Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  No, the real trouble with Barrowbell was how everyone treated her.

  When they’d first entered the gates, festooned with the cotton boll banners of the city, the people of Barrowbell lined the streets and threw spring flowers down from the balconies. Minstrels and musicians played triumphant tunes as the entire town seemed to yell themselves hoarse. Women came out of the crowd and presented everyone with bouquets of flowers or little sweet biscuits.

  The wains bearing the wounded were directed down a different street, to a large abbey that had been staged as a hospital to care for them, while the rest of the vanguard continued on. Once the column made its way to the city’s central square, where the burghers were assembled to receive them, there was a brief ceremony that Dara couldn’t even hear before the company was bid to dismount.

  “Everything has been arranged,” Pentandra assured the Magical Corps, as they gathered on the massive flagstoned market square of the great city, surrounded by crowds of well-wishers. “We have accommodations for all, and provisions have been pledged. The common men and the recuperating wounded will be billeted in an empty warehouse.

  “The rest of us, and the officers, will be housed as guests of the city,” she said, pleased. “For the next few days you are at liberty to rest and recover from your labors. Please remember that all of this is in preparation for the Spellmonger to arrive here, and we want to ensure that goes as well as possible. This is a great victory for him and all the Arcane Orders.

  “To that end, I want all of you to understand that you are ambassadors of your craft – our craft – here, and I expect your best behavior. And your discretion and cooperation. There will be celebrations and banquets, parties and fetes. Hundreds of burgher families have offered their homes for our stay. Be ideal guests, keep your ears open, and be prepared to work on behalf of the Orders, if charged,” she ordered.

  Pentandra introduced them all to an assistant reeve from the town who would billet the bulk of the Magical Corps. But when Dara approached her to see if she would be staying with her kin, Pentandra laughed.

  “Oh, no, my dear Maid Dara! You are a much sought-after prize. Every noble house and merchant prince in Barrowbell wants the honor of hosting the Hawkmaiden,” the wizard informed her.

  “They . . . do?” Dara asked, confused. “Why? I mean, I don’t eat much, but—”

  “You may eat as much as a dragon, and none will complain,” Pentandra assured. “No, apart from Sire Cei and the Spellmonger, himself, you, Maid Dara, have captured the imagination of the folk of Barrowbell. They are not a warlike people – their strength is in commerce. Even the city’s garrison are largely hired mercenaries. It has been an age since Barrowbell faced any serious danger, not since Gilmora came under Castali control. Since then they have grown prosperous, wealthy, and untroubled by war.

  “So when war was brought to their doorstep so unexpectedly and so brutally, they had little with which to defend themselves. The countryside was ravaged. The gentlemen knights who rule the wealthy cottonlands are adept at warring with each other, but little else – and their castles are hardly more than fortified manors. When the Gilmoran chivalry failed, and the Day of the Dragons decimated the armies defending it, Barrowbell looked all but lost.

  “But then,” she said, dramatically, her eyes opening wider, “the Spellmonger and his magical army magically appear out of thin air, just in the nick of time,” she said, excitedly. “And he brought with him mighty powers, the cream of the Riverlands chivalry, and the uncanny skill of great heroes. Sarakeem the Archer. Ithalia the Alkan Maid. Sir Taren the Sage, brave and clever. Sir Terleman, Lord Commander who led the great charge. Myself,” she admitted, “the wiley and exotically beautiful Remeran witch, mysterious mage from the east. Tyndal and Rondal, the brash and brave knights magi who fought so valiantly at the Spellmonger’s side. Jendaran the Trusty, newly-made high mage, engaged in his first battle of power. Sire Cei, the Dragonslayer, the knight mage whose bravery, power, and skill with a lance was vital to the task.

  “And then there is Dara of Westwood, the Hawkmaiden, herself a newly-made High Mage by her own skill and cleverness, now the Spellmonger’s pretty new apprentice, who not only braved her hawk in the danger of battle . . . but whose skill with the Thoughtful Knife was legendary. You slew hundreds of goblins, Dara,” Pentandra pointed out. “You saved your comrades, and turned the battle. And that’s before you took the Knife down the dragon’s throat and provided essential assistance to Sire Cei in killing it.”

