Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “But . . . what am I to learn?”

  “Etiquette,” Pentandra said, listing items with her fingers. “Manners, customs, protocols, forms of address, fashions, gossip, innuendo, idiom, mannerisms . . . how to act like a young noblewoman, and speak as if you’ve been at court your entire life.”

  “At court?” Dara asked in disbelief. “She can do that? Because . . . I don’t think I can!”

  “It’s nothing beyond your capabilities, Hawkmaiden,” Astyral said, cheerfully. “Minalan assured us you have the wit and talent to do this. He was quite confident.”

  “Do not underestimate the importance of your role, Dara. The hard part will be gaining their attention for more than a moment,” Mavone said, sullenly. “That’s where you come in: as a young, popular, and vibrant symbol. One who can keep their focus. These Cotton Lords have a bad habit of ignoring matters of import, in favor of discussing their hounds, hawks, horses and estates.”

  “The focus needs to be on the greater war,” Lady Pentandra agreed. “And the importance of the magi to that purpose. We must keep them thinking about the dangers just outside their gate – not in the distant Wilderlands, but here, in Gilmora.”

  “Sheruel the Dead God is the real threat,” nodded Astyral. “He’s not going to stop sending goblins against us. Once the battle is over, we must turn our attention to the longer-term war. To that end, we must energize the Gilmorans to not only defend themselves, and fortify their lands, but encourage them to agitate for similar measures in other lands.”

  “Few of them take the threat of gurvani seriously, until there are a thousand of them at their gates. And then it is too late,” Mavone pronounced.

  “And you want . . . me to do all that?” Dara asked, skeptically.

  “Oh, not you alone!” Astyral chuckled. “We’ll all be playing our part. Mavone and I will be the local boys who-did-well-in-the-world, coming back in the nick of time to save our town. Sire Cei will be the big hero, the Dragonslayer. Tyndal and Rondal will be making the rounds, showing off for the girls and being their usual charming rascally selves . . . if they don’t kill each other. Terleman and Taren are speaking to the military authorities, convincing them of our utility, and Planus is speaking to the merchant classes of the wonders of magic. Gareth is speaking with the spellmongers in town. Baron Arathanial and his folk are appealing as fellow mundane nobles who live near to magelands. We are all doing our part.”

  “And our part,” Pentandra emphasized, “will be to convince the wives and daughters of Barrowbell that having wizards around is a good thing. Which means going to parties, balls, and banquets, answering the same stupid questions over and over, and being charming, entertaining, inspiring, and entirely ideal representatives of our profession while we are their guests.”

  “Meanwhile,” Mavone added, “be observant of any who seem skeptical of our intentions, or who clearly bear us ill. Take note of their names and pass them to us. Plots have always abounded in Barrowbell. If you see one, let us know. We need to understand who are enemies here are, as well as our friends.”

  Pentandra nodded. “That will be even more important, in a week or two. This is . . . highly confidential,” she emphasized, looking at both girls pointedly. “Order business . . . but I hope I can count on keeping it to yourself,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “A lady prides herself on her discretion,” Lady Amara assured her. “She does not betray her friends’ confidences.”

  “Good. Well, word reached us this morning . . . and I haven’t even told the Spellmonger, yet,” she said, guiltily. “But there will be another sixty thousand troops arriving from the south and east in a week or so. Led personally by King Rard.”

  Dara heard Lady Amara gasp. “The King? Is coming to Barrowbell?”

  “Indeed,” Astyral said, gravely. “Which puts us into even deeper waters, politically. Rard seeks to show his noblemen the value of his new crown in terms they respect. That he comes to the contentious province of Gilmora in its hour of need, at the head of a mighty army, to the thanks and adulation of its people, is what he requires.”

  “When he arrives, it will be to reward the Spellmonger for his service,” Mavone agreed. “He will also be taking the temperature of the land, so to speak, to see how he is perceived. To most he is still the Duke of Castal . . . and many Gilmoran families remember the Alshari sovereignty fondly.”

