Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  The Spellmonger had assured everyone that there were no intentionally lethal spells in the Trial, but that didn’t mean accidents didn’t happen. As Frightful watched the vague disturbance in the air around the pipe Dara tried to appraise the potential harm in the spell.

  She didn’t want to hurt Frightful. But she was so close to the prize, when all the others were so far away. With a flash of impulse, she compelled Frightful to take wing again. Circling the meadow once, she brought the bird down to grab the pipe in her talons.

  Victory seemed on the brink, as the pipe got tantalizingly closer . . . but then Frightful hit the outer limits of the spell, and all was chaos.

  Dara wasn’t quite thrown out of Frightful’s head, but it almost felt like it. She clung desperately to the connection as the bird tumbled wildly off course. As she righted herself, next to the stone, Dara’s conscious clawed its way back into control.

  All right, not the most graceful attempt, she chided herself. The wave of feeling and emotion that had overtaken her mind when the spell was active had been potent. She had been infused with the strongest desire not to disturb the pipe in any way – just the sort of deterrent a wizard would use, she guessed. She had thought of a thousand excellent reasons why doing so would lead to disaster, all occurring to her mind at once, and the effect was so profound she felt nauseated.

  Frightful, thankfully, did not seem to have been affected by the spell. Had Dara’s mind not been so firmly in control, she barely would have felt it.

  Perhaps it just doesn’t work as well on animals, Dara considered. Could that be the answer?

  She knew from her short acquaintance with wizards – Gareth and Master Banamor, mostly, but also Olmeg and Zagor – that they liked to trick with their magics. Gareth had explained once that sometimes the best way to accomplish magic was by convincing everyone not to do something, for instance – and he had been in the process of crafting spells to suggest that visitors to Sevendor Village not litter or relieve themselves in public, so he knew his business. Yet clearly those spells had not affected the canine population of the growing village, as they seemed content to poop wherever they desired.

  Perhaps the Spellmonger’s enchantment was similarly targeted toward human minds, Dara reasoned. In that case, she would have to depend upon Frightful to complete the task without her direct guidance.

  It was difficult to prepare her bird for the mission – Frightful had grown used to sharing her mind with Dara as she soared along, and had eventually accepted Dara’s firm guidance, and its attendant rewards. Dara visualized her desperate need to get the pipe to her bird as they circled overhead. Get the pipe, bring it back to me, she commanded her, until the poor bird’s tiny brain understood. Dara held on to her control of the falcon as she lined up for her run at the boulder, keeping her on task and reminding her of the vital importance of her mission . . . and then moments before the bird flew through the spell, Dara forced her eyes open and broke contact.

  She was breathing hard, and sweat poured off of her at the effort. She waited ten full, agonizingly long heartbeats before she closed her eyes, calmed her mind, and sunk back into her falcon’s mind . . .

  As soon as she was in contact, she saw Frightful was again gaining altitude . . . and that she bore a comfortably heavy weight in her talons. Easier to grip than a rabbit or sparrow, the pipe was nonetheless heavier, and Frightful’s wings strained at the burden.

  “Oh, good girl!” Dara breathed to her bird, as she began the journey back to the fairgrounds. She spared a moment to witness the arrival of the leaders of the race at the new Tal Alon settlement at the base of the hill. The furry little Tals were delighting in throwing vegetables and clods of dirt at the magi, who had been cautioned about retaliating. The young warmage in the lead proceeded past the flung tomatoes with his jaw locked, a determined expression on his face.

  Of course, he was running toward a contest he had already lost. Frightful spread her wings and began the long glide down to the fairgrounds, the fields and pastures of Jurlor’s Hold underneath. As the falcon approached the mass of canopies and pavilions in the Commons, Dara broke contact again. Seconds later, as she was brushing magical wood shavings off of her butt, Frightful landed next to her.

  “Took you long enough,” Dara teased her bird. Frightful didn’t understand it as anything but praise, as her trainer fed her a particularly large piece of dried venison liver. Frightful was ecstatic over the treat, and ate it hungrily.

