“We’ve made contact with the Spellmonger over the Mirror!” came the news from Banamor, excitedly. “He’s heading home at once! Hopefully he can handle this whole mess and let me get back to planning the fair!”
“And . . . save all of our lives,” Gareth said to his master’s back. Banamor was already spreading the news to others, and in a few moments various parts of the castle began to cheer. Zagor smiled, nodded to the two young people, and headed toward the chamber where the magic Mirror was kept.
“Just in time,” Gareth said, dejectedly, but with some relief. “Any longer and we would have cocked up the entire war, and likely lost the domain for the Spellmonger.”
“We did all right,” Dara countered. “We’ve been under attack for a week, and we’re still here. That’s important,” she reminded him.
“You always know the right thing to say,” sighed Gareth. “Maybe the Spellmonger won’t be quite so mad, now.”
“He won’t be mad at you – at us,” she corrected. “He’ll be mad at the West Flerians.”
“You’re right – and I don’t envy them. I know Master Minalan only a little, but I would never want him mad at me. He has . . . creative ways to express himself. Thanks,” Gareth said, catching her hand. He stared at her intently. “I really appreciate all the help you’ve been,” he said with a shy smile.
“It’s my duty,” she said, off-handedly. But she was suddenly uncomfortable at the intensity of his notice. “And I have learned a lot about magi,” she added, quickly. “And magic!”
“Good,” Gareth nodded, realizing he was being too intense. “You really do have a lot of Talent, Dara. No matter what, you should develop it. You’re smart enough to be a really good mage, someday.”
“I can’t even read,” dismissed Dara. If she’d learned anything about magi in the last week, it was how important books and words were to their practice. To her, they were just incomprehensible marks on the parchment, but Gareth, Olmeg, and even Banamor referred to the books in the workshop frequently.
“You can learn,” Gareth shrugged. “It’s not that hard. I’ve even seen children learn. And life as a mage isn’t so bad.”
“I’m a falconer,” reminded Dara, nervously. “I don’t need to be a mage.”
“Dara, you are a mage,” he said, standing. “You’re a beastmaster. A novice beastmaster, but you’ve developed very quickly, and I think you have a lot of native Talent. You could go a long way, if you had the right resources and training. And encouragement,” he added.
“Maybe,” she shrugged, pretending that the lad’s sudden intense interest didn’t bother her. “But while this is fun, it isn’t as much fun as hunting Frightful. That’s what I really want to do,” she assured him.
“You can do both,” he replied. “And more. Magic informs, it doesn’t limit. Not anymore,” he said, earnestly.
“I . . . I’ll think about it,” Dara said, more lightly than she felt.
After that she avoided Gareth as much as she could for a few days. Instead she worked with Zagor, or sometimes Olmeg. Eventually she noted that Gareth wasn’t showing up at the Magelord’s workshop in the castle anymore, and she got worried. He had volunteered to be at the front, at the Diketower, Master Zagor told her when she asked. That made Dara worry about him, because it was dangerous at the Diketower. But at least he wasn’t here, looking at her.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like the young mage – she did. Gareth was always friendly and talkative, always polite. He treated her like a noblewoman and a colleague of sorts, not a dimwitted, ignorant drudge born in the woods. In fact, that was part of the problem. He treated her . . . too well. With too much deference. She had seen her brothers and cousins do that, occasionally . . . but only when they liked a girl.
Dara couldn’t face the idea that Gareth liked her. She didn’t know why, but it made her uncomfortable. The mage was only a few years older than she, and he was odd-looking, even a bit homely. But while working with him in the Spellmonger’s workshop, she had sensed his interest in her. For whatever reason, Dara could not face that – or him – without feeling terribly confused. Instead she buried herself in spying on the movements of the West Flerians, scouting the frontiers and even checking on their far-flung outposts with her bird’s eyes.