  Lady Amara looked a little guilty, but Mavone smiled. “For good or ill, we are all under one crown, now,” he said. “As much as some of us would favor the Anchor and Antlers of Alshar, the folk of Gilmora have been content to serve under the Rose and Sword . . . for now,” he added. “So we will fete and honor this king who brings relief. And we will ensure that he does not forget the service of the magi in this land’s defense.”

  “But wherever His Majesty goes,” Pentandra informed her, “you can be assured that he is . . . watched. Accompanied by agents, his own and others. A stray word in the wrong ear could turn fortunes, in this climate. There are stirrings of rebellion in Alshar, and murmurs of resentment in Wenshar. Which means that the Arcane Orders are in a delicate position.

  “And that means that we may need to call upon your services not just as mage or Hawkmaiden,” Pentandra said. “But perhaps as a spy.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hunting With An Owl

  Dara watched Frightful’s magnificent wings fold against her body as the falcon dove towards her prey in the grass below: a brown rabbit nibbling at the last ragged shoots of clover in a meadow.

  She regretted not joining her bird for her triumphant dive – that was the most thrilling part of the hunt, more exciting than the actual capture and victorious call after a kill. The sensations of speed, hunger, excitement were just as primal in her as they were in the falcon, and when they experienced it together it was especially delicious.

  But today she contented herself with merely observing from afar. She was perched on Doughty’s back, her wimple blowing in her face, while the ladies around her oohed and ahhed at Frightful’s attack. And there were a lot of them gathered to take note.

  When Lady Amara organized a Ladies’ Hawking Party at a friend’s estate, just south of town, she was swamped with the number of women who wanted to attend. Dara was amused by the interest – she just needed to fly Frightful, after days of being cooped up in a mews or perched on her fist at parties.

  But Amara used the necessity as a means of introducing Dara to some of the more important ladies in Barrowbell society, so the day was spent with far more ceremony and discussion than Dara was used to on a hunt.

  She preferred to fly Frightful early in the morning or at dusk, when more creatures were stirring, but propriety dictated that ladies did no rise for such pursuits that early, and had more important things to do at dusk than hunt. Hawking for ladies was a noontide affair, regardless of how fewer opportunities for prey there might be.

  In this instance, that was fine. While Frightful was hunting a hare, Dara was hunting an Owl.

  By the time the “hunting party” departed the pretty manor house at Lavender Hill manor, the dozen-odd noblewomen, each with at least one retainer afoot, rode their ponies and palfreys down to the meadow which had been designated for their use. Considering the care with which they dressed, it looked to Dara as if they were going to a ball, not a hunt. She could not argue with how pretty the dresses were, but then she was getting used to the rich and colorful garb of the Barrowbell folk.

  But they were not particularly practical for hawking, Dara noted. She soon learned why.

  Most of those ladies “hawking” were actually accompanied by servants, the falconers employed by their houses to keep the mews and train the birds on the nobles’ behalf. When a Barrowbell maiden “hunted”, it consisted of her accepting the falcon from her servant on an overly-ornate gauntlet, allowing her friends to coo about how pretty and fast the bird was, and then return it to the servant, who then proceeded to fly the bird. That was the extent of
interaction with the falcon.

  Then half of the servants would walk out into the meadow to “beat the bushes” and scatter potential prey while the birds were in the air. That was scandalous to Dara: Frightful didn’t need any help to hunt. She’d find that incredibly hurtful and condescending.

  But then the birds the ladies of Barrowbell usually hunted were tiny, compared to her. Custom dictated that noblewomen use more “ladylike” birds, with an emphasis on speed and beauty, than larger, more effective hunters. The next-largest bird on the hunt, compared to Frightful, was just over half her size, a large female merlin. Most of the birds the ladies flew were smaller males, dainty tiercels of merlins or kestrals. They were good hunters, she knew, but only for smaller rodents and birds.

  Dara felt the entire affair a complete waste of time, for the ladies, and would have said so if she hadn’t learned caution and discretion so quickly and thoroughly from Pentandra’s maid. Now she knew better how to speak of such things in “polite society” . . . and when to keep her fool mouth shut.