  Dara stared at the long, elegant pipe, turning it over in her hands three times before she self-consciously hid it under her mantle. When Frightful was done with her treat, Dara hooded her and put her on her shoulder.

  She walked to the main pavilion in a daze. There were no guards, exactly, though there were servants (both human and Tal Alon) working to serve the Magelord and a group of his professional colleagues.

  It was a full table full of wizards, Dara realized. Not only was the Magelord sitting there, drinking from a silver cup in splendor, but there were other magi of power there. Master Banamor was present, as were several warmagi or magelords or whatever else a powerful wizard was called. One was a young woman, not much older than her oldest sister, who sat next to the Magelord. She treated the Spellmonger with strong familiarity, something which made Dara’s heart surge – that was not proper, she decided. Lady Alya could hardly be happy with that!

  The Magelord himself was speaking as Dara stumbled up to the table, avoiding the messengers that darted to and fro into the canopy, mostly to speak with the Fairwarden. Dara quietly made her way as close as she could to the Magelord, until she was standing just behind him, and to his right.

  “. . . or, conversely, protect us from. We have time to do it properly. Right now, let’s turn our attention to the base of the peak – the contestants are arriving, if you’d like to use your magesight to see, and the River Folk are happily pelting them with rotten vegetables. If you look closely you can see the very first of them struggling with the Barrier – yes?” he asked, when he finally noticed Dara at his elbow.

  Dara didn’t know what to say. Her hand dug under her patched mantle for the pipe while her mouth struggled with the right words. How did you announce victory when the contest had not, strictly speaking, even begun yet?

  “Yes?” the Magelord repeated, more sternly, clearly not happy about the interruption. That’s when Dara’s fingers found the prize.

  “I believe you wanted this, Magelord,” she finally managed, as her hands pulled the pipe from beneath her cloak.

  Magelord Minalan’s eyes were wide with surprise – shock, even. He stared at the object as if he didn’t quite recognize it. Dara pushed it at him, ready to be rid of it.

  “Isn’t this your pipe?” she asked, suddenly concerned that she had fetched some sort of decoy. Only that’s not what the Magelord’s face told her. She swallowed nervously. “Wasn’t that what we were supposed to get from the mountain?” she asked, uncertainly. “Sorry it took me so long.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Witchstone

  The next few hours made the last few months, siege and all, seem like a pleasant diversion to Dara. When she revealed her prize to the Spellmonger, arguments immediately broke out all over the fair. And just as it had when she had plucked Frightful from her nest, Dara’s life changed forever.

  Gareth and Banamor valiantly tried to control the crowd, as the rumor of her victory spread, and the Spellmonger directed two burly warmagi to protect Dara until her uncle or father could be summoned. Luckily Keram had been at the fairgrounds conducting business, unaware of his niece’s intrepid experiment in magical competition.

  He learned soon enough. Once the Magelord explained what had happened to him, Keram collected Dara and her falcon and followed the female mage – Lady Pentandra, she introduced herself as – to a wagon. Soon they were being carried up to the castle, a groom proceeding the carriage to clear the way.

  “So this is how you spend your free time, Dara?�
�� Uncle Keram asked, his voice betraying the gravity of the situation though his tone was light.

  “You and father did tell me to spend my money at the Fair,” she reminded him, just as casually. “I figured sixpence was a reasonable fee for the chance at a witchstone.”

  Lady Pentandra looked amused. She was young and pretty, not at all like Dara had pictured her, when Gareth had first mentioned her. She was a good friend of the Magelord, it was said, a Remeran mage, who was one of the Magelord’s oldest friends and colleagues. It was also whispered, scandalously, that they had once been lovers. But Lady Pentandra was trusted by Magelord Minalan like no other mage, it was also said, thanks to her loyalty and her devotion to him.

  Pentandra examined Dara carefully with her eyes as they rode. Dara acted casually, but she could tell that every movement and every glance was being noted by those intelligent, pretty eyes.