That’s what allowed her to be the first to spot the column of troops approaching the vale from the east. She was using her bird to examine the road that ran to Sevendor’s vale from the east, toward the heart of West Fleria. While the flow of reinforcements from the Warbird’s lands had slowed to a trickle, Sevendor had to be on guard against more foes. That’s what threw her, when she first saw the banner at the head of the column.
At first Dara thought it was yet more reinforcements for the attackers, but then the vanguard of the army got closer, and she saw that they bore a banner, green and white. A white snowflake on a green field. Behind it was a long column of fighting men, armored, marching, or mounted. Many bore tabards or sashes with the same device.
The Spellmonger had arrived, finally, to save them all.
Chapter Sixteen
The Spellmonger’s Trial
After Magelord Minalan returned life nearly returned to normal in Sevendor. The barricades were hauled away and the bodies were buried. The wounded were healed and the harvest was begun. Dara returned to her room at Westwood Hall, her services no longer needed by the Magical Corps, now that the Magelord was back and the war was over. The Magelord had not just returned to save Sevendor, he had taken the opportunity of the Warbird’s deployment to hire a mercenary army and and conquer the Warbird’s entire unguarded domain. Sire Gimbal had been sent packing back to his brother’s court.
Everyone else just tried to get back to normal.
Dara helped out at the castle until her help was no longer needed. Then she resigned herself to finishing out the summer by perfecting Frightful’s hunting. The high meadows of the Westwood would only be active for a few more weeks, she knew, before the creatures there began settling in for the winter. Already the birds had begun to change, as the migratory ducks and geese made their stop in Sevendor’s small ponds and single lake on their way from the Kuline mountains in the north to warmer climes along the coast or beyond.
Dara hunted Frightful in peaceful solitude – at first. By the second day she was already bored with simply hunting and killing. So was Frightful. Most falconers had to guess what their birds were feeling, but knew when Frightful was bored, and after the third rabbit of the day the falcon was finding the exercise tedious.
The one day she spared herself from hunting was a week after the siege was broken. Most of the wounded men had returned to the Hall from the castle already, as the place stood down from a condition of war. There were friendly soldiers everywhere, Dara saw as she followed her family, dressed in finery, as they crossed the bridge and made their way to the Sevendor Village commons.
Master Minalan had summoned all of the Yeomen and their families for a special court, held in conjunction with no less prestigious persons than Sire Sigalan of Trestendor and Baron Arathaniel. Dara had heard of neither man before her brief service in the Magical Corps, but the experience during the siege had introduced her to the politics of the greater world beyond Sevendor’s ridges. Now Dara knew who they were, and what their presence meant.
Both men were neighbors and firm allies of the Magelord. Both had lent him troops in his conquest of the Warbird’s unguarded domains, while his men and armies were occupied besieging Sevendor. The Magelord had hired mercenaries, used his powerful magic, and gotten the aid of his fellow warmagi. The tale was being told that he had confronted Sire Gimbal on the field with the sight of his captured wife and children, and those of his lords and castellans, that the Magelord and his allies had taken as they had rampaged through West Fleria.
Now the Magelord sat in judgment. Dara watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as the man wisely dealt with those who had aided his domain in its time of need . . . and those wh
o had betrayed it.
First, the criminals. Dara watched as Railan the Steady, Sir Erantal, and a bunch of Genlymen who had been captured in battle by the Spellmonger’s forces were tried and convicted for treason by the Spellmonger. With harsh words and contempt in his voice, Magelord Minalan sentenced both men to die by magic . . . and then had their heads off on the spot faster than a man could draw a sword.
To the others he banished or punished with magemarks – large red splotches across their faces that told them out as criminals. More than a dozen Genlymen were sentenced that way, and to the Westwoodmen it seemed like an overabundance of mercy. While none of their folk had died in the siege, plenty had been injured. The sense of betrayal was worst of all – a man who went back on his oath, in front of the Flame or not, was not a man to be trusted with anything of value.
But then came the rewards.