  Lady Amara had been instrumental in learning that lesson. Once Dara had overcome her sense of betrayal at Amara’s frank assessment of her, she was enthusiastic and encouraging as Latra, a small, dusky-complected Remeran servant, calmly but insistently instructed Dara on “proper behavior among the aristocracy”.

  Nor was it mere lecture. Before the oddly-dressed maid began her instruction, Lady Pentandra had cast a spell on her – one from her family archive, she assured her, designed to make a child more suggestive and receptive to study. Another spell, before Pentandra and the Gilmoran magi began to talk to her that evening, was to help her maintain her composure and discretion. Both were temporary, she was assured, but the knowledge she gained would linger after the effects of the spells faded.

  It was a brutal afternoon, she recalled, but highly instructive. Latra approached the subject practically, and did not insult Dara about her ignorance of social customs. Nor did Amara tease her or deride her at her efforts. Instead she helpfully offered suggestions or supplied details about local customs Latra was unfamiliar with. When Dara became frustrated at the process – which happened with increasing regularity, as the hours grew long – Amara was supportive and sympathetic.

  More importantly, to Dara’s mind, Lady Amara did not judge her about her common status or ignorance of the customs of the nobility. She accepted them, and did not let them get in the way of their friendship.

  Indeed, Amara seemed to relax a bit when she learned the truth. Dara appreciated that. One thing she disliked about most of the nobility was the almost ritualistic approach to social customs about things that most people dealt with by means of common sense. There was an artificial nature to Barrowbell society that Dara was wary of, something that reinforced her commoner’s belief that all nobles were deceitful.

  But Latra had corrected some of her perceptions, her exotic accent explaining the basis of the customs and even supplying some thoughtful reasoning why they were in place. It went beyond understanding which forms of polite address to use with which noble – Latra had explained why it was important, in the greater social fabric of Gilmora. As confusing as the lessons had been at the time, Dara had a lot better understanding of what she was doing, now. And much better means of contending with her mission.

  “My ladies, if you will direct your attention above, you’ll see Frightful about to take a hare,” she announced in a clear and deliberate manner. She spoke with confidence, and knew better how to phrase her interactions. “The Silver Hooded Raptor is famous for its speed and keen sight.”

  “Ah, it looks like Beauty is after the same prey!” called a slender noblewoman excitedly, as she shaded her eyes with a gloved hand. Sure enough, when Dara glanced above, she saw a delicate gray kestrel also diving. Though the bird was closer to the ground, in Dara’s opinion Frightful would get to the hare first.

  That was Lady Angret’s opinion, too – she was the older matron who insisted on flying her own bird, and one of the few among them who seemed more enthusiastic about the hunt than she was about meeting the Hawkmaiden.

  “Oh, that Raptor is going to beat it soundly!” the older woman called, confidently.

  “But Beauty is much closer, and he’s terribly swift!” the slender noblewoman – Lady Mardine, Dara recalled, the daughter of a prominent master weaver who’d married an elderly knight – insisted as her smaller bird competed for the prize.

  There were a few held breaths as both birds descended . . . but Frightful’s brown wings were the first to spread as she pounced on the hare. Beauty landed a few heartbeats later, just as Frightful was breaking the rabbit’s neck.

  “Win for the Hawkmaid!” called Angret, triumphantly. “What a beautiful bird!”

  “Ungainly, if you ask me,” Lady Mardine frowned. “Beauty could have taken that prize!”

  “Frightful did take that prize, my dear,” Angret said, without affection. “Sometimes ungainliness is not as important as beauty, when your dinner is on the line. Well hunted, Maid Lenodara!” she praised.

  “The credit belongs to my falcon, my lady,” Dara demurred. Never take credit unduly, if you can avoid it, she heard Latra’s accent insisting in her mind.

  “And thence to her trainer,” Lady Angret approved. “You did train her yourself?” she asked, curiously.

