t bear to see Minalan suffer like this, and if giving him false hope was the only salve she had, she did not mind using it.

“I’ve talked to the Alka Alon,” he said, dejected.  “They’re sympathetic, but not even Onranion could reach her through songspells.  There were murmurs about other techniques, but if Onranion can’t fix her . . .”

“. . . then we will go to the Sea Folk.  Or even Sheruel, if we have to.  Min, somewhere the magic exists to put Alya whole.  I just know it!” she said, a little more desperately than she intended.

“Pen,” Minalan said, his eyes wild, “I can’t.”

“You can’t . . . what?” she prompted.

“I can’t . . . live.  In a world without Alya.  I just can’t,” he insisted, burying his shaggy head in his hands.

Once Pentandra might have chided his friend over his shortsightedness -- after all, people got married all the time, fell in love all the time, took new lovers all the time.  The idea that there was only one person intended for you by the gods and the fates was sheer lunacy.

Yet now she understood how he felt in a way she never could have guessed.  In a way that made her suddenly anxious about Arborn on the road, though there was no reason to.  The thought of a life without her husband in it was . . . horrifying.

She imagined what it would be like if he was returned to her without his mind, and shuddered involuntarily.  Love, she realized, was a far more potent force than she’d given credit.  It galled her to even think it, but perhaps Ishi was correct.

But Alya was not gone, and Minalan had to realize that.

“Min, she’s still alive,” she pointed out, taking his head in her lap.  “There is hope.  She’s still alive when by all rights she should be dead.  Ishi saw to that.  Your love for her literally preserved her life,” she reminded him, stroking his hair.

“But she’s not really there,” he moaned.

“She’s just lost,” she insisted.  “She’s lost, and you’re the only one who can find her.”

“How?” he demanded, weakly.

“With determination, effort, guile and magic,” she proposed, boldly but sympathetically.  “And we’ll make a bunch of shit up as we go along, like we always do.”

“How can I when I feel so miserable?” he sobbed.

She indulged him for a few moments, letting the tears roll out of him as the sobs shook his body.  Pentandra’s empathy was inflamed, making her feel physically sick as she watched her friend in turmoil and grief.

Human emotion was a powerful thing, she reminded herself.  Perhaps it was a good thing that Min didn’t have a powerful witchsphere hanging around at the moment. That much unfiltered, raw emotion could have been devastating filtered through the medium of irionite.  He carried a witchstone, of course, one of the Master’s Seven like her own, but it didn’t have as much capacity for random manifestations of internal emotional trauma as that damned witchsphere had been.

As it was, she quietly reinforced the wards on her chamber.  She didn’t want to be disturbed without warning, and more importantly she didn’t want Minalan to attract every mage in town, if he should experience a moment of magical flux.

But Minalan didn’t seem like he was inclined to destroy the place . . . he was wallowing in grief and self-pity.  It broke Pentandra’s heart to see him that way, but after all he had been through she decided that if anyone deserved a moment of weakness in the face of an outrageous fate, Minalan did.  For the longest time she just sat there, his head in her lap, and stroked his hair while he sobbed.

Eventually he fell asleep, and she carefully disentangled herself from the snoring mage as carefully as she could.  She needn’t have bothered.  Minalan was out cold.  Just to be sure, she indulged in a good, solid sleeping spell to ensure that he got the rest he so clearly needed.

Then she contacted Terleman, mind-to-mind, to let him know his old war buddy was passed out, distraught and drunk, in her chambers.  He wisely skipped all of the obvious jokes and promised to come retrieve him and settle him into a guest room somewhere at the earliest convenient time.

Then she contacted Dranus, Minalan’s own baronial court mage, and let him know where he was.  Apparently everyone back in the Riverlands barony was concerned about the Spellmonger’s behavior since his lady wife fell at Greenflower.  The entire land was grieving, he informed her gravely, and no one knew what to do.  He was trying to keep things functioning as best he could until Sire Cei returned from that little territorial spat on Sevendor’s borders, but the place needed real leadership, soon.

With a sigh, Pentandra closed the connection and went to find her apprentice.

Alurra was in her tiny room, studying, of all things.  Not that a passerby could have told that -- she appeared to just be sitting in a chair with her eyes closed.  But a cursory inspection with magesight showed Pentandra that the blind girl was making a valiant attempt at building a second-order spell, one that combined elements of three runes to produce an effect.

“Strengthen the jyrex rune in the predicate,” she advised, without announcement.  “Remember, there’s a difference between desire and will.  Desire is what you feel.  Will is what you demand.  You might want the rune to manifest terribly much, but if you don’t demand that it does, it won’t be powerful enough to provide support to the others.”

“That’s . . . hard!” Alurra said, nervously.

“It gets easier with practice,” Pentandra assured her.  “Which you may stop, now -- and don’t forget to ground your power.  I don’t need a grumpy apprentice sulking around the palace.”

“Too late,” Alurra grumbled, allowing the spell to fall and returning the excess power to the magosphere.  “I heard about Lady Alya.  That’s terrible!”

“How did you hear that?” Pentandra demanded.

“There’s a mouse in your chambers,” Alurra said, shrugging.  “I call him Little Arborn.  He lets me know if you need anything,” she said, anticipating Pentandra’s objection.

“You, uh, don’t linger in there, do you?”

“To watch you and Lord Arborn spark?  Not bloody likely!” she snorted.

“Language, young lady.  Good.  It’s nice to know I at least have the illusion of privacy.  So, little mouse, what can you tell me about . . . Lady Alya?”

Alurra’s face instantly fell.  “I’m . . . not supposed to say anything.  But you knew that.”

“I knew that,” Pentandra agreed.  “But now I need to know what happens to Alya.  She’s a close friend of mine, Alurra, and if there is any chance that she can be healed . . .”

“There’s a chance,” the girl admitted, grudgingly.  “That’s about all I know.  But it’s not bloody-- it’s not very likely,” she amended.

“A chance is all I need right now, little mouse,” she sighed.  “Any chance.  If the Spellmonger fails . . .”

Alurra shuddered involuntarily at the thought.  “Don’t even joke, Mistress!  If you suspected how important the Spellmonger is--”

“I do,” Pentandra agreed, calmly, “which is why I’m doing everything in my power to aid him!  Right now he’s passed out in my chambers, drunk as a monk, wallowing in self pity and despair.  He’s damn near suicidal, Alurra, because he has no hope.  If I’m going to help him . . .”

“You are helping him,” the girl stressed, grouchily.  “But you have to be careful.  Help him the wrong way, and it could be disaster.”

“So help me help him the right way,” Pentandra encouraged, ignoring the surly attitude.  “What do I need to do?”

“He . . . you . . . oh, this is so frustrating!” she said, biting her lip anxiously.  Then she took a deep breath and collected herself.  “From what I understand, the Spellmonger needs to be miserable right now - no way to help that.  It’s his despair that sets him to action.”

“I understand that,” Pentandra agreed, patiently, “I just need to have a general idea of what direction that might be.”

Alurra thought hard, and Pentandra was genuinely upset that she was putting the girl in this position.  On the other hand, there was too much at stake to allow one thirteen-year-old-girl’s feelings to determine the course of the entire duchy’s destiny.

“He will need to go face the Necromancer, in the City of Rainbows, Anthatiel,” she finally said, although it was a great effort of will.  “That’s what the story Antimei told me says.  There’s something in the city - under the city - that can help restore Lady Alya, I think.  But . . .”

“But what?” Pentandra asked impatiently.

“I’ve said too much!” she said, blushing.  “Really, I shouldn’t have said this much!  The Spellmonger already possesses most of what he needs to restore her, but there is one thing that can only be found in the City of Rainbows.  I don’t even know what that is,” she added, miserably.

“I do,” confessed Pentandra. “It used to be a magnificent citadel of the Alka Alon, at the headwaters of the river Poros, in the Land of Scars.  But two years ago the goblins sacked it, drove the Alka Alon away, and the place was a soggy ruin guarded by a brain-damaged dragon, the last time I heard.”

“You’ve . . . been there?” Alurra asked, surprised.  There was respect and a bit of awe in her voice.

“No, I was busy thawing out an entire river.  But the Spellmonger has, and so has Lord Arborn.  Believe it or not, the life of a wizard isn’t as boring as most make it out to be,” Pentandra chuckled.  “Minalan especially.  But that brings me to the important question: what is this thing he needs to repair Alya?” she pressed.

“I know not, Mistress,” Alurra said, miserably.  “Antimei was very scant with those details.  But they’re written down in her book,” she added in a low voice.

“The book . . .” Pentandra said, realizing that whatever book this was, it was the thing the undead minions of the Necromancer were seeking so diligently.  If it foretold of how Minalan prosecuted his war against them, it would be invaluable intelligence.

But it was also prophecy, and this maddening conversation was one reason that prophecy was eschewed, as a rule, by the Imperial system of magic.  It was just too fraught with potential disaster to mess around with.

But here she was, seeking it out in her moment of need.  And she knew that she was not the only one.  Korbal the Necromancer evidently thought that Old Antimei’s secret book of secret prophecies was important, although how he knew about it when the old witch had apparently kept it so secret was a mystery.

“Yes, it’s all there, she says,” Alurra agreed, miserably.  Lucky preened her hair with his beak sympathetically.  “All the important ones, at least.  The ones that concern the Spellmonger.  And you.  And Duke Anguin.”

“Anguin is referred to in the prophecies?” Pentandra asked, surprised.  Alurra looked even more miserable that she had let slip another piece of information.

“Yes,” she finally admitted.  “He’s important.  The Orphan Duke, the Grandmaster, the Necromancer, the Abomination, the Alka Alon, the Forsaken, King Rard, the--”  she struggled to get out more, but her hands clamped over her mouth.  Pentandra realized she’d pushed the girl too far.

“What was that?” Pentandra said, instantly.  “What was that about the Forsaken?”

That term had attracted her interest more than any other.  The Forsaken were the entire reason that her family had been part of the Order of the Secret Tower for so long - since the days of the Magocracy.  They had a sacred duty concerning the Forsaken.

Unfortunately, it had been so long and the records since the Narasi Conquest had been so fractured that the Order had very little idea who the Forsaken were, and just what their duty toward them entailed.  But they definitely were supposed to do something about the Forsaken.

Most in the Order were convinced that it was something to do with humanity’s ancestors who first came to Callidore.  Others were equally convinced that it concerned the Alka Alon, or the gods themselves, or even the mysterious Sea Folk.  Still others were not convinced that the Forsaken were anything more than a myth lost to the depths of time, eternally unfathomable.

Pentandra had been on watch to glean whatever information on the subject she could, regardless of the source, for those most earnest about the Order of the Secret Tower’s true purpose.  So hearing the term known previously only to initiates of the clandestine magical order come from the lips of an illiterate blind girl from a remote village in a rustic region was stunning to her.  If this Old Antimei’s prophecies concerned the Forsaken, then regardless of anything else, they were important by definition.

She only wished she knew why.

“I can’t tell you!  She didn’t tell me!  I’ve only heard her mention them, compared to the others,” Alurra replied, unhappily.  “I know that they’re important, though.  I just don’t know how.”

“No one does,” Pentandra sighed.  “That’s why I need to learn about them.”

“Well, you’ll just have to ask Antimei yourself, then,” Alurra said, sullenly.

“Don’t think I won’t, if I ever meet the old witch,” Pentandra assured her.  “She has made my life an order of magnitude more complicated.  But if she can provide us some assistance, then perhaps I do need to track her down.”

“Oh, you will,” Alurra assured.  “Even though you don’t know where she lives.”

“That’s . . . right,” Pentandra said, realized that she had no idea just how far Alurra had traveled, or from whence.

All she knew was that it was a journey of at least two to three weeks, and that her village was situated somewhere beyond the eastern bank of the great river valley that roughly divided the Alshari Wilderlands, east and west.  That meant it could be one of possibly hundreds of settlements, hamlets, and villages between the river and the forested foothills of the Pearwoods.  “I have no idea how to find Antimei in the Wilderlands.  So how do I manage that, if I don’t know where she lives?”

“You do it because you come try to find me,” Alurra said, uneasily.

“Find you?  Why would I need to find you?  You’re right here!”

“Not for long,” the blonde apprentice sighed.  “When you told me the Spellmonger had arrived unannounced, I knew.  I’ll have to leave the palace shortly.”

“Why?” Pentandra asked, confused.  “What does Min have to do with anything?”

“Oh, he doesn’t,” Alurra assured her.  “I mean, not today.  But it’s a sign.”

“What kind of sign?” Pentandra asked, warily.

“ ‘When the Spellmonger arrives asleep on his feet, the rats will awake and the knights will retreat,’” she recited.  “ ‘The palace invaded by dead men searching; Pentandra defiant, Alurra’s path diverging.  A timely spell and a desperate prayer; Ishi’s wrath the great delayer.’ ”

“That’s really bad poetry,” Pentandra criticized automatically, as she tried to understand the stanza.  “Does Old Antimei write all of her prophecies in such ham-handed doggerel?”

“No, sometimes it’s better,” Alurra admitted, after a moment’s thought.  “But she certainly emphasizes expediency over artistry.”  She paused and considered.  “You know, I didn’t know either of those words when I got here.”

“Some apprentices never learn them,” Pentandra quipped.  “So Minalan’s arrival is the harbinger of a return of the undead?  And the Rats?  That’s not good news.  I’ll have to notify the Constable.  He has almost decommissioned the Woodsmen, the Rat Crew has been so quiet.”

“They aren’t quiet . . . they were taken,” Alurra said, cryptically.

“They would make good allies for those opposed to us,” she conceded, a finger on her lips.  “However, their economic base here in Vorone is cut.  Without a financial interest and the freedom to do illicit business, the Rats are just a bunch of thugs.”

“Not anymore,” Alurra said, shaking her head.  “They made a bargain with the Demon God.  I can’t imagine that would turn out good.”

“So the question now is what to do with you, to keep you safe?  I could send you to Tudry, but that might give too many opportunities for them to get to you. Or I could send you to Megelin.  That’s a fortress full of knights and warmagi.  Best yet, I could send you to Sevendor for awhile.  There is no place safer, and you could learn magic from the great Spellmonger, himself.”  Of course, ‘the great Spellmonger’ was currently passed out drunk in her bed, under a heavy sleep spell, but reputation counted for a lot in their business.

Despite Pentandra’s enthusiasm, Alurra did not look pleased by the idea.  “That’s not in the story,” she sighed.  “I don’t go to Sevendor.  Or Megelin, or Tudry - at least not yet.”

“All right,” Pentandra said, frustrated, “so where do I send you to be safe?  My country estate?”

“It’s really up to Everkeen,” her apprentice replied, unexpectedly.

“How do you mean--?” Pentandra began to ask . . . when a loud crash sounded in the distance, and a shiver went through the entire palace.

“That’s them,” Alurra replied, miserably.  “They’re here.  Three of them, and their minions.  I was afraid of that.”

“Three?” Pentandra demanded, insistently.  “Three what?”

“Three Nemovorti,” she supplied, gathering the bag under the table that Pentandra only now noticed.  “And their servants.  They’re looking for me.”

Pentandra summoned Everkeen to her hand as a precaution, and began examining the warding spells she had in place over the palace. Three Nemovorti?  That sounded terribly intimidating.  But if she could strengthen her wards around the palace . . .

They were gone.  Shredded, she saw, without her feeling a thing.

She had no idea what kind of power could do that.  Everkeen was helpful enough to summon the shreds of the spell to analyze, but apart from telling her that it was magical and powerful, it wasn’t much help.

“We have to get you out of here,” Pentandra decided, at once as she was starting to panic.  Everkeen showed her three blotches of malevolence, surrounded by smaller nodes, entering the palace from three different sections.  Two of the groups had already made it into the main palace area, while the third stalked the perimeter.

“Ishi’s tits, we’re trapped,” Pentandra breathed, suddenly feeling terrified.  “East or west, we’ll be cut off!”

“What do we do?” Alurra asked, a note of panic in her voice.  There was another, even louder crash.  This time Pentandra could feel a change in air pressure.  There was screaming and shouting in the distance.

“We run,” Pentandra said, clutching her baculus to her, firmly.  “We get as far away from the palace as fast as we possibly can, until we know they aren’t following us anymore!”

Chapter Forty-One

The Ungrateful Undead

Pentandra didn’t stop to think - she grabbed Alurra’s arm with her left hand, Everkeen with her right, and ran down the stairs and out into the corridor as soon as the commotion began.

To the east she saw flashes of light and heard screams.  To the west there were more screams, but also the sound of crashing destruction.  Someone — something – had destroyed some part of the palace, Pentandra could tell.  They were under attack, and they had to escape.

“To the west!” Alurra cried.  Pentandra glanced at the girl, and the crow clinging wildly to her shoulder, flapping its wings for balance.

“Old Antimei’s prophecy?” she couldn’t help but ask.  Damn, did that old witch know everything?

“No!  A tabby cat named Sir Fluffytail!” she explained.  “There’s a hole in the palace wall, now, and we can get out that way!”

Pentandra thought of a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t listen to the advice – everything from the apparent magnitude of the destruction in the west corridor to trusting a cat she never met for operational intelligence.  In the end she decided to trust Alurra, who was the one tugging on her arm. She followed Alurra until she took the lead, allowing Everkeen to send tendrils of inquiry ahead while it strengthened the protection spells around them both.

She was intrigued at the response the baculus offered.  Not only did it comply with her commands, it seemed to anticipate her desires with a responsiveness that hinted at awareness.  Like a faithful hound, it led her toward danger even as it sought to protect and defend her from it.

“There are . . . things up ahead,” Alurra whispered, her voice shaking, as her hand squeezed Pentandra’s arm tightly.

“You said this was the better way!” Pentandra said, crossly.

“I said there was a way out,” Alurra replied, pulling her walking stick in front of her protectively.  It was not a wand, or even a staff with a spell on it.  It was just a stick, but the blind girl carried it everywhere with her.  “There is, there are just . . . dead things moving around,” she said, uncomfortably.

“And some living ones, too,” Pentandra said, encouragingly, as she heard the defiant warcries of guardsmen and Wilderlords ahead.  And the sounds of battle: steel ringing against steel, the meaty thuds of men fighting, mixed with the screams of women and the crash of debris.  One good thing about living in the palace, she conceded to herself, was the sheer number of men with swords wandering around at any time of day.

The scene in the Hall of Heralds, the small hall bearing the statue of the Maiden of the Havens that led to her wing, was chaos.  Something - someone - had destroyed a goodly portion of the roof overhead, creating a pile of debris twenty feet wide in the middle of the hall.  Atop the tangle of masonry, slate, timber and plaster fallen from above were several dark figures, armed with blades and fighting ferociously.  Their opponents were guardsmen, gentlemen of the court, and a few servants who had picked up weapons and fought against the unexpected intruders.

But they fought in the dark.  The hall’s lanterns had been extinguished for the night and it was dark through the gaping hole in the roof.  A cloud of dust from the demolition lingered in the air, obscuring what feeble light remained.  The battle was a kaleidoscope of dancing shadows and grunts of surprise and pain.

And magic.  Only Pentandra could bear witness, through magesight, of the impressive tangle of spells the dark figure in the center of the intruders was weaving.  They were unlike Imperial spells or even true Alka Alon spells, by their shape and fashion.  They vibrated with an odd, disturbing energy that rent the air around them like an angry shriek.  It cut into Pentandra’s very bones.

But as powerful as it was, Everkeen was eager to face it.  The baculus quivered in her hand, charging the air around her with spells from its arsenal, and some she recognized from her own memory.  The rod filled a sphere around her with power, split and transformed into a score of potential spells.  She felt a thrill confidence as the power of the artifact’s enchantments supported and protected her.

The first thing she elected to do was removing the confusion in the battle – and sent a trio of bright magelights to bathe the room well enough to see through the haze and dust for that purpose.  A ragged cheer arose from the bleary-eyed defenders as they could make out the faces of the foe they faced clearly for the first time.

The cheers died in their throats a moment later as the true nature of their enemy was revealed.  Nine men stood among the debris, dressed in long dark cowled robes like monks and wielding swords, staves, and short spears.  But their faces seemed like masks - indeed, for a moment Pentandra thought they were masks, like the Woodsmen wore.

But they were not.  They were the men’s faces were pale and drawn, almost bloodless, their cheekbones protruding jaggedly under their dark, hollow eye sockets.  They were walking corpses, with gray skin and little or no hair left upon them beneath their cowls.  The hands that held their sword hilts and spear hafts were bony and skeletal, but they gripped them like iron.

Their eyes were not empty, though.  Where their whites and pupils should have been there were red orbs, like smoldering embers being slowly breathed to flame.  Though the invaders moved with agility and purpose akin to acrobats, they did not fight like normal men at all.  Indeed, they fought like demons.

Pentandra started to appreciate the “Demon God” portion of Korbal’s name.  They might have possessed human bodies, but there was nothing earthly about them.  Their faces and balding heads were etched or branded with arcane symbols of a

The sudden appearance of the light paused the battle for a moment - not long enough to preserve a guardsman near the front from being impaled through the stomach by a spear, unfortunately, but both invaders and defenders stopped their actions long enough to assess the new factor in the battle.

That left everyone in the room, living and dead, suddenly looking directly at her . . . which suddenly made her feel very self-conscious.

Thankfully, some enterprising guardsmen took the break in the fighting to press their advantage against one of the undead monsters and some of the fighting resumed.  But the fiend in the center of the debris did not waver his focus from her. Instead he turned and stared at her, pointedly, until she felt his gaze pierce her calm.

“The Court Wizard joins us!  And brings us our prey!” the tallest dead man in the group said, licking his thin lips.  His eyes were not mere coals.  They glowed with a burning fury the other fighting corpses could not match.  One of the Nemovorti, she realized, her heart sinking.

Now would be a great time to call for Minalan’s help, a part of her chided.  The all-powerful Spellmonger . . . shy his greatest source of power and asleep, drunk and charmed, in her bed while demons and undead raged downstairs.  With Pentandra left to clean up the mess.

Typical.

Alurra clutched at Pentandra’s arm, pulling herself behind her mistress anxiously at the fell warrior’s mention.  Lucky squawked and flapped his wings in alarm - a distraction Pentandra really didn’t need.

But the invader was correct.  She was the Court Wizard.  It was time to start acting like it.

“You should have made an appointment,” she called back, as bravely as she could manage, while Everkeen put up a thick layer of energy between them in anticipation of an attack.  “The office is closed until tomorrow morning, second bell.”

“I’ll save us both the trouble, and claim my prize here and now,” breathed the creature in return, taking a menacing step forward.  It held a dark iron staff, as the previous Nemovort had.  There was a large and potent ball of energy pulsing at each end, with tendrils shooting off around it to run its own battery of defensive magic.  “She has led us on a merry chase, but it is time to bring the rabbit to the pot!”

“Which one are you?” Pentandra demanded, trying to stall it while Everkeen continued to improve her shields.  In her previous encounter she’d detected a strong streak of arrogance in the egos of the beast.  She wondered if it was a common personality type, and was gambling it would not pass up an opportunity to distinguish itself.

“Me?  I am Raz-Ruziel, the greatest hunter of my age.  And of yours, now,” he sneered, darkly.  “Give me my prize, and I shall spare the rest of your lives for now.  I shall not offer twice,” he warned, taking another step forward through the chaos.  His men -- if men they were -- were steadily beating back the defenders.  There were several bodies amongst the fallen rafters and slate tiles, and every precise strike from their blades seemed to yield a fresh fan of blood spraying the ruins.

“You needn’t have offered even once,” Pentandra said, defiantly.  “I’m not in the habit of trading my apprentices away – not when they’re just getting trained.  Call off your dogs and I will allow you to leave. Leave now and you may live to fight another day!” she said, as boldly and confidently as she could muster.

Everkeen assisted by producing a burst of light that made a nice dramatic statement.  That helped rally the guards and other defenders, who were slowly losing the contest.  Thankfully, most of the non-combatants had fled, and more guardsmen and armed courtiers were arriving.

Neither the baculus nor the defenders seemed to concern the bright-eyed fiend.  He advanced toward Pentandra eagerly.  “The draugen will contend with the others . . . that’s what I brought them for.  Handsome, aren’t they?  Under the master’s care, the sickly rodents Ocajon brought before his throne were transformed.  Korbal used these strong, simple bodies to dress ancient predators.  Soon all of Ruhlar Seheri will be filled with their like.  The first of many such servants.”

As if to underscore his point, one of the draugen, as he had named them, impaled a young guardsman who proved more brave than wise, abandoning his defense in favor of a desperate attack with his slender-looking iron spear.  It whirled to face the next defender’s blade before the guardsman crumpled to his knees, clutching his punctured belly.

It was time to act.  Pentandra allowed the fear and frustration she felt pour through her and fuel her desire, then crystallized it into pure Will.  Then she gave Everkeen the mandate it required to contend with the threat in front of her.

With a crack of thaumaturgical thunder the paraclete within the weirwood rod hurled the spells it had prepared against the Nemovort.  The energies involved were so potent they produced light in the visible spectrum.  Blasts of raw power, well-tuned destructive war spells Minalan had included, and combinations the baculus had decided upon itself flew at the fiend.

It made him wince - that was about the extent of the assault.  Though the body it inhabited took some injury, it did no more than slow the thing’s approach.  The iron staff intercepted the balance of the attack, absorbing the power into its darkness like relentless shade.

Pentandra’s heart sank.  If the best offense Everkeen could deliver was not enough . . .

“Interesting!” Raz-Ruziel hissed as the attack failed.  “I expected more from the vaunted humani magi.  Supposedly, the warrior-magi were worthy of challenge,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“That’s what I thought, Brother,” came a dark voice from behind Pentandra.  There was more growl in this one, a deeper timbre that reminded her of  crypts and tombs.  The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she felt Alurra clutch her waist tightly.  “I stopped by her lair and was challenged by one of them.  Barely a fight to speak of,” he said, disgusted.  “I thought Ocajon said they were formidable.   Perhaps for that weak-willed one.  Their warriors die pathetically easily, despite their valor, and these magi . . . pah!” he spat, disgustedly.

“There’re two of them!” Alurra squeaked.  Lucky flew off into the hole in the roof.  Pentandra was envious of the crow.  She could not defend against one of them, much less two.  And doing so while protecting Alurra was impossible, she realized.  One by one the palace’s defenders were falling to the draugen around her.

“There are actually three of them,” Pentandra informed her frightened apprentice.  “And the gods themselves know not how many draugen.”

“A lot,” whispered Alurra, as the undead moved toward them.  “The critters are in a panic!”

“Let us finish this charade,” Raz-Ruziel insisted.  “We have travelled all of this distance, and for what?”

“We provide you an opportunity to test your theory, and you dismiss us?” Pentandra bantered, as she tried to figure out how to attack them, thaumaturgically.  “How ungrateful of you!   Your master will be quite irate, I’d imagine.”

Pentandra’s mind raced -- fleeing, now, was impossible, unless she and Alurra could grow wings like Lucky and fly through the roof.    The problem was the girl - it was she that they wanted, and now only Pentandra and a few pretty swords stood between them and their prey.

They couldn’t get that book, Pentandra knew.  She needed it, if it mentioned the Forsaken.  And they would use it to foul purpose against them.  Better the girl die, and the book be lost forever than see it in the hands of Korbal and Shereul.

Better Pentandra herself die, than allow that to happen.

Yet she was not without resources, she realized.  If she could not attack, and she could not flee on foot or by wing, then magic provided another means.

She focused her mind on Everkeen, presenting the situation as a simple problem to be solved.  If she could trust the paraclete’s discretion, she could at least put Alurra beyond reach of the horrid fiends.

Take her away, she commanded.  Someplace safe.  Someplace beyond their reach.  Someplace I can follow, later.  If I live, she added to herself.

Everkeen took the mandate and suddenly she felt the unmistakable psychic feel of an Alka Alon songspell.  There was a gasp from Alurra . . . and then she was gone.

“What?” barked the voice behind her . . . that she now felt comfortable whirling to face, putting a shoulder to each of them.  She immediately regretted doing so, on aesthetic grounds.

If the skeletal Raz-Ruziel’s visage was horrific, the Nemovort who had ransacked her office -- where Minalan was still passed out, if Terleman did not rescue him in time, she realized – looked like his homelier cousin.

The body this one had stolen was large-framed and well-muscled, originally, and the traces of hair on its face suggested it had been a Wilderlord of some sort before its transformation.

But where Raz-Ruziel’s enchantment seemed to consume the flesh it was bound to from within, it manifested on this newcomer in a kind of putrescence of boils and rot that were only made worse by the jagged burn scars or tattoos that decorated it.  Instead of an iron staff, the brutish undead held a war axe crafted from the black metal.  From the shoulders down, it was swathed in the same dark robe as its brother, and the cowl that covered its decomposing head was a mercy on the eyes.

Time for a quip, or really anything to stall, Pentandra decided.  She didn't know who she was stalling for, but she sincerely hoped help was on the way.

“You came to my office without an appointment?” she gasped, urging Everkeen to redouble what defenses she had.  The rod was clearly not a tool of warmagic, she was realizing.  “And after hours?”

“She jests, after she has taken our prey, Brother,” the putrid one observed.

“She should be punished slowly, Brother,” Raz-Ruziel hissed, hefting his staff.  “Though perhaps she would make a suitable vessel for our Master.  She appears adequate at bearing the power, though she scarcely knows how to use it.”

“She is a poor warmage,” agreed the other one.  “But she may have her uses in Korbal’s other plans.”

“In fact, I am not a warmage,” Pentandra declared, feeling a lot more confident now that she didn’t have Alurra to worry about.  “My specialty is Sex Magic.  And to be honest I’m a one-man-at-a-time woman, but if you’re going to be insistent . . .” she said, warningly.

“These humani magi have magic for that?” asked the putrid one to his fellow, amused.

“They are frivolous things,” Raz-Ruziel sneered.  “Robust, but fragile in body.  The draugen will degrade in only a few years.  Left to their own devices, they pursue the most inane and trivial of interests, as befits an ephemeral race.  Not much better than gurvani,” he added.

“Now, boys, if you want to get anywhere, you’re going to have to learn how to flatter a girl,” she said, whipping her rod back and forth almost lazily . . . but directing Everkeen to hang spells and increase defenses as best it could in the face of the two dark sorcerers.  “Speaking ill of her species and discussing her like she isn’t even there is poor form.”

“Korbal will find this one entertaining, at least, Brother Kalbur,” Raz-Ruziel’ snickered, bringing his staff into a guard position.  “Perhaps enough to forgive us for losing our prey.”

“If she knows where the brat has fled, he will suck it from her mind,” Kalbur the Putrid agreed, hefting his axe.  The human defenders had mostly fallen or fallen back from the draugen, who milled around the perimeter while their undead masters decided her fate.

“I’m not . . . that kind . . . of girl!” Pentandra said through clenched teeth, as she prepared to defend herself.

Suddenly a bolt of bright blue fire shot from above and one of the draugen exploded dramatically.  Another was impaled when a man dropped from the gaping hole in the roof, a war cry on his lips.

“Terleman!” Pentandra breathed in relief.  She glanced at Raz-Ruziel, who turned to meet the new threat.   “You wanted to face a real human warmage?  Now is your chance!”

“Hope you haven’t been too bored until I got here,” Terleman said boldly as he whipped his black mantle back from his arms.

He bore a long staff of weirwood, nearly twice the length and thickness of Everkeen.  Instead of silver, iron and steel bound the savage-looking weapon.  “I had to stop by my quarters to put Min to bed.  I ran along the rooftops because the corridors were crowded.”

“What, you didn’t change your attire?” Pentandra japed, as she waited for the warmage to get into position.

“Well, I had to grab my new stick.  Meet Warmaster,” Terleman said, gripping the powerful weapon with both hands. “Master Cormoran gave it to me.  Experimental.  He wants me to field test it.”

The dark staff pulsed with a far deadlier power than Everkeen had produced, and it rolled off of the device in waves.  Everkeen was designed as a tool, whereas Warmaster, she could tell, was pure weapon from head to heel.

“At last, a challenge,” Kalbur grunted, and moved to intercept.  A blast of dark mist from Warmaster obscured and slowed him a moment, but he did not stop.  Instead he began swinging his great axe in slow, relentless arcs.  Terleman grinned infectiously through his beard and met the Nemovort amidst the debris, where they began circling each other.  Terleman honestly looked like he was having a good time.

As Kalbur’s axe moved in for the kill, the head enveloped in sorcerous energy that split through Terleman’s wards, the warmage did not try to counter with a spell or a redoubling of his defenses.  Instead he stepped in, caught the axe on the shaft of his staff just behind the blade, and twisted his hips while taking an unexpected step around the monster.  Though a powerful warrior, apparently Kalbur’s human host was not as adept at combat as Terleman.  The axe twisted free of his hands under the pressure of the leverage, and went flying off into the darkness around them.

Terleman wasn’t finished, however, and by adjusting his footing and reversing the grip on Warmaster, he brought the back end of the staff against the side of Kalbur’s left temple with a resounding force . . . augmented by some impressive warmagic Pentandra had never been privileged to witness before.  The Nemovort went flying backwards like a limp doll, landing a dozen feet away in a heap.

But Terleman couldn’t be satisfied with the resounding defeat of the fiend.  He used the momentum from the recoil of the swing to reverse the direction of the staff, then shoved it resolutely into the chest of the nearest draugen.  A hole the size of a chamberpot obligingly exploded through its torso so suddenly Pentandra could briefly see one of its fellows through the hole.

“Now that is how it is done,” Terleman said, returning the heavy staff to a guard position with the grace of a dancer.

“Fool!” Raz-Ruziel’ screamed, raising his staff aggressively at the unexpected attacker.  “Do you think a mere toy will keep Korbal at bay?”  A bolt of green fire formed a ball on the top of the iron shaft.  “This shall be interesting, at least!”

The two combatants closed, a tangle of energy emitting from both sides and enveloping the duel like a ball of eldritch twine.  Pentandra was searching for an opportunity to intervene when she noticed the remaining draugen were reforming nearby, and slowly heading in her direction for lack of a better target.

From what she had seen of their fighting, the draugen did not possess the same capacity for magic that the Nemovort did.  They were doughty warriors, moving with deadly purpose and impressive strength, but they had displayed no ability to deal with magic.  Of course, she also realized that most of the spells that she had prepared with Everkeen were designed against a living foe, not an undead one.  Making them hurt, for example, was unlikely to stop a being that didn’t apparently feel pain or discomfort.