To her father he granted the Yeomanry of Caolan’s Pass. That was a shock and surprise to Dara – she knew the post was lucrative, as the keeper of the pass collected part of the toll every traveler paid him. But the reward also entailed guardianship of the pass – no small thing, considering how strategic it was. To Dara, Caolan’s Pass had always seemed like the end of the world, she mused as she watched her brothers and uncles and father be rewarded for their service. Now that she had seen beyond it, through Frightful’s eyes, she knew that it was merely the gateway to a wider world.
A gateway her father now owned a piece of. She smiled when the Spellmonger praised her kin for their steadfast defense of the domain. Honor to the Hall was honor to all, went the saying. When the Magelord presented her brother with a beautiful brown charger, taken as spoils of war, as a token of his esteem for the Westwoodmen, Dara joined her family in cheering wildly.
“He’s beautiful!” Dara agreed, when she got the chance to see the horse after court had adjourned. “What will you call him?”
“Autumn,” decided Kyre, stroking the horse’s black mane lovingly. “I’ll have to keep him at the castle stables, but . . .”
“He’s a magnificent animal,” agreed her Uncle Keram, as he and her father joined them. “One of the Lord of Northwood’s finest. That was a rich gift!”
“And one with expectation of greater service,” agreed her father. “Caolan’s Pass is to be ours, but it will be a lot of work to maintain, in addition to the Westwood. Our fortunes are rising, but the price is our toil.”
“I can get use to the price,” bragged Kyre, grinning. “Father, the Magelord is an honorable man. A cunning man. A worthy lord,” he said, meaningfully. Dara wasn’t exactly certain what he was talking about – wasn’t all of that obvious?
“I have eyes, my son,” Kamen reproved, gently. “But the moods of magi are fickle. He has done well by us, to be sure.” There was more being unspoken than spoken, in front of her, and Dara didn’t like it one bit. Clearly her father and brother were continuing a conversation she wasn’t privy to, and it was irritating. Why was this important?
“Time will tell, as well as deeds,” Keram added, wisely. “I think—”
“Excuse me, gentle people!” Dara never learned what her uncle, known for his craftiness, was thinking, because Master Banamor chose that moment to interrupt.
The Spellwarden was dressed in a long, dark brown robe of richly dyed wool. He wore a sash of office and a sword uncomfortably at his side. He pushed his way into the knot around Kyre’s horse, searching around.
“Has anyone seen – oh, there you are!” he said, finally laying his eyes on Dara. “The hawkmaiden! Excellent, excellent . . . the Magelord directed Sir Cei to reward the loyal defenders of the castle and domain, before he scurried off to visit his bride-to-be before the wedding . . . but that’s not why I sought you out. Before he left, the castellan directed me to bestow a small gift to the . . . well, let’s be charitable and call ourselves a Magical Corps. That includes you, my dear,” he added, when Dara’s face did not seem to recognize what he was saying.
“M-me?”
“You were instrumental in field observations,” he pointed out. “Not to mention saving our pass from being overwhelmed quite as quickly as they planned. So . . . please accept this token of a grateful lord and domain,” he said, laying a small purse in her hand. It was heavy, she realized. “And don’t be afraid to stop by my shop with that lovely bird, sometime,” he reminded her. “When your Talent finally emerges fully, you’ll be wanting some advice,” he warned.
“Thank you, Master Banamor!” she said, giving the man the closest thing to a curtsey she could muster. As the Spellwarden wandered off in search of his assistant, Dara opened the purse . . . and took out five heavy pieces of silver.
“Five pennies?” asked Kyre, excitedly. The small silver coins were highly valued in the Westwood, where silver was rare.
“Five ounces!” corrected her father, grinning. “Dara, you could buy quite a lot with that!”
“Five ounces of silver?” Kyre asked in disbelief. “Flame! That makes you nearly rich!”