  “I . . .”

  “You are famous,” Pentandra continued, flatly. “And there’s no escaping that. So we shall use it to our best advantage. The people of Barrowbell desperately want heroes to thank, and you have been selected.”

  “But there were so many others—”

  “Of course there were!” Pentandra said, nodding. “And some gave everything in the effort. They, not we, should be the true honorees in Barrowbell. But part of the burden of the living is to accept honors on behalf of the dead. And to give the people of Barrowbell an object for their gratitude.”

  “Is all this really . . . necessary?” Dara asked, doubtfully, as she watched delegations of burgher families and noble houses descend into the ornate square to greet their saviors. Each one wore bright colors, presumably representing their houses, and more golden jewelry than Dara suspected existed in all the world.

  Every woman seemed to have three or four ornate necklaces, earrings, headpieces, rings, bracelets, and anklets, making them shimmer and ring as they walked. They also wore brightly-colored wimples that hung loose, allowing their hair to cascade across their shoulders in a way that would have made her Aunt Anira scowl.

  The men were nearly as gaudy, Dara decided, as they escorted the ladies. They wore tight-fitting doublets over short trousers, their stockings barely rising to the knee, and colorful cotton mantles. Their shoes were long and pointed beyond all reason, and in some cases were indecently curled. They wore almost as many necklaces and rings as the ladies, but more than made up for it with bejeweled belts of gilt and silver, carrying undersized swords with so many stylish ornaments on their hilts that Dara could not imagine how they’d be useful in a fight.

  “Yes, Dara,” Pentandra said, in a low and serious voice. “Absolutely necessary. Your master may call upon you to do many hard and dangerous things over the course of your apprenticeship. But this may be among the most important tasks of all: allowing yourself to be adored by these people.”

  “But why?” Dara felt compelled to ask. She knew a good apprentice shouldn’t question an order like that, but she was confused. Luckily, Pentandra did not take the question amiss.

  “Politics,” Pentandra pronounced, pursing her lips. “Don’t forget, until a year ago the magi were controlled by the Censorate of Magic, unable to use our fullest powers. After four centuries of such barbaric restrictions, they need us. And we need to remind them why they need us. That means that some of us,” she said, placing her finger solemnly on Dara’s nose, “will have to become heroes. Among other things.:

  “But . . . I don’t want to be a hero!” Dara whispered.

  “Minalan and I have taken great care to construct the new politics of magic, Dara,” she explained, patiently. “One which favors and protects magi instead of punishing and restricting us. Some of that work means whispering in the ears of the high nobility, scheming with the clergy, and making deals with commercial interests, like my cousin Planus,” she said, nodding toward the tall Remeran whom many of the ladies of Barrowbell seemed quite taken. “And some of what we’re doing means dangerous battles, secret quests, and . . . well, best you not know some of those details,” she decided, taking a breath.

  “But what the needs of the moment require are a few heroic warmagi who can capture the imaginations of the common folk. By becoming the object of the gratitude of Barrowbell, you aid our political motives. In truth, I expected the excitement over Terleman and Cei, and the warmagi.

  “What I
didn’t expect was how many of the folk of Barrowbell have seized the tale of the thirteen-year-old Hawkmaid who battled a dragon . . . from the inside! So, we’re going to capitalize on that,” she decided. “Which means you need to stand around and look brave and resolute, and let people shower you with gifts and praise, story and song, for a few days.” Pentandra blinked. “Are you up to that, Dara?”

  Dara swallowed. This was not how she expected her first battle to end. But she had a . . . duty, she knew. “I’ll do it. I’ll do my best,” she amended.

  “Good girl!” Pentandra praised. “Now, I’ve taken great care in the selection of your hosts. I’ve arranged for you to stay with one of the noble families in town, House Siviline. They are a distinguished line of Cotton Lords who not only have a lot of political power in this region, they have a daughter near your age who is adamant about hosting the legendary Hawkmaiden, Maid Dara of Westwood, in their stately home.