As they closed in on her, Everkeen recognized them; that is, the baculus found their bodies familiar with something in its experience and brought it to Pentandra’s attention.  Sure enough, the draugen in the lead of the pack was familiar, under the pale skin, dead eyes and arcane symbols burned into its flesh.  She recognized him as one of the Rat Crew thugs she’d encountered on her spying missions in the Market ward.  She couldn’t remember his name, but the pattern of scars near his left eye was unique.

He had been a large, vital, brutal man ready to kill and maim on the Crew’s command.  Yet as vile as he had been, Pentandra felt sorry for him in his current state.  The man he had been before was gone, forever, and the body it had possessed was sustained on magic, alone.

Raz-Ruziel was correct, she could see.  The draugen were, at best, temporary soldiers.  Temporary and disposable.  There was no sense of self-preservation in those smoldering red eyes, Pentandra could see.  There wasn’t even pain.  Whatever guided the late criminal’s footsteps was not even human.

Regardless of whether or not it might be subject to magic, Pentandra reasoned, it was still probably subject to gravity.  She commanded Everkeen to do her will, and a relatively simple spell lanced out of the silver acorn on the head of the rod.  Instead of attacking the draugen rapidly closing with her, however, the paraclete sent a powerful wave of energy toward the wooden floor under their feet.  It collapsed as the cellulose in the wood was convinced by magic to temporarily give up its cohesion.  Four of the fiends dropped into the pit that opened under their feet.

Pentandra herself was nearly caught in the spell, and had to take a step back to avoid falling in.  Whatever storeroom or dungeon was below this hall would have to contain the monsters for now.

Terleman, she saw as she spared a second to confirm, was holding his own against Raz-Ruziel.  Iron staff met weirwood over and over, and the concussion from the two forces was echoing through the corridors.  Terleman still didn’t look worried, she saw, thankfully; if anything, he looked even cockier as he used a combination of hand-to-hand combat and warmagics subtle and potent to duel Raz-Ruziel.

That’s when she nearly collided with someone behind her . . . and whirled to face what she thought was a draugen.  Instead, it was a familiar face, as unexpected as Terleman’s, but no less welcome: Sir Vemas, the Constable of Vorone, and he was leading reinforcements.

“Lady Pentandra!” he called, surprised, as he lowered his sword a bit.  “Not whom I expected in the midst of this ruckus.  But I suppose I should have.  Are you injured?”The officer had a two handed sword in hand, instead of his usual gentleman’s cavalry sword.  There was a fresh squadron of guardsmen and 3rd Commando warriors filing in behind him, preparing themselves for combat in the chaotic scene.

Brave men, all, she realized.  And dead men, if they stood and fought the draugen.

“No, but we are in a dire situation,” she reported.  “Those invaders are undead, fast and resilient.  The one facing Lord Terleman is also a sorcerer, an Alka Alon spirit embedded in the body of a Wilderlord, and armed with dark magic.”

“Well, we’re fucked, then,” one of the guardsmen -- who turned out to be her old friend from the Woodsmen, Fen the Quick -- said, as he hefted a pike from the palace armory.  “Why can’t it just be the bloody Rats?”

“It is the bloody Rats!” Pentandra explained, as she turned back around to face the draugen moving around the new hole in the floor.  “Korbal’s minions recruited them and infiltrated them, no doubt promising riches and power.  Instead their spirits were driven from their bodies, and now they are enslaved by magic in living corpses.  That’s their reward for dealing with the Demon God!”

“Oh, that’s much better, then,” he quipped, stabbing at one of the draugen as it tried to attack.

“This is what that last Crew cell was, then,” Sir Vemas reasoned as he blocked a blow from a sword and returned it with a grunt.  “The collaborators.  And the minions of the Umbra, spying on Vorone for the dark lords.”

“They’ve been in Vorone for months, watching for Alurra,” she agreed.  “Ironic that they were here searching for her while we were using her to seek out their own servants.”

“Civil service is filled with such ironies, I’ve found,” Vemas nodded.  “My lady, forgive me for saying this, but as valiant as Lord Terleman is fighting, if we do not retreat soon I fear that we will be overcome,” he said, as one of the draugen deftly blocked his strike at the last second.  “We can defend, but they don’t bleed when they are cut, and we do.  They do not tire, and we do,” he said, as he stood in front of her protectively.

Behind the line of approaching undead, Pentandra saw, the crumpled form of Kalbur came back to consciousness, ruining her hope that Terleman’s blow had destroyed it.  The impact had done its visage no favors, however.  A black, bloody abrasion the size of a fist was torn out of Kalbur’s decomposing cheek and forehead.

Though the fiend’s axe was safely on the other side of the hall from him, Kalbur was not powerless, Pentandra discovered.  With a few passes of his hands and an alarmingly fast summoning of power, one by one he restored the dead bodies of the fallen defenders around the room to a semblance of life.  The jerking zombies were nowhere near as adept at movement as the draugen or the Nemovorti, but they were armed, sometimes with weapons pulled from their own corpses.  And there were a lot of them, she saw.  More than the draugen within moments.

“This is getting out of hand,” she said, shaking her head.

“Can’t you use magic against these things?” Sir Vemas asked, between engagements.  Terleman was whooping and playing a deadly game of tag with Raz-Ruziel’ in the background.

“I am!  I’ve tried!  They’re really potent!” she insisted.  “They aren’t as affected by traditional thaumaturgy as human beings.  It has to do with the kind of energy they are animated with,” she tried to explain.

“I’m certain that’s a fascinating lecture, my lady,” the constable said, politely, as he fought for his life against a new wave of undead.  “And I do look forward to discussing it at length, preferably in company with a bottle of wine.  However,” he said, his frustration with the fight starting to take a toll, “it saddens me that conversation will not take place if the Court Wizard cannot discover a way to rescue the gallant Constable from getting his arse chewed on by zombies!”

A sudden thought occurred to her.  There was one thing she could do, she realized.  She hated to even consider such a thing, but with Minalan unconscious and Terleman already engaged, there was precious little else she could do about countering a threat powered by death magic.

Except one thing.  One thing she knew how to do better than anything else.

“Forgive me,” she said, as she grabbed Sir Vemas’ shoulder.

“Forgive you for what, my lady?” he asked, confused.

“Not you,” she said, shaking her head.  “Arborn,” she corrected.  “And for this.”  Then she kissed the surprised constable full on the lips, allowing every bit of pent-up desire for the handsome courtier she had suppressed all of those late nights working together out of Spellmonger’s Hall . . . every forbidden urge and secret fantasy, she tried to bring into that single, soulful kiss.

For she knew Ishi sees all acts of love and pleasure.  And if her unfulfilled desire for Sir Vemas was mixed, perhaps, with the desperate desire for the goddess to show up and save them all, Pentandra rationalized it as desire being desire, irrespective of its subject.

It worked.  There was a flash of light and the faint scent of roses suddenly mixed with the smell of dust, blood, and arcane ozone.

“A party at the palace?” Lady Pleasure’s voice asked, seemingly from everywhere at once.  “And you didn’t invite me?  For shame!”

Chapter Forty-Two

A Hole In The Hall Of Heralds

The Hall of Heralds was not looking well when Ishi made her divine presence known.  Apart from the gaping twenty-foot hole in the roof above, there was also a matching pile of debris under it . . . where it hadn’t fallen through to the hole Pentandra had blown in the floor.  The big statue of the Maiden of the Havens that had stood in the center of the hall for a century was completely covered with the debris.  The comfortably-shabby stateliness of the place was entirely ruined.  It was hardly a fit place for the goddess to tread.

But there was a powerful need, and the goddess was acutely responsive to her worshippers’ needs -- even the reluctant ones, like Pentandra.  When she manifested in the midst of the chaos of the Hall of Heralds, she was prepared, this time, to contest with a Nemovort.  This time Ishi was arrayed for battle.

She wore a gown of shimmering white, a tight-fitting hauberk strapped over the elegant dress, a broad silver belt across her slender waist, and a bright gem on her brow.  Gems sparkled from her ears, her throat, her fingers and wrists.  Her skin and hair glowed with divine energy, and she seemed much larger than Pentandra recalled.  Her blonde hair writhed with subtle glory, half of its volume contained in an elaborate bun atop her head affixed with two silver rods.

The undead - from the newly-minted, mindless corpses to the two powerful Nemovorti, halted in her presence.  The wave of energy she emitted seemed to sap their volition, or at least reduce how robustly they defended themselves.  Two of the draugen fell to Terleman’s warstaff as Raz-Ruziel sprawled as he tried to dodge out of range of the warmage’s terrible staff.  Terleman didn’t realized Ishi was there until he realized his foes had stopped defending themselves.

They were transfixed, for a brief moment, by the power that rolled off her in waves.

“Now you’re in trouble!” Pentandra quipped, as they all stared at the goddess with their smoldering eyes.  “She got out her good jewels!”

“It’s her!” wheezed Raz-Ruziel, as he scrambled back to his feet with the help of his staff, fearing and fleeing the bright goddess. “The kahkard that Brother Ocajon spoke of!”

“She burns at me!” Kalbur howled, shielding his eyes.  He and his fellow were the only ones with the will to resist the goddess’ presence.  The draugen were compelled to stare, though Ishi’s power was tearing at the dark enchantments that bound their enneagrams to their stolen bodies.  They twitched uncontrollably and began whimpering and moaning wordlessly in their throats.  If not pain, the discomfort caused by Ishi’s undisguised presence was debilitating.

“I refined my approach, since I last encountered one of your disgusting kind,” Ishi said with a vindictive chuckle as she came closer to the undead.  “You’re just like any other boys . . . find out what makes you limp, and it becomes almost irresistible to see just how bad a girl can tear you down!”

A few of the weaker walking corpses collapsed as their enneagrams lost sufficient cohesion to remain animated.  The others began shaking -- save for the Nemovorti, who marshaled their courage (or found some defense) against whatever it was Ishi had concocted.

“We have lost the prey, Brother - let us withdraw!” Raz-Ruziel commanded Kalbur anxiously.  The vile-faced assassin had recovered his axe, and nodded his assent.  Casting a final glance at the blinding light that was tearing their helpless soldiery apart, the two fell back into the corridor behind them.  Ishi pursued them a dozen steps, dispatching undead along the way.

“What . . . was that?” Sir Vemas asked, his eyes as wide with wonder as she had ever seen them.

“Another divine visitation,” Pentandra said, finally lowering Everkeen and resting the heel of the baculus on the ground.  “Sorry for the . . . for that,” she said, licking her lips.  “It was the only thing I could think of that could drive them away.”

Sir Vemas looked at her with new respect.  “And you just happened to be able to invoke . . . her?  The goddess Ishi?”

“We did, actually,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily.  “I’m sorry about that.  It’s complicated, but . . . I needed a moment of passion to complete the spell, and your . . . lips happened to be handy.  I do apologize if I misled you, my lord,” she said, formally.  “It was a matter of necessity.”

Vemas glanced at the ruined roof, the gaping hole in the floor, and the litter of bodies around the Hall of Heralds.  “Well, if it was for the greater good,” he said, diplomatically, as his men fanned out to ensure the corpses stayed as such, “I suppose I was happy to be of service.”

“If milady needs another snog to save the duchy,” Fen the Quick called out from behind them, “I’m available!”

Pentandra ignored the Woodsman.  “It will be dawn, soon,” she said, tiredly.  “I suppose I will have some explaining to do to Duke Anguin.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to wait,” Sir Vemas said, nodding toward the far -- and as yet undamaged -- entrance that led to the eastern wing.  A brace of guardsmen with glaives was stalking warily into the room, followed by three gentlemen of the court and then Duke Anguin a naked sword in his hand and look of concern on his face.  Once his guardsmen assured that there were no more active foes, he directed them to where Pentandra, Vemas, and Terleman were standing.

“Good morning,” he began, in a businesslike manner, finally lowering his sword.  “I take it you three are responsible for this disturbance?  And these . . . bodies?”

“We were attacked, Your Grace,” Terleman reported with military efficiency.  “Three groups of foes entered the palace, one at the eastern entrance, one at the west, and one through the roof, above.”

“Attacked?  Here, in the palace?  By whom?”

“Their exact purpose is unknown, but their origin is.  They were servants of Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens, an ancient Alka Alon necromancer of great power.  Recently, as you know, Sire, the Necromancer was freed from his prison by agents of Sheruel, working through a possible alliance or infiltration of the Brotherhood of the Rat.  Lady Pentandra gave them enough of a fight to stall them until I arrived, and then contrived to invoke some divine force – Ishi, wasn’t it?” he asked her, suddenly.

“Yes, it was Ishi,” Pentandra admitted, feeling dazed by the rapid-fire summation Terleman was giving.

“Ishi’s power managed to drive the fiends from the palace, those she did not destroy.  In the process, one or two small holes may have appeared,” he said, glancing toward the cart-sized cavity in the middle of the Herald’s Hall as if it were a mis-folded napkin.  “But thanks to the Court Wizard, the palace was spared further destruction and loss of life.”

“How many did we lose?” Anguin asked, concerned.

“We’re still tallying the dead, but . . .” Pentandra said, making a subtle inquiry to Everkeen.

The paraclete obligingly reported the information she was looking for, without her having to specify a spell.  She was getting used to doing magic like this.  “Sixteen dead.  Nine of them were guardsmen, two were gentlemen-of-the-court who valiantly responded to the attack, four were civilians taken unawares or murdered, and one assistant cook who was reporting to the palace kitchens for his shift.  I believe the man bravely grabbed a decorative spear from the wall and tried to defend the palace,” she added.

“And that’s not counting the ones who perished twice, Your Grace,” Sir Vemas added.  “Several were raised from the dead to fight against us.  Had it not been for Lady Pentandra’s quick-thinking and Ishi’s intervention, the entire palace would have been sacked.”

“These were powerful foes,” Terleman agreed, gravely, hefting his big warstaff onto his shoulde.  “Warmaster is one of the most potent weapons Master Cormoran has ever forged, Your Grace, and I am no mean warmage.  Yet that thing fought me to a standstill.  I’ll be better prepared, next time, but I feel it is important for Your Grace to realize how close to disaster we came this night.”

The young duke looked around at his ruined hall and nodded.  “So I see.  And this is the second attack on Alshar from the Umbra and its allies this year.  Despite this vaunted treaty we have in place.”

“I do hope Your Grace intends on filing a grievance with His Majesty,” Sir Vemas opined.

“At the very least, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed.  “Though it will come to naught.  Rard must be reminded that diplomacy is only as reliable as the will to enforce a negotiated settlement.”

“So I shall,” agreed Anguin, finally sheathing his sword.  “Indeed, I shall do a great deal more than that,” he said, as if suddenly coming to a decision.  “Though the kingdom has a treaty, Alshar is the victim, here, and that cannot stand.  If Rard will do nothing when we are attacked, then perhaps he will take note when the gurvani he treats with are before his throne, complaining about his unruly subjects.  Magelord Terleman!”

“Yes, Your Grace!” Terleman said, snapping to attention.

“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 night robes, 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.  And the rebellious Sea Lords were also taken.  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 from that short mission.”

“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.”

“Doesn’t the Duke have people to deal with sort of thing?” her mother demanded.

“I am the Duke’s ‘people’ when it comes to this sort of thing!” Pentandra replied, crossly.  “This is what I do, Mother!”

“Well, can’t he send someone more . . . experienced?” she asked, fretfully, as she struggled for the right words.

Pentandra really did have no idea where Alurra had gone, and every moment that passed made it increasingly unlikely that Pentandra would find her even if she did employ magic.

“There is no one more experienced in these matters, Mother,” Pentandra assured her, as she grabbed a few things out of her office press she thought might prove useful.  “No one else has gone up against undead, particularly not undead like this.  And no one is more qualified to contend with the magical effects of the Penumbra than I,” she added as she hurriedly packed a bag – not with clothes and shoes, but with magical supplies.

Her mother did not find satisfaction with her answer.  “All of these knights and soldiers, all of these guardsmen, and they have to send you?”

“She’s my bloody apprentice, Mother!” Pentandra exploded.  “She’s my responsibility!  I’m the one that sent her to goddess-alone-knows-where in the middle of the battle, and it will be me who finds out where she was sent and when and how she’s getting back!”

Amendra stared at her daughter critically.  “It’s not as if she’s your child,” she said, reprovingly and with exaggerated patience.  While she was speaking, Pentandra noted the shambling appearance of Sister Saltia, who had hurriedly slipped on her habit before seeking out the ruckus which awakened her.

“Are you going somewhere, Pen?” she asked, sleepily.

“Yes,” Pentandra said, “and no, I don’t know where.”

“Just into oblivion, to find someone who’s probably dead already.  That apprentice of hers.”

“Alurra?” asked the nun, alarmed.  “What’s wrong?”

“Pentandra threw her into the Void,” answered Amendra, critically.  “Who are you?”

Sister Saltia ignored the older woman.  “What are you going to do?”

“Follow her,” Pentandra shrugged.  “I don’t really have a choice!”

“Wait!” Saltia insisted, then closed her eyes and prayed over Pentandra, asking the blessing of Fortune on her task.  Once she traced an infinity sign over Pentandra’s forehead, she nodded.

“Can you please go find that wayward urchin, now?” complained Amendra.

“She’s a blind girl who has literally disappeared to gods-don’t-know-where, who happens to be hunted by the undead minions of a dark lord and the only person in the world who can possibly find her right now is me!” she fumed, as she finished packing her satchel.

Most of the things she would need were already in pockets in Everkeen, thanks to Minalan’s foresight or desire to show off, depending on your perspective.  “I have to do this because there is simply no one else who possibly can,” she continued, in a lower tone of voice - she knew that look on Mother’s face.  “I am the only one who can use Everkeen,” she reasoned, “and I’m the one who sent her away.  It’s my job to get her back.  She’s not my child, but she is my responsibility,” she repeated.

“You’ll find her,” Saltia assured, enthusiastically, though the way she bit her lip lessened her confidence and credibility.

“She’s a good girl,” her mother finally pronounced after a moment’s intense concentration.  “You do what you have to do, my dear.  I see there is no way to stop you--”

“Mother, if you could -- for just one moment -- quit trying to second-guess everything I do in my life and appreciate what it is I do in my life, perhaps you would see me differently!” Pentandra snarled, suddenly sick of her mother’s pointless posturing.  This was a crisis.  There was no time for her manipulations.  Amendra simply did not understand what the stakes were, and years of frustration with her dismissive attitude to her and her father’s work erupted in her tone.

To her shock, Amendra closed her mouth, stilling a rebuke on her tongue.  Instead she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and we she opened them she seemed to have found a different perspective - or at least a different manner.

“What do you need me to do?”

The offer was as startling in its simplicity as it was its unexpectedness.  But there was no time to react to the emotional meaning behind it.  Every moment she delayed Alurra could be sliding deeper toward an unknown danger.  She didn’t even have her pet raven to act as her eyes, Pentandra remembered with a guilty wince.  But if her mother was offering to help, there was something she could help with.

“I’m going to give you an enchantment, Mother,” Pentandra said, searching the room for something useful and portable.  Her eyes fell on a pair of straight weirwood hairpins Carmella had sent her as a wedding present.  They had a simple spell that would keep them in place perfectly, even in the midst of a tempest.  An extravagance – weirwood was too valuable, ordinarily, to waste on such frivolities.  But as pretty as the pieces were, they were low-quality weirwood.

She picked up both pins and shoved one into her belt.  The other she quickly used Everkeen to strip the original enchantment out of it, and replace it with a location and tracking spell.  The paraclete obligingly built just the spell she needed, with refinements she hadn’t thought about.  The result was far better than her expectation, from a technical perspective.  She turned and handed it to her mother.

“When Arborn returns, give him this.  He can use it to track me, if he suspends it mid-point from a string.  The tip will always point toward Everkeen.  If I have not made contact in a few days, have him follow me.”

Amendra took the stick solemnly and cupped it in both hands.  “It shall be done.  Pentandra, I know you have to do this,” she admitted, a trace of matronly guilt in her voice.  “Do be careful.”

Pentandra was overcome - not by what her mother said, but the volumes she’d chosen not to say under the circumstances.  She quickly embraced her, amused that she was a few inches taller than her, now, and indulged in a few moments of blissful maternal affection.

And then it was over.  “Go,” she commanded.  “Go find your girl.  I’ll make sure my son-in-law gets this,” she pledged.  “You just go be . . . Court Wizard.  And don’t get yourself killed.  Your father would be vexed.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Pentandra agreed with a quick smile.  “Love you!” she said, before she instructed Everkeen to locate where it had sent Alurra, and then take her there.

A snippet of Alkan song went through her mind, and then she was torn out of existence.

Chapter Forty-Three

The Grotto of Antimei

Pentandra was ejected from the Ways in the middle of a meadow in mid-morning.  The feeling of disorientation and confusion she always felt after such trips manifested in a hearty fountain of vomit before her head began to clear enough to get her bearings.

Before she even picked up Everkeen off of the ground, where she had cast it while retching, she knew she was in the Alshari highlands, the rolling hills and foothills north of Tudry.  But that still encompassed several thousand square miles of territory.  She might not have been a ranger, but her experiences with the Kasari had demanded she become familiar with the flora and fauna of the land, and she recognized the region by the trees and plants, much to her surprise.  Only when she managed to activate her baculus did she discover precisely where she was.

As coincidence would have it, she had been near to this place only last year, during the great Kasari March, nearly half-way through the course of that historic journey.  She found the trees surrounding the meadow obscured the horizon too much to see for herself, but according to Everkeen they were, roughly, fifty-four miles east of the trail they’d followed.  A wild, sparsely-settled region even before the goblin invasion in the west, and virtually deserted today.

So why did Everkeen send Alurra here? she wondered as she prepared her next spell.  True, it was deserted, wild and remote, but surely there had to be more to it than that.

Pentandra commanded Everkeen to track any recent activity, and after she’d filtered out the various woodland creatures the thing reported, she was able to determine which way Alurra exited the meadow.  The glowing footsteps it indicated were Alurra’s size, and they followed a barely-perceptible path that seemed to go nowhere.

Before she followed, she paused to reach out to Terleman and report on her status. She didn’t want to worry anyone – Arborn and her mother, in particular – and if she needed help she knew that the new Marshal of Alshar would be happy to ride to her rescue in the absence of her husband.

Terleman was interested in the result of her tracking spell, but he had other news to report.  The undead had slaughtered no less than twenty-six people during their raid on Salis Tower, which was plenty to enrage the duke.  Terleman was coordinating a retributive strike on the strongholds of the Penumbra, as Anguin had ordered him, but Father Amus was trying to talk him out of such a violent course of action.

Pentandra didn’t care.  The war was resurging, whether the old priest liked it or not – and the gurvani did, indeed, understand power and force.  They’d already eliminated Lady Mask’s stronghold last year.  Taking two more castles away from the enemy was good strategy, even if it was lousy diplomacy.  Father Amus would have to accept that – and Terleman agreed.

Of course, he was also eager to unleash the full power of Warmaster on a fortification, so his opinion was understandably biased.  When she contacted him with her approximate location, he made note of it and promised to prepare a rescue party, if needed.  And tell her husband.  He wished her Ifnia’s luck before he signed off . . . and left her alone, in the wilderness, at night.

Once she’d notified someone of where she was, she began following Alurra in earnest.

She had to admit, this part of the Wilderlands was breathtakingly beautiful.  Not the intimate beauty of the massive redwoods of the Bransei region, or the wild nature of the rocky river vales she had come to associate with the Wilderlands.  These hills here were gentle, for the most part, forested in patches and displaying a lot of exposed rock under the quilt of earth and vegetation.  The air was clean and cool, fragrant with grasses and wildflowers in the high summer.  There was no hint of predators or danger, nor of anything to disturb her personal wards.

It was only when Pentandra made her way out of the little copse of wood that she realized where she was.  Above her loomed the impressive expanse of rock that could only be The Anvil.

She knew of this place, though she had never seen it.  This was where Carmella proposed building the citadel and city that would someday blunt the hammer of the goblins.

The mountain was half a mile away from its nearest neighbor, a remnant of a spur of some ancient range that had persisted into the present age. The lower slopes of the huge mound were forested, but about two hundred feet up the slope the earth fell away exposing the rock underneath.  From there up -- another six or seven hundred feet, from her estimation -- the mountain was naked light gray stone with only pockets of soil and vegetation clinging here and there to its face.

It did look somewhat like an anvil, Pentandra decided.  An anvil thrice the size of Vorone.

But she could see why Carmella coveted the site.  The place was full of defensible positions upon which to build fortifications.

The massive rock above would have been an unconquerable location, alone, once properly constructed.  Here and there around the steep sides there were pockets that seemed ideal for building towers or turrets.  The long back side of the mountain began on the wide shoulder and gently tapered a mile and a half to the east, creating a long, gentle ramp of earth and rock easily capable of sustaining a town of some size.  And the overhanging cliffs to the west – the “horn” of the anvil – had at some point in its ancient history deposited two giant boulders at its feet.  Boulders the size of castles, with a litter of house-sized stones around them.

The overhang cast the grotto underneath in perpetual shadow.  Pentandra could see that the site only got direct sun in the late afternoon, if at all.  But the rocks surrounding it seemed ready-made to defend the area.  Pentandra didn’t have any trouble imagining a stout stone wall and picket towers warding the inner recesses of a settlement there.

As she followed Alurra’s magically-augmented trail, Pentandra realized that her apprentice must have recognized the place the moment she arrived.  Her footsteps did not wander, but were set purposefully on a particular path.  She knew where she was going . . .

. . . and since the only place her apprentice had that level of familiarity with was her home, Pentandra expected to find the hedgewitch Old Antimei at the end of this trail.

But why didn’t Alurra ever mention she grew up in the shadow of a whopping big mountain?  The thing dominated the landscape in every direction.

Then Pentandra realized that the blind girl would have taken no more notice of the Anvil overhead than she would have the clouds in the sky.  To Alurra, there was no landscape beyond the tips of her fingers and the toes of her feet.  She may have been aware of the thing, from her crow’s perspective, perhaps, but somehow Pentandra figured that the mountain would not have the same effect on a raven that it did a human.  From the tiny bird’s perspective, it was just another hill full of trees.

To a human’s eye, there was no way you could ignore the thing.

Pentandra began to develop a new appreciation for this Old Antimei.  She was clever.  Even if Alurra was taken by the enemy, as she had foreseen would be tried, asking the girl how to get back home without visual landmarks would have been profoundly frustrating, if possible at all.  Indeed, without guidance it was doubtful she could have found her way back at all.  So she made the ideal messenger, for security’s sake.

Pentandra strode more confidently, as she followed the trail under the great overhanging cliff, into the grotto itself.  It was wide enough for a town and a couple of small villages, with vegetation suited to a damp environment (she passed at least three springs and a stream) without much sun.  There were mosses and lichens all over the floor of the grotto.  Alurra’s path led unerringly between the boulders and around the scrubby little evergreen trees, disturbing a cloud of insects and a flock of wrens along the way.  At the far end of the grotto - slightly more than a mile from its entrance -- the trail took a sharp turn northeast, up the wooded shoulder of the mountain, across a small stream-fed pool.

That’s when Pentandra started to see some signs of human habitation – namely a wooden bucket near to the stream bank.  She confidently strode across the stones in her path and ascended a tricky trail that disappeared into the woods.  It proved to lead to a small landing, obscured from the path below, and ultimately a small wooden door in the side of the mountain.

“I do hope she’s home,” Pentandra muttered to herself as she knocked on the door with the tip of Everkeen.

It took a few moments, and Pentandra was considering knocking a second time, but the sound of the latch being drawn and the squeak of the door opening on its ancient leather hinges let her know that someone was inside.

“You must be Old Antimei,” she began to the wizened old face that peeked out of the door.  “I am Lady Pentandra, Court Wizard to Duke Anguin of Alshar.”

The old woman looked her up and down.  “I expected you to be taller,” she grunted.  “Come on in, Alurra is out gathering roots, but will be back anon.  The kettle is already on.”

Pentandra was surprised by both the coziness of the croft and its spaciousness. Antimei had long ago covered a shallow depression between boulders and mountain with beams, overlaid by a natural-looking turf roof that, from as little as twenty feet away, was indistinguishable from the rest of the mountain.  Only the small door and the lightly-trodden path to the place gave any indication that there was a home there.

The old witch who lived in the hidden croft was well-supplied.  Under that turf roof there was a treasury of herbs and roots the old hedgewitch had collected, dried, and stored against need.  Huge bundles of fresh herbs she’d harvested from the meadow hung from the rafters at the moment, and there were dozens of small homespun linen bags around them full of previous years’ harvest, Pentandra assumed.  A rack of drying parchment reeds and stringrass was next to an amazing pile of Nature’s cast-offs, everything from empty tortoise shells to nightweb tines to discarded stag antlers.  Another shelf held minerals she’d collected from around the place over the years.

Old Antimei had made a very cozy living space at one end of the place, complete with overstuffed chair, table, small kitchen and buttery, and a large iron cauldron where she plied her stock-in-trade.  The old woman was dressed in a faded working smock of homespun, though she had sturdy shoes and a thick cloak hanging on a peg near the door.  Though the croft was artificially cool in the permanent shade, it was still high summer, and the air was hot outside and in.

Alurra proved to be out harvesting a few things for their supper, Old Antimei assured her, as they settled into the living area of the croft with a pot of tea.

“So, how has my girl done, away off in the big city?” Old Antimei asked with an instant familiarity only the aged could be excused from.

“Well enough,” conceded Pentandra, who was anxious to discuss a thousand other things before her apprentice.  But she was a guest in Antimei’s home, and the laws of hospitality required that she indulge her hostess.  She propped Everkeen up against the wall behind her chair and settled in.  No need to be uncivilized.

“We are still experiencing difficulties with the challenge of mastering first year materials,” she said, sticking to the professional language she was now used to, “but we’ve made some recent gains by using jute thread on soft cotton.  She understands the basic alphabet and first two sets of thaumaturgical runes, now, which is more than she did when she arrived.  We’re working on simple words.  But it’s . . . challenging.”

“As I suspected it would be,” the wizened old woman nodded politely, looking like a diminutive noblewoman perched in her ragged chair.  “She has a good head on her shoulders, but it is inclined toward laziness.”  Despite her rustic condition and a layer of the thick Wilderlands brogue in her voice, Antimei spoke with intelligence and education.

“I am hoping these help,” Pentandra said, suddenly, remembering the pouch Minalan had brought her at her request.  “They’re from Sevendor, the Spellmonger’s home.  He calls them ‘Library Stones’.  When you read a book while holding one, the information in the book is transferred to the stone, where anyone who uses it subsequently can read it.  At least, that’s how I understand it.  I was planning on testing it on Alurra when we were attacked at the palace.”

Antimei’s lips drew tight.  “Yes, I am sorry I could not provide a better warning or more assistance against those . . . abominations.  But I had to walk a very thin line about what to say, and about what to keep hidden.  It’s an occupational hazard,” she dismissed.  “One I’ve gotten very good at.”  She picked up the bag and let the stones tumble into her lap.  “Ah!  I’ve been waiting for these!” she said, pleased.

“I understand the implicit dangers in prophecy,” Pentandra continued, sipping her tea and ignoring the stones.  “But I am curious about just when you began having . . . visions of me.”

“Oh, long before you were born, girl,” Old Antimei assured her with a chuckle and a wave of her bony hand.  “When I was just a new-made journeyman myself, back in Inmar, in the Great Vale of southern Alshar.  Beautiful place, in its day.  But I began having visions of the proud, pretty young Court Wizard I see now in the flesh for the first time before your parents even met, my dear.”

Pentandra found that idea troubling in many ways, but she stopped herself from asking the volley of questions the answer inspired.  Instead she tried to focus on the matters at hand.

“If your insights and your visions are so important to the unfolding of things,” she continued, carefully, “then why have you not made the magical community aware of them?”

“Who is to say I have not?” asked the old woman, raising one eyebrow.  “When Master Terleman and his mates first heard of the irionite in Boval, how do you think they heard about it?  When it was vital that Minalan select Sevendor for his home, who do you think – through subtle magics – influenced him to make that choice?” she asked, smugly.

“All this I have done and more, in the service to our mutual cause.  I have been watching events unfold for you and your friends since before they existed,” boasted the old woman.  “I have paid careful attention, and considered the importance of every act and every action.”

“And yet we are entirely ignorant of your existence,” countered Pentandra.

“My existence would have been tragically short, if the Censorate ever got wind of me,” Old Antimei pointed out wryly.  “I needed Minalan to topple the old order of things and for you to design the new order, before I could even whisper of my abilities.  That took . . . time.”

“Thirty years of it, apparently,” Pentandra said, chewing her lip.

Old Antimei held up the larger of the two library stones. “You think this could help our lass?  And don’t speak to me as if I’m ignorant,” she said, precluding the simple explanation Pentandra was preparing.  “I was an Adept-class mage, in Inmar. Licensed and warranted.”

“It accesses the mind at the level of memory,” reasoned Pentandra, “and goes far beyond the visual cortex, so I’m hopeful it will finally allow her to read.  She doesn’t need physical eyes for her mind to be able to ‘read’ what is in the stone . . . in theory.  The larger one has already been seeded with elementary magical texts, thanks to a young wizard named Gareth.  And a few books of poetry - I think the young man was in love, when he read them.”

Old Antimei smiled, fondly.  “That’s so sweet!  I’m certain Alurra will enjoy them, once she is able to master the art.  She is a good girl, and a very smart girl.  A quick wit and excellent humor,” she said, approvingly.

“Who were her parents?” Pentandra felt compelled to ask.

“No idea,” Old Antimei said, shaking her head.  “She was just a tyke when she showed up at the nearest village with a bunch of other refugees from the west bank.  I was the only one interested in taking on a skinny little blind girl.  I could tell she had rajira, though – there are ways you can tell, before menarche, if you are observant enough.  Her parents were Wilderlords, I’m assuming, or yeomen.  She was wearing decent clothes when she came here.  Shoes, even.  She could barely talk, but she was no peasant.  She knew her name, but not much beyond that.  Apart from that, I have no idea.”

“Well, you managed to turn her into a fine young woman,” Pentandra complimented.  “She’s done amazing work in Vorone.  Not only has she learned a few manners and some basic thaumaturgy, but she’s been a pure help when it comes to our struggle against organized crime.”

