Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  They didn’t even notice her when she came across the rope bridge at twilight.

  She spent some time with Frightful, after she came home, and her bird was grateful for the attention after being neglected for a few days. Dara felt bad about that, and tried to explain to her through their link why she had to be away . . . but Frightful persisted in thinking like a bird, and one with a low tolerance for excuses. She didn’t understand magic lessons.

  Dara went down and got a bowl of stew from the kitchen for her supper, spending a few moments in front of the Flame before she ate. It felt good to be back here, after the cascade of changes she’d faced in the last few days. To go from being a simple falconer – self-taught – to being a wizard was a difficult adjustment to make. Hacking her falcon in the woods and cutting up rodents to train her was easy, compared to learning to read and understanding the nature of magic.

  But she’d discovered a few things along the way, she reflected, as she ate by herself in front of the Flame. For one, reading was not as difficult as she thought it would be. And second . . . she was really starting to love magic.

  She’d been anxious and afraid, when she realized the powers that she had and others didn’t. When she’d first begun to slip behind Frightful’s eyes the potency of the experience had overwhelmed her other thoughts about it. Then she had accepted the fact without understanding what it meant for her and her future.

  But then she’d gone and entered that stupid contest, and ended up winning it. And almost started a riot in doing so. Now she had a witchstone – a shard of magical green amber that magnified her nascent powers tremendously – and an entirely new life to consider. That alone would have been scary. But after a few days of magic and reading lessons, she was starting to understand what magic was, and what it could do. How a wizard could use the runes and spells they learned to force reality to do what they desired. She had barely scratched the surface of the complex art of magic, but she was already fascinated by it. More so than reading. Indeed, the way Lady Pentandra taught her, the two were closely related in the Imperial System of magic she was learning.

  When the Alka Alon, the strange, tiny Tree Folk of Callidore tried to teach humans magic, Lady Pentandra had told her, they couldn’t master the intricate songspells they used. So the Alka Alon (who didn’t use reading and writing, and just seemed to remember everything) contrived the basics of the Imperial System based loosely on the idea of reading and writing. Each rune she learned was like a letter, a fundamental concept that could mean one or several things, depending on its context with the other runes it was attached to.

  Put them together the right way with the right amount of Will behind it, flood the work with the arcane power, and the runes interacted the way they were supposed to.

  And stuff happened.

  She was at a delicate point in her training, Lady Pentandra insisted. She was simultaneously learning the basic runes, she was learning how to effectively raise and channel arcane power with her Talent, and she was learning the basic thaumaturgy (the science of magic) of how it all fit together . . . while also learning to read. Pentandra was a patient and understanding teacher, thankfully, and Dara was a bright student. In just a few days her head was spinning with concepts from each discipline, and her mind was beginning to knit them together.

  In its way, it was like flying behind Frightful’s eyes for the first time: exciting, frightening, and exhausting, all at once.

  She was sketching the runes of the first series on the tabletop in the remnants of some spilled ale when her brother arrived at the hall. Dara had more than one brother, but her eldest, Kyre, was closest to her. As the heir to the Hall he was already being groomed for leadership over the estate when their father grew too old, and usually that was a source of pride in Dara’s heart.

  Yet seeing him still wearing armor and garbed for war made her want to whimper. She’d thought that was behind them, now that the war was over.

  “What are you doing, Little Bird?” he asked as he poured himself a mug of ale from the keg.

  “Wizard stuff,” she shrugged, absently. Kyre winced.

  “You could be a little more specific,” he offered. “I may not be a wizard, but I am no fool,” he reminded her.

  “I’m practicing the first series of prime runes for the Imperial system, from Ryleth to Arketh, including octaves and cognates,” she stated.

  “All right,” he considered. “Perhaps I am fool. I have no idea what you just said.”

  ‘I guess it’s like learning falconry, or swordplay, or anything else,” she decided with a sigh. “Unless you know the technical language, none of it’s going to make much sense.”

  “It sounds complicated,” he said, shaking his head.

  “It is,” she stressed. “It’s hard. Really, really hard. Harder than falconry.”

  “Too hard?” he asked, concerned.

  “No,” she admitted with a frustrated sigh. “That’s the thing: I understand it, once it’s explained to me. It’s just a lot to absorb.” She couldn’t explain it any better than that – not without explaining why. But when your new profession involved the true nature of reality, it wasn’t the sort of thing you could discuss with laymen in casual conversation.

  “You’ll get it,” he said, patting her shoulder encouragingly, as he sat on the bench next to her. “You got this overgrown hen to hunt, didn’t you? Hello, Frightful!” he said, stroking the back of the bird’s head. While Frightful tolerated most people, Kyre was one of the few she recognized and liked. He’d always been respectful of her efforts to train the falcon, and had encouraged her when others had shaken their heads. “She’s missed you,” he observed.

  “I know, but I can’t very well learn magic while she’s around,” Dora complained. “She wants to play. She’s distracting. I need to concentrate when I’m learning this stuff! But she thinks I’m neglecting her!”