  “You have earned yourself quite a reputation, in a short period of time,” Pentandra said, her lips in a tight smile. “It’s not often that one girl and one hawk can cause so much commotion.”

  “Frightful is a falcon,” corrected Dara. “Milady,” she added, as an afterthought.

  “Don’t bother with titles in private, my dear,” the lady mage replied. “It becomes tiresome. But I must commend you. It is rare that one can manage such a sophisticated expression of rajira as beastmastery, particularly in one so young. May I ask . . . have you seen your bloodmoon, yet?”

  Dara blushed. “Only twice,” she admitted. It had been one reason why she had avoided Sir Cei’s wedding – she had felt poorly that evening.

  “Then your Talent is likely emerging,” the mage nodded. “Perfectly natural. Especially being so close to this much snowstone . . . tell me, where were you on that fateful night?” she asked, interrupting herself.

  “The night the Snow That Never Melted came? At home in Westwood Hall,” Dara answered. “It woke me up. I threw up,” she added. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

  “Of course. Would you allow me cast a few little spells on you, my dear? Nothing . . . invasive. I just want to take a basic measure of your emerging abilities.”

  Dara looked at Uncle Keram for support. Her uncle’s face was solemn, and he nodded once in permission.

  “Go ahead,” Dara agreed, swallowing.

  Lady Pentandra smiled indulgently and took Dara’s hands, after she had passed her falcon to her uncle. If the spells were powerful, Dara barely felt a thing. For the remainder of the ride to the castle Pentandra conducted a few magical tests, she explained, nothing more. When they finally arrived in the courtyard Dara was taken to Sire Cei’s quarters with her uncle to await the Spellmonger’s decision. Lady Pentandra made sure she was cared for before she left.

  “Whatever you do, keep your bird by your side,” warned the mage, as she departed. “She’s beautiful, but there are a lot of hotheads out there that would take a shot at her out of spite for losing.”

  That was a sobering thought. Dara paced the neat, tidy room that the castellan called home. He was off with his new bride somewhere, Dara figured, so his room was vacant. The trophies on the walls and the banners hanging from the rafters gave her something to look at for a while, as did the massive wooden pegboard that kept track of the domain’s expenses, but she was soon bored. Her uncle wasn’t much help. He was content to nap in the castellan’s new bed.

  An hour after they arrived, a human servant brought up ale and cakes for them, then closed the door firmly behind him. Dara could hear the commotion from the fair from the window of the keep. There were a lot of people upset about this, she realized. Really upset. Not just agitators like Railan the Steady had been, but warmagi and adepts of great power.

  What were we thinking, Frightful? she silently asked her bird.

  As she was finishing off her second cake and wondering if she would be imprisoned in the white castle forever, the door opened again . . . and Magelord Minalan himself stepped in.

  Her uncle immediately got to his feet, with far more speed than Dara thought possible, and he had a dagger half-drawn in his hand. When he saw who the visitor was he sheathed it and stood respectfully, but the Magelord motioned for him to sit.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said, apologetically. “So I have to make this interview brief. How, exactly, did you retrieve the pipe, Dara?” he asked.

  Dara took a deep breath, glanced at Frightful, and told the entire tale, as concisely as she could. The Magelord stroked his beard absently while he listened, nodding his head in places. When she finished, the wizard lord nodded his head.

  “I see,” he said, beginning to pace the room much as Dara had. “This is my fault, I’m afraid. I honestly hadn’t thought of anyone going for the pipe from the air – certainly not with a hawk.”

  “Falcon,” Dara corrected, automatically.

  “Whatever,” dismissed the nobleman. “In a way, you did me a great favor by exposing the weakness in the Trial so early in its history. Next year, he said, chuckling, “that sort of thing will not be possible.”

  “But it was this year,” her uncle pointed out. “And though we suspected it not, she entered, paid her fee, and then won the contest.”

  “So she did,” admitted the mage. “And such ingenuity should not go unrewarded.”