“The Brotherhood of the Rat,” sighed Old Antimei, darkly.  “Yes, unfortunately, you have not heard the last of them.  You may have driven them from Vorone, but they still will vex you for years to come, I’m afraid.”

“Getting them dislodged from Vorone was a start,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Now that folk can do business in peace, without the Rats taking every third penny, coin is flowing through the town again.”

“That is the least of their intrusions,” Antimei said, frowning.  “They have aspirations only a few are aware of.  Which makes them particularly vulnerable to the agents of the Necromancer, now that he has taken an interest in them.”

“How so?”

“They have exploited that vulnerability, both in Vorone and much deeper, away in Enultramar.  ‘Tis a pact most foul, the one that has been made against us.  Sheruel lends them gold, magic, and power.  They will come to rue the day they made such a dark bargain,” she predicted.  “but that will not be soon enough for us.  Until then, they will prove one of your most steadfast foes, even after the Necromancer has fallen.  You should consider speaking with young Rondal and Tyndal about their experiences in Enultramar with the Rats in the south.  You may find them instructive.”

“I will be certain to do that,” Pentandra promised.  “What do you foresee next for Alurra?” she asked, lightly.  Surely the old oracle would give her a few hints.

“A lot of study,” chuckled the old witch.  “It will take a few days, but I think you will find she will soon be able to read decently enough, with proper prompting.  Of course, that is just the beginning of her training, but I leave that in your capable hands,” she said, sipping her tea.

“But . . . but you are her Master,” Pentandra said, frowning.  “If she is most used to your guidance, then she should continue her studies here.”

Old Antimei patted her knee kindly, but her laugh was rueful.  “My dear, I am old.  My name was not given to me lightly.  I will not live long enough to see her training completed.  That is why you were chosen.”

“But why did you choose me?” she asked.  “Of all people to teach magic to a blind waif from the Wilderlands—”

“I said you were chosen,” Antimei interrupted, sharply.  “I did not say I chose you.  On the contrary, I merely foresaw how events have unfolded.  And will continue to unfold, long after I am gone.”

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 use Everkeen to examine the woman’s health.  But as a guest, 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 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 Old Antimei.

“Oh, you will, my dear. With a burning hatred. 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 at the hands of abomination, 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, patting the arm of her 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.  “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.  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,” she insisted, her thin voice growing firm.  “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 and sighed, sadly.  “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,” Old 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 molest the unfolding of events.”

“That’s a well-stated summary,” Old 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.   Just as some divine forces can break prophecy, under the right circumstances.   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,” Old Antimei said, gesturing to the Library Stones.  “I have considered the matter for decades, now, searching for the answer.  As it works with prophecy, the more I searched, the closer to the answer I came.  And that answer is thaumaturgic in nature.  I have been preparing for this for years, but never had the power to see to fruition.  Until now.”

“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 Old Antimei the same thing she told them.  “The Spellmonger, alone, is empowered to determine who is worthy of such a thing.”

That made Old 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 you mistake me: 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,” Old Antimei countered, coolly.  “And you would be correct, if you were a guest.  But you became a client as soon as you crossed my threshold, and as such are not protected under the laws of hospitality.  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. Everkeen was behind her, and she could summon it to her hand in the blink of an eye.  “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, confidently.  “Once the poison you took takes effect, you will have very little say in the matter.”

“Poison?” Pentandra demanded.  She stood up suddenly and summoned Everkeen.  The baculus flew swiftly to her palm, propelled by the knot coral within, the silver and weirwood cool against her skin.  The acorn on the head of the rod flared into arcane 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 stared 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, and probably had been for some time.  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, she realized, startled.  And her eyelids were suddenly as heavy as anvils . . .

“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 had to be.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Answers Over Breakfast

Pentandra fell into a helpless slumber that seemed to last for an eternity.  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 have a choice: 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.

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 tool out of her enemy’s reach and control.  After that, restoring her protections and her other enchantments would be elementary.  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 . . . Everkeen’s weight collided with her forehead with a sharp nock before she lost her balance completely.

After being smacked in the forehead with her own arcane 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 Old Antimei’s melodic voice through the constellation of stars Pentandra saw through the red blanket of pain in her head.  She seemed completely unconcerned about her situation – 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 snare, 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 made an effort to accept 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.  She swallowed her anger an tried to be reasonable . . . despite what she was feeling.

“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,” Old 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 answered, 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 somewhat.  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.

I can 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 the bees 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 fresh 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 hasn’t been a bad life,” Old 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, with a smirk.  “A restorative.  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, as if it made up for the theft and assault on her person.  “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 Old 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,” Old 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, holding up her bony hand firmly.  “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!” Old Antimei countered, waving her finger at Pentandra.  “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,” she insisted.  “I planted their trees from seeds I brought from the south.  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.  Before she killed her.

“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 too soon was much 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.

“The gurvani are familiar with prophecy,” Pentandra nodded, recalling the one about Gurkarl that had spared the goblin’s life.

“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.

“So why can’t Minalan know about any of this?”

Old Antimei closed her eyes.  “Because, as strong as the Spellmonger is, he suffers from his own weaknesses.  Believe me, this way is preferable to telling him about my gift.  Else you would see tragedy unfold on a scale undreamt of.“

“Yet you trust me,” Pentandra reasoned.

“Ah, but you are a woman,” Old Antimei replied.  “You are not so quickly moved to action before wisdom has had a chance to steep.”

“I don’t think you’re giving Minalan enough credit,” Pentandra said, more to disagree with the old witch than out of conviction.  “He’s about the wisest man I know.”

“Yet still a man,” Old Antimei countered.  “He acts, and acts from passion, when he should wait and abide.  He is the right man to lead the defense of our people, make no mistake.  But he cannot do it alone and unaided.  Nor can he be trusted to make the right decisions, when the time comes.  Only by ensuring he knows just enough,” Old Antimei said, emphasizing the point with two of her wrinkled fingers, “can we help him stay on the path.”

“And what path is that?” asked Pentandra,

“The one that prevents human extinction on Callidore,” Antimei said, casually.  “Would you mind passing the butter?”

The conversation continued, with Alurra mostly remaining silent as the two older women verbally dueled.  Every time Pentandra seemed to have righteousness and confidence on her side, Antimei seemed to be able to dismiss her concerns with her abiding knowledge in the unfolding of events.

But over the course of the meal, she did come to understand several important things about her foreseen role in the future.  Among them was the certainty of the City of Magi being founded on the site of the Anvil.

Old Antimei was more than certain about it – she had a huge folio of drawings of her visions of the city she had sketched over the years which she eagerly pulled out and showed to Pentandra.

“I have spent the last several years assembling this,” the old witch informed her, proudly.  “Every scrap of my visions about the great city, in addition to my own notes about the geography of the place, the plants, the animals, the magical currents.  Thirty years, I have walked these lands.  Between what I have seen and what I have been shown, this is what will come to pass, here.  After your friend Carmella is done with the place,” she added.

“It’s . . . beautiful,” Pentandra had to admit, after she leafed through the first few pages.

The sketches promised broad boulevards, sturdy walls, and a fiercely defiant tower proudly protruding over a massive complex of fortifications that extended well into the vast grotto below.  A large moat encircled the entire town and castle, spreading out into a large lakeshore to the west of the citadel.  The broad slope descending to the east was the heart of the town, with its own wall and defenses, though large gardens and parks seemed to be designed into the plan.

The entire complex could hold tens of thousands, she realized.  Even more, when you added in the villages and estates that were dotted around the perimeter of the outer wall.

Vanador, when it was complete, could house half of the Wilderlands in safety.

Then she came to a rough map that was even more exciting to her – a detailed accounting of the location of natural flows of arcane energy.  While irionite was the most efficient means to gather magical power, those magi who lacked it usually generated their own energy for their spells, or sought some convenient natural flow to tap into.  While it was nowhere near as abundant a power as irionite, having such streams of natural power to rely on was helpful regardless.

The Anvil, it seemed, was replete with such flows.  Antimei’s surveys indicated strong currents of elemental magic, natural concentrations of arcane energy that had built up over time like magical sediment, and the best access points for the ones she had identified.  According to the “final map” the witch had drawn, most of those access nodes were the sites of impressive-looking buildings in the future.

Then a few discrepancies caught her eye.  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

“That’s the village of the Iron Folk,” she reported.  “That won’t come to pass for a while, yet.  Over there is where the tribes of River Folk will settle, the region that will come to be known as ‘Wilderhole’.  And here is where the Alka Alon will build their beautiful spire, next to the Mewstower.  Your spire will be here, on the northwestern corner of the mountain, and rise nearly to the summit of the current mound.”

“And this palace, here?  That’s the Duke’s?”

“No, the Duke shall reside in the citadel, proper,” old Antimei said, shaking her head.  She stretched out a bony finger and circled an area near the gate, taking up a portion of the town’s south east corner.  “That is the Spellmonger’s estate, Vanahall.”

“Which, in itself, suggests a great deal,” Pentandra said, thoughtfully  “You do realize that an astute reader will be able to fathom out a great deal of future events, based on these?”

“Which is why they are strategically incomplete,” agreed Old Antimei, sweetly.  “I only left the things I knew wouldn’t affect the course of events.  But if it amuses you to speculate on the inner meaning of the number of public privies or the location of the weaver’s guild, my sweet, by all means, indulge yourself,” she conceded, amused.

Pentandra didn’t challenge the witch – she had greater confidence in her ability to ferret out the truth than Old Antimei’s ability to conceal it.

Instead she closed the folio and thanked Old Antimei profusely for her efforts, promising to forward them to Carmella at the first opportunity.  She tucked them away into a magical pocket in Everkeen for later study.  She planned on making a very thorough review of the documents before she gave them over to her friend.

“But that brings us to more pressing matters,” Old Antimei said, suddenly frowning.  “We don’t have much time.  I—”

“You keep saying that,” Pentandra pointed out.  “What do you mean by it?  And if you say ‘prophecy’, I may have to turn you into something unnatural.”

Old Antimei took a deep breath and looked pointedly at Alurra, who was clearing away the dishes with the nominal help of the puppies.

“I mean, Sweeting, that danger is closing in,” she admitted.  “I have been putting it off long enough, but time is short, now, and I cannot avoid it any longer.  The fiends who are hunting Alurra – and me – have located us, despite my best efforts.  There are three Alkan Way points within twenty miles of here – yes, child, I’m aware of them, how could I not be?  You came through the nearest, did you not?  That one has been heavily warded.  The other two only lightly so.  One of them has been used by our foes this morning, just before you awakened.”

“What?” Pentandra asked, startled.  “I thought this place was safe!”

“Safe from robbers and goblins,” snorted the witch, “but we’re dealing with the ancient undead, here.  Creatures who are inherently magical.  And not in the delightful, wonderful sort of way,” she added.

“I know, we’ve met,” Pentandra said, dryly, as her mind worked furiously.  “We have to get out of here, then!”

“That will be . . . difficult,” Old Antimei said, regretfully.

“No, it won’t,” Pentandra said, boldly.  “Perhaps your prophecies were incomplete, but I have learned how to use the Alkan Ways.  More, I can use them right here, right now, to take the three of us away!”

“No, my dear, I’m afraid you cannot,” Old Antimei said, sadly.  “I have foreseen this day for over thirty years.  My body lying on the couch, lifeless, the daughter of my heart sobbing over me, and the champion of humanity standing nearby . . . keeping one of the undead from despoiling my corpse,” she whispered hoarsely.  “I’ve seen it more than I’ve seen rainbows.”

Pentandra fumed.  Now was not the time to go limp in the face of adversity, just because of a few little prophecies.  She knew well from the lore how frequently prophecy went astray, was misconstrued or completely misunderstood.  Indeed, that seemed to be the standard way they appeared in history and folklore.

But if Old Antimei said she saw her lifeless body on the couch, and was convinced that it was her destiny, then there was no reason, to Pentandra’s mind, that she couldn’t be just as mistaken as the figures of legend.

“No one dies tonight,” she decided.

“My sweet, that is not up to you,” Old Antimei said, gently.  “I am at peace with this.  So is Alurra.  We have known this day is coming for years, now.  It is our fate. You cannot change it.”

“The hell I can’t!” Pentandra stated, forcefully.  “How much time do we have?”

Old Antimei squinted.  “Perhaps twenty minutes.  No more than thirty.  But . . . I beg you not to try to escape this fate.  I have come to terms with it,” she assured both her and her terrified-looking apprentice.

Pentandra scowled.  “If you are quite set on staying here to die, I will not run away.  If nothing else, you are a subject of His Grace, Anguin II, and I have a duty as Court Wizard to protect you.  And if you will not allow me to summon the Spellmonger, who may be of dubious use at the moment, then you will have to trust me that I can contend with this situation.”

Alurra looked concerned.  “Mistress, pardon me for saying, but the last time you met these undead . . .”

“I’ve met them twice, now, and both times I survived,” she pointed out.  “More, I learned.  Now, if you two will stop telling me I can’t do the job I know full well I can and actually help me, perhaps we can teach Fate a lesson about free will!”

“Pentandra, I warn you, nothing good ever comes of challenging prophecy!” Old Antimei said, sternly.  Alurra looked stricken, as the two women she respected most in the world fought.

“Antimei, I have no choice.  This is not up to you.  This is my duty,” she said, in a businesslike tone.  “As an officer of the court, as well as a founding member of the Arcane Orders, I took oaths that bind me.  In fact . . . in a time of war . . . the Court Wizard has the power to bind, in turn,” she added, craftily.

The old witch looked thoughtful, and then fearful.  “You . . . you wouldn’t . . .”

“By the power and authority vested in me, Pentandra of Fairoaks, I hereby deputize you as an agent of the Arcane Orders, Alshari district, as authorized by the Royal charter.”

“You can’t do that!” Antimei protested.

“Actually, I can,” Pentandra said, serenely.  “Your original oath upon certification to the Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar was pre-conditional on your service, if you recall.  Ordinarily, that is only used in emergencies like times of war – it’s why Minalan got shipped off to Farise, after graduation.

“But you are bound as much as he was by your oath,” Pentandra proclaimed.  “You can either fulfill it . . . or I am well within my rights, legally, to place you under arrest and remit you to the dungeons of Vorone for the Duke’s judgment.  Or the Spellmonger’s, if he Anguin decides to pass it to him.  Either way, I’m sure that Fate would have a hissy-fit.  Do you agree?”

Old Antimei glared at her defiantly.  “You cannot bargain with Fate!”

“Hah!” Pentandra snorted, throwing up her hands in frustration.  “Screw Fate sideways with a rusty hoe!  I’m the godsdamned Court Wizard of Alshar, and I’ll bury Fate in bureaucracy before I let it control my actions!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Old Antimei said, glowering, as she regarded the younger woman.  Alurra looked even more stricken.  “You court disaster!”

“Since I was thirteen years old,” Pentandra agreed, smoothly.  “Now, will you agree to help me?  Or do I take matters into my own hands?  If the latter, we can be back in the palace in time for dinner,” she added.

Old Antimei still glared at her, but Pentandra could feel her mood shift.  She finally sighed, disgusted.

“Fine,” she said with a snort.  “You’re in charge, now.  Happy?  We’re still going to die.  I’ve seen it!”

“No one is going to die tonight,” Pentandra repeated.  “Not anyone who didn’t start out dead in the first place.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Debate With Bezmiol

Pentandra did her best to maintain her calm as she waited . . . but knowing that you were sitting in a tiny, defenseless croft home awaiting the impending arrival of a small army of undead was the sort of thing that produced anxiety in flop-sweat sized waves, and that was difficult to control.  She was monitoring Antimei’s wards (crude, but now far stronger, thanks to her “loaned” irionite) with Everkeen in hand to distract herself, but it was only making it worse.  She knew what was coming.  So she contented herself with sitting in Old Antimei’s deceptively uncomfortable chair, and just . . . waiting.

Too soon (yet it seemed to take an eternity) she felt the outermost wards go taut, then snap like so many cotton threads.

The undead had arrived in the vale.  It would only be minutes before they got to the door of the croft.

She glanced over to the couch she had previously occupied, where Antimei’s body now rested.  Alurra was holding her hand, her sightless eyes streaming with tears.

They were ready.  At least as ready as they could be, Pentandra decided.  The preparations they’d hurriedly made would not stop an army, but then they had not been designed to.  She closed her eyes and checked her preparations.

The second line of wardings snapped.  Faster than Pentandra suspected. They encircled the entire mound, more than five miles of circumference, but a quick direction spell had narrowed their point of entry.  They were headed in from the northeast, Pentandra saw, which meant that they came in from the Alka Alon Waypoint six miles northeast of here.  It also meant that they were moving at a speed just under that of a mounted party, she reasoned.

“Be ready,” she whispered to Alurra.  “They’re here.  In the vale.  They’ll be at our door in moments.”

Alurra nodded, closing her eyes tightly against the impending attack and clinging to Antimei’s lifeless hand that much tighter.

Pentandra knew she would have to call upon all of her courtly skills to bluff her way out of this situation, but not only was she confident in her own abilities to lie with a straight face and affect a properly dismissive attitude, she had contingencies planned in case things went awry.

Desperate, marginal contingencies, but at least she had a plan.

All too soon, the final layer of wards broke – the ones that protected the pathway up to the croft.  While it was the stoutest of the three bands, wards were at best a subtle defense, the sort of thing that was designed to warn the wizard and subtly discourage trespassers.

In this case, it was the former use Pentandra had for the spell.  The undead pursuing them didn’t seem too terribly prone to subtlety, and the way the wards were crashing down as their enemies went through, Pentandra suspected that at least one Nemovort was leading the attack.

She began to hear noise outside as animate corpses surrounded the croft, attempting to prohibit escape.  She’d expected that.  While Pentandra hadn’t been able to do much in preparation, she had added some of the traps and annoying glyphs she’d developed for use in the Spellmonger’s Trial and spread them around the croft before nightfall.  She hoped at least a couple of the formerly living would enjoy the same level of discomfort and immobility the contestants in Sevendor had.

She was braced when the small wooden door to the croft blew open with unnecessary force.  It had not been latched – Pentandra hadn’t seen much point – and she was dismayed at the destruction, but then she supposed if she were an ancient undead, newly re-embodied in a strong, powerful form, she might eschew subtlety herself.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by her small magelights and a single taper, was a particularly vicious-looking Nemovort.

Pentandra had no idea which Wilderlord had contributed the corpse, but he had been obscenely well-muscled, which the fiend apparently wanted to emphasize by showing up shirtless.  His chest and abdomen, arms, back and shoulders were all freshly tattooed, Pentandra saw, with lines of scarification connecting the sigils engraved into his dead flesh.

Like his fellows, he was completely bald - no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no facial hair.  And, like his fellows, he was armed with an iron weapon of some power: a two-handed sword of human design that she could tell had been freshly enchanted.

“Where is the witch?” bellowed the undead, as Alurra scrambled away.  Pentandra liked to think the girl was merely feigning fright, but the presence of the undead masters was palpable dread to mortals.  That squeal was not fictitious.  Either was that smell.

Pentandra stood, her baculus in hand.

“Who dares disturb the final moments of Old Antimei the Hedgewitch?” she asked, forcefully, as she increased the brightness on her magelights.  The undead blinked, but did not attack.  “Speak quickly, or suffer the consequences!”

“I am Bezmiol, fifth of the Nemovorti.  My master sends me to collect this creature’s legacy!” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the couch where Antimei lay.  “There will be no consequences!”

Pentandra gave a disgusted grunt – not the response that Bezmiol was anticipating, apparently.  He looked at her, his inhuman eyes reflecting confusion.

“There are always consequences,” she replied in a low voice.  “I know not why you seek this witch, but whatever your errand was, you are too late.  She has poisoned herself,” Pentandra said, bitterly.  “I myself made the great journey from Vorone, only to find my quarry already dying and insensible.”

“What is this?” demanded the undead, entering the croft with difficulty, thanks to his over-wide shoulders and the narrow door.  There was a particularly distinctive smell of herbs and rot in his vicinity, she noted.  The Nemovort studied her, its yellow eyes weeping pus. “You are that . . . court wizard,” he said, suddenly recognizing Pentandra.  Or her rod.  “Why should I believe you?  Why should I leave you alive?” he insisted.

“You might find it difficult to kill me,” she conceded.  “Your Brothers certainly did.  More importantly, it would bring you no closer to your mission's conclusion.  For I, too, seek Old Antimei’s book of prophecy, and finding her like this brings me to despair.  If this book be denied the Necromancer, take comfort that it is also denied your foes.”

“We have no foes,” grunted the voice of the former Wilderlord.  “We have only prey.  Yet from what I understand, these . . . books . . . they preserve knowledge even after their death!”

“They do, when you can read them,” agreed Pentandra. “But this witch has hidden her work.  I cannot be certain, but I think it is concealed somewhere around the peak,” she lied convincingly.  “And there is no telling what obscure dialect she penned them in.”

“I care not,” insisted the undead, his lesser fellows milling around outside the croft nervously.  “Give me the book and I will leave you alive!”

“What do you think I am trying to discover?  I couldn’t even if I knew where it was,” Pentandra dismissed.  “But it happens that I don’t.  And now I probably never will,” she added, sadly, nodding toward Old Antimei’s dying body.

“What about the girl?” asked Bezmiol, sternly.  “Can she tell you nothing?”

“Like where she saw the witch hide the book?  She’s blind, idiot,” Pentandra pointed out, bitterly.  “She has no more idea where the book is than I do.  She’s been in Vorone herself until recently.  The witch hid the book while she was gone, to keep her from betraying her secrets.”

“That . . . is unfortunate,” the creature said, thoughtfully, resting the point of the mighty blade he held on the dirt floor of the croft.  “I had not anticipated that outcome.”

“That’s how magic goes, sometimes,” Pentandra shrugged.  “Did you really think that you could sneak up on a prophetess?  She’s known you were coming for years.  Before you were even awakened.  She saw me coming, too.  Now she’s poisoned herself to deny us both our prize.”

The undead monster frowned.  “Why do you wait, then?” he demanded.

“Because once she’s dead, I might be able to summon her shade, and interrogate it,” she proposed.  “I know not what poison she took, but I’m hoping it did not addle her wits before she expires,” she said, callously.

“Once she’s . . . dead,” the creature repeated, as the red-eyed draugen who accompanied him milled around outside.

“It’s a long shot,” admitted Pentandra, “but it’s the only way I can think of.”

Bezmiol considered.  “What if I just kill her now?” he asked impatiently.

Pentandra shook her head.  “That won’t work.  Not with her brain full of poison.  Did you not think I’d thought of that?  That kind of trauma destroys short-term memory,” Pentandra said, matter-of-factly.  In truth she knew nothing of the sort – she’d never practiced necromancy – but it sounded like a compelling theory.  “No, you’ll have to be patient.  Or find yourself another prophetess.”

“That . . . is not my mission,” confessed Bezmiol.  “You are Pentandra, correct?”

She offered a small smile at the recognition.  “The same.  Your fellows told you about me?”

“Warned me about you,” he corrected.  “You are apparently quite formidable, for one so slight,” he said, with a note of admiration in his voice.

“Take care you do not discover that for yourself,” Pentandra said, warningly.  “Twice, now, I have met your fellows in battle.  That was before I became aware of what you were, and how to counter you.  I am still here,” she repeated, casually.

That apparently impressed Bezmiol, who seemed generally more prone to discussion than destruction.  Pentandra realized that there was still a hope her deception would work.  She steered the conversation to where she wanted it to go . . . which was anywhere, as long as it didn’t involve the undead servant attacking.  “I was wondering, while you are here,” she said, quietly, “why you chose humani bodies, not Alka Alon bodies?”

“Why, there is a gracious plenty of these from which to choose,” the creature said, gesturing to his own arms.  “The few Alka Alon captives in Korbal’s dungeons are . . . reserved,” he said, realizing he might be speaking too plainly.  “These humani are strong, and take easily to the process.”

“That makes sense,” Pentandra said, affecting her best professional demeanor.  “And you all have selected impressive specimens.  But that does beg the question of how much of your former host’s memories you retain.”

“Some,” the creature admitted.  “Mostly emotions and feelings.  A lot of loathing,” he added.

“We’re good at loathing,” Pentandra chuckled.

“Why?  There is no hope that the host’s mind can be returned, after this process.  It is shattered by it.  And the body, itself, is consumed as it becomes subject to the necromantic spell, so even if the host could be restored, there would be no vessel left adequate for it.”

“Fascinating!” Pentandra said, only partially feigning enthusiasm.  There was a certain professional interest in the subject of necromancy she held, just as most thaumaturges did.  “And your . . . naugren?  How about they?”

“Draugen,” he corrected.  “Oh, they aren’t even Alka Alon,” chuckled Bezmiol.  “Those are just human warriors into which Korbal has implanted ancient spirits.  From before the time of either of our peoples.”

“Ah, the primordial ocean enneagrams,” she nodded, knowingly.  Bezmiol started.

“You know about those?” he asked, impressed.

“Just learning about them,” Pentandra admitted, “But I have one in my baculus,” she said, nodding to Everkeen.  “It wants to . . . eat you,” she added.

Bezmiol looked at the simple silver rod with new respect.  “I had no idea that you humani were so advanced in your understanding of necromantic science!”

“And I had no idea that you . . . whatever you are, were so interested in thaumaturgy,” Pentandra replied.  “You seem very different in your approach than your brothers.”

“We are not true family,” Bezmiol said, insistently, as if the idea pained him.  “I am – I was – a scholar and a spellsinger, before I was imprisoned.  I studied under Korbal until the council put him – us – away.  My first passion has always been magic.  Korbal just had a much more open approach to it than the Council.  The others are . . . fanatics, mostly, or just brutes interested in the science of death.”

“And so here you are, out of time and place, even stricken from your rightful body,” Pentandra observed.  Bezmiol stiffened.  “That must be awkward.  And serving one who is so provably mad . . . :”

It was Bezmiol’s turn to chuckle.  “Korbal is not mad, and those who believe he is underestimate him.  He is pragmatic, and that oft runs counter to the idealistic.  Now that he has returned for a second chance, I have confidence that he will show the world what he has accomplished.”

“So far, that seems to be . . . slight,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “Especially if, as you’ve admitted, you have little recollection of your host’s memories.”

Bezmiol blinked.  “Why do you say that?”

“Because somehow I doubt that the ability to read remains in your head, if it was ever there,” Pentandra said.

Bezmiol looked puzzled.  “Read?”

“It’s how you access and interpret the information within one of our books,” Pentandra explained.

The Alka Alon were all eidetic, remembering everything they heard, which meant that they did not use writing . . . though several other species of Alon had adopted the practice in one form or another.

As she suspected, the Alka Alon who had lived before the arrival of the humani from the Void had only a vague notion what literacy even meant.  “If you don’t understand the codes and symbolism, the book will be useless to you,” she explained.

“We . . . we have humani servants who can read,” Bezmiol said, a little defensively.

“No doubt,” she smiled, indulgently.  “I hope – for your sake – that they have the social context to understand the meaning of the prophecies.  Otherwise you are wasting your time.”

“I have been sent for a book, and a book I shall take!” insisted Bezmiol.

“So shall I.  So when we finally ferret out where she might have hidden it, we’ll have a conflict.”

“The point is moot if it is not found,” agreed Bezmiol.

“True,” she agreed.  “But that is preferable, from my perspective, to you finding it for your master.”

“I can see your perspective,” admitted Bezmiol.  “So we are at an impasse.”

“Not quite,” Pentandra said, adjusting herself in Antimei’s incredibly uncomfortable chair.  “While we could fight over it, I am in favor of the idea of a simple contest to decide the book’s fate.”

“A contest?” the fiend asked, intrigued.  “What kind of contest?”

Pentandra knew that some Alka Alon were obsessed with such things as games and contests – in fact, many of the early accounts of encounters between the two races were based around their delight in such things.  She had counted upon that fascination to persist beyond the grave, and judging by Bezmiol’s interest, she had guessed correctly.

“I am open to suggestions,” she said, casually.  “But we may have a while to wait before she expires.”

Bezmiol looked dismayed.  “How long?”

“We are a very resilient species,” Pentandra observed, glancing at Antimei’s body on the couch.  “It might be as much as a day or so.”

“I . . . I am supposed to return with the prize immediately!”

Pentandra shrugged.  “Then start searching every nook and cranny of this mountain,” she suggested.  “There must be thousands of hiding places within the grotto alone, well within walking distance.  She certainly didn’t keep it here,” she chuckled.  “I’ve already searched the croft.  I would have departed already if I’d found it, not waiting for an old woman to die.  No books of prophecy here.”

She could only hope he would take the bait . . . and he did.  With a very human-sounding sigh, the undead monster quickly turned back outside and gave orders to his draugen lackeys to search the mountain.  Human beings would have been dismayed at such an order and at least grumbled at the impossible task.  The red-eyed animate corpses merely complied with their master’s orders and began wandering off to search.

“Can they see in the dark?” she asked, surprised.

“Better than in the light,” he admitted, as he took his former spot squarely in front of the door, his massive sword still planted.  “They are not terribly intelligent, but they can recognize a book when they see it,” he added.

“That makes them superior to most of the nobility,” Pentandra quipped.

“I do wonder at the utility of this . . . writing,” Bezmiol said.  “Why record your thoughts, so that others may steal them?”

“Most who write are hoping someone will read what they record,” Pentandra pointed out.  “And our poor human minds are just too distractible to be able to hold that much information at one time.”

“You do suffer from a terrible weakness of mind,” the Nemovort agreed.  “Why, I often wonder how your folk manage to even develop the crudest of civilizations, much less keep one running, with the small mental capacity you have available.”

“It’s a constant struggle.  You really have no idea,” Pentandra complained.  “Which is why we’ve had to borrow our wisdom and lore from ages past: the written word.”

“It has a certain brutal efficiency,” admitted Bezmiol, conversationally.  “But it robs you of creativity and adaptability.”

“I find it hard to argue with that,” agreed Pentandra.  “Especially considering the pile of parchment accumulating on my desk, back at the palace.  But tell me, Bezmiol, what do you hope to gain from this contest between our two worlds?”

“A fair question,” he admitted, thoughtfully.  “Most of my fellows are bent on revenge for their imprisonment.  I try to take a more philosophical approach.”

“You bear no enmity against the Alkan Council, then?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, I want to see it destroyed and its members slaughtered, perhaps even on the sacrificial stone, the way those gurvani animals do it.  It would serve them right.  One does not get imprisoned in a crypt for over a millennia without developing some resentment.”

“I suppose I can see that,” nodded Pentandra, pleased that she’d found the one chatty undead Korbal had in stock.  “But you don’t really seem like the type to devote yourself to revenge.”

“Oh, I’m not!” Bezmiol assured her.  “I am a scholar, first and foremost.  One of Korbal’s assistants in his research.  But I am pressed into service in this ungainly form, with this . . . weapon, because of my master’s need.  This is only temporary,” he explained, though Pentandra guessed he was trying to convince himself more than her.  “Though strong, this body is already degrading, and is completely inappropriate for my work.”

“And that is?” Pentandra asked, as if she was conversing with a colleague at the Conclave.  “Professional interest,” she explained, coolly.  But she knew there were few men who could resist talking incessantly about their work.

“Oh, of course.  I seek to perfect my knowledge of enneagramatic magic – necromancy, your folk call it.”

“My folk usually try to avoid calling it anything,” Pentandra pointed out.  “We dislike death.”

“All dislike death,” proclaimed the dead man.  “Even those who purport to worship it do so out of their own fear.  Which is why my master and I – and others – have sought to cure it!  That is the entire focus of my work,” he added proudly.

“And how is that coming along?”

“I am still here, after a thousand years,” Bezmiol pointed out.  “None of my family can boast that.”

“You have a point,” Pentandra said, trying not to imagine such a hellish existence.  Perhaps the Nemovorti parasites were made of tougher stuff.  “But what is your ultimate goal?” she repeated.  “What are you trying to accomplish?”

She tried her best to sound only vaguely interested.  That usually got a man talking – human men, anyway.  She wasn’t certain such subtleties translated into Alka Alon, or Enshadowed, or whatever mental language Bezmiol thought in.  But ego is ego, regardless of species, she learned quickly.  Bezmiol was more than happy to discuss his work.

“Well, I’d like to explore the recesses of the Ghost Rock, under Anthatiel,” he admitted.  “Korbal has made use of them, in an elementary way, to produce the draugen and other servants.  But I believe it is possible to embody the most ancient and powerful enneagrams in modern hosts,” he proposed, boldly.  “With the proper adjustments,” he conceded. “To resurrect that which has been extinct since before either of our folk came to Callidore, and let them see the sun with new eyes after so long . . .”

“That is an intriguing proposal,” Pentandra admitted.  “But again, to what end?”

“Well, there are—”  the monster halted.

“What is it?” asked Pentandra.

“Sorry, just some . . . trouble,” he said, shaking his head, distracted.  “I was saying, there are a multitude of applications.  Immortality, of course, is the prime.  As well as the thrill of pure research.  Under the Council we had strict controls over what we were able to do in that field, that is, until Korbal rebelled.  For a brief time we made some incredible advances . . . but then politics intervened, and our research was ended.

“But now,” he said, with growing enthusiasm, “we are awakened to an entirely new world . . . one which presents us with the perfect subjects for experimentation: the humani!”

Pentandra tried to suppress the chill that went down her spine at the casual way he spoke of her species.

“What makes the humani better subjects?” she asked, doing her best to affect an academic manner.

Asking any researcher about the details of their work, in her experience, was an invitation to a lecture . . . whether you wanted one or not.  Right now, she wanted as long a lecture as the creature could spin.  When she glanced over at Alurra, who was still kneeling next to Old Antimei, the blind girl was still weeping . . . but also nodding her head decisively and subtly.

She had arranged the signal code with her apprentice before the undead arrived, and Pentandra was pleased with how quickly the girl caught on.  Whether it was her brief association with Sir Vemas and the Woodsmen, helping root out the last of the Rats, living at the palace among deceptive courtiers, or some native talent for deviousness she had on her own, Alurra seemed to naturally able to use deception and misdirection . . . and had the wisdom, usually, to know when to use them.

Alurra’s nods were counting out the number of draugen scouring the mountain outside of the croft.  And the number of beasts she had shadowing them.

It had seemed a shame to waste the girl’s best talent – beast mastery – in a region that was so replete with animals - one with which she was intimately familiar.  When Pentandra had considered allies in her unexpected challenge, she had considered calling Terleman, Astyral or even Azar to come assist her.

