Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (55 page)

“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.