  “I believe a witchstone was the prize offered, Magelord,” Uncle Keram said, respectfully. His meaning was clear, however: if the Spellmonger went back on his word and Dara did not receive the piece of irionite that was promised, that would affect how the Westwoodmen viewed their lord. The Magelord was a wise man – he got the implication immediately, as well as the subtle, respectful way in which it was delivered. Dara was surprised – she didn’t think her uncle would stand up to a lord as good as Minalan over one little girl.

  “I appreciate the complexities of the situation, I assure you,” Minalan said, a little discouraged. “Tell me, Dara, if you could do anything in the world, be anyone in the world, who would it be? What would it be?”

  Dara considered – it was the last question she’d expected anyone to ask her, and the one she was least prepared to answer. It irritated her to have it sprung on her like that . . . but she also guessed that displaying indecision, or worse still, mumbling in confusion, would not be the best course of action.

  She took a deep breath. “With respect, Magelord, I’ve only finished my thirteenth summer. I love falconry. I love the Westwood. I . . . I’m starting to like magic,” she admitted, shyly. “So if you’re waiting for me to blurt out that I want to be a chandler’s wife and have a lot of fat babies . . .”

  “I understand,” chuckled the mage. “Perhaps that was the wrong question, but you answered it smartly enough. You love birds, you love the forest, you like magic. I think that is something I can work with.” He gave her uncle a meaningful glance. “In truth I spoke at length about you to both your father and your oldest brother. They say good things about your character, even though they’re family. Particularly your bravery and intelligence. Those are rare qualities, I’m learning, and they should be nourished where I can find them.

  “I’m going to discuss this issue with my advisors, now,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I honestly do not know what decision I will make. But whatever it is, it will be one that gives your courage and ingenuity is properly honored. I could do the Westwood no less, after the service it has done for Sevendor.”

  “Well, that sounded encouraging,” Uncle Keram said, when the wizard had left.

  “Uncle! You didn’t have to insist that I get the stone!” Dara nearly exploded. “Do you realize what kind of position I have put him in?”

  “The fact that you realize it, and aren’t merely greedy for your prize, says much about you, Little Bird,” he said, quietly. “So much has changed in the last year, and you most of all. And not just the fit of your tunics,” he teased. “You’ve had to grow up more quickly than I like, even if it was through better times than I’d hoped. I figured your father and I wo
uld be starting to entertain proposals for your hand by now – the daughter of the Master of the Wood is a high position. Not negotiating with wizards over your future.”

  “It’s just a silly rock,” Dara dismissed.

  “It is not, Dara, and you know it,” Keram said, warningly. “Don’t discredit my admiration with false humility. You should understand, by now, just what being in a mageland means for the folk. We live under the rule of wizards, and you’ve seen proof of how mighty they can be. Master Minalan destroyed three of the Warbird’s castles, while he was harassing us here – without besieging them. He destroyed them by magic. With his witchstone.”

  “I’m not a mage—”

  “You’re just a thirteen year old girl with a pet bird,” Keram finished. “I know. But the chance at a witchstone, even the least of witchstones, grants enormous power to these magi. That’s an offer of position no one in their right mind should shy away from. Far above what your father could offer you.”

  “But I don’t deserve a stone!” Dara complained. “I . . . I cheated!”

  “You won the contest fair, by the rules,” Keram said, sternly. “The Spellmonger said as much. Don’t worry, everything will work out fine.”

  “Then why did you wake up with a dagger in your hand?” Dara accused.

  “Because while I’m confident in the Spellmonger’s wisdom,” Keram said, chuckling, “I’m less so about that of the warmagi. I’ve listened to these men drinking, in the taverns. They have the strength of soldiers and the power of magi . . . and the patience of a toddler. The lad who came in second place, Jendaran, I think his name is, seems a good sort . . . but some of his friends . . .” he shrugged. “Your father and I – and the Spellmonger – thought it best if you had some protection from the hotheads until this gets sorted out, is all.”