But this plan called for subtlety, not warmagic.  Pentandra had instead convinced Alurra to summon as many of her furry and feathered friends as possible to aid them.

Right now there were owls scouting overhead, watching every draugen on the mount.  There were small mammals shadowing the undead, who (Pentandra predicted) would ignore them utterly in their single-minded pursuit of the book.

And there were carnivores and belligerent herbivores Alurra had called, too.  Wolves.  Wildcats.  Coyotes.  Perhaps other, even more dangerous predators - despite her foray through the Wilderlands last summer, Pentandra still was not familiar with all the wildlife here.  Alurra had been communing with them for years, now, and she had assured Pentandra that she could enlist their help.

Bezmiol was entirely ignorant of that, of course.  He continued his explanation with more enthusiasm than she expected from an animated corpse, but then he was very invested in his work.

“Are you jesting? The humani biology is rugged, powerful, and can be raised relatively quickly.  And it takes an enneagrammatic overlay like a dream!  The humani central nervous system is just complex enough to be able to sustain a pattern for some time, and is far, far more adaptable than any of the Alon.  The host is easily replaced, there is an abundant stock, and in such variety!”

“We do enjoy our little differences,” Pentandra murmured.

“Of course there are limits,” Bezmiol admitted thoughtfully, looking at his humani hands.  “The more complex the enneagram, the more rapid the decomposition.  And the host body does, technically, perish in the process.  The essential biology must be driven by magic, at this phase in our development,”

“That explains the sigils on your skin,” Pentandra acknowledged.

“Yes, they’re—” Bezmiol halted again.  “Sorry.  They’re crude, but as this is a temporary body,” he emphasized, “they help stabilize the biological system and sustain the basic enchantment parameters,” he said, proudly.  “I had to nearly fillet a humani mage to gain the spells for our Master, but they are effective.

“Alka Alon bodies, on the other hand . . . they are far more durable, and they can accept quite a substantial overlay . . .  but it’s devilishly tricky to get the overlay to take.  The host is resilient, as my folk are naturally strong.  And it isn’t destroyed, like with a human, which creates additional problems.  It often struggles with the overlay, and that can be . . . problematic,” he admitted.

“I can imagine,” Pentandra nodded.  “You must be very pleased at the opportunity to experiment, then.  But . . . I suppose the enneagrams you could harvest from the Ghost Rock – if I understand the process properly – would degrade the host just as quickly, due to incompatibility.”

“Well, there is some truth to that, but it really depends on what overlay you select . . . and Olum Seheri has an abundance to select from,” he said, with professional satisfaction.

“Sorry, what?” Pentandra asked sharply.

“Oh, the name?  Olum Seheri.  It’s what Korbal’s folk call the City of Rainbows, now.  Our new laboratory.  And citadel.  Better name than ‘Anthatiel’.  I don’t know where it came from,” he confessed, “but I think it means ‘city of the dead’ or ‘city of the necromancer’ or something.  Languages were never much of a strength of mine.”

“It’s . . . a strong name,” Pentandra said, searching for a compliment.  Snarling insults and defiant threats at the creature, while emotionally satisfying, would never had gotten Bezmiol to reveal so much valuable intelligence to her.  She continued probing.

“Pardon me for asking – professional curiosity, again – but to what purpose, besides pure research and revenge, could Korbal possibly have in wanting that place?  I’ve heard it’s pretty – or was – but it’s on the arseend of pretty much everything.”

“It’s a satisfactory base, for now,” Bezmiol said, a little defensively.  “And it is extremely well-defended, which, alas, has become one of our unfortunate requirements for a new headquarters.  The Alkan Council does not look upon our work kindly.  Some even conspire to destroy us.”

Since Pentandra was one of those conspiring, she tried to shift the subject.  “Oh, I can see the defensive advantages, as well as the research potential.  But that does not explain why Korbal and your kin are doing this in the first place.  What could he possibly want?”

“Why, a better future for us all!” Bezmiol said, as if it were obvious.  “Is immortality not worth the price of labor and sacrifice?  Consider how adept you could become if you had five lifetimes to learn your craft!”

“But the Alka Alon are already long-lived, by humani standards.”

“Long lived, perhaps, but not immortal.  Not yet. When this body expires, thanks to Master Korbal’s research, my enneagram will remain intact, albeit incorporeal for a time.  Once it’s recalled to Olum Seheri, it can be easily restored in another body.  Can the Alkan Council do that?” he boasted, proudly.  “At this stage in my development it would require a powerful force to destroy my enneagram.  And being able to change bodies as easily as you change clothing would be a very useful thing,” he pointed out.

“So it would,” Pentandra admitted.  She could imagine a few improvements she could make . . . and that started to lead down an unproductive path, so she quickly returned to business.  “But you do understand that we humani might object to being hosts, if it means our destruction,” she pointed out.  She wanted to gauge the creature’s empathy.  She was not disappointed.

“Well, you folk live such a short period of time, you barely notice,” Bezmiol said, dismissively.  “And considering the boon you are giving to knowledge, I don’t see why you would object.  It’s not as if we’re slaying you merely to fuel our spells – what a waste of resources!” he said, disgustedly, referring to the gurvani’s unsavory thaumaturgic practice that kept the Umbra intact.  “Besides, the majority of our subjects are from your agricultural class, no better than the River Folk.  Only a select few of your warrior and priestly classes,” he admitted, flexing his dead human muscles to demonstrate, “and they were subject to execution anyway, under the gurvani’s rules.  This way they may yet serve, even in death.”

“Ah yes,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing.  “The gurvani.  How can you bring yourself to work for such vile creatures?” she asked the vile creature in front of her.

“It’s humiliating,” Bezmiol agreed, leaning on the hilt of his plain greatsword.  “But if those little wretches hadn’t intervened and freed us, we may have been in torpor forever.  We owe them a debt,” he admitted.  “And they do have their uses.  Who would have thought a race of janitors and laborers would develop even a rudimentary culture?” he asked, arrogantly.

“And then there’s Sheruel, Korbal’s master,” Pentandra prodded.  Bezmiol winced at the name.

“That . . . travesty!” he wailed.  “Of all the perversions the gurvani could have chosen, they thought they could elevate themselves through . . . that?  The thing is insane,” he insisted.  “I’ve seen it!  It has no real understanding of enneagramatics,” Bezmiol began ticking off points of irritation on his tattooed fingertips, “it has no appreciation of the work we do, and it thinks . . . it thinks it’s better than us!” Bezmiol said, scandalized.

“Well, that’s the undead for you – present company excepted,” she said, nodding. “Arrogant.”

“Yes, well, if it wasn’t for the escape from death, one might wonder why we bother.  Sheruel is so proud of his little furry army and his dragons and nightsails and other toys that he barely invests the time to see the possibilities.  The power that could be garnered from proper use of his tools! That’s why we offered to win this war for him,” explained the Nemovort.  “The sooner his folk are satisfied with their conquests, the sooner we can begin finding a way to properly harness the molopor and all of that irionite.”

“I wonder if you actually need the goblin head inside,” Pentandra said, with undisguised disgust.

“You know,” Bezmiol said, after a thoughtful pause, “I don’t think we would.  In fact, I—”  he halted his speech a third time.

“What is it?” Pentandra asked, alarmed.

“I . . . I actually think those deadskulls found it!” he revealed, triumphantly, showing a mouthful of teeth that had started out as a Wilderlord’s and endured his diet and lifestyle, and were now as gray and dead as any flesh could be.

Pentandra looked surprised.  And dismayed.

“Are you . . . certain?” she asked, her tone falling.

“Unless she was in the habit of hiding these books all over the Wilderlands, I think so,” nodded Bezmiol, cheerfully.  “From what I understand they usually are not proof against the elements?”

“Parchment can be fragile, if not properly protected.  But if your draugen found it . . .”

As if to answer, one of the red-eyed creatures (who might have been a handsome Wilderlord, before he died, lost his hair, and was imbued with the spirit of some long-extinct sea creature, Pentandra reflected) lumbered into the croft bearing a book in its arms.  There was no triumph or excitement in his movements - he was merely carrying out orders -- but Bezmiol certainly took it as a good sign.

“They did find the book!” he exclaimed, his human voice breaking with the effort.  “This will be a great--“

Bezmiol was interrupted by the sudden and completely unexpected appearance of a swordpoint from the neck of the draugen.  As the creature fell headless to the floor, spewing a black substance from its neck, book still clasped in its cold fingers, Pentandra could see three arrows protruding from its back.

Then Arborn stepped into the room, his sword held steadily in front of him.  Bezmiol just stared for a few moments, alarmed, then remembered he had his own weapon.  His dead hands went searching for the hilt of the greatsword, behind his back, while he tried to keep his eyes on the steely-eyed ranger.

“You didn’t—!” Bezmiol began, when Arborn’s blade flashed in the magelight.  Before his hands could find the hilt of his own weapon, the Nemovort tumbled to the floor, decapitated, as his rotting skull landed at the foot of Pentandra’s chair. A bare moment later, two dogs – actually, a wolf and a coyote, Pentandra realized – sprang into the room and began tearing at the rotting flesh of both bodies.

“About time you showed up, Husband!” Pentandra sighed with relief.  “I thought that damn thing was going to bore me to death!”

Chapter Forty-Six

Pentandra Confronts The Alka Alon

“You . . . brought my mother along to rescue me?” Pentandra asked in an astonished voice, after Arborn had dragged the corpses out of the croft.

Pentandra guessed that he wasn’t alone – there was no way that he could have crossed the hundreds of leagues between here and Vorone in that short of time without help – but she didn’t quite expect the party he brought with him.

Especially as it included – for no good reason that she could see – her mother.

“Amendra was . . . adamant,” Arborn confided, hesitantly.  “When she saw how you had gone off literally into the unknown, she was beside herself with worry.  When I told her I was going after you, she insisted on coming along.”

“But what help could she possibly be?” demanded Pentandra, angrily.

“She did not come to offer help,” Arborn replied, simply.  “She came because her daughter was in danger.”

“Oh.  Uh . . . oh.”  Pentandra honestly didn’t know how to respond to that.

She rarely credited her mother with any actual authentic maternal feelings, largely due to how often the two women were at odds with each other.  If Pentandra had been forced to take an oath about how much and in what ways her mother cared about her, “socially” would one of the few words she could have come up with.  Pentandra had always seemed to be a disappointment to her socially-conscious mother, and she could not for the life of her think what could have possessed her to risk her own skin to come see what Pentandra did at work.

“But . . . but did you have to bring her?”

“She insisted,” Arborn repeated.  “Who am I to tell a mother that she can’t go try to rescue her daughter?”

“My husband, that’s who!” Pentandra nearly yelled.  “Damn it, Arborn!  This place was crawling with undead an hour ago, and now my mother is here!”  Part of her mind wondered which she dreaded more.

“The undead are . . . dead, again,” he informed her, gently.  “I am sorry it took me so long.  I could not get any of the High Magi in Vorone to transport me through the Ways.  Terleman rides with His Grace to destroy one of the gurvani castles near to Vorone in recompense for the Midsummer raid, and the warmagi in Tudry were likewise occupied.  Minalan returned to Sevendor before I arrived at the palace.  So I imposed on Ithalia to give me some assistance.  She’s the one who tracked you here,” he added, thanks to your ingenious tracking sticks.

“Ithalia?  The Alka Alon emissary?” Pentandra asked, impressed. The very, very beautiful Alka Alon emissary, she amended in her mind.  “How did you get in touch with her?”

“I’ve known Ithalia since I was a boy,” Arborn shrugged.  “She and her kin have always worked closely with the Kasari.  When I needed a boon, she was happy to help.  Especially after the help I gave her this summer, searching for the lost Aronin.”

“So Ithalia got you and Mother through the Ways,” Pentandra reasoned.

“And then she helped me hunt the draugen,” Arborn said, nodding his shaggy head.  “She and two of her folk.  There were five of them,” he added.  “We took them by surprise, in the dark.  Though I am uncertain if darkness gave us favor.  They seemed to see as well or better in the night.”

“According to Bezmiol, they are stronger at night.  They probably see heat,” she guessed.

“That would make sense,” Arborn nodded.  “They did not die easily.  Arrows have a limited effect – even the arrows of the Alka Alon.  But decapitation seems to work,” he said, nodding toward the sticky black spot where he had slain the undead.

“So it does,” she nodded.  She looked up at her husband’s dark eyes and realized that she had missed him terribly.  “I am sorry for not having a better plan, when I vanished.  But time was short.”

“I knew you could handle yourself,” he said, confidently.

“I didn’t!” she fumed.  “That’s why I left you a message to come rescue me!”

“Had I not appeared when I did, did you not have a plan?” he asked, patiently.

She chewed her lip in frustration.  “Well, yes, I had contingencies.”

“You always have contingencies,” he said, admiringly.  “Bydda'n barod – you are always prepared, as a Kasari woman should be,” he added, with a sudden kiss.  “One of the things I love about you.”

She wanted to say something rude and obnoxious, emphasizing how little she had trusted in the efficacy of her contingencies, but the kiss and the complement stilled her tongue.  Instead she sighed and let herself feel grateful in her choice of husband.

“So Ithalia got you here – with Mother,” she counted.

“Too late, alas,” Arborn said, looking on Old Antimei’s body with pity.

“Her?” Pentandra asked, with a snort.  “She’s not dead.  Just poisoned.  She won’t die; she’ll just be asleep for three days, appearing to hover near death.  That was part of my plan.”

“Poisoning a witch?” he asked, confused.

“They couldn’t interrogate her if she wasn’t conscious, not even with a truthtell or torture,” Pentandra explained.  “And I couldn’t rely on them not slaying her – and Alurra and me –  out of hand and then attempting necromancy to gain the location of the book they sought.  So I contrived to poison the old biddy, keep her out of their reach while I stalled for time.  And sent them chasing a false trail.”

“The book,” Arborn said, nodding toward the thick tome the draugen dropped when it had lost its head.  “They nearly recovered it.”

“That?  That’s a witch’s grimoire, nothing more.  A compendium of correspondences and useful measurements and equivalents, with an appendix on harvest times and preparation methods for various herbs and magical plants.  An herbal,” she pronounced.  “I looked through Antimei’s small library and picked the book I thought looked most like a secret book of prophecy.  I counted on the illiteracy of the undead, and hoped they would be satisfied with taking a book back from their mission.”

“Wouldn’t they have recognized it as an herbal, eventually?” Arborn asked, confused.

“Perhaps not for a long time,” Pentandra shrugged.  “As most hedgewitches do, Old Antimei used her own personal code to encrypt the volume.  Trade secrets, personal idiosyncrasies, abbreviations and metaphors, mnemonics – no one but the witch who wrote it could puzzle it out.  I could foresee months or even years of wasted effort on Korbal’s part attempting to decipher it.  It’s almost a pity they didn’t take it away.”

“So . . . where is the real book?”

“Safe,” Pentandra assured him.  “Old Antimei never told me where it was, but I figured it out when I was debating with the Nemovorti.  It’s safe,” she assured. “Now we just have to wait a few days for the old witch to awaken, and learn how to use it.”

“It seems like a lot of trouble to go through,” Arborn said, shaking his head doubtfully.

“Prophecy is an insidiously dangerous thing,” Pentandra explained, carefully.  “It binds us to the course of future actions, compelling us to act without the luxury of free will.  Whether we try to fulfill prophecy or subvert it, we are acting in response to it.  It invokes our deepest fears of what might come to past, and gives us an incomplete vision of the future.”

“Does it not give us the answers we need to make the right choices?” Arborn asked, confused again.

“There’s ample reason for why it was proscribed by the Magocracy and the Censorate.  This particular collection,” she continued, picking up the herbal off of the floor and dusting the stray rushes and dust off the cover, “is focused on the future of northern Alshar, the Penumbra, the Umbra, Korbal, Shereul, Minalan, Duke Anguin, the Forsaken, Ishi, the future city that will stand on this spot, and . . . me,” she admitted.  “Me and you.  So I was particularly eager to keep it out of Korbal’s cold dead fingers.  A lady has the right to a little privacy about her affairs,” she said, playfully.

“I can see why it was important,” Arborn agreed.  “But was it important enough to risk your life?”

“Mine, yours, Alurra’s, Antimei’s, and yes, even my mother’s,” Pentandra agreed, after a moment’s consideration.  “I don’t think you understand just what kind of damage Korbal and his minions could have caused with this knowledge, Arborn.  For all of her faults, Old Antimei did us a genuine service by protecting it so jealously – and so cleverly.”

“Will she survive this poison?”

“I did,” Pentandra shrugged.  “She’s old and frail, and she mistook this for her death in her own visions, so I would venture that it is really up to the divine.  But in my experience, the more you complain the longer the gods make you live, so I have high hopes.”

Arborn bit his lip.  “By that token, I fear your Mother may be immortal,” he said, casually . . . but with layers of meaning.  Pentandra giggled despite herself over both his discomfort and his diplomatic way of expressing it.

“You’ve discovered my darkest fears,” Pentandra joked.  “Was she that awful?”

“She complained that I would not let her come,” Arborn began, “then complained about the mode of transport.  She complained about the company – though she acknowledged how beautiful Ithalia’s humani form is, she could not restrain herself from dozens of slights throughout our journey.  When we arrived at the Waypoint, your trail had grown long cold.  It took us half a day to find it, and that was, perhaps, the longest morning of my life.”

“Arborn!” Pentandra said, shocked.  “You didn’t let Mother’s little barbs get to you, did you?”

“Not where she could see it,” he admitted.  “But has the woman ever encountered anything she found favor in?”

“It’s just her way, Arborn,” Pentandra assured, taking his big hand in hers.  “That’s the way she’s always been.  Why do you think my father hides himself in his study and buries himself in his work?  Why do you think she has gone through so many servants?  Why do you think I escaped to the academy as soon as I was able?”

“It does explain a lot about your family,” he nodded.  “Not that I dislike your mother.  Once I was able to overlook the criticism, there were the occasional nuggets of pleasantness within.”

“Not many men would have the fortitude or patience to see them,” Pentandra said, achieving a new appreciation for the man she had married.  “But I’ll warn you now: Antimei will be out for three days, and I cannot leave her unattended.  I still have questions for her, and she must be protected while she is asleep.  I’m afraid we’ll be staying at this croft for a few more days.  With mother.  Unless you and Ithalia can convince her to return to Vorone without me.”

“I think that is a job best left for the Court Wizard,” Arborn decided.  He was stopped from further elaboration by Ithalia the Emissary entering the small croft, ducking her head as Arborn had to through the small doorway.

“The mountain is clear, and my folk are patrolling,” she reported.  “I have set what wards and bounds I can on this place, for now.  But it is disturbing that these undead were able to get so far.”

“They are especially powerful,” Pentandra answered.  “And they used the Alkan Ways.  Korbal and his followers are Alka Alon, recall,” she prompted the woman, who was dressed head to toe in beautiful bark-like armor that left ample room for flexibility, though not much for modesty.

The Alkan’s human face looked guilty.  “That is known to us,” she agreed.

“And they are being assisted by the Enshadowed,” she added, a little more decisively.

“Of that we are aware, as well,” she said, a bit defensively.

“They are searching for this book of prophecy because it details, in part, the search for some lost ancient Alkan arsenal,” Pentandra continued.  “One which is known only to one particular Alkan family.”

Ithalia regarded her carefully, a gaze difficult for anyone to weather.  But Pentandra was not cowed.   “You seem awfully well-informed about Alka Alon politics,” she observed carefully.

“I’m a really good court wizard,” Pentandra explained.  “So, from where I see things, the Alka Alon council long ago decided to lock away their most powerful weapons after their devastating wars, give up their cities and empires, and go live in trees or caves.  Except for the tiny group of renegades who desired a return to the ancient power and order.  The Enshadowed.

“The Enshadowed rallied around Korbal – a powerful Alkan necromancer – and sought to overthrow the Council by seeking out the arsenal themselves.  Only you captured him instead.  And instead of executing him, you imprisoned him so that he could pop up now and slaughter a whole bunch of humani.”

“There is a lot more to it than that,” promised Ithalia.

“Oh, I have no doubt.  Like the fact that the Aronin’s family was estranged from the rest of the council, and so when the council needed access to the arsenal to arm themselves against Sheruel, they couldn’t even find his daughter in the chaos.  So they threw the warrior-princes of the humani against them instead, giving us a few trinkets to help out . . . but that wasn’t a lasting plan, was it?” she asked, accusingly.

“I am not privy to the workings of the Council,” Ithalia insisted.  “I am merely their agent!”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Pentandra continued, coolly, as she settled into Old Antimei’s uncomfortable chair.

“Wife!” Arborn said, sharply.  “Is that any way to speak to someone who rescued you?”

“Oh, I’m grateful for that – and I don’t bear Ithalia any personal animosity – but as court wizard of Alshar and former Steward of the Arcane Orders, I have more than a personal interest at stake here,” she said, calmly.  “All this time we thought that Sheruel was our fault . . . and to a certain extent that is correct.

“But the fact is, the Alkan Council has been desperately trying to hide its own responsibility in this matter.  They are the ones who created Korbal and allowed the Enshadowed to coalesce around him.  They are the ones who entombed him, instead of executing him.  And I’m getting more and more of an idea that they were far more involved in the downfall of the early Magocracy than we give them credit for.”

“That was six hundred years ago!” Ithalia reminded her, testily.

“Which, for a near-immortal Alka Alon, is like a few decades is to us.  Don’t let the fair visage and the . . . alluring manner befuddle you, my husband.  The Alka Alon are acting in their own best interests, and trying desperately to get us to see them as noble, not villains.  So we can fight their wars for them.”

“We have always supported your folk!” protested Ithalia, frustrated.

“We both know that isn’t entirely true,” Pentandra guessed.  “The Council used humanity – Minalan, me, everyone in the Kingdom of Castalshar.  Used us as a barrier and a buffer, walls of humani flesh ideal for dulling gurvani knives before they get to Alka Alon.  They used us to buy time.  For their own reasons.

“Now we know what some of those reasons are.  You were afraid of Korbal’s return, far more afraid of that then the stupid magical goblin head bent on revenge and genocide.  Sheruel might have hated humani, but Korbal – Korbal hates the Council.  When Anthatiel  was conquered around the same time as Korbal was released from his tomb, that caught the Council completely off-guard . . . didn’t it?”

“The temerity of such an act, and the brutal way in which it was done . . . yes, we did not suspect either of those two events,” Ithalia admitted, guiltily.  “Why do you bring these things to the conversation?”

“Because I wanted to let you know, Lady Emissary, that as the court wizard of Alshar, in whose sovereign territory the Land of Scars and the City of Rainbows both reside, we are unhappy with the inclusion of the new menace on our frontier.”

Ithalia blinked her perfect eyes.  “Unhappy?  That’s it?”

“This is the Alka Alon’s fight, and we resent being put into the middle of it,” Pentandra declared.  “This foe is one for which we are overmatched.”

“Do you think the Council can do much better?” demanded Ithalia.  “You overestimate our strength!”

“Pentandra!  This is just rudeness!” Arborn protested.

“Arborn, I love you, but this does not concern you, as much as you think it does.  The Alka Alon have been using humanity this entire time to cover for their own mistakes.  Yes, even their long alliance with the Kasari.  They are using us as pawns in this game as surely as Korbal is now using Shereul’s legions as his.  The Enshadowed, I imagine, gave the gurvani priests everything they needed to create the Abomination, which in turn became powerful enough to release their master.”

The look on Ithalia’s face confirmed everything Pentandra needed to know.

“The gurvani never could have managed such a feat on their own.  It would take Alkan songspells, or some equivalent power, to bring forth that monster.  Sheruel’s enmity against humanity was the perfect motivation to convince the gurvani to rise against us.  And once he had sufficient power to capture the molopor under Boval Castle, then he had the power to find the location of Korbal’s tomb.  And the power to break it, once it was found.  Which was just what the Enshadowed wanted,” explained Pentandra.

“Surely you cannot be blaming the Alka Alon for the Dead God!” Arborn said, looking offended.

“Aren’t they?  Perhaps not the Council, directly . . . but then they are the ones who imprisoned Korbal . . . whose minions waited almost a thousand years to attempt a rescue.  By giving the goblins power far beyond their capabilities.  Teaching them how to make irionite.

“Meanwhile, the Alka Alon retreat from their responsibilities and send their human allies to do their dirty work in the Wild.  Yes, even the Kasari,” she added, when her husband looked skeptical.  “It was one thing when it was just gurvani attacking us.  But when the Alka Alon’s own legacies reach out and molest us, we have every right to demand that they pay closer attention!”

“I cannot speak for the Council!” Ithalia warned.

“Then listen, Emissary Ithalia: for now that Korbal has attacked us, and the truth of this war is revealed, the terms of this alliance must change.  No longer are we fighting a war with Shereul, with occasional assistance and cheering from the Alkan Council . . . no, either we are fighting a war together, against both foes, both of our peoples taking responsibility for our history, or the Alka Alon can contend with Korbal alone.

“That is the message of the Court Wizard of Alshar to the Alka Alon Council: either step up and act like real allies, or defeat Korbal and his vassals on their own.  There will be no more rescues by humani,” she promised, “as long as the Council keeps treating us like domesticated livestock, not partners.”

Ithalia might have been blushing, but it was hard to tell with her not-quite-human face.  But she was clearly embarrassed.  “I will relay the message,” she promised.

“You can start by getting your asses back to the embassy in Sevendor,” reminded Pentandra.  “It’s been almost two years since your folk all but disappeared, and that’s supposed to be where we send for help first.”

“We have had our own affairs to contend with!” Ithalia said, testily.

“I’m aware,” Pentandra nodded.  “We’ve given you as much assistance as we can on them . . . but now the Council has to agree that they are our affairs, too, now.  Either include us, or let us make our own way against your mistakes and live with the consequences.  But let us stop this manipulation of my people to fight your battles,” she insisted.  “We fight together, or we perish separately.”

“I shall relay the message, Court Wizard,” Ithalia promised.  “And . . . while I do not know the Council’s response, I do know that you are not wrong about some of your guesses.  I am not permitted to speak of such things, but . . .”

“Understood,” Pentandra nodded.  “On a personal note, I want to thank you for your assistance in this skirmish.  And your long friendship with my husband,” she acknowledged.  “And if I happen upon any clues to your quest, I shall relay them.”

“Surely a book of human prophecy has little to do with the Alka Alon,” Arborn said, frowning.

“Don’t you see, my husband?  The Alka Alon are not prone to prophecy.  Either are the gurvani or the Karshak, from what I have seen.  When prophecies do chance to emerge in their cultures, they are significant.  The Alon magical make-up does not encourage such Talents.  Compared to how frequently they pop up among humans, they’re almost mythical.

“But if a human mage was able to withstand the allure of fame and assemble a compendium of prophecies, meticulously recording page after page of the future . . . do you not think that it will include the Alka Alon, as well?”

“Would they not have the wisdom to not become bound by its dictates?” Arborn asked, confused.

“I doubt it,” Pentandra sighed.  “I know the Kasari have a very noble perception of the Alka Alon, and I won’t even deny that it’s justified, upon occasion.  But they are no more perfect than we are, despite their longevity and storied wisdom.  Indeed, if one studies the histories of our peoples one quickly concludes that the Alka Alon are just as prone to temptation as we are.  They usually just take longer to act on it,” she admitted.  “Why do you think Ithalia was so eager to assist you, my husband?  She wants to know where the arsenal is as badly as Korbal’s minions.”

“That . . . that may be true,” Ithalia said, looking surprisingly guilty.  “But without it, we have little hope of defeating the powers that array against us!  Can you not see that?” she pleaded.

“I can see that our Alkan friends have – once again – underestimated their humani allies,” chided Pentandra.  “Answer me honestly: from what you know of the Council’s deliberations, did they expect Minalan and the rest of us magi to hold out as long as we have?”

“Well, no,” admitted the beautiful emissary.  “It was, at best, a temporary measure.  But then he surprised us with his resilience and dedication.  Our experience with humani warrior-princes has been . . . disappointing.”

“But Min isn’t merely a warrior-prince,” countered Pentandra.  “Even less am I.  We are magi.  We are educated, and, compared to our fellows, more adaptable to changing circumstances.  We have proven our loyalty and our worth.  We must be included in future discussions as the Council decides just what to do about this problem it has allowed to be inflicted on us all.”

“I shall relay your message immediately, my lady,” Ithalia agreed, reluctantly.  “Should you not consult with Master Minalan about such things, first?”

“I have my own mind, and I speak as the Court Wizard of Alshar,” Pentandra said, flatly.  “Minalan has his agenda, I have mine.  And we are of like minds on this matter,” she added.  “He understands, as do I, that without Alkan assistance – real assistance, not merely a trunk of cast-off toys and worn-out heirlooms of your ancient wars – then our hopes evaporate.  We are allies in this fight, or we are not.  The time for half-measures passed the moment that Korbal was re-awakened.”

“I shall see it done, my lady,” Ithalia repeated.  “Shall I transport you back to Vorone, before I go make my report?”

“I can manage that,” Pentandra answered, smoothly, “just as soon as Antimei awakens.  But I again thank you, personally, for the kind assistance you have shown me and my husband.  The draugen were more robust and numerous than I anticipated, and your bow was a welcome remedy.”

“I bid you farewell, then,” the Alkan maiden agreed, reluctantly.  “And please - as you discover the truth behind your prophecies, do consider passing along anything that might aid my quest.”

“If I think it will help,” pledged Pentandra.

The Emissary took her leave after that, once her fellow arrived with Amendra, who had been kept at a safe distance from the draugen hunt on the mountain.  From the expression on his all-too-human face, it appeared that the Alkan guards were just as soured by her mother’s complaining as Arborn.  They seemed eager to be gone, once she was safely in Pentandra’s custody.

“Well, I suppose as a hole in the side of a mountain, this isn’t too bad,” Amendra began, critically, the moment she arrived.  “Was this the home of those awful draugen?”

Alurra looked scandalized.

“No, Mother, as you know very well,” sighed Pentandra, pulling herself to her feet.  “Nor will you be required to stay here.  I can take you back to the palace, if you like –”

“When my daughter needs me?” she asked, scandalized.

“Then settle in,” Pentandra suggested.  “We’ve got at least three to four days until Old Antimei is awake, rested and protected.  And while I doubt they will return, there’s no guarantee that the draugen and their masters won’t be back, repeatedly, as long as we live.  So we need to just settle down and enjoy a couple of days of country living in this beautiful place, and hope that Korbal doesn’t get wind that we slaughtered his agents for a few months.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

The Grace of Trygg

Of course Amendra objected to spending even one night in the dusty, dark croft, but when her daughter pointed out that it was several hours yet until dawn and that there was no guarantee that all of the draugen had been destroyed, she settled in for the night with a minimum of curses.

Pentandra was just happy to curl up inside Arborn’s big arms under his thick woolen cloak for a few blissful hours.  She had missed him for days, far more than she had ever thought she would.  But his presence filled an aching hole in her heart, she realized.  His smell, the sound of his snores, the feel of his massive arms encircling her protectively under his cloak all conspired to rob Pentandra of her cares and worries for a few hours of respite.

The next morning, her mother managed to dash that feeling entirely before breakfast.

The stream of complaints about the accommodations and the simple Wilderlands fare Alurra cheerfully prepared went on until Pentandra considered taking her mother back to Vorone regardless of her wishes.

Then Pentandra remembered one of the other wedding gifts she had received from Minalan.  Her magical pavilion.

Triumphantly, while her mother and husband stood and watched, she summoned the pockets in her baculus until she produced the free-standing, dainty pavilion Minalan had packed away in a magical pocket appeared.  Then she released the bed, bathtub, and other homey accoutrements that most would see as luxuries in the field.  She conjured a basket of good wines, another of exotic foods, and then had Alurra put clean new linen sheets on the bed.

Amendra was impressed, although an outsider might not have been able to tell that by her frowning.  When Pentandra finally finished and gave her mother a tour of the tiny tent, she was even more impressed.  After pronouncing it “acceptable” and then drafting Alurra into making it more so, Pentandra was able to catch up on some business.

First she contacted Terleman, mind-to-mind, to assure him of her safety and detail the rescue.  The big warmage – and brand new Marshal of Alshar – was on a mission with the Duke himself, leading a thousand 3rd Commandos and a thousand townsfolk militia from Vorone against a strong tower only forty miles away from Vorone . . . and killed everyone in it.

It’s called Castle Langreden - or at least it was five years ago, the warmage explained to her, mind-to-mind.  Decent sized castle, overtaken in the early days of the war.  It has become a supply depot and forward base, as well as a garrison and cantonment for a couple of thousand goblins.  Nothing terribly impressive, but it’s big, it’s close, and it was ridiculously easy to take.  With magic, he added.

You did that all by yourself? She asked, skeptically.

Oh, I had help.  Tyndal and Rondal came back from Enultramar just after you left.  They brought Master Thinradel with them.  I suggested that Anguin appoint him your deputy, so he can handle the day-to-day business of the office while you’re off pursuing your errantry.

I am not pursuing errantry! Pentandra nearly yelled back.  I had a very important secret mission.

Regardless, I figured Master Thinradel was the best substitute, for a while, and the old man was agreeable.  Rondal elected to stay in Vorone and assist.  So relax and take your time, wherever you are.  We have the office covered.

Thanks, Terl, Pentandra said, gratefully.  It really might take a couple of days.  But I should also warn you of the undead.  They attacked us up here, and if it hadn’t been for Arborn and Ithalia the Emissary, I’m not certain I would have survived.  Keep an especial eye out for these undead.  They’re powerful and nasty.

Don’t I know it, agreed the warmage, wearily.  Thankfully, there was nothing but small black furry guys at Langreden.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  We also dispatched a pair of siege beasts, looted a supply warehouse, and burned out the homes of their enslaved peasants.

Dear Trygg, why? demanded Pentandra.

To give them no place else to go, Terleman shot back, clearly unconcerned about practicing that kind of warfare.  Most of the slaves were originally peasants to the old manor.  They stayed after the invasion and occupation because their home were here.  As I expected the gurvani to strike back at this fortress, I figured depriving them of their free labor was an expedient method to making their lives at Langreden more difficult.  So was disintegrating their walls, he added, thoughtfully.  Now that they have no homes, they’ll make their way south and east and eventually come to a far better life.

