Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (108 page)

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 cowdung 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.