  “From a hatchling, my lady,” Dara nodded. “Sevendor had no formal mews or falconer, so I had to teach myself and Frightful.” She was far more comfortable discussing falconry than she was dragonslaying, battle, magic, the Spellmonger, or anything else. It was a language she understood, the world she knew best.

  “Such a remarkable girl!” the matron said. Dara got the impression that she was more impressed with that than the role she’d played in the Battle of Cambrian Castle. She nodded approvingly as the servants rushed forward to take the kill from Frightful. Dara hated not retrieving the kill herself, but Amara assured her that noblewomen did not handle such distasteful things as blood and viscera. Instead she waited patiently atop Doughty and listened to the noblewomen pretend they were hunting.

  “My father had a grand Kuline’s Peregrine for years, when I was a girl,” Angret told her, fondly. “What a magnificent bird! They say Orvatas the Sky God’s messenger is a Peregrine . . . Father named him Calsat, after that holy bird. But I’d venture your Frightful is nearly its match.”

  “She’s still growing, my lady,” Dara pointed out. “She may yet match Calsat, yet.”

  “Does that not border on blasphemy?” Lady Mardine snorted.

  “Do the gods not present themselves as examples for us to aspire to?” Dara countered, as she’d been taught the night before. “Only the most narrow-minded would mistake adoration for blasphemy,” she said, lightly.

  “Oh, I do like your spirit, Lenodara!” called the creaky voice Lady Finarva. That was music to Dara’s ears. She was the noblewoman whom Mavone and Astyral said it was most important to impress, today. The Dowager Owl.

  Lady Finarva of Glaucid had no official title in Barrowbell, or position in Gilmora’s government, but she was the woman they’d identified who controlled the opinions of the others in Barrowbell’s aristocrat-heavy society.

  Her family was one of the oldest in Barrowbell, Lady Pentandra informed Dara the night before. House Glaucid was among the first Alshari settlers who first came to the fertile Gilmoran plains. Through the years, they’d become distinguished players in the politics of the region, including the controversial Gilmoran Rebellion that brought the prosperous region under the banner of the Duke of Castal, fifty years before. Lady Finarva’s grandfather was one of the victorious barons who signed the Peace of Barrowbell, in this very town. The owl was her house’s symbol, and she was known as the Dowager Owl, after her husband died at a ripe old age.

  She reigned over a web of abbesses, noblewomen, distinguished widows, and prominent burgher’s wives that controlled the social life of Barrowbell’s prosperous aristocracy. A whisper from her in the rig
ht ear could make or destroy a house, Astyral assured. She had spent years positioning herself as a power behind the scenes, and securing a good opinion from her was considered an essential task.

  Charm her, Astyral had insisted. She admires strength and confidence, and hates social pretension. She raised three spirited daughters, and saw them married to barons and counts. She listens more than she speaks, but when she speaks, all ears listen. Convince her of your quality, and half our work is done.

  That had proven difficult – true to Astyral’s words, Lady Finarva had barely spoken on the outing. But Dara noted she observed every word that every other woman spoke with hawk-like attention.

  “Thank you, Lady Finarva,” Dara said, as graciously as she could . . . and that was much better, after hearing Latra’s firm lectures on the subject the night before. “Perhaps I’m strongly-spoken due to a lack of a mother’s influence – she died bearing me – but my father always encouraged me to speak forthrightly.” It was a kind of a code, Dara realized, like magical sigils or the letters of the alphabet. She just had to understand how to speak it.

  “You poor girl!” Lady Finarva murmured, her lips pursed under her wimple. “Yet you’ve thrived remarkably, it seems.”

  “A matter of circumstance and fortune, my lady,” Dara said, shaking her head. “The Spellmonger transforms us all,’ she elaborated, fingering the one white strand of hair in her mane of scarlet, “and those closest to him the most.”

  That was also key, Mavone had insisted in his lecture before the party. Elevating the Spellmonger to a figure of power and positive change was key to the Arcane Order’s plans. Using the white streak she’d gained the night of the Snow That Never Melted – a distinctive mark on a distinctive head – Dara demonstrated the transformative power of the new order.