If you say so, Pentandra said, skeptical of her friend’s strategies.

The Duke approved, he countered, defensively.  He said that if they were not his subjects, then he had an obligation under Duin’s Law to not turn them against their former masters.  If they are his subjects, then he had an obligation to rescue them.  Either way, leaving them under the sway of the gurvani was a poor strategic risk, so he burned their hamlets and invited them to come live under human lords again.

I guess that makes sense, she agreed, sullenly.  She did not like such arbitrary justice and warfare, but she recognized that there was more at stake here than a few peasants. Besides, there was room around the Anvil for thousands to farm.

Beyond that, Astyral, Bendonal and Azar attacked one of the larger gurvani strongholds to the east of the Umbra, he continued.  They were more aggressive, more ambitious, and made more of a mess . . . but after tonight, the nearest large base to Tudry will be a hundred leagues from its walls.  That’s a good thing by anyone’s reckoning.

If it doesn’t inspire them to break the precious truce, she warned.

They already broke the truce at Midsummer, Terleman reminded her.  This is settling up.  After this we can go back to the armed peace we’ve been enjoying for a year.

Listen, Terl, could you do me a boon? she asked, sweetly.  I’m standing at perhaps the most defensible site in the Wilderlands, and it’s utterly depopulated.  Perhaps while you have His Grace’s ear, you could make a recommendation that we consider building a new citadel?  You’ve seen Vorone.  We had a hard enough time driving off a pack of undead.  Just imagine if it was a real goblin legion.

Doesn’t Anguin want to build a stronghold in Vorone? he asked, hesitantly.  Carmella won’t shut up about it.

Yes, but that will be more of a symbolic gesture than a practical one, she pointed out.  No matter how large the castle, it’s still going to be in a river valley and vulnerable.  If we really want to prepare for what we both know is coming, then a far more defensible site is required than Vorone.  One remote enough from the gurvani to give the Wilderlands some breathing room.

I’ll mention it, he promised.  I like the idea, although it will cost like the dickens to build.

Oh, I know.  We’ll use the Hesians to mitigate the cost, but it’s still going to take thousands of ounces of gold we don’t have.  Still, better to get started with what we can afford than wait for a pile of gold to land on us.

Pentandra also contacted Minalan, mind-to-mind, although she was unwilling to elaborate on what had kept her out of his head for four days.  She simply told him it was court wizard business and he took it at face value.  No, Alya hadn’t improved, he reported.  He had her moved to a nearby abbey for care, and was wrapping up the loose ends from the regional war that had erupted near his barony.

He sounded depressed as hell, despite his words, and as close to raw despair as she’d ever seen him.  Once she would have chided him about investing so much of his heart with a woman, knowing her own feminine nature well enough to understand the dangers, but now that she herself was in love and wedded it seemed hypocritical.

What would she do if she lost Arborn? she wondered.  The thought struck her powerfully, and after she finished filling in Minalan on as much as she felt comfortable telling him, she sought her husband out at the spring under the massive overhang, collecting water.

“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 forbidden, 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 forbade 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.”

“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.”

She stared at him, his face reflecting his thought process.  She waited patiently.

And then there it was.

The sudden, sharp shift in his demeanor and his attitude.  He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed.

“You mean . . . ?”

“You can’t fool Mother Trygg,” Pentandra sighed.  “You can’t fake the necessary elements of that summoning with mere symbolism – she won’t stand for it.  It all has to be authentic.  Although apparently it can be accidental and that’s perfectly all right,” she sneered.  “I missed my tea five days in a row . . . at the worst possible time,” she finally told her confused husband.  “Or the best, if you want to take that perspective.  But one way or another . . . we’re going to be having a baby.  I’m pregnant.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Taking Down A Goddess

A week later, the croft of Old Antimei left far behind them, Pentandra and her family were back in the palace.  And she was back attending another weekly staff meeting with the Prime Minister.

The journey home had been simple.  After securing the croft and spellbinding the door with Everkeen, Pentandra used the Alkan Ways to bring them back to her office, where she had secured the Waystone Minalan had given her . . . and vomited an impressive fountain upon her arrival.  That might not have been so embarrassing if Master Thinradel had not been in the office, catching up on her paperwork on her behalf.  The old mage took the brunt of the colorful burst, but had the gracious good humor not to be upset by it.

In fact, he and Rondal had taken charge of the office of the Court Wizard and managed to keep the business of the office moving.  To the extent that she could not, in good conscience, make excuses of overwork to avoid regular meetings like this one.  She arrived back at the palace just in time for the weekly staff meeting the Prime Minister held in the Game Room.  As exhausted as she was, she had a duty to attend, she knew, and report on her office with the rest of the ministers.

She listened with rapt attention as Terleman gave a personal account of the slighting of the enemy castle at Langreden and its subsequent destruction.  She was even moved when he described some of the more noble things Anguin had done on his way to and from the enemy keep, bringing aid and comfort to the rescued slaves and prisoners they found within.

Both castles ordered razed, the new magical Marshal informed them, had been utterly destroyed as the mission called for.  Neither would be a suitable base against them in the foreseeable future.  Better, Terleman said, grinning profusely, the surprise attack caught the goblins off-guard, and thousands had been slain in the abbreviated raids. The few survivors of the onslaught were told exactly why the Duke of Alshar had taken his vengeance and sent back into the Penumbra to report.

There hadn’t been any direct response from the goblins about rift in the “treaty” yet, but Pentandra expected something like that soon.  While the Midsummer raids had been bloody, they hadn’t been comprehensive.  They certainly hadn’t been worth the cost of two large keeps.

“But the destruction was impressive,” Terleman continued, after assessing the diplomatic repercussions and demonstrating he was more than just a good battlefield strategician.  “And the defenses were negligible, in both cases.  The 3rd Alshari Commando lived up to their reputation as professionals, and I can attest that the Alshari Regulars who rode and marched with them are much better soldiers because of it.”

The former mercenary unit had been drafted by Count Salgo to support the duchy had eagerly accepted the task of destroying Langreden, he reported.  They had behaved as consummate professionals as they encircled the keep, posted pickets and patrols, and assisted the human population to escape while the gurvani inside the keep gasped for breath in their beds.

It was a bloodthirsty tale made even worse by some of the goblin “artwork” encountered along the way.  That was the Orphan Duke’s first exposure to the depravity of the foes he faced.  He came back from the Penumbra a different man, after what he had seen.

“The 3rd Commando is scheduled to return today, with the bulk of the army,” the warmage concluded.  “They should be hitting the Street of Perfume immediately afterwards . . . assuming that the duchy can pay them on time for their work?”

“I . . . I think so,” confessed Sister Saltia, chewing her lip and fidgeting with her dice.  “This was an expensive month, though . . .”

“Draw on our reserves if you have to,” Terleman counseled, “but don’t forget to pay your soldiers.  They don’t like that,” he added, casually.

“Besides, we’ll be getting a lot of that back from taxes,” pointed out Lawfather Jodas.  “Ever since Lady Pleasure organized the bordellos, receipts from that quarter have been higher and easier to collect.”

“Who would have guessed that our whorehouses are our most valuable commerce?” mused Sire Lonsel, the ducal reeve in charge of overseeing such things.  “Lady Pleasure’s ladies of pleasure paid for nearly a third of the palace’s operating expenses last month.”

“Then by all means, pay the men,” agreed Count Angrial.  “His Grace will return from the field in but days - he wishes to visit some of his vassals in the region,” he explained.  “The last thing he needs to see when he gets within sight of the city gate is a riot of unpaid mercenaries.”

“They aren’t mercenaries,” reminded Sir Antinon, the castellan for the palace.  “They took service directly with the Duke, not for coin.  They are the duke’s soldiers, now.  Hells, a third of them have already recruited peasant families from the refugee camps and are striking out towards their new holdings before winter.  Damn right we should pay them!”

The program to install strong lords in abandoned or ruined estates, in the form of 3rd Commandos, had been highly popular among the common folk as the refugee camps worried at the prospect of another brutal winter.

While plenty of the Commandos had spent their swearing-in bounties on booze and women, there were plenty of non-commissioned and low-ranking officers who were more drawn by the prospect of agricultural prosperity.  Instead of swords and armor, they were purchasing plowshares and wagons.  With the subsidies (small as they were) the Duchy was providing, thanks to the ambitions of the mercenaries there was a good shot that come next spring she wouldn’t have to beg and steal the grain for planting for everyone else.

“Which begs the question of how we are to afford to both make our basic expenses and pay for the forces which protect us,” Pentandra said, studying the air.  “They’ve already been granted land they can’t yet visit or invest in.  If we are to pay them for action, too, we soon might bankrupt the treasury.”

“Which likely means we will not have enough to renovate and repair the palace, much less build this new keep where the barracks is.  Which makes the giant castle northeast of the troubles everyone is talking about building a distiller’s dream,” grumbled Sire Masten, Master of Works.

“That’s a long-term project, if it’s even approved,” Terleman pointed out.

“One which we cannot begin to afford,” Viscountess Threanas observed.

“One which we cannot afford not to build,” Terleman countered.  “Tudry, Vorone, Megelin - none of them are strong enough to stand against the foe.  Yet that enemy will eat away at the domains around them, until there is nothing left.  If they do not have someplace else to strike, someplace hardened and defended, they will defeat us.  If not this year, then in a decade.”

“That’s how long such a big town would take to build!” Threanas argued.  “Especially out in the wilderness, hundreds of leagues from the nearest town or supply routes!”

“You’ve spent a few days on the proposed site, Pentandra,” Terleman persuaded.  “What can you tell us of it?  Is it as defensible as they say?”

“In my inexpert opinion?  Completely.  The land around it is fertile and empty, well-wooded and supplied with meadows.  It sits on the far side of the central rivers, which provide a natural barrier.  There is an iron mine near at hand, and plenty of water.  The rocks of the Anvil provide natural and compelling defenses on their own, and when aided by human imagination and a liberal dose of magic they may yet withstand the attack of a dragon.

“But it will be costly,” she agreed, looking at Viscountess Threanas.  “Costly in treasure and manpower.  Yet I do not see a better option.  We build it and escape defeat, or we don’t, and save money for our shrouds.”

“That is not exactly a persuasive argument, with our coffers bare!” snorted Threanas shot back.  “Unless we can get the King to subsidize it . . .”

“If the Duke approves this, it shall be a Ducal project,” declared Angrial, far more forcefully than his reedy voice suggested.  “Lady Pentandra, it has been suggested that the magi may be able to mitigate the cost of this through utilizing magic - is that true?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she answered, imagining Carmella drooling over the book of plans she had in her baculus.  “We can lessen a great many costs.  And use less labor.  And likely finish far faster than a mundane working crew might.”

“Then I will recommend this course of action,” Angrial decided, unexpectedly.  “If we cannot keep the undead out of the palace in Vorone, then we may well just have to secure a new palace.  If there are costs associated with this project - and I know there will be - then they shall be paid by the Duke, alone.”

“Aren’t we expecting a boon of taxes and fees from this joust, coming up?” asked Lawfather Jodas, as Father Amus arrived and quietly found a seat.  “Between that and the whores’ fees, that should be a surplus, unless I’ve figured wrong.”

“It is unlikely the tournament shall proceed,” Father Amus announced to all, regretfully.  “I have just come from the Mirror array.  According to the Royal Palace at Castabriel, it is doubtful that Her Highness shall tour Vorone this autumn.”

“Oh, Ishi’s tits!” moaned a voice from the back of the room.  Pentandra was surprised to see such a negative reaction . . . and then remembered the man as one of the lordlings responsible for orchestrating the event.  “Is he trying to drive us all out of business?”

“Nothing so base, I’m afraid,” the Minister of Religion said with a sigh.  “According to the Royal Palace, Princess’ Rardine’s private yacht was overtaken and captured by pirates as it left Farise.  It ran into the high seas, hoping to evade them, but they were eventually worn down.  It is theorized that the kidnappers took her to Enultramar,” he said, darkly.

“Southern Alshar?  Why?” asked Saltia, astonished at the idea.

“To trade her, no doubt,” answered Father Amus sadly.  “The rebels in Enultramar are wealthy.  Some of the merchant houses have been accumulating their fortunes since before the Magocracy.  They aren’t about to allow their little rebellion to be overthrown by the hated King Rard.  Whatever Rard is willing to pay for her ransom, they know that the rebels will likely pay more.  And with the Princess in their custody, it is likely to preclude Rard taking direct military action against them, as he is rumored to be planning.”

“Rard has no business with the rebels!” declared Sire Lonsel, passionately.  “That is Alshari territory, and the rebellion is an Alshari internal matter!” Sire Lonsel was particularly invested in the issue, Pentandra recalled.  He was the youngest brother of one of the rebels, Baron Daralon of Rhemes, whom he hated.  Should Anguin retake the south, there was an excellent chance his elder brother would be deposed and his lands given to faithful Lonsel.

“The crown doesn’t see it that way,” sighed Father Amus.  “If Anguin cannot take back the south, then Rard will try to take it himself with a royal army.  And likely keep it for himself and that . . . son of his.”

“So let us retake it!” Lonsel objected.

“I will be happy to entertain how to do just that when so many have failed to land at Enultramar before, Sire,” Angrial said, diplomatically.  “Indeed, Castal and Remere have lost great navies trying to navigate those wretched channels of theirs!”

“So let us consider an attack overland,” suggested another courtier - one of Count Salgo’s, men she recalled.

“And lay siege to a fortress that has withstood all that Castal could bring to bear against it for two years?” snorted Lawfather Jodas.  “I am no military man, either, but even I can see that attacking that place with anything less than a dragon and a couple of armies is going to be an exercise in futility.”

The massive fortress complex that guarded the only real passage between Southern Alshar and the rest of the continent was firmly in rebel hands, it was known.  The huge sandstone castle was nearly impregnable, partially underground, and had never fallen to a foe, though the Castali had besieged it more than once.

“Neither can Rard,” pointed out Terleman.  “Not without beggaring the kingdom to do it.  Worrying about a race that no one can win is what is futile.”

“What was the crown’s statement about the kidnapping?” asked Angrial, with interest.

“Oh, Rard is beside himself with anger,” the old monk reported, glancing at the scrap of parchment in his hand.  “He’s vowed revenge in the worst possible way against the pirates of Enultramar and their Farisian confederates.  And he has offered the two vacant baronies in Gilmora and her weight in gold to the man who rescues his darling daughter from her fate.”

There was no doubt in his tone what Father Amus’ opinion of the princess was, nor what should be done about her.  He had suffered with her cloying oversight of Duke Anguin for three years, back in Castal, and he had a loathing for the girl that few priests could muster.

But then, Pentandra reflected, Princess Rardine seemed to be able to inspire that kind of reaction in the people she was around.  She almost felt sorry for the poor kidnappers who must have felt that her capture was a boon from the gods.  After a few days with her, Pentandra wasn’t certain she’d make it off of the boat.

“While that’s unfortunate,” Angrial agreed, “it does mean that we can enjoy a lesser amount of scrutiny by the crown this fall.  Shall we cancel some of the entertainments?  That would save money,” he reminded everyone.

“Not the tournament,” Pentandra insisted.  “It’s supposed to take place in just a few days!  There are already plenty of contestants who have traveled for weeks to get here for Anguin’s inaugural tourney.  It would be unfair to them and the folk of Vorone to cancel it,” she proposed.  “And such things are exceedingly popular amongst the Wilderlords.”

“The first wagers have already been placed,” added Sister Saltia, whose order was in charge of overseeing the gaming at the tournament.  “It would be blasphemous to cancel the event without just cause.”

The reedy prime minister considered the points.  “The money on preparation has already been spent, and the prize purse is miniscule, compared to that,” he reasoned.  “Let the entertainment go on, then.  Besides, His Grace is far more fond of watching jousting than doing it,” he reminded everyone.

Pentandra was pleased.  Of all the parts of her plan to go wrong, that one would have been catastrophic.

Arborn had to make a quick trip to the west, but had returned within a few days no worse for wear.  He had no interest in jousting, of course - mounted warfare was not exactly foreign to the Kasari, but they saw little use in fighting an enemy in such a formalized manner.

But the spectacle of the event was enough to charm the boy out of any tough Kasari veteran.  The town filled up with visitors from as far away as Tudry and Wilderhall, competing with the bumper crop of mercenaries now prowling Vorone in service to the duke for lodging.

Even with a third of the mercenaries leaving for their cantonments, there were still plenty of tough veterans around to keep attendance at the tournament high, despite the lack of a princess (or perhaps because of the lack).  While the highly stylized contest was far from the brutal and gritty reality of war, even the mercenaries had favorite jousters, and plenty had grown up learning the listfield themselves.

Without Rardine attending, of course, the event went off without much friction.  Anguin arrived from the field in time for the second bout, and went directly to his box to watch a few passes before retiring to the palace, a Maiden on each arm.

Pentandra caught up with him just as he was leaving, in the company of Count Salgo and a few of his gentlemen.  She was even more gratified to see Lady Pleasure, beaming at the world in a bright yellow gown that made her blonde hair seem even more sparkly than usual.

The madame had an entourage of four Maidens, plus her long-suffering bucktoothed assistant, Elspeth; the Maidens were, of course, smiling sweetly at everyone, though the clerk seemed as if she were headed for the dungeons, the sour way she acted.  Lady Pleasure - Ishi - was speaking in an animated fashion with the Duke and Salgo about the grandeur of the joust when Pentandra caught up with them.

That was Pentandra’s cue.  She used her link to Terleman to summon him to her, mind-to-mind.  Ten minutes later he appeared out of the crowd, black mantle trailing behind him, black hair combed neatly to one side.  He was leading someone else - a knight in his early twenties Pentandra had never seen before.  Of course, he did bear a striking resemblance to someone else.

“How are you enjoying the entertainments, Your Grace?” she asked, ignoring Lady Pleasure’s presence for the moment.  The goddess hidden in the body of an aging madame glared at her, but let her proceed while she fanned her face in the summer heat.

“I . . . well, ‘tis better than the goblins’ entertainments,” he conceded.  “We came upon one of their . . . displays on our way to the raid.  Over twenty people, flayed alive and then posed in death as if they were all dining at an inn.  It was horrific,” he grunted softly.

“How ghastly!” Lady Pleasure said, hiding her face behind her fan with false modesty.  “How are you enjoying the joust, my lady?”

“Oh, I don’t follow it, the same way some do,” she agreed.  “Indeed, some of my friends are devoted to the sport and know every major jouster on the circuit,” she bragged.  “I thought you might meet one of them, Your Grace,” she added.  “He has a particular desire to meet you.”

“Meet me?  Why?” the teenaged duke asked, puzzled.  He watched the knight – in his early 20s, with a shock of shaggy golden hair that was starting to fade as his hairline retreated, and wearing the battered armor of a professional jouster.

“Because he’s . . . he’s family,” Pentandra blurted out, as the tall man in the battered steel mail approached.  “Your Grace, may I present Sir Gydion of Astafon,” she announced, standing out of the way so that the tall knight could make a properly gracious bow to a man of such rank.  “He is a professional jouster from the south, of late on the circuit in southern Castal,” she explained.  “When you took your place here, I felt it might be helpful if you could have someone you could rely upon personally, besides Father Amus.  Sir Gydion, may I present His Grace, Anguin II, Duke of Alshar.  Oh, and Baroness Amandice, late of court,” she added, casually.

Both Lady Pleasure and Sir Gydion started at the same time.  Both sets of eyes opened wide, and Lady Pleasure’s mouth fell open, she was so stunned.

“Mother?” Sir Gydion demanded, pulling the madame by her shoulders to face him.  “Is that you?”

“I . . . yes,” she finally admitted, defeated.  “Yes, my boy . . . my very big boy . . . it is me.”

“You?” Anguin asked.  It was his turn for his eyes to go wide.  “You are his mother?  Why, he’s older than I am!” he chortled.

Lady Pleasure whirled around and shot an evil glance in Pentandra’s direction.  If that was the only thanks she would receive for the evening’s work, she reflected, she counted herself satisfied.  When the hidden goddess turned back to the duke . . . her face was  aged.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Gydion,” Anguin said, formally.

“Likewise, Your Grace,” the confused professional jouster replied.

Pentandra felt sorry about that – she had gotten Planus to extend a mysterious invitation to the man to come to Alshar for Anguin’s inaugural tournament, along with a large enough purse to get him here.  From what she understood, Sir Gydion was a competent but uninspired jouster.  He had turned his big frame and his hereditary skills into a decent living, but he was far from one of the favored contestants in the tournaments he participated in.

“While I am of course honored to meet you – in the company of my mother, no less – I confess I have not the slightest idea why I am here,” he declared.

“Why, it is simple, Sir Gydion,” Pentandra said to the knight, pleasantly.  “I did some research when I arrived, and discovered a record of a long-lost bastard Duke Lenguin produced in his youth,” she explained.  “The ducal house naturally covered it up – it isn’t as if hadn’t happened before – and buried all record of the birth in order to shore up His Grace’s new son’s claim to the coronet.  But I managed to track him down – track you down,” she explained.

“My . . . my father was a duke?” asked the knight, astonished.

“I have a brother?” Anguin asked, even more astonished.

“Indeed,” Pentandra said, smoothly answering both questions.  “Sir Gydion was sent into exile to keep him from being used as a tool of your family’s enemies, and remained all but forgotten.  Luckily,” she said, looking at Ishi, “not every record of your birth and disposition was destroyed.  So I thought that, in the absence of other reliable family, perhaps His Grace could come to count on you as a loyal retainer,” she suggested.

“That’s . . . amazing!” Anguin said, beaming.  “I have a brother!”

“Half-brother,” Lady Pleasure reminded him, wincing and trying to smile at the same time.

“That’s more brother than I had this morning,” Anguin dismissed.  “Come!  Have a cup with me and my gentlemen, Sir Gydion, and let us get to know each other!”  He pulled the awkward-looking knight into the center of his knot of courtiers, and soon they were headed to the reviewing stands to oversee the next bout.

Lady Pleasure stayed behind, as Pentandra thought she might.  She was not as cheery as Pentandra had thought.

“You manipulative bitch!” snarled the goddess through the baroness’ lips.  “How dare you interfere with my plans!”

“It’s my job to interfere with your plans!” she riposted.  “I’m the duchy’s Court Wizard.  I’m supposed to protect and support the duke.  I’ve given him an absolutely loyal bodyguard and a confidant he has always wanted but never had.”

“Effectively taking him out of my sway!” barked the madame.

“That was, indeed, the intention,” Pentandra said, coolly.  “I got the idea from my castellan, of all people.  Bircei once told me that nothing can embarrass a woman like her own child.  It seemed unfair for you not to enjoy that particular bit of motherhood.”

The word seemed to drive Ishi into rage.  “You wish to embarrass me?  I’ve done things so wicked—”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Pentandra said, stopping her before the woman could get too graphic in a public place.  “I could never hope to dislodge you from court by spreading scandal.  That would merely feed your agenda.  And your ego.  A rumor that you were had by six guardsmen in the garden and got buggered in the buttery would only add to your sordid reputation . . . and win the admiration of the men of the court,” she added.  “I admit, I was perplexed for weeks: how does one embarrass a goddess so badly that she leaves someplace she’s comfortable in?  Someplace where she’s planned and plotted to control?

“That’s when Bircei’s advice struck me,” she continued.  “If you are too wicked to be shamed into propriety, then the only thing left for me to do was to take away your power.”

“You cannot take away the power of a goddess, mageling!” Ishi spat.

“I didn’t need to, I realized,” she explained.  “I took away your power as a woman.  Your power in court is predicated on your beauty, which is based on the appearance of youth . . . and no woman can pretend to be nineteen again, no matter how many glamours she uses, when her twenty-two year old balding son is standing next to her.”

“You are such a bitch!” Ishi shouted.

“But I’m not wrong,” Pentandra continued, sweetly.  “You had Anguin enchanted because he saw you as a beautiful, sexually available older woman who facilitated his erotic dreams.  But then he sees almost every woman as an older woman.  All I had to do was give him some reason to eschew his desires for you, and reminding him that he’s old enough to be your own child seemed an oddly ironic way to strike back, don’t you think?  Few men, no matter how old, prefer the maturity of a mother to the vitality of a maiden.  It challenges their sense of romantic idealism,” she pointed out.

“You think I don’t know that?” Ishi asked, angrily.  “I embody it!”

“Exactly!” Pentandra agreed.  “So I had to give Anguin - and the rest of the court - a constant reminder that you are not, in fact, young yourself any longer.  Having Sir Gydion around Anguin will do that.  No matter how attractive a man thinks you are, as soon as he recalls that your son is man enough to ride a charger against him, he’s going to find eyes for someone younger and prettier.  Your glamours will not survive, now that everyone knows that you are, in fact, old enough to be—”

“Don’t you fucking dare say it!” screeched the goddess.

“— a grandmother,” Pentandra finished.  With the pronouncement, Ishi seemed to lose something . . . her confidence, her presence, Pentandra wasn’t exactly certain what it was, but the goddess’ avatar was clearly diminished.

“I still have my girls,” Lady Pleasure said, sullenly, gesturing to the Maidens who followed her everywhere.  There were a dozen or so in the crowd, seducing men in the stands and inviting them to the Street of Perfume for the evening.  “As long as I have them, I still have power!”

“Then you won’t have them long,” predicted Pentandra.  “You see what is happening?  Look at the stands.  Look closely!” she insisted, directing her attention.  I

Ishi glared, but turned to survey the rickety wooden bleachers and other choice spots to watch the thundering hooves of the jousters.  As the goddess’ vision lighted on one of her Maidens, she saw her seductively teasing a couple of men dressed in the garb of the 3rd Alshari Commando.  The two were gaily bantering with her, but there was clearly something between the larger man and the young girl.

Shifting perspective did little for Ishi’s mood.  The next Maiden was likewise smitten with one of the Commandos, sitting in his lap and asking him about his campaigns . . . but not as a whore might.  She seemed genuinely interested in how the big man acquired his scars.

Another shift in perspective saw a waifish young blonde whore in a tight embrace with a dashing young Commando.  Their hands were not employed under each others’ clothes, as she expected, but were wrapped tightly around each other as they just sat and enjoyed the joust.

“No . . . no . . . no . . . no, no, no, NO!” Ishi said, as she looked from one of her girls to the next.

“It won’t happen all at once,” promised Pentandra.  “But it will happen.  Most of your Maidens will be wed before Luin’s Day.  Indeed, I’ve proposed to Count Angrial that the coronet pay five ounces of silver to every man in the Commando who weds . . . and a married man is a far worse client for a brothel than a single one,” she pointed out.  “Why overpay for a meal at a tavern when you have a pot on the fire at home for free?”

“You sicken me!” Ishi moaned, still watching the crowd.  There was no mistaking what her Maidens were doing, now.  They weren’t looking for clients.  They were strolling arm in arm with soldiers, or kissing artisans without cash being involved, or abandoning perfectly good opportunities to increase their purse with the wealthy and powerful for the simple pleasures of a cup of ale and a bite of fruit with a handsome young guardsman in the square.

They were not pursuing the clear opportunities for advancement and riches the first tournament in five years provided.

They were falling in love.  That was readily apparent to the Goddess of Love.

“Why the hells would you, of all people, do this, Pentandra?  How the hells did you do this?” she demanded, turning back toward the wizard.

“The same way you tried to punish me,” Pentandra said with a sneer.  “I got your mother involved.  The All-Mother, actually.  I happened to encounter Trygg on my travels.  She told me what I needed to do, and what she planned on doing, to drive you away from Vorone.”

“But . . . but why?”

“While you have been helpful here, my lady, your work is done.  You may have sparked the desires of the people here, but mere desire alone is insufficient to run a society.  It takes commitment,” she declared, nodding toward an older couple in the stands.  Likely tradesman, from their dress, they were reclined against each other on their bench as cozily if they were a lad and a lass.  “Not commitment to pleasure, or the mere fulfillment of your loins, or even to your purse.  It takes commitment between man and woman to build our society together.  It takes marriage,” she said, firmly.  “Not infatuation.”

“And what of those women who despise that institution?” the goddess ventured, her voice thick with contempt as she watched the field.  “Would my mother consign them to a hopeless fate against their will?  To be owned by a man?”

Pentandra giggled.  “Any more than I own Arborn?  You try to present a false choice, Goddess,” Pentandra lectured.  “Those who wish to take a trade or sacred orders are free to do so.  Those women who continue to desire being whores shall, of course, also be free to do so.  They will not lack for clients any time soon.  Let them earn their living that way, if they desire.

“But I warn you, for all the laudable work you’ve put into your Maidens’ education, one thing they have learned above all others: youth is fleeting.  Beauty fades.  Desire as a commodity spoils quickly, compared to the stalwart security of a single man.”

“Enslaved to a single man, you mean!” she said with disgust.  “Really, Pentandra, you disappoint me.  All the world was at your disposal, opportunity lay around every corner, and you give it all up for . . . him?” she asked.  “And Minalan, for that matter?  You were committed to him before you even met Arborn!  You could have been the most powerful mage in the Kingdom, had you but taken the initiative and seized what you could!”

“Perhaps,” Pentandra conceded, with all seriousness.  “Do you not think I know what I have given up, to be with my husband?  To live this life in this far-off place?  I thought never to wed, and counted myself fortunate because of it.  I understood the opportunistic nature of my own soul, my own desires for love and support, and I cynically thought that I would be content with the bits and pieces I contrived to gain along the way . . . striving alone in this world.

“But when I look around and see all of the accomplishments that I have made, and all the good I have done, and all the success I have garnered by luck or skill,” she said with a contented sigh, “I realize that being anything, even Archmage, means nothing to me.  It doesn’t bring me happiness.  I have slept in palaces and slept in hovels, in dungeons and in beautiful castles and exquisite villas . . . but never was I happier than the night I lay next to Arborn as his wife,” she said, with a mixture of pride and shame.

“Disappointing,” muttered the goddess, starring at the wizard.  “You had every chance!  You are the most intelligent, most vital of my protégés, and you waste it all on tradition and servitude!  Every opportunity to conquer . . . and you chose a life of domesticity, instead?”

“Will titles and riches bring me solace on my deathbed?” Pentandra suddenly asked, irritated with the divinity.  “Will the number of cocks I’ve had inside me mean anything to me?  Or will I be more fulfilled by holding Arborn’s hand one last time, kissing my children tearfully good-bye, secure in the knowledge that the world I’ve bequeathed them is the finest one I could craft?”

Pentandra looked at Ishi as if she were a stupid slattern.  “I saw the look of longing in Old Antimei’s eyes.  A woman who followed her head, and not her heart.  Bereft of love and consigned to a lonely death.  I am worth more than that, Goddess!” she challenged.

“Fine!” Ishi declared, her eyes dark with menace.  “If you reject my gifts and turn your back on what I offer you . . . in favor of what that conservative old cunt can give . . . on your head be it!  But why must you condemn my sweet maidens to such a fate?” she pleaded.  “Without me to guide them, they’ll . . . they’ll end up like you!  Or worse!  How many will be beaten? Raped? Even killed by their spouses?  What unkind word will turn into a tempest that leaves both lives miserable?” she pleaded.

“That all depends upon the gods.  Or one goddess in particular.  If she should take an interest,” Pentandra said, wisely, “perhaps the proper matches will be made, sparing the conflicts that could lead to more disappointing results.”

“You . . . want me . . . to ensure that each of my girls finds their perfect match?” the goddess asked, scandalized.

“They’re going to go husband hunting with or without you,” Pentandra predicted.  “Without your guidance and encouragement . . . and divine enthusiasm . . . they will soon regress to simple whores, not the courtesans you’ve made them.  Times are good, at the moment.  The Commandos are in town, the garrison, plenty of fodder for their charms and opportunities to increase their purses.

“But the Commandos will be shipped out to various castles, soon.  Many will marry, now that they have a secure footing and a future.  If they are lucky, they will marry your Maidens.  As much as some of them enjoy their work, they aren’t idiots.  They know what an old whore can bring, compared to a young one - you’ve educated them well in that.  The Commandos have coin in their purses and prospects for more to come – especially if they wed.  And I think many will find the security of being a wife is far preferable to pretending to be a maiden long past the day when such a thing was believable.”

“Do you hate your fellow women so much?” pleaded the frustrated goddess.  “Do you not appreciate what I have done for this town?  I have freed your sisters!  I have given them the means of making a living, of accumulating resources -- without the need of a man!”

“By making them dependent on the needs of all men?” Pentandra asked, an eyebrow arched.  “For all of its gilded past, Vorone will not continue to be the cultural capital of the Wilderlands much longer.  The war will re-ignite, the times will change for the worse, and what will you have taught these girls to do to weather those storms?”

“Would you have me make them Kasari maids?  Embroidering patches for their brothers and sons, keeping the hearth tended like a good little wife?”

“They could do worse,” Pentandra shrugged.  “Let them take holy orders, if they wish, and join the Temple of Ishi, or Briga, or any other they desire.  They can find a living in service, if they do not wish to toil at a hearth.  Or they can take a craft,” she proposed.  “Perhaps some will become musicians.  Or limners.  Or copyists.  There are plenty of ways for a woman to make coin without hiking her skirts,” she pointed out.

“Trading their divine femininity for the scantest security,” she scoffed.  “When they could have been great ladies in fine clothes!”

“It’s not about the fucking clothes!” Pentandra fumed.  “Honestly, I see why Trygg gets so frustrated with you!  Femininity is not something you carry around between your tits and flash to get attention!  Its being a girl, and being a mother, and being an old lady who talks to fenceposts because some fenceposts just need talking to!  It’s living and loving, taking chances and following your heart, listening with your head and letting your feet guide your path!  I love a good shag as much as anyone,” she said, earning a smirk from the goddess, “but it’s a means to an end, don’t you understand?”

“If you let it be,” Ishi dismissed, her demeanor disturbed.  “Do you not see that I am the vessel of those passions?”

“I see that you cannot appreciate life beyond your next climax,’ conceded Pentandra.  “Which is why it would be in your best interests to prepare your Maidens for their new lives . . . properly,” she added.

“You would have me betray my principles?” Ishi asked, aghast.

“No, I would appeal to those principles to motivate you to give them what they need in order to succeed - not tell them how they’re doomed to be miserable in their marriages, just because they are focused on their husbands, alone, and not on the next opportunity to pass by.”

“You are asking me to betray my principles!” Ishi said, angrily.  “Have you no gratitude for what I have done in Vorone?”