  “Your first mission, Dara, is to make friends with her and her family, and be a positive representation of wizards to the nobility. Their daughter has been instructed to help you . . . adapt to Barrowbell society,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I would prefer to be subtle about it, but the fact is, my girl, as famous as you are at the moment, you need to learn the protocols of Barrowbell society and customs, lest you become famous for some embarrassing other reasons.”

  Dara looked at her, confused.

  “No one recovers from farting in front of the Baron,” she said, frankly. “That’s an old Remeran saying, something my mother made sure I understood from girlhood. That’s a crude way to put it, but it, like magic, is a metaphor. And like magic, learning the meaning of the symbols is key.”

  “So . . . you want me to learn the . . . symbols of Barrowbell’s society . . . like runes or letters?”

  “Exactly so,” Pentandra nodded, pleased. “Not just to keep from embarrassing yourself I trust you not to actually fart in front of a baron – but I want you to be able to be useful to the Order here, and you will be more useful if you understand the symbols and know the proper behavior and protocols. Useful beyond being a mere object of adoration.”

  “Why me?”

  “Your fame will give you access to people, important people, that we want to influence and communicate with. Discretely,” she added, with emphasis. “The nobles I’ve chosen to host you are going to help with that. They’re old family friends of Magelord Mavone, who grew up in Gilmora. He vouches for their trustworthiness and honor, as well as their sympathy to our cause.

  “I will send my maid over this evening, after you’ve had a chance to settle in, and she’ll begin teaching you the basic manners, customs, and forms of address you will need to know. She will also pass along any additional information to you from me, particularly about the people involved in your missions.” Pentandra looked at her, searchingly. “Are you up for this, Dara?”

  “Which one is House Siviline?” she asked, as she looked nervously around at the riot of color and jewelry infesting the square.

  “The yellow and purple,” Pentandra said, indicating a delegation of six – mostly liveried footmen – with a young girl her own age in their midst. “Their device is the sign of the wren. That’s young Lady Amara, only daughter of Lord Beldrine of Siviline.”

  Lady Amara was a beautiful, slender girl, with long light-blonde hair under her wimple and bright green eyes. She wore a pretty, elaborate gown of violet with golden trim. There was more jewelry around her neck than existed in all the Westwood, Dara noted. She felt Pentandra’s hand between her shoulder blades, pushing her gently toward the girl.

  Dara’s feet stumbled a bit, but she tried her best to smile as she approached. She wasn’t sure what else to do, so she bowed.

  “Lady Amara?” she asked, hesitantly. Before she had completed her bow, the girl embraced her forcefully.

  “You must be Lenodara, the Hawkmaiden!” the girl said in a friendly, excited voice. “On behalf of House Siviline and all of Barrowbell, allow me to offer you our thanks and gratitude for your bravery!”

  “I was . . . we were . . .”

  “Here,” the pretty girl said, removing one of her many necklaces and placing it over Dara’s head. “In Barrowbell, we use these necklaces to indicate favor and position,” she explained, quietly. “We give them to our knights when they joust in tournaments, or to favored friends and vassals as a token of our support. It would be an honor if the first you received was from House Siviline.”

  “I . . . thank you, that’s very gracious of you, Lady Amara,” Dara said.

  “You will stay with us, of course,” Amara said, taking Dara’s rough, calloused hand in her own dainty one and leading her. “There you can rest and recover from your trials, before the banquets truly begin.”

  “Banquets?”

  “Oh, the entire city has declared a three-day holiday to celebrate the victory, once the Spellmonger arrives,” Amara assured her. “It’s not every day that a dragon is slain. Especially not after the Day of the Dragons,” she said with a shudder. “We were sure Barrowbell was next. Father wanted to send us all to the countryside, but with all those goblins skulking around . . .”

  “They’re doing more than skulking,” Dara said, earnestly. “There are great armies of them, out there.”

  “One less, now,” Amara dismissed, patting her hand. “And one less dragon. That, at least, is worth celebrating! Let’s get you back to the house where you can get a bath and get away from all of . . . this,” she said, waving around at the chaos in the square distastefully.

  Dara could not argue with that. The chaos of the square was giving her a headache. She allowed herself to be pulled to the edge of the great square, away from the rest of the Sevendori, but was surprised when they were stopped.