  “I’m sure that she just misses you—”

  “No, she actually thinks I’m neglecting her,” Dara stated, matter-of-factly. “I know what she’s thinking, remember? She’s angry with me. There’s nothing worse than having your bird angry with you!” she said, glaring at the falcon who glared back. “She won’t be happy until I take her hunting again. And with so much going on in the Vale right now, I’d worry about doing that.”

  “The Vale might be emptier, soon,” Kyre said, quietly. “We haven’t gotten official word, yet, but we’ve been told to stay armored and ready to deploy. And to keep practicing our drills at the castle yard. I don’t quite understand why,” he sighed. “The invasion is all the way in Gilmora, yet we’ve been ordered to stay ready.” He glanced up at the Flame. “I was hoping my darling little sister, who spends her days at the castle with the Magelord, might know something.”

  Part of Dara was indignant that her brother was being so friendly to her just to get information . . . but another part of her was excited to be her big brother’s informant. She just wished she had better intelligence to pass to him.

  “I haven’t heard much,” she admitted. “They’ve been talking a lot, and everyone is preparing, but . . .”

  He sighed. “I was afraid of that. It looks like we’re going to be deployed quickly, likely a fast barge trip and then a forced-march. Or something,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s the waiting that really gets to you.”

  “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon,” she soothed. “But Master Minalan hasn’t had much time for me, and mostly I just try to stay out of the way. The Emissaries take up most of his time,” she sighed.

  “You’ve . . . met them?” Kyre asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Everyone in Sevendor was talking about the three exotic Alka Alon women who had arrived in Sevendor as Emissaries from the ancient non-human race to the Spellmonger.

  The Alka Alon – who until recently Dara had considered a myth – were the legendary Tree Folk, a diminutive people of incredible magic who lived, it was said, in secret enchanted forests. The myths said they we
re tiny, no taller than a grown man’s waist, and lived forever.

  But the three Emissaries who’d arrived on Matten’s Helm, the bare hill in the middle of the Vale, were not small. In fact, when Dara met them, they looked like human women . . . incredibly slender, impossibly beautiful women, with a few small differences from normal humans that made them even more exotic looking.

  They had changed their forms, Lady Pentandra had explained to her, to aid communication between the two races. For some reason, the ancient masters of magical song were very intrigued with Sevendor, and the Magelord in particular. Master Minalan and Lady Pentandra and the other wizards at the castle treated the three strikingly beautiful Emissaries with great respect and honor, as they advised them.

  “Yes, I’ve met them,” Dara sighed. “Lady Ithalia, Lady Varen, and Lady Falawen are their names. They’re quite striking,” she said, quietly. “And more than a little intimidating.”

  “They’re . . . beautiful!” Kyre said, dreamily.

  Dara was appalled. She had always respected her oldest brother’s apparent immunity to the annoying giggles of the girls of the Vale, and to see him so smitten with the non-human Alka Alon was startling. But then, she considered, the Emissaries seem to have that effect on most men. Thank the Flame they were nice, Dara considered.

  “Yes,” she said, dryly. “They are. They’re also incredibly powerful,” she continued. “They use music for their magic,” she explained. “They have beautiful voices . . . like little bells,” she said, fondly.

  “Their voices sound like bells?” Kyre asked, enchanted.

  “It’s their magic that’s the most impressive,” Dara said, trying to change the subject. “They can do things that Imperial magic can’t even try. They can sing one little verse in that beautiful language of theirs and do as much as a human mage could do in a day.”

  “Then why don’t we use their magic?” Kyre asked, curious. “You can sing. Kind of,” he added.

  Dara rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t work that way,” she sighed. “I wish it was just a matter of learning a few tunes – that would be a lot easier than what I’ve been learning,” she said, gesturing at the table. “But our minds don’t work the same way. It isn’t just the song – or the spell – it’s how you think of things while you do it.”

  “You have to think things, too?” Kyre asked, with a snort.

  “That’s mostly what magic is,” she complained. “And it’s a lot harder than you’d imagine. The words and gestures and such are just to help you keep things orderly. The magic is really in your mind,” she said, tapping her forehead. “Each of these runes I’m studying and memorizing means something. I’m learning how to keep each one active in my mind at the same time,” she boasted, wanting to share her new skills with someone.

  Unfortunately, Kyre did not seem particularly interested.

  “This from a girl who can’t remember to close the kennel door behind her,” Kyre said, standing and kissing her on top of the head.

  “Hey!” Dara complained. “I was six!”

  “Puppies,” her brother said, with mock horror as he wandered away. “Puppies everywhere!”

  Despite herself Dara giggled at the overly dramatic display. It was nice, being reminded that despite all her new knowledge and responsibilities as the Spellmonger’s apprentice, she was still just someone’s sister. Especially when she had a brother like Kyre.

  A brother who would likely march away to war, she reminded herself, grimly. Perhaps never to return.

  Dara tried to stifle the morbid thought, but it persisted. It was not fair, she steamed, that her brothers and father and uncles would be put into danger when it wasn’t even properly Sevendor’s fight. There were plenty of other warriors around, after the siege of Sevendor was broken – why did the Westwoodmen need to go fight?