“Oh, I do,” Pentandra assured her.  “Don’t mistake me – you’ve been instrumental.  You created five hundred attractive, well-educated courtesans, precisely the lure needed to bring three thousand brutish mercenaries under Anguin’s control.  The ones who don’t marry a Maiden will be glad to enjoy the company of the others, I assure you.  But for awhile, I think you’re going to find all of your whores are more interested in wedding vows than negotiating a fair price for their efforts.”

“Which will force them to surrender control of their lives to mere men,” she replied, bitterly.  “What an utter waste!”

“A waste?  I think not,” Pentandra said, soothingly.  “We are a complimentary species, Goddess.  Neither man nor woman can exist for long without the other.  And while sex brings us together, other factors,” she said, laying a hand on her abdomen, and then her heart, “keep us together in the ways that give us both value.  We want strong, smart, confident men who can provide and protect us.  They want smart, attractive, loving women who cling to them and make a home worth coming to.  Between us, we make babies,” she said, simply.  “Babies, you might know, are important, in the long run.”

“All of that hard work, washed down the river with the offal!” the increasingly aging goddess said, shaking her head.  “All of those hours teaching refinement . . . gone!  Wasted on a single man, forgotten as a girlhood conceit, talents abandoned because wet nappies and dinner were more important!”

“Mayhap,” agreed Pentandra, reluctantly.  “We all make sacrifices for what makes us happy, ultimately.  Consider that your attempt to instruct your maidens in music, dance, and literacy has given Vorone the most literate whores in the west.  It has also ensured that the next generation of Wilderlords will be more inclined to study than warfare.  Or at least able to combine the two.

“Your pretty girls and those rough, tough men will produce a generation of valiant warriors and beautiful ladies,” she predicted.  “Many of which stand a chance at being ennobled.  All fiercely loyal to Duke Anguin and his eventual bride. A new race of Wilderlords, all because you blessed this town so . . . thoroughly.”

At that, Ishi’s demeanor changed again.  “Oh, really?” she asked.  “If you knew who Anguin’s future bride was, you would not be so sanguine!” she challenged.

“Perhaps,” Pentandra conceded, too afraid after her recent brushes with prophecy to inquire.  “I don’t want to concern myself with prophecy any more than I already have to.  But if you could find it in your heart - or whatever it is you use - to arrange the best matches for each of your girls – and anyone else in Vorone, for that matter – then I would count it as a great service to the duchy.  A . . . parting blessing from Ishi, if you will.”

“And what happens to my poor avatar, when I am driven from here?” she asked, nastily.  The divine glow already seemed to be fading from her skin.

“Minalan has pledged to build you a temple,” Pentandra reminded her.  “I shall ensure that Baroness Amandice is installed as its Abbess,” she pledged.  “I’ll even throw in a stipend from the duchy,” she added.  “It will be the largest of your temples in the Wilderlands.  Eventually you can teach every Wilderlord lady in the north what to do on her wedding night.

“But one way or the other, Ishi, it’s time for you to go,” Pentandra said, more forcefully.  “The blessings of the gods are nice, but after a few months, I’ll be honest: dealing with you lot every day is maddening.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Arcane Council of Vorone

It was late evening as Pentandra led her apprentice through the dark streets of Vorone once again toward an important meeting.  Pentandra made do with magesight, not wanting to attract attention with a magelight, while Alurra relied upon the vision (and other senses) of the bats and nightwebs that darted across the rooftops of Vorone in late summer and early autumn.

Not that Pentandra was worried about thieves or brigands - any thug who tried to rob them would be in for a terrible surprise – she merely did not want to attract anything that might delay her.  The Rat Crew was long gone, now, with only a tiny remnant of the once-powerful organization left in the dwindling refugee camps.  Even the Woodsmen had stopped patrolling the night, and it had been most of a season since the Wood Owls had raided anyplace.  Masks had gone out of fashion in Vorone again, this season.

As they hurried through the town she could not help but feel a sense of pride about what she had helped accomplish.

More than her brushes with organized crime and the undead, wayward goddesses and petty feuds among courtiers, she appreciated that the once-filthy streets were clean once again.  Vacant lots were being re-built, and the markets were full and bustling on market days.  Certainly, the esteem invested in the Duke and his fine gentlemen was important, but considering how sick the town had been only months before, this was real, undeniable progress.

Even the sewers were clean, now, she reflected as she crossed one of the channels running through the center of the street.  Just months ago it would have been clogged with refuse and offal.  Now it was swept twice a day by laborers drafted from the camps, paid a penny, a pie, and a loaf to take home, before the tapman turned on the aqueduct that washed away the litter with river water every night.  Not only had the streets become cleaner from the daily bustle of town life, the project allowed the destitute to feed themselves and their families without becoming dependent on the abbeys.

The palace was responsible for much of that, she knew.  She recalled Sister Saltia’s report at one of the endless meetings of the court a few days before, indicating that over twenty-two thousand ounces of gold had been spent on the restoration so far.

With the secret loan guarantees that Minalan had made on behalf of the Arcane Orders, that kept them comfortably away from outright bankruptcy, but it was still a hefty price.  Revenues from the town had grown, and tribute from the local barons had started to come in with far more regularity.  But there was still a powerful draw on the treasury that could not be sustained indefinitely.

Fees for trade and tariffs on goods carted in from Castal brought coin into the treasury . . . but Pentandra’s growing smuggling operation with her cousin Planus brought much more, she knew.

Thanks to judicious (and quiet) use of a pair of Supply Rods, she and Planus were exchanging an ever-expanding array of high-tariff goods from southern Remere – the commercial hub of the Five Duchies, if one was to believe the Remeran trading houses – with a number of high-quality raw materials from the Alshari Wilderlands.

The highly sought-after Alshari Hematite ore was central to the trade, as the shipwrights in the ports preferred it to all other and were less concerned than most with where it originated.  With that kind of quiet market to feed, Pentandra had virtually emptied the duchy’s storehouses of ore accumulated over the years.

But the illicit trade had not stopped there.  Alshari furs were highly taxed and much sought in Remere and the Castali Riverlands.  Hardwoods that grew common around Vorone also had markets around the coasts, where fine timber was rare.  In recent weeks he had expanded his contacts to include cabinet makers and luthiers who would pay a high premium for the right wood.

And in return, he sent her plenty of luxuries that would have been obscenely expensive, had proper tariffs been paid.  The office’s buttery was stocked with the finest Cormeeran wines, among other great vintages, and she had a quietly booming trade with a dressmaker in town who paid her good prices on the bolts of exotic textiles from Remere Pentandra brought to her every week.  In exchange, she not only made a handsome profit, she had the complete attention of an excellent seamstress at any time.

She felt guilty about the trade, of course.  What she was doing was illegal, depriving dozens of feudal lords of their tiny piece of the profit such goods usually generated as they made their way farther and farther from their point of origin.  But Pentandra didn’t much care.  The booming trade in illicit ore and timber had given her a cash flow, access to markets and goods at a discount, all things she could support.

But she still felt guilty about it . . . so she didn’t tell anyone about it.  Not even Minalan.  Not even Arborn.  It was her and Planus’ little secret, and one that had great potential for the future.

As it was, the trade had allowed her to quietly liquidate useless ore and contribute nearly four thousand ounces of gold to the treasury.  She had a third of that tucked away for her own use, should she need it.  One of the great advantages to smuggling through arcane means was the lack of bookkeeping involved.

But Sister Saltia and even Viscountess Threanas had praised her for the deed despite their adherence to proper financial procedure.  It had solved several problems and kept the duchy afloat.  That Pentandra had traded on her skills to also convince His Grace to fund programs like the street sweepers and nightly cleansing of the sewers was less known.  There was a lot going on in Vorone, now, and compared to the other expenditures draining the treasury, the few ounces of silver a week it cost to keep her from dragging her hem through raw sewage every day seemed negligible.

Much of those expenditures had been investments in the town, itself, everything from the new walls to clearing the site of the old garrison for the new keep Carmella was to build.  Paying off the palace’s debt with local merchants and purchasing new supplies contributed handsomely to the Market ward’s economic recovery, as had access to capital.

She saw someone familiar crossing the street ahead of her, toward the Scribe’s Ward.  Lieutenant Randaw, once of the town watch, now back with the Palace Guard, Pentandra knew.  He’d been promoted after the incident with the draugen in the palace.  The man barely looked as he had at Yule.  He stood taller, in a new surcoat with the guards’ arms on it.  He was escorting a young woman – and for a moment, Pentandra thought it was one of the Maidens.

Instead she saw the casual familiarity the man had with the girl, and realized that it was his daughter, dressed in finery.  Likely going to attend one of the autumnal balls in the Scrolls ward, she guessed.  Vorone would be lucky to keep the man, she knew – he could earn a lot as an estate manager for one of the new lords inhabiting the Wilderlands.

A great deal of coin had gone to the barons to shore up their support and loyalty.  Plenty had gone into equipping and outfitting and paying the 3rd Commando, who were starting to integrate into Voroni society as they took over duties from both garrison and guard.  Much more had gone toward re-establishing lost fiefs, bringing domains in the spacious east of the Wilderlands back into productive use.

But some had been buying bread and bean pies, and paying a penny a day, to men who had no place else to go and no better opportunity.

That had been her idea.  Now those crews were regularly scoured for trustworthy labor by the bosses in town.  The refugees, so long denied the opportunity to even enter the town, had often gone on to find even more lucrative employ on construction sites or with merchants who suddenly had more business than in years.

The guard and the garrison were recruiting, as their officers retired or took positions with lords headed for the eastern bank to seek their fortunes on lands they had not laid eyes on.  The civil service was recruiting, as more inspectors and clerks were required.  And the victualers were purchasing large amounts at market just to accommodate the steady flow of soldiers and artisans who had coin enough in their purses to celebrate their good fortunes.

All in all, she was proud of the work she helped do in Vorone.  Even her mother had to grudgingly admit that she seemed to know what she was doing some of the time . . . and that was worth more to her, she knew with certainty, than praise from a goddess.

“Are we there yet?” Alurra burst out, irritated, as they trudged along.

“You know very well how long it takes to get there,” Pentandra chided.  “Lucky, have you been feeding this girl poor information?” she asked the crow.  Despite her initial reluctance at seeing the thing as anything but a living instrument for the girl, she had slowly come to realize that the stupid bird actually had the barest hint of a personality.

“He wants to fly there, already, and be done with this stupid walking.  It’s night time!  Time to sleep!” she mocked her bird.  “What are you crazy humans doing now?”

“Going to meet the Spellmonger, if you must know, Lucky,” Pentandra replied.  “Special meeting.  Very secret.  Only high-ranking magi, their apprentices, and select fowl are permitted.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Alurra yawned.  “Why can’t the Spellmonger have a breakfast meeting?”

“He usually has a reason for what he does,” she said, with false confidence.  In fact, since Alya had lost her mind, Minalan’s behavior was growing more and more suspect.  Banamor, Dranus the Sevendori court wizard, and even Olmeg, Minalan’s Greenwarden, had contacted her separately about their concerns.  There were many people worried about him, Pentandra at the top of the list.  “Ostensibly, we’re discussing the upcoming Sixth Annual Spellmonger’s Trial, and what obstacles we’ll throw at the participants this year.”

“But you’re lying about that,” Alurra prompted in her blunt, matter-of-fact style.  Pentandra swore she would beat an appreciation for subtlety into the girl if it was the last thing she did.  “What are you really discussing?”

“I don’t know, precisely,” Pentandra admitted.  “All I know is that Tyndal and Rondal want to address . . . call it the Inner Council of Magi, those of us who were at Boval Vale during the siege.  It has been awhile since we’ve met in person, for that purpose, but it’s about time.  I have much to tell them about the Alka Alon, for instance, and the capabilities of Korbal’s new slaves.”

“But nothing about . . . Ishi.  Or Trygg.  Or Antimei.  Or the prophecies,”  Alurra warned.

“Not a word,” she promised.  “Minalan’s the only one who might believe us, anyway, at least about the goddesses.  And no one needs to know about the prophecies,” she said, automatically clutching the Prophecy Stone around her neck.

She had only assayed the stone once, so far, finding a very clearly-worded message intended, ironically, for the ears of the Spellmonger.  One of her purposes tonight was to find a way to relay it to him without spilling deeper secrets.  It would be tricky, but then he was merely a man.  And a grief-stricken one at that.

If anyone needed the solace of prophecy right now, Minalan did.  The last several times she had communicated with him, either by Mirror or mind-to-mind, had depressed the hell out of her . . . and she was supposed to be glowing with goofy joy all the time, right now.

“Drink the mead,” she said, aloud.

“What?” Alurra asked, alarmed.

“Oh.  That’s the prophecy I’m supposed to give the Spellmonger tonight.  ‘Drink the mead’.”

“What does it mean?”

“I have no idea.  Which makes it a perfect test of prophecy.  Apparently Minalan will know what it means.  And that means something, if it’s the first prophecy in the book.”  It was, too.  For whatever reason, the enchantment Antimei had laid on the Library Stone would not reveal another stanza of itself until Pentandra delivered the first to its proper destination.

She could tell already that this prophecy thing was going to be annoying.

“Yeah, Antimei talked like that a lot,” Alurra said, critically.  “Try to be confident when you deliver it,” she suggested.  “No one likes a half-assed prediction.”

“I will keep that in mind, Apprentice,” Pentandra sighed.  “What I fear is the news that Tyndal and Rondal bring back from Enultramar.  His Grace authorized them to . . . well, advance his interests in the region, at Midsummer,” she said, diplomatically.  “As well as find some weakness among the rebels.  Anguin is suddenly very interested in the possibility of recapturing Enultramar before his uncle can get a proper fleet assembled.”

“A fleet of . . . ships,” Alurra supplied.  “Those are the big boats.”  The largest boat she’d ever put her hands on was a rowboat, and the idea of a craft large enough to hold a hundred men was something she had a hard time appreciating.  Despite the problems it caused, Pentandra was growing to like and even appreciate Alurra’s innate skepticism.

“Yes, the big boats,” Pentandra agreed.  “If Anguin can take his entire duchy on his own, he will have established his legitimacy to rule beyond anyone’s doubt.”

“And how are we involved in that?”

“Minalan’s former apprentices, Sir Rondal and Sir Tyndal, have made several trips there.  They’ve also made quite the mess, by all accounts.  They want to tell us what they found.  I want to talk about the Alka Alon.  Carmella wants to talk about the Anvil.  Terleman just wants free drinks, I think.”

They arrived at the Spellmonger’s Hall, that familiar old house she and Arborn had called home, along with a rolling roster of guardsmen, Kasari, and the occasional corpse.  Pentandra reflected, as she passed through the snowflake that still adorned the door, that as miserable as she had often been at the time, those had been some exciting times.

The rest of the group was already waiting in the hall, gathered around the fire against the chill of the approaching autumn.  Minalan sat near the center, his mantle draped about him and a large silver flagon in his hand.  He looked somber, which, she had to admit, was somewhat of an improvement since Greenflower.

Next to him were Tyndal and Rondal – who seemed to grow more impressive every time she saw them.  Both boys were simply but elegantly dressed in Enultramar-style doublets and hose, though both carried their fancy mageblades on their backs in ornate scabbards as well as Kasari daggers on their belts.  They looked hale and even jolly, she noted, though their former master’s mood was contagious.

Nearby Carmella was sitting quietly with the tea she favored, unless she felt like drinking for effect.  She wore a simple smock-like tunic under her mantle, man’s trousers, and a delicate-looking mageblade of her own was at her hip.  But she looked content, confident, and almost happy – far different from the fretful girl Pentandra had met at Alar, so many years ago.

Terleman was sitting on one end of a bench, playing dice with Azar in the relaxed style of soldiers awaiting orders.  Next to them in a far more comfortable chair was Astyral, garbed in white and looking pleasantly serene as he smoked his pipe and drank his wine.  On the other side of him sat Master Cormoran, the old weaponsmith whose trade had boomed since his association with Minalan.  Lastly was Taren, the brilliant thaumaturge and warmage Minalan had appointed to oversee the magically contaminated estates at Greenflower, after Dunselen and Isily had been removed forcibly.

Taren, of all of them, looked almost as bad as Minalan.  His eyes were wide but bleary, as if he had not gotten much sleep.  Where once only a wisp of beard had graced his chin, his face was covered with hair, long untended.  His clothes were rich enough, affecting the style of the Castali aristocracy, a long surcoat over his tunic and hose, but the look on his face told a story of disquiet and anxiety that she was reluctant to inquire about.

She didn’t get the opportunity.  As soon as she arrived, Carmella embraced her, showed her to a chair, and parked Alurra behind her.

“Good, we’re all here,” Rondal began, authoritatively addressing the room.  “I’m sure you are all curious why we called this meeting,” he said, grinning.  He clearly enjoyed the attention and suspense he was creating, something Pentandra had never suspected about the lad.

“The fact is, Tyndal and I have been scouting some very interesting things down south,” he continued.  “We went, firstly, to rescue Master Minalan’s apprentice, Ruderal.  That was because he helped rescue us and the Kasari when we were seeking that stupid idol in the Land of Scars and stumbled across the expedition attempting - successfully, unfortunately -- to locate and free the ancient evil known as Korbal the Demon God.

“But while we were down there,” he continued, “we also encountered an enterprising family of very classy thieves and shadowmagicians.”

“Shadowmagic?” Minalan asked, skeptically.  Isily had been a shadowmage, a specialist in the magic of optics and obfuscation which had made her such an effective assassin.  And such a damnably difficult opponent.

“Relax, Master,” Tyndal assured him.  “These folks have been practicing their art quietly for over five hundred years, since the Magocracy.  So quietly that no one remotely suspects that their very normal noble family is secretly looting the great houses of Enultramar for generations with their craft.  They’re quite good,” he said, admiringly.  “But utterly goat-shit crazy, in an endearing sort of way.”

“It sounds like you made friends,” Terleman chuckled.

“Rondal almost made a family,” smirked Tyndal, enthusiastically.  “But that’s a story for another time.  The important thing is, while we were enjoying the hospitality of our new friends, we discovered a few things we felt would be of interest to the group at large.  For one, our new friends are surprisingly loyal to the Ducal House, and are more than willing to assist us in terms of intelligence gathering and the like, if we ask them nicely.”

“Good friends to have, then,” approved Azar.

“Yes, indeed.  During our second foray, in fact, they helped us break into the Tower of Sorcery.  I believe you are familiar with the place?”

“The actual palace of the Alshari Court Wizard,” Pentandra supplied.  “An ancient tower stuffed full of all sorts of amazing wonders, few of which are understood anymore.  And I hear the bathing facilities are decadent,” she added.  “Not that I’m covetous.”

“You should be,” Tyndal agreed.  “I’ve seen them, they’re spectacular.  But when our friends helped us get in, we discovered that the three highest remaining Censors left in southern Alshar have taken possession of three witchstones and were occupying the Tower.  And not just for the baths.”

“They are at the center of the alliance that is keeping the south united in rebellion,” Rondal added, helpfully.

“Not the baths, the Censors,” Tyndal corrected.

“Explain,” Terleman instructed.

“The main council that is currently in control of the south is made up of landowning Coastlords in the fertile vales and plantations, led by the Count of Rhemes; the Sea Lords, who have never liked the Ducal house much to begin with, the Brotherhood of the Rat, who provides intelligence and clandestine services for the council, in return for unrestricted exploitation rights of the slums across the land, and a few highly organized pirate fleets, including the former navy of Farise, who are screening the ducal fleet,” Tyndal explained.  “The Censors in the Tower of Sorcery are coordinating between the pirates, Sea Lords, and the council,” he finished.  “They’re keeping the seaward lanes open for the fleet, and closed to anyone they don’t like.”

“More recently, they’ve been raiding closer and closer to Farise,” Rondal picked up.  “This summer they were so brazen that twice they braved the harbor itself, and raided ships under the nose of the Royal fleet.  Not their finest performance,” he added, critically.  “But that, apparently, was merely a test of their defenses.  Because the Censors have designs on Farise.”

“That’s . . . not good,” Terleman grunted.  “Ishi’s tits, that’s not good at all.  If we lose Farise—”

“Then we lose the trade routes to Unstara, the islands, and everywhere else in the Shallow Sea . . . “

“Oh, it’s more than that,” Rondal assured him.  “With Enultramar and Farise to anchor them, so to speak, the rebel and pirate fleets will be able to range much, much farther east.  Alternatively, if the alliance between the rebels and the pirates holds, then the Alshari ducal fleet could raid the kingdom’s coastlands with impunity.

“But that’s beside the point,” continued Tyndal.  “The real point is that the insidious mind behind this alliance isn’t human.  It isn’t even alive, technically.

“Thanks to the unchecked greed and ambition of the Brotherhood of the Rat, Sheruel’s servants have been hatching plots like giddy schoolgirls for years, now.  They don’t seem to have immediate designs to attack or conquer the region, but they are using the hells out of it.  For what, ultimately, we aren’t sure . . . but when the undead started to appear, we quit worrying about the finer points of the plot,” he said with a shudder.

“The climax of their plan - or at least part of their plan - was the capture of Princess Rardine,” Rondal continued.  “It seems like a pretty sad ploy, on the surface - who wants a princess that no one wants to marry?  But those of you who know the dear lady like we do,” he said, glancing at Tyndal, “understand her true value.”

“Her head is full of Royal secrets,” guessed Carmella.

“Close enough,” agreed Tyndal.  “If they squeezed her, the juice would be worth the effort just in the damage it could do the Kingdom.  And while I bear no especial liking for Her Highness,” he said, with open contempt, “her capture imperils us all.”

“Particularly since it was orchestrated by the Censors, for their own gain and enrichment.  Partially to punish Rard for his ruling against their order, and partially to support the rebellion, they arranged to have her transferred to certain agencies inland . . . for a substantial sum.”

“Why not trade her themselves?” asked Astyral.  “If the south truly wants to be independent and forever separate from the Kingdom of Castalshar, then this seems like their golden opportunity to negotiate for that.”

“Perhaps . . . if that was their aim,” agreed Rondal, apologetically.  “But the rebels have been infiltrated to the point where their original aims have been subverted to those of their new puppet masters.  Thanks to the Brotherhood, Her Highness has apparently been moved far, far into the interior where she will be safe from rescue.”

“How safe?” Azar asked.

“Funny you should ask,” Tyndal answered.  “We’ve been there before.  Beautiful place, once.  Anthatiel.  The City of Rainbows?  It has another name now, though. Olum Seheri.  City of the Dead.”

Carmella looked appalled.  “You mean that poor girl is locked up in that hell hole?  Surrounded by goblins and worse?”

“These days, it’s mostly ‘worse’,” Tyndal agreed.  “For those who are unaware, the place has been given in fief to Korbal.  He has been re-embodied, or whatever you call it, and has been stuffing the enneagram’s of his fanatical followers into a variety of former criminals from human lands.  They’re called—”

“Nemovorti,” Alurra and Pentandra said in tired unison.  “We’ve known about them for awhile, remember?”

“I’m just making sure we are all reading from the same scroll,” Rondal soothed.  “In any case, Korbal and Company are taking over the planning of Sheruel’s enterprises, using his lieutenants to direct the legions, and his necromancers to supply them with new horrors with which to torment us.  The pirates – led by Pratt – sold her to the Censors who in turn sold Rardine to the Brotherhood, who in turn sold her to Korbal’s agents.  We know for a fact she is being held at Olum Seheri, presumably to drain her of her precious knowledge like a glass of ale.”

“And that, my friends and colleagues, is a really, really unfortunate development,” Tyndal continued.  “For if they can discover all of Rardine’s many, many secrets, they will have the means to shatter our society long before their legions roll across the frontier.”

“That’s what you called us here to tell us?” Terleman demanded.  “This could have been said in a dispatch!”

“Not . . . entirely,” conceded Rondal.  “There is more.  More we did not want to commit to writing. Information that is especially pertinent to the good folk of the Alshari Wilderlands.  We have every reason to believe, based on our explorations, that if the evil bastards in Olum Seheri get their way, we are going to become their new workshop.”

“What do you mean?” Master Cormoran asked, cautiously.

“We Alshari get to bear the brunt of their experiments in exterminating humanity,” Tyndal explained.  “And from what we learned, some of their ideas are fiendish.  Truly fiendish.  Particularly if they discover the whereabouts of a certain ancient Alka Alon arsenal full of nasty magic, which is high on their list of goals.  They want to unleash those on us, first, and then the Alka Alon.  And then the rest of the world.”

“We knew that, too,” Pentandra said.  “Arborn and Ithalia have been scouring the Wilderlands for months, searching for the Aronin’s daughter, Ameras.  Who I suppose is now the Aronin.  She’s also the last one who knows the whereabouts to the arsenal.  And she’s lost.”

“Lost and hunted by undead and very living Enshadowed,” agreed Minalan, speaking for the first time.  His voice was low and hoarse, and filled with pain.

“Who are having just as much difficulty as everyone else in locating her, from what we can tell,” Astyral agreed.  “They have searched all over, too.  Wherever the little minx has scampered off to, it’s really well hidden.  So that’s good.”

“Just where are you getting your information?” Terleman asked the two young knights magi.

“Funny you should ask,” Tyndal said, actually laughing.  “You see, while we were down there anyway, we decided it would be fun to see just how much we could screw with the Brotherhood and their allies.  I mean, two handsome, powerful young knights magi on a secret mission of mercy and vengeance . . . well, how could we resist?”

“We arranged some skullduggery,” Rondal agreed.  “We gave the Rats a bit of cheese they just could not resist.  And while they were chasing our bait, we were tracking them.”

“A couple of dozen bodies later,” Tyndal picked up, “we figured out who was actually calling the shots, locally.  And we put him in a situation where he felt unappreciated by his employers.”

“And marked for death,” Rondal added.  “When we gave him the opportunity to come with us, thus preserving his life, he became quite agreeable to the idea of a change of allegiances.”

“You . . . kidnapped . . . a Rat?”

“Actually,” Rondal said, smugly, “We rescued a Spider.  Lords and ladies, may I present Master Merimange the Spider.  The man who sold the Princess.”

While Tyndal was speaking, Rondal uncovered a wrapped up bundle in the corner.  Underneath the cloak that obscured him proved to be a small, spindly-looking man who bore a striking resemblance, somehow, to an arachnid.  He was frozen in place.

“Master Spider is under a spell at the moment – he is paralyzed, and in a magical coma, to protect us from his inevitable betrayal.  But behind those beady eyes of his are every plot and plan the Brotherhood has been involved with for years.  Every agent, every contact, every shipment, every enterprise – he knows it all.”

“How do you know that he’s willing to help?” Astyral asked, amused at the sight of the frozen little man.

“Oh, if he doesn’t, all we have to do is let him go,” Tyndal pointed out.  “And within days of them finding him - and they are looking diligently - he will die a painful death.  Believe me, the Brotherhood has special methods of execution for men who steal from them.”

“He . . . stole from them?” Pentandra asked.  “What did he steal?”

“Everything,” Rondal answered.  “He’s accused of stealing the entire central treasury of the Brotherhood of the Rat.  Centuries’ worth of illicit profits stashed to fund their far-flung enterprises.  And, thanks to a little creative misdirection, we also arranged for the Brotherhood to borrow a significant sum of gold at the time of the theft.  He’s accused of stealing that, as well.”

“Which is really unfortunate for him,” Tyndal added.  “Because we’re the ones who actually stole it.”

“You . . . what?” Minalan asked, the first person who could bring themselves to speak.  Alurra stifled a giggle at the tense situation.

“We stole the entire Brotherhood treasury,” Rondal said, simply.

“Every last ounce.  Every penny.  Every pearl,” Tyndal added, for effect.  “And we got this guy blamed for it.  Their master of spies.”

It took a little while for that to sink in.  Finally Astyral managed to speak.  “So just how much are we talking about, lads?” he asked, quietly eager.

“A couple of fortunes, as near as we can tell,” Tyndal said, clearly enjoying the attention.

“We had Marbles -- Sir Festaran --  take a look,” Rondal said, cutting off his friend before those assembled could do him harm.  “Fes told us that, just in gold, there was about a million and a half ounces.  Silver, maybe five million.  That doesn’t count various jewels, gems, ornate daggers, and assorted gilded crap.  A bunch of scrolls.  Even some tekka.  To be honest, we weren’t paying attention while we were looting.  We were just stuffing everything in that room into a supply wand until we hit the bare walls.  We didn’t leave a copper,” he added, proudly.

“Which puts the ordinarily-wealthy-and-powerful Brotherhood in a difficult position,” Tyndal added.  “As they borrowed about a third of that from various creditors.  Including a substantial loan at a high rate of interest from the Iris.  That’s the criminal organization that runs everything east of Remere, as far as we can tell.  And a good deal in southern Castal and Farise.  So . . . there’s that,” he said.

“The money, we figure, is the result of enterprises made illegal by the Duchy of Alshar,” reasoned Rondal.  “As such, it seems only proper that the, uh, evidence of their crimes be forfeit to the coronet.”

“Minus a reasonable finder’s fee, say ten percent,” suggested Tyndal.  “After our split with the Shadowmagi.  But we’re ready to deposit the rest with the Ducal treasury here in Vorone.  Hells, we don’t really know where to put our ten percent, if you want to know the truth.”

“You lads just handed Anguin . . . over two million ounces of gold?” Astyral asked, his eyes bright with mirth.  “Stole the lynchpin of the Brotherhood of the Rat, and probably wrecked their operations with their allies?”

“We . . . destroyed a couple of buildings, too,” Rondal added, apologetically.  “And a ship.”

“They were in the way,” Tyndal explained.

The banter wasn’t distracting Pentandra from the miraculous truth.  Tyndal and Rondal had saved the duchy.

With that infusion of capital, Anguin would be able to rebuild the town wall, build the palace keep, and pay the Commandos and as many other warriors as he needed to.  He could raise an army and retake the corrupt south . . . whatever parts Tyndal and Rondal had left standing.  He could restore Alshar to glory, and stand up to the hegemony of Castal.  He could defend his lands against the goblins.

He could afford to build Vanador, the City of Magi.  Just as Antimei prophesied.

It staggered her imagination.  In one stroke, those two wild boys had changed the course of history.  For fun.

Her head spinning, she realized she was missing an address from Terleman, who was just as astonished as everyone else.  But the wiley warmage was also the first to appreciate the advantages that had suddenly and unexpectedly accrued.

“—to seize this opportunity with both hands!” the big warmage was grinning.  “With this, we can afford to attack the foe and drive them to the edge of the Umbra!  The armies we can raise, the resources we can employ . . . and the secrets we can exploit in our enemy’s camp!”

“No,” Minalan said, suddenly, his hoarse voice cutting through the murmuring in the room.  “That is not what we need to do.”

“What, then, Master?” Rondal asked.  It wasn’t accusatory, or critical.  It was a respectful request for guidance.

“We use this information – and these resources – very carefully,” he supplied.  “If Anguin suddenly starts spending money unexpectedly, not only will that attract the wrong sort of attention from Duke Tavard the Bold,” he said, sarcastically, “but the Brotherhood will have a fairly good idea of where all of their money went.  So let’s keep this quiet, for now,” he counseled.

“That does make sense,” Terleman admitted, some of his enthusiasm dampened.  “It will take time to employ those resources to their best effect.  Advertising you have a room full of gold is just asking for people to take it from you.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Pentandra pointed out.  As much as she wanted to fill the coffers of Alshar with stolen Brotherhood gold, that would cause more problems, ultimately, than it would solve.   “We cannot risk inflation in such a small and fragile economy.  It would ruin us.  If Anguin is revealed as too wealthy, too soon, before he’s strong enough to defend himself, then he loses everything.  And so do we.  And without us, who will contend against Sheruel?  Who can win against Korbal and his walking corpses?”

“Wise words.  It’s whispered that the gods themselves are at war with Sheruel,” Master Cormoran said, quietly.  “If they are devoted to the task of our destruction, and that of the Alka Alon, then how can we proceed without folly?  Yes, let us conceal this development.  But let us not deprive ourselves of what we need to progress.”

“It will be easy enough to admit enough funds through normal means to avoid attracting attention, I believe,” Pentandra said, trying to remember everything Sister Saltia had ever said about the subject.  “We can add a little to our receipts every month.  We can fabricate the sale of certain properties, arrange to collect a little more in taxes than usual . . . all without arousing suspicion.  That should be enough to conceal our efforts.  But it might be helpful to know what our efforts are.”  She looked pointedly at Minalan.

So did everyone else.

“We must turn our attention westward,” Minalan said, finally, with a sigh.  “We must defend against the Umbra, guard against the Penumbra, and marshal our strengths here in Alshar,” he decided.  “But, most importantly, we must strike a blow against Korbal while he’s fresh from the tomb.  Before he’s too well-established in Olum Seheri Before he learns how to use the Ghost Rock to its full effect.”

“What do you mean, Min?” Terleman asked.

“Those minions of his, the draugen, they are what happens when you put a simple, aggressive primordial enneagram into a human body.  Consider that the Ghost Rock has untold numbers and varieties of ancient creatures buried within.  Including some as powerful as gods or worse.”

“From what I learned recently, there are limits to how sophisticated an enneagram you can put into a human body,” Pentandra said, recalling her conversation in the croft about just that subject.  “The draugen degrade after only two years or so.  And they are relatively simple.”

“In ways,” conceded Minalan.  “But we don’t know enough necromancy yet to understand the nuances.  I have people working on it,” he assured her.  “The thing to worry about is what happens when Korbal delivers some horrific ancient evil to Sheruel . . . in the body of a dragon.”

The thought terrified everyone in the room, for good reason.  The dragons they had faced thus far were immensely strong, nearly invulnerable, magically resistant . . . and not terribly smart.  They were powerful but they fought like animals.  Such a beast as attacked Castle Cambrian with the intelligence and talent to use magic?  She clutched her swelling belly protectively.

“Yes.  And that’s just the worst possibility I thought of, and I’m not particularly bright,” the Spellmonger informed them.  “But we can’t risk whatever devilry Korbal plans to develop.  We must prepare a strike against him.”

“Another trip up the Poros?” Azar sighed.

“Come on!  It was fun!” Terleman insisted.

“We will not be going in force,” Minalan informed them, firmly.  “This will be a carefully planned mission, because so much could go so terribly wrong.  But I feel the answers we seek are back in that hidden fortress.”

