Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (111 page)

“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.