“Hardly rich,” her uncle said, shaking his head. “But it would buy you cloth for a dozen dresses—”
“As if I need more dresses!” snorted Dara. She preferred a legging and tunic to dresses, one reason she enjoyed hawking so much. She had three dresses – one of which she was wearing – and she found them a bit of a bother. She was not the kind of girl for whom staying clean was a priority.
“Well, think of something to do with it,” advised Keram. “That kind of money can be powerfully tempting.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Dara said, absently. “For now, I’ll save it. The magical fair is in a few weeks. I’m sure there will be something interesting to spend it on, there.”
* * *
As the days of summer drew to a close and the leaves began changing color, the valley began filling with people – strangers – who were arriving for the famous Spellmonger’s magical fair. Dara found herself skipping training and going across the bridge into the village more and more, as the day of the fair grew nearer.
Sevendor Village was being transformed yet again by the fair. Strange-looking merchants and oddly-dressed men from foreign parts arrived with pack horses, wagons, and on foot. Some had skin darker than basalt, others were as fair as a puffy cloud on a sunny day. Most were magi, Gareth explained to her, while walking through the High Street one day before the festivities started.
Dara had renewed her acquaintance of the wizard finally when he confronted her on the High Street in Sevendor Village. He looked a bit older and more serious, since the siege, but he had thankfully also stopped being so obviously interested in Dara. That allowed her to get past her own discomfort and talk to him as a friend.
Still, the young wizard seemed a bit withdrawn and distant from Dara. When she looked at him, he’d nervously cut his eyes away and mumble a response. Or he would stumble over his words unbearably. It was only when she discussed the upcoming Magic Fair that Gareth seemed to come out of his mask of reserved propriety.
“I have registered and collected fees from nearly all of them,” he boasted, as they passed by a group of magi lingering in front of the new tavern that had sprung up on the Commons – one of the many things the late Railan the Steady had been upset by. Had he seen the wild folk arriving for the Fair, reasoned Dara, his head would have exploded before the Spellmonger could have taken it. “Many are footwizards, some are spellmongers, some are real High Magi – they have witchstones, like the Spellmonger.”
“There seem to be a lot of them,” she said, warily, as a tall, dark, handsome man with a big green stone in his ear and a bow on his back pushed his way inside the tavern.
“There are,” agreed Gareth. “And you’ll be seeing more warmagi arriving, too – tough customers, those. But they aren’t about to pass up a chance at a prize like that. Master Minalan has declared that the mage who passes the Spellmonger’s Trial will get a witchstone. A real piece of irionite. Only . . . I’m disqualified, since I’m helping to run the co
ntest,” he added, sadly. “Probably the only way I could get a witchstone, too . . .”
“What will the trial be like?” she asked, curiously.
“No one knows, for sure,” Gareth shrugged. “I know parts of it, but . . . well, Master Minalan has called in some favors from very powerful wizards – High Magi all. They’ve used their witchstones to build the . . . whatever for the trial, but I have no idea what it might entail. It will be very, very hard, though,” he admitted.
“Do you have to be a registered mage to do it?” she asked. Only Imperially trained magi could become registered, she knew; most of the footwizards who were haunting the village couldn’t possibly be registered.
“Oh, no, Master Minalan wants everyone to have an equal chance at it. Anyone with Talent can participate. Even wild magi. That’s . . . well, this whole event is unprecedented, but that’s particularly bold. Most Imperially trained magi don’t think footwizards and hedgewitches are potent enough to do more than remove warts or sell fake love spells. Master Min wants to include all magi in the way things are, now that the Censorate is gone.”
“They aren’t gone,” Dara said, shaking her head. “I heard that they left here and went east.”
“That’s what I heard, too,” Gareth agreed, quietly. “One would hope they would not stop at the ocean.” Regardless of their station and class, Dara had come to understand no mage liked the Censorate. Some were particularly aggressive in their dislike. “We’ve been looking for anyone trying to sneak in. That’s just the sort of thing they like to do. It would be like them to try to disrupt the Magical Fair the way they did Master Minalan’s wedding, or the Chepstan Fair last spring.”
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