“Well, the Alka Alon will certainly be in favor of that,” Astyral nodded.  “But what do you propose we do once we get there?  Steal the Ghost Rock like a room full of coin?  From what I recall, the substance was embedded in tons of limestone under a city full of corpses and goblins, under a lake . . . oh, and guarded by a dragon, now.  That might be beyond the capabilities of even these cutpurses,” he said, nodding toward the young knights magi.

“At this point, I see it as a reconnaissance mission,” Minalan said.  “And possibly a rescue mission.  If Rardine is indeed being held there, we need to try to rescue her as a matter of state security.”

“We could just kill her, if she’s been compromised,” suggested Tyndal.  “I will undertake that mission, if called upon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Minalan said, with a scowl.  “And it may well come to that.  But we are very far from embarking on this journey, yet.  We must study our foe, take his measure, and find the counter to his designs . . . or I fear all will be lost,” he said, without much hope in his voice.  “It will take much work.  We’ll have to disguise our true purpose behind other things.

“But we must stop this,” he declared, not looking anywhere in particular.  “Too many have died already.  Too many have suffered because this evil persists.  If we are the only ones in a position to stop it, then the magi of Alshar shall do our best.”  There was courage and commitment in his voice, but Pentandra could tell that despair haunted every word.  “Are you all with me?”

“Always have been,” Terleman assured, raising his mug.

“I will bring the spirit of death itself to stare them in the eyes,” Azar pronounced, his voice chill and a fell look in his eyes.  Pentandra wondered how often he practiced that.

“Tell me what you need, lad,” Master Cormoran assented.

“We haven’t heard much from Taren,” Pentandra noted.  “What says our smartest mage?”

“I agree with Minalan,” he said, his voice . . . changed.  “My short time at Greenflower has shown me things I never thought possible.  I have spoken to the dead,” he said, as if admitting some great sin.  “I have spoken with gods.  There is far more at stake here than a little land in Alshar.  There is more at stake here than we could ever imagine.”

“So . . . are you in or out?” asked Carmella, confused.

“We must stop Korbal,” Taren pronounced with the utmost gravity.  “No matter the cost.  If he is allowed to pursue his ambitions, extinction will be a mercy.”

“That’s a dark way of looking at it,” Tyndal scowled.  “But . . . all right.”

“What about you two?” Minalan asked.

“Us?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “But we’re rich, now, filthy rich.  We can retire to become gentlemen of leisure!”

“Fine wine and pretty whores!” Tyndal agreed.  “Eat until we’re as fat as Wenek.”

Minalan gave them a look.

“Are you jesting?” Tyndal asked.  “A hopeless quest into an impenetrable fortress against untold hordes of evil to rescue a princess who is literally being guarded by a dragon?”

“A retarded dragon,” added Rondal.  “How can any knight resist that bit of errantry?  We’re with you until that fucking disembodied skull is ground up into dust, for what he did to our home, Master!”

“But we’re not bitter,” Tyndal agreed.  “We’re doing it as a public service.”

“How about you, Pentandra?” Carmella spoke up.  “What says the Court Wizard of Alshar?”

Pentandra regarded the faces of her friends.  She already knew what she had to do.  As dangerous as it was, to both herself and her unborn child, she knew that she had to commit to this quest.

“The Necromancer is a threat to the realm.  It is my duty to see it challenged.”

Minalan gave her a grateful nod.

“Then it is settled,” Carmella sighed.  “We guard against Sheruel while we strike against Korbal.”

“I don’t think we have much to fear from the gurvani at the moment, anyway,” Terleman dismissed, refilling his glass.  “From what I have seen, they have lost their stomach for war.  The Midsummer raids were a failure for them, and there is no sign that they prepare for another invasion.  We struck at them and took two castles weeks ago, and we haven’t seen them so much as steal a chicken, since.  Whatever Lady Mask and her friends did to rile up the gurvani, it doesn’t look like they’re preparing any reprisals.”

“If that’s agreed,” Master Cormoran said, “then let’s eat.  I threw up everything I had when we arrived by the Ways.  Hell of a way to travel,” he said, shaking his head.

Pentandra was starving, she realized – but then lately she was always starving, now. She’d noticed just how the aroma of food was starting to compel her . . . and she felt herself sliding into submission to the tiny baby that was growing inside of her.

That’s when everyone heard it: a sound in the distance that, once heard, one could never forget.  Pentandra looked from Minalan to the others to see if they, too, heard what she had.

“Is that . . . ?” asked Carmella.

“Oh, Trygg’s twat!” moaned Terleman as he sprang to the shutters at the far end of the hall and threw them open.  “The gods must be having a fucking great laugh over this!”  He summoned Warmaster to his hand.

They all crowded around the doorway, dread in their hearts as they searched.  For the briefest of moments Pentandra thought, perhaps, they had misheard.

Then it sounded again.  A horrific screech of warning.  Only much closer, now.

“Dear gods,” Carmella moaned.

“What were you saying about Shereul not retaliating, again, Terl?” remarked Azar.

“Oh, shut up, Azar!” barked Terleman.

“A dragon,” whispered Minalan.

The Spellmonger named the terror they all feared, and as if to prove his observation a brilliant flare of flame burst out of the sky, casting haunting shadows over the town in preparation for the horror to come.  The second burst was even closer, and ignited the rooftop of the barracks on the far side of the palace as the airborne threat crossed the town’s walls.

“Oh, shit!” Tyndal said.  Rondal just stood and stared, his hand over his open mouth at the sight of the dark shape moving through the mists over Vorone.  Alurra crowded behind him, unable to see with her own eyes but curious about what was happening.

A third burst of flame tore through the far end of the palace, and marched in a relentless line across the rooftop.  With an angry bellow the great worm slashed his tail against the watchtower tops and sent them careening across the town like a child’s toy.

“Mistress,” Alurra said, in hushed tones.  “Did you know you are having triplets?”

“What?” Pentandra asked, her attention torn.  The dragon’s next blast was dangerously close to her office, she realized.  Where she would have been, had she not come to this meeting.  “Triplets?”

“Pretty sure,” the blind girl said in a whisper.  “Is that a problem?”

The Court Wizard of Alshar looked from the mighty dragon destroying her home to her sightless apprentice.  She had the presence of mind, in that moment, to grab Minalan’s sleeve and capture his attention.  Her friend looked at her, a range of emotions at work in his tired eyes.

“Minalan,” she said, very carefully, “Drink the mead.”

And then she fainted.

Chapter Fifty

Aftermath

The long walk from the Waypoint back to Antimei’s old croft was lonely, and made all the lonelier by the first cold breath of autumn . . . but Pentandra felt compelled to make the trip.  The Anvil was beautiful at this time of year, the trees that clung to its skirts beginning to change their colors and the fading sunset lighting the massive mountain into glorious shades.  It was a pretty place, she reflected.  She was almost saddened by the thought of Carmella and her construction crews appearing here next spring to set up the first construction camps.

Vanador would be built.  According to Antimei’s direction . . . and prediction.

But before the remote hillside could be transformed, there was much left to do, she knew.  And now that the palace at Vorone was an ashen ruin, it was all the more pressing that a suitable stronghold be prepared.  Visiting the site undetected would become very difficult, presently.  But Pentandra needed answers now, and this was the one place she could find them.

It took a while for her to find the path up to the croft – Antimei’s original wards of obfuscation were still intact, and she required Everkeen’s help to locate the correct path.  She was gratified to find her spellbinding undisturbed.  No one had entered the croft since she’d sealed it.

Once inside, she lit a magelight and looked around at the room that had been the home of the greatest witch in the Alshari Wilderlands for thirty years.  It was humble and practical, with just a splash of decoration to keep it from being oppressive.  The shelves and rafters were still stuffed with herbs and roots valuable to her trade . . . but the witch who had practiced it was never returning here.

This was Pentandra’s legacy, now.

She did not come for simple herbs, though.  She was here for answers.  Answers the Prophecy Stone did not offer her.

Three prophecies had come out of it now, since the dragon attack on the palace.  She’d delivered or acted on every one, but while useful, in some way, the verses the stone offered her were tantalizingly vague and incomplete.  Pentandra needed more, especially now.

She debated with herself for a few moments before realizing that if she was not intending to do this, she wouldn’t have started out on the journey to begin with.  She was committed, like it or not, and she alone would suffer the consequences of her folly.

Pentandra crossed the room to study Antimei’s uncomfortable chair.  The old witch had sat in it religiously, like a throne, Pentandra had learned from her apprentice.  She rarely left it unless she was out gathering herbs or seeing the rare client.  Pentandra sat there herself, while she was debating with the Nemovort.  It was hard on her back and rump, and the thought of sitting there now, with three tiny babies in her womb already pressing for space, sounded masochistic at best.

Instead, Pentandra removed the three layers of blankets and quilts that lay over the chair.  Once gone, it was a simple matter to lift the rough plank of wood on the seat and reveal the thick book of parchment concealed below.

It had to be the chair, Pentandra had realized, months ago.  It was the only place in the croft she’d not searched thoroughly.  When she sat there, astonished at how uncomfortable it was, she’d puzzled out both the reason and the location of the Book of Antimei.

With one final deep breath, she was about to open the book when she heard a voice clearing itself behind her.

“Are you certain you want to do that, Daughter?” asked Trygg the Mother Goddess.

“I thought you had banished yourself, after helping Antimei, Mother,” chided Pentandra, not looking up from the book.

“I nearly have,” the All-Mother conceded.  “But somehow I figured that one of my children was getting into mischief.  Call it a mother’s intuition,” she added with a chuckle.

“I need this book, Trygg,” Pentandra insisted.  “Even with all the dangers implied, it was brought to me for a purpose.  I cannot ignore that.”

“So what is so pressing about the future that you must see it revealed before its full time?” the goddess asked.

“Do you need a list?” demanded the court wizard.  “Have you not been paying attention?”

“Oh, I’m aware of the need,” the goddess nodded.  “I was curious why you felt compelled to violate all you know about prophecy and fate.”

“Because I’m about to be a mother . . . thanks to you!” Pentandra accused, putting a hand over her abdomen.

“Actually, Arborn had far more to do with it,” Trygg laughed.  “But I’m sure being in proximity to me played a role.”

“Which I can appreciate,” Pentandra nodded, evenly.  “But – goddess! – triplets?  Did you have to bless me so damn much?”

“Believe it or not, that wasn’t me,” Trygg confessed.  “Oh, I’m responsible for the conception, no doubt about it.  I always am.  But such a thing as triplets . . . unless you are of the Valley Folk, that is a rarity beyond me.  Highly improbable,” she supplied.

“Highly . . . improbable,” Pentandra repeated, her mind retracing her steps.  “Damn . . . her!” she burst out, a moment later.  “Sister Saltia gave me a blessing before I left to pursue Alurra,” she spat.  “A blessing . . . from Ifnia!  As if I didn’t have enough divine attention in my life!”

“That would make sense,” Trygg nodded.  “Identical triplet girls are highly improbable.  Only a strong dose of luck makes them happen.”

“Well, Arborn is thrilled,” Pentandra said, sourly, “though he will have to suffer with a wife as big as a barn for most of the next year.  He’s already sewing their first little Kasari neck cloths.  He doesn’t have to pass three babies out of his vagina, so he’s enjoying the process,” she said, darkly.

“He’s happy,” Trygg agreed.  “As are you, Daughter.  Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Well, having Mother go back home after she found out I was pregnant was nice,” she conceded, “and having Ishi give me a rest . . . but my best friends are a vegetable and morosely depressed, respectively, and a dragon kind of burned my home to the ground.  But apart from that, yeah, I’m deliriously happy.”

“Sometimes it takes perspective to appreciate, properly,” Trygg agreed.  “Despite the tragedy at the palace, you live, as does your husband.  And soon you will have a family of your own to worry about.”

“I’m already worried,” Pentandra assured her.  “I’m certain you’re aware of the . . . I hesitate to call it prophecy, but the counsel I received from a certain oracular nun in the Castali Wilderlands a year or so ago?”

“Yes, I am aware of it,” sighed Trygg.  “I thought you might be dwelling on that.”

“How could I not?” snapped Pentandra.  “Trygg, you of all the gods know I have devoted my life to my Art, my work, and my studies.  I have sought high office and successfully changed the course of history.  I am the second most powerful mage in the Kingdom, and perhaps the first powerful, until Min’s sphere is repaired.

“Yet when the gods had the chance to give me direction . . .”

“You were not compelled to ask, Daughter,” reminded Trygg, quickly.

“How could I not?  How could I resist the temptation?  Any more than I could resist the temptation of this book?” she demanded.

“Did you find her words that disturbing?” the goddess asked, curious.  “Most would have cherished them for their power and simplicity.”

“No doubt,” Pentandra grumbled.  “But ‘most’ is not ‘me’.”

Trygg looked at her sympathetically.  “Daughter, is it so awful, what she said?”

Pentandra snorted.  “I’m sure you overheard it,” she ventured.  “And if not awful, it was at least . . . insulting.  ‘Great power and authority, position and title, wealth as you require/yet spells and gold do not hold the gifts that you truly desire/Greatest of wizards, your wisdom is vast, mighty the city you’ll build/But motherhood alone, not the rebirth of Vorone, is where you shall be most fulfilled.’”

“So what’s wrong with that?” asked the goddess of motherhood.

“I’ve spent my entire life building a career in academic magic, restoring a duchy, and changing the face of history . . . but you think being a mother is somehow more important?”

“Well, I am biased,” agreed Trygg with a matronly chuckle.  “But looking beyond that, why do you find that insulting?”

“Because I am more than a mere mother,” Pentandra said proudly.

“You are not a mother yet,” warned the goddess.  “And when you are, at last, I think you will discover that your attitude is . . . misplaced.”

“You think I’m going to find personal fulfillment in wet nappies and chewed nipples?” Pentandra asked, incredulously.

“I think you’re going to find fulfillment in creating three new, unique human beings who are destined to change the world as much, or more, than their mother,” countered the goddess.  “It is your greatest challenge and greatest responsibility, as a woman.  There is no higher calling.”

“We shall see,” Pentandra said, guardedly.  “But I am tending toward skepticism on this one.”

“I’m rarely wrong,” the goddess observed.  “I’m a mom.”

“I don’t care,” Pentandra snapped.  “This was not how I planned things to work out!”

“I think you’re familiar with the old saying about the plans of men and the designs of the gods?  Sorry, your womb is your destiny.  One of them.  But your most important one, I think.”

“So all that I am, and all that I have built – will build – means nothing, compared to being a mother?”

“From your perspective . . . yes,” she agreed.  “You may save thousands of children – millions – but the time and energy you invest in your own children will be among your most cherished moments in this life.  When put in the balance against all you think you hold dear, you will find yourself willfully willing to reject all that you think you are in favor of being the mother you know you are.”

“That sounds like a depressing bit of prophecy,” she said, sourly.

“That’s the reality of motherhood,” Trygg shrugged.  “No one said it wasn’t problematic.”

“I’m really starting to get tired of prophecy,” she lamented, not for the first time.

“Then put that book away, and go live your life without it,” suggested Trygg.  “That is what Antimei did.  She’s much happier, now.”

“That’s not in my nature,” Pentandra finally admitted.  “I have the capacity.  I think I can read this and not let it affect me.”

“I think you are completely deluding yourself,” Trygg replied, smiling.  “But do it – or not – as you wish.  In the end, it does not change the facts.  You are going to find motherhood far more rewarding – and challenging – than you ever did mere politics or magic.”

Pentandra looked at the cover of the book, and then looked up at the goddess . . . only to find her vanished.

So, she’ll leave the decision up to me, whether or not I open the book . . . and bind myself to the fates.  Without so much as a word of advice.  Bitch.

With a deep sigh, and a comfortable pat on her growing tummy, Pentandra opened the great leather-bound volume and began to study the mysteries therein.

It may not have been the wisest course of action, she knew, but it was her nature.

The End

Look for the exciting continuation of the Spellmonger Series

in Book 9: Shadowmage

You may always contact the author at tmancour@gmail.com

Excerpt from the upcoming Hawklady

Chapter One

Magic Lessons

“You must learn to think in metaphors,” Lady Pentandra explained, as she paced gently back and forth in front of Dara, as they sat on the top of Magelord Minalan’s personal tower, in the autumn sunshine.  Pentandra stopped, suddenly.  “You do understand what a metaphor is, don’t you?”

“When you say something is something else,” Dara replied, recalling an earlier discussion.  “Not comparing it, exactly, but saying one thing is another thing.”

“That is correct -- more or less,” the wizard agreed.  “We call a direct comparison a ‘simile’.  Those can be useful.  But for magic, metaphor is what is useful, for all magic is metaphor . . . and within each metaphor is the seed of magic.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” confessed Dara, guiltily.  She’d been trying for days, now, since the excitement that had suddenly elevated her among the great and powerful in the domain.  Thanks to her shrewd and skillful falconry (and no little bit of natural magic talent) she’d steered her falcon, Frightful, in a contest at the First Magical Fair, ever, and ended up winning almost by accident.

The contest was open to all wizards and magi, anyone with magical ability - rajira, she’d learned it was called.  While very, very few people had it, fewer still had the Talent in sufficient quantity to actually use magic like a true magi.

But Lenodara of Westwood did.  The power she’d discovered over the summer, the ability to slip her mind behind the eyes of her falcon and see the world through the eyes of the bird as she flew, was just part of her capabilities.  Lady Pentandra tested her for hours to determine her degree of rajira and pronounced her Talented enough to learn the ancient, secretive art of magic.

She’d also mentioned that she thought Lenodara intelligent enough, which both pleased and irritated the thirteen-year old girl.

But Pentandra pronounced her fit to learn, and to avoid a scuffle with the very, very large warrior-magi who lost the contest to a wisp of a girl Magelord Minalan, himself, took her as apprentice.  As such she was protected from the violence (particularly after Minalan, in his wisdom, granted a second, more powerful witchstone to the runner-up in the contest.  But that also meant that her future was suddenly spelled out for her as evenly as lines across the page of a book . . . an art she’d yet to fully master.

Her father and uncle were both proud and anxious about the appointment.  By winning a witchstone - a magical piece of amber that granted a wizard tremendous power - she’d proven herself clever, quick, and foresightful, a credit to her folk in the Westwood.  But the attention she’d called to herself and her kin was troubling.  In these changing and turbulent times, it was dangerous for a commoner to be so close to the nobility.  But it was also a splendid opportunity.  The Spellmonger (as everyone called the Magelord, with pride) was an extremely important man, and being allied to him meant opportunities.  Not just for herself, but her entire estate.

Since the few days after the Magical Fair broke up, Lady Pentandra instructed Lenodara (or Dara, to nearly everyone) to come to Sevendor Castle in the morning, before breakfast, and study reading in the morning before she or Master Minalan (as the Magelord insisted she call him) gave her a few hours’ worth of lessons in the afternoons.

The reading was the hard part.  Lenodara mastered the Narasi alphabet simply enough in a day, and understood the letters and the sounds they stood for.  In the last few days she’d been stringing the letters together and understanding the sounds as words, and today she’d recognized (successfully) the entire first sentence in the primer: “When humankind first came to Callidore on the horizon, they found a beautiful green and blue world awaiting them.”

It was an odd sentence in many ways, but Master Minalan insisted it was the real history of human beings here, on the world she lived in.  She had dozens of questions about where humans came from, and how they got here on Callidore, but there was much about the world and the past even the great Spellmonger did not know.

While Lenodara found that disappointing, on the basis that adults were supposed to know everything, she tried to put that aside as she tackled the difficult lessons.  There was so much to learn, Lady Pentandra assured her, that she could spend years in study and still not master all known magic.

Dara found that a little intimidating, but Lady Pentandra was very gentle in her explanations of how magic worked . . . an art she’d made Dara know as “thaumaturgy”, which simply meant “the study of magic”.

There were many more concepts and ideas she needed to learn beyond simple reading, she was discovering, but considering how many new words magi had for things, she could see why being able to store them up in books made sense.  And Lady Pentandra was very patient in explaining them to her.

“Metaphors are essential to magic because symbols are the key to bridging the gap between our magical minds - our rajira exta, the Archmagi called it -- and the greater Magosphere.  You see, although our minds can perceive and even manipulate those energies in raw form, they are not designed to do it.”

“Why not?” Dara asked, innocently enough.

“Because we were not born here, originally, say some-”

“I was born right over there,” Dara objected, pointing at the top of Westwood Hall, in the distance.

“Not you, personally, Dara; all of humanity.  As that first sentence of the primer told you, humanity did not originate on this world, we came here.  And adapted to it.  Our original world . . . well, it is theorized by some scholars that it possessed little or no magic, based on the confusion with which our ancestors greeted the ability by the Alka Alon—”

“Those are the Tree Folk, right?” prompted Dara.

“Yes, and thank you for interrupting.  The magic of the Tree Folk – the Alka Alon – and the other races of the Alon we found here was strange to our ancestors.  From what we think, it was generations after our arrival that the first traces of rajira arose in us.

“But the Tree Folk – the Alka Alon -- taught our ancestors how to deal with their emerging powers.  At first they tried to teach complicated Alka Alon magic to us, but few are equipped and talented enough to master even basic songspells.

“So the Alka Alon contrived the Imperial Runes,” she continued, opening a book to a page filled with broad, strongly-drawn characters.  “Each rune is a . . . metaphor.”

Dara frowned.  “How so?  They just look like wiggly lines.  Or straight lines.”

“So did the letters of the alphabet, when you first saw them, but each stood for a sound,” Pentandra reminded her, gently.  “The principal is the same, here, only instead of sounds, each rune is a metaphor for a particular thing.  Or group of things.  Or class of things.  But each one uniquely encapsulates the idea of a metaphor for something else.”

“I am totally lost in the woods, Lady Pentandra,” Dara admitted, uncomfortably.  “How can a wiggly line be something else?”

Pentandra paused, then picked up her walking staff from where she’d lain it and began drawing in the sand.

“You see this?” she prompted, as she sketched a rough circle in the sand, with two lines below it, parallel.  “What do you see?”

“A . . . tree?” Dara ventured.

“Yes, a tree,” the wizard nodded.  “You see a tree, I see a tree, Minalan sees a tree, the beggar boys on the docks of Fest would see a tree . . . yet there is no tree.  Indeed, it is a circle and two lines.  How is that in any way a tree?”

“It’s not,” agreed Dara.  “But it looks like a tree.”

“Are there not trees that look nothing like this?” Pentandra asked.

“I can’t think of any trees that look anything like it,” Dara agreed.  “And I’ve seen a lot of trees.”

“Yet almost every human in the world who saw this drawing would see it to mean ‘tree’,” Pentandra continued.  “The symbol has nothing to do with the thing it represents.  This one is convenient, because it’s so common, but if you saw this,” she said, drawing another circle, but one with a smaller circle inside, “would you see that as a tree?”

“No, more of a wagon wheel,” Dara said, shaking her head.

“What if you were looking at a tree from above?” Pentandra suggested.  “Like you do when you’re riding behind your bird’s eyes?”

“Oh!” Dara said, seeing what the wizard meant.  “These are the leaves on the outer circle, this is the trunk at the inner circle!”

“Right,” nodded Pentandra, pleased.  “But if you didn’t understand that, it would mean very little to you.  You’d be looking at a symbol of a tree and seeing a wagon wheel.  Unless you know the secret,” she pointed out.  “Knowing the secret is knowing the metaphor.”

“So this is a metaphor?”

“Essentially.  This is also the rune ‘selseth’, which is a simple rune meaning ‘year’ or ‘sun’.”

“Which is it?” Dara asked.

“Whichever it needs to be,” Pentandra explained.  “When you are using it in the context of a spell with a temporal component -- that is, one that works over time -- then it means ‘year’.  If you are trying to improve the growth of corn with a beneficial weather spell, it means ‘sun’.”

“What about a weather spell . . . over a period of time?” Dara asked.  “Could it mean both, or would you have to use two of them?”

“Good question,” Pentandra smiled.  “We’ll get to that, but the short answer is yes.”

“That . . . to which one?”

“Context,” Pentandra repeated.  “But we’ll get to that.  Right now, just focus on the idea that each of the Imperial Runes has a ‘secret’ -- many of them, actually.  Their meanings are usually deeply intertwined, but in the end they are meanings that we assign to them, not powers intrinsic to the runes themselves.  It doesn’t matter what the symbol looks like, it is the meaning with which we invest it that is important.”

“But . . . but what if the same symbol can have two entirely different meanings?”

“And now we come to the discussion on one of the mage’s most important skills: the manifestation of intent,” she began, taking a deep breath.  “When--”

“Pentandra?” came the voice of her new master from the narrow stairwell that led to his laboratory.  Master Minalan’s head appeared from the floor, followed by the rest of him as he bounded up the stairs.  Dara didn’t think he looked like a very dignified wizard when he did that, but then she wasn’t really sure what to expect.  Most of what she knew of wizards were from stories and legends, not personal experience.

“What is it, Min?” Lady Pentandra asked, with far more familiarity than one might expect from two professional colleagues.  Even though Master Minalan was married to Lady Alya, who wasn’t gifted with rajira, he did not seem to mind how forward and familiar she was with him, even though he was the lord of the domain.  She’d heard it whispered around the Great Hall that their handsome Magelord and the exotic-looking Remeran wizard were lovers, once, long ago.

“Sorry, Dara,” he said, glancing at his newest apprentice for a moment before continuing.  “This is important.  I’ve just spoken to Terleman again.  The hordes are definitely on the move in his direction.  He’s already in trouble,” he added, without elaborating.

“How many?” the dark-haired woman asked, concerned.

“Far too many,” the Spellmonger said, his voice grave.  “If they aren’t relieved, and soon, they’re going to be overwhelmed.”

“You don’t think— excuse us, Dara, I think we’re done for the day,” Pentandra said, interrupting herself.  “Why don’t you get some dinner in the Great Hall before you head back to the Westwood?  Let’s get you here early, tomorrow, and see if you can’t get through a whole page, shall we?  You don’t think Terleman would surrender, do you?” she asked Minalan, turning her whole attention to him after speaking with Dara.

She might have felt miffed, had it been any other situation.  But the Magelord was responsible for far more than just the domain of Sevendor; he was apparently helping the King, himself, against the goblins who were attacking the distant west.

Dara shuddered when she thought about them.  There were tales amongst the Bovali, the poor refugees who had narrowly escaped from the valley the goblins invaded first, Boval Vale, and they were not pleasant to hear.  The goblins were possessed of a great hatred of humankind, Lady Pentandra explained to her once, and their armies wanted to push the humans off of their lands and sacrifice them to their Dead God.  They were willing to do all sorts of horrible things to do it, too.  She tried to stop hearing the stories, after the first few scared her, but it seemed nearly every Bovali refugee who’d settled in Sevendor had at least three horrific tales about the goblins.

But now the invasion from the northlands was pushing into the south, from what she understood.  That was causing all sorts of problems, and when the Duke had problems he called upon his best wizard to help.  That was Magelord Minalan, the Hero of the Wilderlands.  Her new master.

Dara descended the stairs through Master Minalan’s laboratory and through his bedchamber until she exited to the grand Great Hall of Sevendor Castle.  She never thought she’d get used to the sight, so much larger and more lordly than the Westwood Hall manor where she lived.  Though the castle was over a hundred years old, the stone gleamed bright white - the accidental result of a spell Master Minalan cast last winter during a snowstorm, to save his wife and baby in childbirth.

The spell had splashed out all over the vale that fateful night, and many who never suspected that they had a store of rajira discovered that they were suddenly sensitive to magical energies.  Including Dara.  Indeed, she’d learned, the gleaming white snowstone that spread out nearly two miles in every direction from the castle apparently reduced the natural resistance to magic that most places had.  Now Sevendor was the easiest place in the world to do magic.

If you knew how to do it in the first place, that was.

The Great Hall of Sevendor Castle was far nicer now than when she’d first seen it, a few years ago when the disreputable Sir Urantal was in charge of the domain.  Then it had been dingy, dusty, dirty, and dark.

Now, under Minalan and Alya, the snow-white stone was gleaming, and magelights hovered permanently over the hall.  The great stone fireplace at the head was crackling with a constant flame that reminded her of home, and the banners that hung from the rafters now were recent and free from cobwebs.

The entire place made her feel safe and protected, and she valued that.  Compared to how the Sevendori viewed the castle under its previous management, that was a major change.  The folk of the vale now looked at the fortress with hope and security, not dread and despair.  That, if nothing else, was worth all of the other changes the Spellmonger brought to Sevendor.

The hall was starting to get busy as it prepared for the evening meal.  Guards and grooms, laborers and staff were beginning wash themselves at the great basin at the door of the hall, while drudges began to set up trestle tables and the servants began to set the stone high table in front of the fireplace.

Dara would always have a fond place in her heart for the Great Hall.  It was where she was hailed as the winner of the Spellmonger’s Trial, made Master Minalan’s apprentice, and celebrated in front of the entire domain.  That night marked a dramatic change in her life, from when she’d gone from being just Dara of Westwood, youngest daughter of the Master of the Wood and nascent self-taught falconer, to Apprentice Dara, the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor.  That night would always be one of the most special in her heart.

There were far more people at the castle than usual, and more servants than usual preparing for the additional guests.  The Magical Fair just ended, and the disturbing news from the west quickly overtook her dramatic victory at the Trial.  Many of Master Minalan’s friends and allies who’d attended were anxious about the sudden attack, and looked to her master for guidance.  There were also merchants and tradesmen from the fair who still had business in Sevendor, or who tarried merely out of curiosity or the opportunity for bargains after the fair.

“Dara!” called a familiar voice - Gareth, she realized, already sitting at the first line of tables in the hall.

The mage was hardly an imposing figure.  He’d come to Sevendor early in Minalan’s tenure to audition for a witchstone as a warmage, but he’d failed the Spellmonger’s rigorous tests.  He was just not physically large and strong enough, he was a bit clumsy, and he was just not belligerent enough to warrant a warmage’s witchstone.  Indeed, he was nothing like the proud, strong, tough warrior-magi Dara had met at the Trials.

Yet he’d stayed in Sevendor as Minalan’s loyal man after his rejection, instead of resenting it, and learned as much as he could from the Spellmonger and his friends.  Gareth ended up serving Master Minalan in many capacities, she’d learned, not the least of which was organizing and running much of the Magic Fair.  Dara was glad to at least see a friendly face amongst all of the strangers in the hall, and she decided to wait for dinner with him.

“Magic lessons?” he asked, as she sat down at the bench.

“Lady Pentandra,” Dara nodded.  “The first set of runes.  Magic as metaphor,” she said, with more exasperation in her voice than she’d intended.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” the wizard smiled, fondly.  “One of the basics, upon which all other magic depends.  You’ll probably have an easier time, one-on-one with Lady Pentandra than I did at the academy with a room full of other students, trying to keep up with the lecture . . . but it does explain why so many of the Archmagi were also poets and writers,” he concluded.

Dara couldn’t imagine writing anything for fun.  It was hard enough reading.

“I understand metaphor,” she insisted.  “When I’m riding behind Frightful’s eyes, it’s not like being a falcon, it is being a falcon.  I just have a hard time seeing a couple of squiggly lines as the same as being a tree, or something,” she said, frustrated.

“It is harder transferring the concept to inanimate objects or abstract concepts,” he nodded, sympathetically.  “But it’s also essential.  Until you can make the mental commitment to the metaphor and really mean it, your spells won’t work.  And the first sets of runes are all the easy ones, the Statics and the Ordinals.  When you get to the Mutables, the Ephemerals, and the Actives, that’s when you can really start to go mad.  We won’t even speak of the dreaded Cardinals, Transits and Scalar runes,” he said, with foreboding.

“By the Flame!” Dara said, her eyes wide.  “How many runes are there?”

“In the basic Imperial system?” Gareth asked, pleased to be her resource.  “Hundreds.  But don’t worry, you’ll only use a few dozen, most of the time.  But you have to know as many as possible.  And then there are hundreds more in the apocryphal systems, the specialties, and when you get into advanced thaumaturgy, it’s like each spell has its own new set of supplementary runes.”

Dara felt ill.  She’d learned only a handful of the very first set of the most basic runes, and she’d yet to actually learn how to use them.  The task before her as an apprentice seemed daunting, at best, and impossible at worst.

“Don’t worry!” Gareth laughed, kindly, when he saw her expression.  “You’ve been at it a few days, at best, and it takes years to learn.  Once you master the basic concepts, you’ll be picking up a few a day after a while.  And eventually, you’ll do what the masters do: you’ll look it up in some reference when you actually need it.”

“It just seems like . . . a lot,” she said, trying to conceal her anxiety.

“It is,” Gareth conceded, “but it’s very worthwhile.  And it's just part of your education as a student of Imperial magic, although an essential one.  The whole foundation of Imperial magic is that we all learn the same runes and symbols so that we can work together.  Once you learn the runes by rote, you’ll have to learn thaumaturgical construction to put them together to actually make stuff happen.”

“That’s how Lady Pentandra explained it,” Dara sighed.  “You put the runes together like letters in a word.”

“Exactly!” Gareth agreed, pleased.

“. . . only I have a really, really hard time putting letters together in a word,” Dara said, despairingly.  Gareth blinked at the admission.

“Oh, compared to actually doing magic, reading is easy,” he insisted.  “You’ll pick that up in no time.  You’ll have to,” he emphasized.  “You won’t be able to do much as a student until you do.”

Dara resisted the urge to put her forehead down on the cool wood of the smooth oaken table.  Terribly hard.

“I suppose it can’t be as hard as training a bird,” she sighed, calling mentally to Frightful.  Even when she was not in rapport with the bird, she and her falcon shared a connection, and it only took a tug at Frightful’s mental jesses to summon her, now.

“No, but it involves butchering fewer rabbits,” Gareth offered.

“A point,” she conceded.  There were many beautiful things about a falconer’s job.  Butchering the kills and the meat for her bird was not among them.  “But I’m still kind of confused about my duties as an apprentice,” she confessed, quietly.  “I keep expecting someone to explain, but everyone’s been kind of occupied by the news from the west.”

Gareth’s face changed immediately.  “Yes, the Gilmoran invasion.  That’s the heart of the western Riverlands.  There are hundreds of thousands of people there.”

“That’s what I understand.  But since Master Minalan and even his other apprentices have been busy, they haven’t . . .”

“. . . had the time to give the new girl her orientation,” Gareth finished.  “Well, I suppose I can help, though I learned in the Academy, not from a single master, but the basics are well-known.”