  “Amara of Siviline!” came a loud call across the noisy square. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Amara stopped short, and her eyes narrowed. The pretty blonde girl whirled around and faced the voice who’d halted her.

  “I am escorting Lenodara the Hawkmaiden back to Siviline House,” she replied in a casual drawl that was laden with unspoken meaning. “Why would that concern you, Maid Ninda?”

  “Why would she want to stay in the house of a second-rate country knight when she could enjoy the palace of a merchant prince?” the other girl said, haughtily.

  Dara studied her carefully. She was taller, with dark hair, and perhaps a year older than Amara. She wore a long plum-colored gown with the sign of two ravens embroidered on it in black, and at least twenty golden necklaces around her neck. Her wimple was tossed back, letting her thick dark hair spill over her shoulders. But it was her eyes, dark and challenging, that made the girl imposing.

  “Because she has class,” Lady Amara snapped. “And taste. My father arranged these accommodations yesterday, Ninda. House Siviline will host the Hawkmaiden. House Astinbel, I’m certain, can find some other way to support our rescuers.” Amara was being purposefully patient with the girl, but Dara was certain that their civil words concealed a history of conflict. She’d seen how her sister reacted to rivals, real or perceived, and this was similar.

  “Dear Trygg, protect us, if House Siviline is what is mistaken for class, in Barrowbell,” the other girl snorted. “But if that is her desire, the Hawkmaiden can stay where she will. You have the gratitude of Barrowbell, Maid Lenodara,” the brunette assured her. “All of Barrowbell, not just the . . . old and dusty parts,” she said, with a bow.

  “It was my duty to serve,” Dara said, simply, not knowing what else to say. “I was just flying – hey! Frightful!” she said, realizing with alarm that her falcon was still sitting on the perch of her saddle, which one of the grooms from House Siviline was cautiously leading through the crowd. She was hooded, to keep her from panicking at the noise and chaos, and her jesses were secured to the saddle. Dara quickly unfastened them and placed Frightful on her shoulder, where she settled uneasily.

  “Oh, dea
r goddess!” Ninda said, horrified. “That’s a beast of a bird!”

  “She’s a Silver Hooded Raptor,” Dara said, proudly, as she secured the jesses to her armor. “Her name is Frightful.”

  “She certainly is!” Lady Amara said, admiringly. “Father won’t let me fly anything larger than a red-tail. He says it’s not ladylike. But that bird is fit for a baron!”

  “She’s a keen hunter,” Dara agreed. “She can take a rabbit like it’s a vole. Especially if I’m riding behind her eyes, too. That’s far more fun,” she assured.

  “You . . . ride your hawk?” Ninda asked, skeptically.

  “I am a beastmaster,” Dara explained, uncomfortably. “As a mage, one of my talents is being able to link my mind with animals. Particularly this one,” she said, affectionately.

  “She really is a beast,” Maid Ninda said, skeptically. “Wouldn’t a prettier bird be better? Like a red tail or a whitewing?”

  Dara looked at the girl, her opinion of her declining even further. “I took Frightful from her nest, a mountain nest over eight hundred feet above the ground, and raised her and trained her myself. I didn’t do that because she’s ‘pretty’, I did it because her kind are one of the deadliest hunters in the Uwarris. She is the perfect bird for me!” she said, defiantly.

  “Pay her no mind, Hawkmaid,” Lady Amara said, coolly. “Falconry is the sport of the nobility, after all. Not every merchant with a fat purse can appreciate its finer points. Come,” she said, putting her arm over Dara’s shoulders protectively, being careful of the falcon perched there. “Let’s get you to Siviline House. Away from this . . . annoying clatter,” she said, with a glance over her shoulder at Maid Ninda. “I expect I shall see you at the banquet, Maid Ninda?”

  “I’ll be the one surrounded by adoring admirers,” the brunette snapped. “And not covered in bird poop.”

  “Ignore her,” Lady Amara said, kindly, when they’d strode out of earshot. “She and her family are aggressively ambitious. They have been for generations. They sit on the Burghers Council, and do everything they can to snipe at the nobility. She was hoping to swoop in and snatch you up for her own aggrandizement,” Amara explained. “Showing you off to prove how important her family is. Idiot!”