  She knew the answer to that, too: it was their duty.

  Dara hated that word. It meant that you had to do something, whether you wanted to or not. Like chores, she reasoned, only chores that could get you killed. She resented a world where her brothers were so at risk of death. Protecting and defending the Vale was one thing – but how could it be a man’s duty to go fight to protect some other land?

  She knew the answers she’d get if she was bold enough to ask such questions of her father, her uncle, or even Master Minalan. The goblins that had driven the Bovali from their homes in the far west had invaded even deeper into human territory. They had sent an army of thousands down from the distant Wilderlands and toward the heartland of the Five Duchies.

  Only a few months ago she would have had very little idea about just that meant. The lands in danger were an unimaginable distance away. But her recent education had included a growing understanding of just how big the world was. The maps that Master Minalan had been poring over for days showed Dara the distances involved, and her flying Frightful had given her an appreciation of them. Her falcon could traverse the entire Vale in a matter of minutes. The invasion of distant Gilmora would have taken her weeks to reach by wing, and months by foot.

  But those very distances were one of the reasons for concern. She’d overheard how the great army of goblins had reached Gilmora with unexpected speed, surprising the knights with their terrible advance. The goblins were using magic to aid their invasion . . . which was why the new King had called upon the most powerful wizard in the land, her master, Minalan, for his assistance in stopping the invasion.

  And Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor, had called upon the men under his command for their military service. Her family. It was their duty to go, if called upon, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She brooded about the idea of never seeing her brothers, father, and uncles again until Frightful began pushing her beak up against Dara’s cheek. It was a gentle but annoying reminder that her bird was sharing the shadows that were perturbing her. The falcon’s mind was not complicated, but it could understand the dark emotions Dara was feeling, and was sharing a feeling of alarm and concern in return.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Dara cooed, stroking the bird behind its eyes. “I didn’t mean to disturb you!”

  Frightful allowed Dara to calm her down, which involved a lot of Dara calming down. As she did so, she considered that she could not lose control of herself like that anymore. Not only did it affect Frightful’s mood, but now that she was learning magic an uncontrolled emotional outburst could have even more dramatic consequences. She’d witnessed Master Minalan getting so upset that he had unintentionally produced magical effects. A mage who could not control their emotions was a danger, she heard Lady Pentandra’s voice instructing her at her lessons. Especially a mage who held a shard of irionite.

  That was her new duty, she realized. Just as her father had to lead the Westwoodmen at the Magelord’s bidding, she had a duty to control herself, now. That was part of a wizard’s responsibility, she knew. The powers she was learning were dangerous, even when well-controlled. Dara was just realizing how dangerous, as she explored even simple magics concerning something like fire or air. Once you knew how to shape and alter reality, using the runes and the power flowing through the Magosphere, then it was all too easy to let your anger or anxiety seep out and inflict itself on the world around you. Especially in Sevendor, where the snowstone made magic far easier than elsewhere.

  It didn’t seem fair, she grumbled to herself. How were you supposed to have any feelings if they could pop out and zap someone?

  Another hard peck from Frightful encouraged her to abandon her frustration. She didn’t think her cheek could take many more objections like that.

  The next morning, she was making her way back to the castle after an early breakfast in Westwood Hall, quietly reviewing the runes that had become so important that they haunted her dreams, now, when she almost bumped into a wizard. A very tall wizard.

  Among all the newcomers to the Vale who had arrived since the Magelord took power in Sevendor, one of the most striking was the tall, broad figure of
Master Olmeg the Green. The mage had been hired by Master Minalan as his Greenwarden – a title Dara had never heard before – the official in the domain responsible for all of the plants in his lands.

  When Dara and her kin had first heard of the man, they were skeptical – magic was the realm of great power, subtle spells, and scholarship, not mere plants and crops. It seemed like a needless, wasteful expense when the Vale had so much else that needed attention. Plants already knew how to grow – why did they need magic?

  But their skepticism dissolved quickly after meeting the strange wizard. For months he had quietly crossed all of Sevendor, usually bearing a wheelbarrow full of soil or seedlings, his big bare feet shuffling through the land in wide steps.

  He dressed more like a peasant than a mage, it was whispered – he wore a dirty smock under his mantle, over tough trousers instead of tights, like most wizards wore. He was also one of the few wizards who’d come to Sevendor who wore the pointed hat of his profession every day, which only served to make him seem that much taller. But wherever he plied his trade, it was observed, the crops he advised planting thrived beyond all expectation.

  It was his manner that won the respect of the Westwoodmen, however, not his powers. Universally polite and respectful himself, Master Olmeg’s calm demeanor and deep voice made everyone who spoke with him want to help fulfill his vision of a wildly fertile Vale.

  At his direction, the peasants across the valley had begun planting potatoes and beans, maize and oats, and had changed what kinds of wheat and rye they usually planted. The results at harvest – even with the disruption of the siege – had been no less than spectacular. Even with three times the population that it used to bear, Sevendor’s granaries and storehouses were bulging with food going into winter for the first time in living memory.