“Teach me, oh master!” Dara said, with exaggerated adoration.

“It’s pretty simple, actually,” Gareth said, as one of the cooks placed a trencher of stale bread in front of each of them.  “You are supposed to do pretty much whatever your master needs you to do.  In return, you slave away at ridiculously hard lessons until you face the mind-twisting horror of the journeyman’s exam.”  He considered thoughtfully.  “Oh, your master is required to feed you one meal a day, provide you a place to sleep, and give you one new suit of clothes a year at Yule.”

Dara stared at the wizard.  “Is that it?”

“It’s indentured servitude, near to slavery, for some,” Gareth considered.  “It really depends on the master.  Some are horrible,” he said, in hushed tones.  “Rondal’s former master, for instance, was particularly poor.  He’s the only apprentice out of three who survived the Siege of Boval Castle, from what people say . . . largely because of how horrible their master was.

“But Master Minalan is academy trained, like me and Lady Pentandra,” Gareth assured.  “His expectations are likely going to be much, much different than a traditional master.  That doesn’t mean lower,” he emphasized.  “Master Minalan is a Magelord.  He has duties to the duke and the entire land.  The gods alone know what he might ask of you, at the moment,” he said, philosophically.  “Indeed, if my suspicions are correct, he might not be able to spare the time to instruct you for awhile.  The war in Gilmora,” he reminded her.  “If I know the Spellmonger, he will find some way to go.  He will insist on it.  The magelord who is in need is an old war comrade of his, and the Spellmonger is passing loyal.”

“So he would just . . . leave?” she asked, suddenly worried.  She knew the situation was dire, but the war was hundreds of leagues from Sevendor.  Indeed, Sevendor was still recovering from its own small war, one in which she’d played no small part.  The idea that her new master would feel compelled to go somewhere else to fight when he’d just won back his own domain frightened Dara.

“If he felt he needed to . . . and if I know the man, by the look in his eyes that need is growing.  I figure he could make the journey within two weeks, if he hurried downriver soon.  But the Fair Folk are involved,” he added, with thoughtful gravity.  “They have magic beyond what we can do, even with witchstones.  Even with Minalan’s Witchsphere.”

Dara had been introduced to the elegant non-human folk at the Magic Fair,and she found the Alka Alon as mysterious and breathtaking as everyone else.  If they were involved, then just about anything was possible.  “But shouldn’t he stay here and tend to affairs in Sevendor?” she asked, confused.  “He’s lord of this domain.”

“If he goes to Gilmora, he might never return, Dara,” Gareth explained, quietly.  “He is a magelord, but he is also a warmage.  He was a warmage long before he was even a spellmonger,” he reminded her.  “He feels he has a duty to protect the entire Five Duchies from the goblins.  If they have penetrated as far as Gilmora, then everyone is in danger.  Even here, in Sevendor.”

“Then he should be preparing Sevendor for defense, not worrying with some other place!” Dara said, exasperated.

“Would you rather fight goblins in some far-away place, or on your doorstep, with no room for error?” Gareth proposed.  “Master Minalan is trying to do both.  Do you think he’s not torn about it?  But he has a duty.  Just as you have a duty as his apprentice to support him . . . even if you don’t agree with his decisions.  If Minalan decides to go help in the war, then you must let him.  And if he does not return from the war, then . . . well, then you will have to accept that, as well,” he said, gravely.

“Why wouldn’t he return from the war?” Dara demanded, as she raised her fist.  “He’s fought goblins plenty of times.  And he’s even more powerful now,” she bragged.  She didn’t think anything could defeat her new master, and from what many of the folk of Sevendor believed, they didn’t, either.

“Goblins are one thing,” Gareth said, keeping his voice low as the skreeching of servant girls erupted behind him.  “In Gilmora, they’ve sighted . . . a dragon.”

“A . . . what?” Dara asked, her jaw dropping as Frightful finally landed on her gloved fist.

“Dragon,” Gareth repeated, his eyes downcast.  “No one has ever slain one before.”

“The goblins . . . have a dragon?” Dara whispered, incredulously.  “Those are real?”

“Yes!” Gareth agreed in a hiss.  And they--”

He was interrupted by a commotion at the head of the hall, as the Spellmonger entered, followed by Lady Pentandra, Sire Cei, Baron Arathaniel, and other important folk.  Dara stood with everyone else in respect, though it upset Frightful enough to send her flapping.

There was a hushed quiet as all eyes in the room went to the worn face of Master Minalan.  The expectation in the air was as thick as porridge.

“Thank you for your attention,” the Magelord announced to the hall.  “The last few days since the news from Gilmora broke have been tense.  The situation there grows dire, and it is increasingly clear that without relief Castle Cambrian will fall . . . and with it the defense of northern Gilmora.  If the invasion is not blunted now, there, then there is no telling how bad it could become.

“But there is no large enough force within days’ travel to counter the siege that is forming.  Nor is Cambrian a terribly stout fortress . . . and certainly not proof against dragons,” he pronounced, causing a chorus of gasps and murmurs from the hall.

“So I have volunteered my services to do what must be done to save the castle, and with it our hopes of a peaceful future.  If no army is near enough to relieve the castle, then I must produce one.  Luckily, I have one at hand, though it’s on the other side of the duchy.  It is the only one that might prevail.  I have a large number of warmagi and the remnants of two armies, here in Sevendor, armed and armored.  And I have my own troops,” he added, making Dara’s heart catch in her throat. His troops were her family.

The next sentence sent her heart into the floor.

“As lord of Sevendor, I therefore call my banners and summon my warriors.  We go to war in Gilmora.”

Chapter One

Solashaven

“When the Magocracy’s nascent merchant fleet departed Farise, bound for Unstara, the Far Isles, and points beyond on a great commercial expedition, their escort of Cormeeran warships sailed first far to the west to screen them from the threat of pirates along the Scorched Coast.

“Unbeknownst to the Magi, the Sea Lords of Enultramar were well-prepared to pillage their grand fleet.  The proud ships of the Sea Lords descended from the Shoals of Sinbar like the grandsons of the Storm Lord himself, each sail bearing the Sea Axe token of their secret harbor.  Quickly and savagely each ship took a prize and escaped with it through the Channel.  When they brought their prizes back to their havens there were more than there were berths prepared.

“Great fleets were forged out of their piracy, and the havens of Enultramar prospered as ships of war and trade departed from the fair bay on their missions.  Many of the most ancient harbors and settlements saw their rise from this time: Pearslhaven, Drakeshaven, Solashaven, Deitus’ Landing, Fairhaven, Shellhaven, and many other small ports of the Sea Lords along the rocky Bay of Enultramar rose to economic power during their first grand attempt at organized piracy.”

The History of Alshar

By Seabrother Dexus of Fairhaven Abbey

The drunk old mariner stumbled with practiced grace down the ancient wooden dock, his battered black boots scraping against the weather-worn wood with a determined but entirely irregular gait.  The swirl of the mists accumulating in shadowed pockets of the waterfront was already starting to obscure his footing, but considering the cloud of brandy fumes that clung to his tattered clothes and the squint to his salt-stained eyes, the fog was the least of his impairments.

The mariner wore a rusty scimitar at his hip, the bronze bell scratched and verdigried with long exposure to the elements.  His broad hat, olive-colored doublet and thin leather baldric told him out as an officer, or at least a man with aspirations of a commission at some point in his career.  His unshaven chin and patched hose indicated that it had been some time since he’d had a commission that paid – or much work of any sort.  The purse next to his blade was as flaccid as a becalmed sail.

“Storm Lord’s blessings on ye, lads!” he said in a loud and enthusiastic voice, filling the air with the aroma of the cheap brandy mixed with seawater known as Maiden’s Blood the mariners of Enultramar preferred as a matter of cultural pride.  “Wouldn’t happen to have a spare ha’penny, would you, my lords?”

Rondal eyed the man suspiciously and continued to sip his plain, country-made un-watered ale.  He’d seen enough of these out-of-work mariners in the last two days to fill a fleet, and the landsmen who came to the docks hoping to sell their produce looked just as desperate.

There were hundreds of ships at anchor across the Great Bay, after the fleets returned from a season of raiding and trading this year.  But there were far more than there were ports for them.  When the squadrons of the Sea Lords returned before the winter storms, they brought back more than twice their number of smaller Farisi ships.

When the boys arrived at the mouth of the great river Mandros, they’d learned that the mariners of Farise, in exile at sea for nearly five years, had gathered their fellows from all over the Shallow Sea and made port in Enultramar, under the auspices of the rebel barons and viscounts who ruled there.  Now the sails bearing the old Farisian symbol, a stylized sun wheel over a stylized wave, were just as numerous as those bearing the sea axe-and-anchor of the Alshari navy, though the latter clearly enjoyed the advantage in the size of its ships.

While that made every major harbor crowded, smaller ports like Solashaven seemed to only attract the large number of mariners ashore for the winter who’d blown through their pay in the first few weeks in the major ports and then drifted like seaweed toward less expensive quarters.  Even the great ports they’d passed on their way to this silted-up haven seemed crowded with them, milling listlessly between taphouses.  All of Enultramar seemed to becalmed, as ships bobbed in the harbors and havens, but did not depart.

Tyndal took a more engaging approach.  He saw the vast horizon of squalid fishing villages and ancient docks, sea castles and merchant caravels, vacant warehouses and rotting hulls as an opportunity for adventure, not an insidious trap ever revealing itself.  Enultramar was a game to the younger of the two magi.  Though their mission was serious, his approach to it was not – something that irritated his companion to no end.

But it occasionally got results.

“I might have coin for the right news, Uncle,” he replied, tapping a silver penny – known locally as a “shell”, for the scallop design stamped into the obverse – on the table.  He watched with expectation as the man’s bleary eyes opened up.  You could buy a lot of Maiden’s Blood with a single shell.  An entire night’s worth of drunken oblivion.

“Plain Nymatis always has his ears open, gentlemen,” he assured them, obsequiously.  “Nothin’ happens on the docks o’ Enultramar that don’t eventually come to these big ears.  Like lateen sails, they are.  What news do ye seek?”

“We want to know where we might find a certain fellow,” continued Tyndal, more quietly.  Rondal had to admit, his partner was far more adept at this sort of thing than he was.  “We have reason to suspect he’s somewhere here in Solashaven.”

“Does this fellow have a name?” asked Nymatis.  “And does he want to be found?”

“He does, and he doesn’t,” Tyndal offered.  “Do you find that morally troubling?”  Suddenly there were two shells flipping enticingly through his fingers.

The mariner scratched his scraggly jaw.  He considered briefly before his face dismissed the idea entirely.  “Can’t say that I do, milord!”

“The man’s name is Skrup,” Tyndal said, catching the man’s eye intently.  “Skrupenal, but he’s known as Skrup.  Hard Skrup, to some,” he said, adding the man’s street name.

“Oh, it’s Skrup,” Nymatis said, his voice falling.  That seemed a different matter.  His expression changed.  “Why would a couple o’ nice lads like yourselves want to get on board a ruffian like him?”

“We owe him money,” Rondal blurted out, earning him a stern look from Tyndal.

You do realize that’s the oldest, most blatant lie about why someone is looking for someone else, don’t you? he asked his partner scornfully, mind-to-mind.  Why not mention we have a present for his daughter’s name-day?  Or that we’re long-lost relatives bringing him a rich legacy?

Fine, I’ll shut up! Rondal shot back, irritated.

“We’d like to discuss a business matter,” Tyndal corrected, smoothly, when Nymantis’ skepticism became apparent.  A third shell was added to the pile on the table.

“Ah, business,” the mariner nodded, still rubbing his uneven beard.  “Can’t stand in the way of a man’s business, now, can I?  Against the Fairdealer, that would be.”

Invoking one of the less-bloodthirsty daughters of the Storm Lord as an excuse for low-dealing seemed to be a popular rationalization in Enultramar, the boys had learned already in their brief stay.  The five deities seemed uncannily helpful at providing perfectly reasonable excuses for extremely poor behavior wrapped in the cloak of pious virtue.

“I know the man – know of him,” he corrected.  “Though he’s often drawn out of Solashaven on . . . business,” he said, his drunken grin communicating just what kind of business the mariner imagined the man to pursue.

“Well, we were told he was the one to speak to about arranging certain things,” Tyndal continued, still playing with the three silver coins.  “We would be incredibly grateful if we could be directed to where he’s doing business, these days.”

“The Arrunatus House,” the man said in a whisper loud enough to hear over the waves lapping against the edge of the pier.  “Second floor.”  His eyes darted expectantly down to the three silver coins and back up to Tyndal’s face, pleadingly.

“Well done, Nymatis,” Tyndal nodded, and flipped the three into the air.  As drunk as the mariner was, he caught all three in his left fist as if they were three golden sandolars instead.  The look of misplaced triumph in his eyes made Rondal ill, but Tyndal just acted pleased as the old man sauntered away.

“Arrunatus House,” Tyndal repeated, satisfied.  “Second floor.”

“You know, it might have been helpful to ask where we might find the Arrunatus House,” Rondal mentioned, sipping his ale.

“Do you not remember esteemed Iyugi’s advice on the subject of gathering intelligence?” Tyndal lectured, finishing his own wine.  He’d opted for Maiden’s Blood himself, out of a sense of adventure, and was pretending not to be bothered by the taste.  “Try not to reveal more in asking your questions than your subject does in answering them.’  I didn’t want to appear like I didn’t know where the place was.  That might have tipped him off and given him a reason to mention our inquiry to people we’d rather not know about it,” he said, sagely.

Rondal watched as Nymantis staggered back down the pier from the way he’d come, his fortune destined for the brandy parlor at the far end.  Brandy was cheap, and the drink of choice for the poor and destitute in Enultramar.  With so little of the local wines being exported these days, most vintners were selling their surpluses to distillers, the boys had learned.  The resulting glut of cheap brandy on the docks made drunkenness the preferred method of enjoying the economic downturn.

“I don’t think he’s likely to say much to anyone, after he drinks up that silver,” Rondal said, doubtfully.

The mariner had attracted a tail, a string of local urchins and orphans who seemed to clog the docks and streets of the places they’d seen.  The locals of Solashaven and other dingy ports called them “barnacles” for how ubiquitous and unwanted they were.  The children of whores and cast-off waifs, the orphans of mariners and barmaids taken in their prime, they seemed to range from age of four to pubescence, but the string who haunted the docks here seemed to be mostly seven or eight years old.

“He’ll be happy to blab whatever he can if it means another cup of Maid’s Blood,” Tyndal assured him.  “For a mariner, I doubt he’s been on a deck in years.”

“Two strangers in town looking for Skrup for business are one thing; two strangers looking for Skrup who have no idea where he might be hanging his hat?  That might be suspicious.  We can ask where the house is from anyone else, without revealing why we want to go there.”  The barnacles surrounded the wobbling drunk, their hands outstretched and their voices pleading.  It was as if they could smell the silver pennies in his pocket.

Skrup is a Rat, reminded Rondal, mind-to-mind.  The magical rapport between the two had grown with time and practice, until they could speak to each other’s minds almost at will.  Anyone we ask about him is going to assume we have ‘business’ with his crew.

That’s why we don’t need to appear like rubes, Tyndal shot back.

We appear completely as rubes, Rondal complained.

He knew he wasn’t wrong.  Despite the muted color of their clothing and their care to keep from attracting attention, the two were garbed differently enough from the average subject of Enultramar’s far-flung havens to be noticed.

Most of the common men who worked the docks – or were desperately searching for work at the docks – wore a simple cotton tunic, laced at the collar, and a sturdy waistcoat; their shoes were wooden-soled leather laced to the knee over their stockings.  Noblemen – of which they’d seen a few, some in worse states than the commonfolk – and officers tended to wear doublets with light mantles to keep the misty chill of the sea at bay.

And hats.  All of Enultramar seemed to be mad for hats, for some reason.  Probably the near-constant sprinkle of mist from the sea and the persistent rains that showered the bay daily during the winter season.  Even the poor folk managed to wear straw hats woven from the sea of reeds that clung to the stony shore.

By comparison, the two magi were decidedly dressed like Narasi Riverlords, in simpler doublets with far longer sleeves, far longer hems, and with far heavier cloaks than the Sea Lords and Coastlords they’d witnessed.  Even their swords were out of place.  Though they had stowed their mageblades, the sidearms they carried were from Castal.  Rondal’s was a short, triangular-shaped infantry sword, and Tyndal’s was a long, straight, heavy cavalry sword, the kind a knight or sergeant would carry.  Neither blade was common in Solashavan, or in any other part of Enultramar, where scimitars and leaf-shaped short swords favored by the Coastlord infantry were common.

So let’s adopt some native dress, proposed Tyndal. It should only take a couple of days to learn how to blend in, once we get some new clothes.  We can use the time to enjoy the whole seashore experience.  Once you get the accent down, the rest is just playing dress-up.  The barnacles following the mariner became increasingly demanding that the man part with his new fortune, at least share his bounty.  The old drunk was having none of it, holding his fist above his head and bellowing belligerently for the children to leave him be.  It doesn’t seem too difficult to pass for a destitute drunk, for instance.

“I think I saw a pawn shop last night near the inn,” Rondal conceded, out loud.  “There is an entire alley of them, a few streets back.”

“That would be a good place to start,” agreed Tyndal, rising, after he set his mug on the table, decisively, and with a regretful glance.

“Oh yes, some grungy clothes, a couple of rusty swords, and the taste of brandy and vomit on your breath . . . it will be as if you were born here,” Rondal observed.

“There are worse places to be born,” Tyndal shrugged.  “And it’s far more important where you die than where you were born.  Let’s hope the two are far apart in distance and time.”

“I hate it when you get philosophical,” Rondal complained, good-naturedly.  “It usually means you have no idea what is going on.  Let’s go.”  As he stood, there was a brief commotion as two of the begging children, frustrated with the mariner’s lack of generosity, began pulling fiercely on the man’s threadbare cloak.  Though they had not enough force or weight between them to pull him over backwards, they did effectively immobilize him . . . and draw his head back.

Swiftly, the mood of the children turned from pleading to aggressive; the two who were holding the man by his cloak were digging in their bare heels on the weathered pier while at least a half a dozen others swarmed over the mariner.  Rondal almost laughed at the man’s helplessness in the face of the children . . . when he saw him reach for his blade.

Rondal started toward the scene automatically, but Tyndal’s hand on his shoulder restrained him.

Remember what Iyugi said, he cautioned.  Do not get involved.  In anything.  Things are never what they seem, in Enultramar.  He spoke it with the same foreboding tone that the half-breed footwizard told them in the first place.  While the idea of the old sailor spitting and slashing a bunch of helpless children over three silver pennies galled him, Rondal stopped his advance.

Tyndal proved correct.  Iyugi the Footwizard, one of Master Minalan’s most trusted agents, had extensive experience here in the south of Alshar.  He’d given them plenty of good guidance and even facilitated them being smuggled into the rebellious province through an acquaintance who owed him a boon.  They’d come to respect his perspectives on such clandestine missions, after a few demonstrations of his powers.

I don’t want to see those kids get hurt, Rondal said, his brow furrowed.

Before Tyndal could respond, the sotted mariner managed to get his scimitar drawn half-way out of its scabbard before a child on his elbow and a child on his wrist halted him, keeping him from swinging the point free of the scabbard.  As fast as lightning, a young girl of eight or nine, as skinny as a seagull’s leg, half-climbed up the struggling mariner’s doublet, drew a small (but apparently well-sharpened) knife, and slit the man’s throat in one deft move.  Her expression was not one of rage or hate, but merely commerce.

The maneuver was not novel to her, the magi could tell, considering how adeptly she swung out of the way before the mariner’s front was sprayed with dark arterial blood and the sour, alcoholic vomit that erupted from his mouth at the attack.  His scimitar and the three pennies forgotten, his hands clutched at his throat as his eyes opened as wide as a gigged fish.  No one on the dock seemed to take much notice of the struggle.

See? Tyndal said, quietly, into Rondal’s mind.  You never know which side is the right side in Enultramar.

I’m not sure there is a right side here, Rondal replied, sadly, as they witnessed a second swarm of barnacles sweep in and begin looting the mariner’s still-struggling body.  His coin, his sword, his belt, his old boots and even his empty purse disappeared in seconds, clutched triumphantly in the grubby hands of the gang of children.

Nymatis ignored them, more concerned with the fountain of crimson that was leeching away his life with each powerful burst from his neck.  He looked in vain at his bloody hands, and his mouth filled with bile and blood as he struggled.  But his fight was over before his arse fell to the bloodstained planks below.  No one could survive such a carefully calculated and well-delivered slash to the thick arteries of the neck for more than moments.

Don’t get involved, Rondal repeated, dully.  That was . . .

. . . yes, Tyndal agreed.  It was.  That was Enultramar.  Every seedy, silty, swampy little hamlet across this beautiful, filthy bay is packed with the seething mass of poverty-stricken humanity willing to do anything or trade anything to go one more day in their tortured existence.  This is where Ruderal was born and raised, he reminded his friend.

How did a foul-smelling hell-hole like this produce that nice boy? Rondal asked, more to himself than Tyndal.

Some of the fairest blooms grow in the most disgusting of soils, Tyndal said, philosophically.  He often had expansive answers for such questions.  It was easily one of the more annoying things about him.

Well, that’s the bloom we’re here to pluck, reminded Rondal.  The sooner we can do that, the sooner we can get the pluck out of here.

This place isn’t so bad, Tyndal replied, silently, as the two began walking toward the harbor town’s market.  It’s colorful.  You can see where it used to be really pretty, he added nodding toward a grand, elaborately carved granite façade featuring all manner of sea creatures and ocean spirits doing unlikely things.

Rondal nodded toward the roof of the building – an old warehouse or customs house, he figured – where many of the slate tiles were chipped, cracked, or askew, revealing the wood underneath.  Perhaps when the Sea Lords ruled this place, he pointed out.  It’s been a long, long time since anyone did anything of note in Solashaven.

The small harbor town was not even, technically, in the harbor, but near the inlet of a silty river that brought muddy brown fresh water from the mountains in the northeast to mix with the harsh, brackish water of the bay.

Much of the harborage of Enultramar was confined to such hidden or concealed ports, protected from the naked ocean by the giant rocky islands that ringed the bay.  A vast estuary spread out over the coastline and the three major rivers that emptied into it.  Solashaven, though one of the oldest ships’ havens in Alshar, was never one of the largest, busiest, or most prosperous.

Its heyday had been at the beginning of the Narasi occupation, Rondal had learned in his researches, before they came here.  Before their barbaric ancestors conquered Alshar, the wine trade from the fruitful Bikavar region on the eastern side of the vale went through Sea Lord ports exclusively, subject to high fees and taxes and extravagant transport costs.  Once the Narasi dukes began re-ordering trade, they broke the monopoly on tonnage the Sea Lords enforced and allowed the Coastlords to build havens and ships directly.

Solashaven, once a tiny Sea Lord outpost, was re-developed as a Coastlord port . . . though it was almost exclusively mariners from the old Cormeeran families who were themselves Sea Lords who usually piloted and mastered their fleets.  For a hundred years little harbor towns like Solashaven were able to send the Coastlords’ bounty directly to the rich markets in Cormeer, Farise, Unstara, Merwyn, even Vore, at great profit.

But eventually the importance of the wine trade waned as the ships from Enultramar were filled with cotton from Gilmora, not wine from Bikavar.  Fewer ships put into harbor seeking wine, and fewer still wanted to gamble on the potential of spoiled wine on a voyage when cotton could get soaked with seawater and still fetch a commanding price at market.  The silt from the river, too, prohibited the larger freighters from docking at the Lord Of Solashaven’s piers, leaving their trade to smaller caravels who had neither the space aboard for cotton nor the confidence of the masters of the trade to see it transported safely to market.

The mariners who were left using Solashaven were a degenerate sort.  The massive, deep-draughted freighters that plied the Depths beyond the Shallow Sea – and were therefore stocked to the gunwales with expensive exotic merchandise – preferred better harborage than the little town could offer, which meant that the buyers of their wares also preferred larger ports.

The trade remaining to Solashaven was almost exclusively exports, particularly the robust red wines from the rich county of Bikavar, whose vineyards and wineries upriver sent a steady trickle of the sweet red elixir downstream to Solashaven for shipment beyond . . . and with the low price of Remeran and Cormeeran wines making that trade difficult, there was not much of that, even.

The ships which remained either had ties to the town or saw it as an inexpensive alternative to the great harbors in the middle of the bay.  Their trade tended to be less profitable by far, and it was widely understood that whatever the captains led their crews to do once they were beyond the horizon from their home port would be wiser left at sea.  While no one was saying “piracy” or “smuggling” outright, it was no accident that all of the quays of the besilted harbor were empty when the ducal inspector (who now inspected on behalf of the ruling council) made his semi-annual trip to Solashaven.

The Viscount of the town, and the moderately fertile agricultural lands included in his holding to the north and west of the town, was rarely if ever present in Solashaven though he had a tidy little palace there.  He and his family had relocated to Falas, Rondal found out, ruling their fief by proxy through an adept administrator who was, it was said, more than willing to take a bribe while the Viscount of Solashaven served as a minor court functionary.  He hadn’t even visited the place since he was a child.

Instead a castellan oversaw his interests here, collecting the taxes and fees on his master’s behalf in exchange for a percentage.  As he was widely seen as willing to do anything if the price was right, the man lined his pockets with special fees and outright bribes, undermining the social fabric of Solashaven.  Considering his unwillingness to spend much of the treasury he collected on actual improvements, the town’s infrastructure, from customs officials to public privies, was falling to pieces.

The only area which seemed livelier than the rest of the dusty town was the market on the waterfront where the local fishermen and farmers traded their wares, and net-makers, thatchers, stonemasons and carpenters met with clients.  It was as busy as any other market of a reasonably large town, but not much of that business enriched the patrons, thanks to stiff competition and prices.

There were two smiths in the market, three tanners, and two sailmakers; there were plenty of stalls hawking produce and things like smoked ham and bacon from upstream.  But while the locals selling to their neighbors was a positive sign of prosperity in Solashaven, under it all the boys began to pick up a some serious signs of dismay and resentment.

“There’s just not enough business,” Tyndal observed as they walked through the market.  “A third of the booths are empty.  It’s not a market day, but there are still more people looking than buying.  And look at the fees,” he said, nodding to a sign detailing the prices for each booth.  “Twice as high as they should be.  Three shells a week?  That’s outrageous!”

“No sitting lord in residence,” Rondal nodded, thoughtfully.  “The castellan runs the town.  You know what happens to a place when there’s a tenant lord in charge.”

“Among other things, the criminal element finds opportunity,” Tyndal sniffed, as they passed by a shrimp stall.  “And when there is no strong force restricting them, they grow like mold in the cracks of the town.”

“That’s a lovely poetic image,” Rondal chuckled.  He paused himself at the booth of a thin little man selling straw hats and baskets to ask where he might find Arrunatus House.  It turned out it was just off the market square to the north, one of a row of warehouses that serviced the docks.

The sausage vendor they asked for directions also recommended the porter’s hall across the street – a glorified taphouse for porters and stevedores between assignments, known for cheap booze and pleasant sea breezes.  He particularly recommended the punch they served at low cost to the porters – a proprietary blend of fruit juices, rum, and brandy, sweetened with sugar from Unstara, that kept the laborers fueled for their tasks.  Rondal thanked the man and they continued to walk at a leisurely pace.

“There it is,” Rondal nodded as they followed the vendor’s directions to the place.  “Arrunatus House.”

The large two-story structure had a first floor built of brick, with stone pillars supporting the roof.  The second floor was plastered timber, whitewashed in ages past but now cracking and crumbling under years of neglected maintenance and constant exposure to the salt, wind and rain of the bay.  The steep-pitched roof was shingled with gray clay tiles, but many were missing.  In several places sailcloth and pitch had been used to secure a temporary patch, but it had clearly been years since anyone spent the coin to repair the place properly.

A faded, weathered sign of indeterminate age bore a series of symbols the illiterate masses of Enultramar used indicating that the great building was a warehouse, if they were too dim to note it, and above it in an ancient style of Cormeeran script popular along the seashore proclaimed for the literate: ARRUNATUS HOUSE – WARES AND STORAGE – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.  No proprietor was listed, and the only sign of life was a mean-looking porter outside, smoking a short pipe under the awning over the loading dock, glaring balefully at anyone who came too close.

“What a dump,” Tyndal observed, without slowing down.  “Shall we get a drink and observe awhile?” he suggested.

“The vendor in the market did suggest the porter’s hall,” Rondal agreed.  “And the porter’s punch.  It would be a shame to miss any of the colorful local features.”

Then Tyndal did pause as he caught sight of the small, stand-alone building on the wall overlooking the docks they’d been referred to.  It was even more decrepit than Arrunatus House, a mean structure of brick and cast-off stone that had been repaired and augmented so many times over the years – centuries – that there didn’t seem to be a right angle associated with the place.

The plaster was pocked with cracks and craters from years of rough-and-tumble laborers, drunk and tired, expressing their displeasures and woes.  While someone had made a spirited effort to try to make the place look inviting by hanging banners and painting parts of the exterior with vivid murals of the supposed pleasures within, the effect was gloomy and sad more than enticing.

There were stains of both blood and vomit around the door, and the smell would have been revolting, anywhere else; here, on the riverfront, near the bay and even nearer the market, it was merely mildly unpleasant.

“Looks like your kind of place,” Rondal suggested.

“Lots of local color,” nodded Tyndal.  “Clearly a den of vice and iniquity.  And a great place to find a dagger in your kidney while you’re taking a piss.  But relatively safe from inquisitive types or local officials.  And it looks like it has a deck on the rooftop – that should be pleasant, come sundown.”

“I hear sunset over the Bay is spectacular,” agreed Rondal, as he plunged into the shop after his friend.  “I imagine it will be, with all of those ships anchored out there.”  There were

“I hear the whores who come out at twilight are spectacular,” Tyndal added.  “In the larger cities of the Bay, there’s a regular procession every night.”

The two ordered a mug of the punch from the gruff barman, who showed them the rickety stairs to the roof.  The hall below was dark and nearly deserted this time of day, and the succulent barmaids represented by the murals outside were nowhere to be seen.  They retired to the roof, which had been planked with half-timbered logs and seasoned with pitch against the weather.  A few old patches of sailcloth served as awnings over the rough wooden tables, none of which were in use at this time of day.

“See?” Tyndal said, as they took a seat overlooking Arrunatus House.  “Nothing to worry about.  Just your average sort of dingy, disreputable taphouse.  As long as we mind our own business, we should be fine.”

“Like that drunken mariner who got his throat cut by a gang of barnacles?” Rondal reminded him.  “That happened two hours ago, right there on the dock, and there hasn’t been so much as a visit by the town watch.”  From their rooftop perch, they could see the body on the dock.

“That’s just Enultramar, I think,” Tyndal sighed.  “At least this part of it.  Someone will come by and kick it into the water shortly, and feed the fishes and drakes.  All part of the Storm Lord’s plan,” he said, with mock piety.

“Lovely,” Rondal said, sniffing.

“Are you kidding?  From what I’ve heard Solashaven is a resort spot compared to some of the pits of hopelessness around the Bay.  When you get back into the swamps and the river ports, or into the old Sea Lord havens that have been abandoned, things get really rough.”

“No wonder the Brotherhood took hold, here,” Rondal agreed.  “With as much trade, commerce, piracy and slavery that go through Enultramar, they’re likely an essential part of the economy.”

Tyndal looked at him with a start.  “You’re not having second thoughts about this, are you?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” assured Rondal.  “In fact, seeing this kind of institutionalized wretchedness makes me all the more certain of our goal.  The Brotherhood are parasites on this culture, I see now.  And while destroying them may be destabilizing, I remind you that we sit in a land whose lords have rebelled against their lawful liege – who is, coincidentally, our lawful liege.  Destabilizing a regime who is in rebellion to him would be, I think, counted as a good thing.”

“Well, when it comes to messing things up, we’re pretty good at it.”

“I cannot argue with that,” Rondal agreed.  “And after everything we’ve seen – Pratt the Rat, poor Estasia, and what those bastards did to our friends in the Land of Scars – I’m more than eager to hold them accountable.”

“First things first,” Tyndal reminded him.  “We’re here for Ruderal, not revenge.  Not yet.  Our mission is to rescue him and his mom, not just kill Rats.”

“Oh, I know.  We seem to have found where they might be lurking,” he said, nodding to the warehouse across the street.  “What do you propose we should do?”

Tyndal looked guiltily at his drink.  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, Ron.  Honestly?  I think you should be calling the shots on this mission.  I’m . . . I’m worried I’ll screw it up.  And then Ruderal will end up dead, because I wasn’t smart or subtle enough.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” Rondal exclaimed.  “You’re every bit as smart as I am!”

“And as subtle as a three-breasted whore,” snorted Tyndal.  “Look, I understand my limitations.  There is a time for kicking doors in, and there’s a time for subtlety.  I trust your subtlety more than I trust my ego so . . . I want you to take the lead on this.  There’s too much at stake for us to send it into the chamberpot.”

Rondal was stunned.  It was the most frank and honest admission of his egotistical friend’s limitations he’d ever heard Tyndal utter, and the fact that he recognized them as such was astonishing.

“Well, close your mouth – especially around here,” Tyndal counseled, quietly but in an irritated voice.  “You do not want a fly from here anywhere near your mouth.  Don’t say anything,” he added.  “Just accept that I’m following your leadership on this mission and keep the wise-ass comments to yourself.  Or would you prefer to argue over every little detail, as usual?”

“I . . . all right,” Rondal said, simply, understanding that any outpouring of emotion at Tyndal’s incredible admission would sour the effect.  “All right, I’ll lead this time.  You can lead next time, when we’re just interested in rampant destruction.  For this, we are going to require subtlety,” he began, hoping that Tyndal was earnest in his declaration.

“Agreed,” Tyndal nodded, sipping his punch.

“We’ve tracked that rascal Skrup to his lair, where he probably has Ruderal and his mother prisoner.  Even if he doesn’t, he’ll know who does, and where they’re being kept. So our first order of business will be to determine just who is inside, where they are, and what security the place has.  From there, I’ll form a plan for an effective rescue,” he added, in a businesslike tone.

“And I’ll get us some real drinks while you do that,” Tyndal said, rising, with a sour expression on his face.  “I don’t know what that sausage vendor was talking about.  This punch is revolting!”

THANKS FOR READING!