“Oh, most certainly!” Pentandra agreed. “At the head of sixty thousand troops to secure Barrowbell, and all Gilmora. “Which is one reason I came here. There is the matter of Daria and Sanfor.”
“They will be . . . will be tried?” Lady Amara asked, troubled.
“In a matter of speaking,” Pentandra said, deliberately. “After their father begged for leniency, he and the magistrate came to an agreement.
“Firstly, both freely admit their guilt, repent of their treason, give the names of their confederates, and surrender themselves to the mercy of the judgement. Sanfor will serve a seven year term in the Iron Band, starting immediately. Daria will persist in her clerical devotions for a similar period. In an abbey in the distant Wenshar vales. It gets chilly there, if I recall,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
“Oh, Trygg’s grace!” Lady Amara giggled behind her hand. “That’s terrible!”
“It’s better than a date with the hangman, which is what treason demands under the law,” Lady Pentandra conceded, sipping her wine. “Perhaps her father can arrange a marriage with some elderly widower, after seven years. That might be the best she can hope for, once her youth has been spent in prayer.”
“What about the other Censors?” Dara asked.
“The trio from the Shirlin Order are in a dungeon cell, under warmage guard,” she assured her. “They put up a bit of a fight, but Astyral and Mavone are not to be trifled with. Mavone will escort them back to Wenshar, enchanted into stupor, where they will be held in their own former citadel. We discovered the entirety of their plot, when we questioned them. They were to kill Minalan at all costs. And the king, too, if they were able.”
“Flame! What did Master Min say?” Dara asked.
“He doesn’t even know,” Lady Pentandra said, shaking her head. “It might be a mistake, but I don’t think I want to tell him. He has a lot on his mind right now. Word came this morn that the three counts in Alshar have agreed to rebel against Rard’s authority and claim of kingship.”
“Oh, no! More war?” asked Lady Amara, dismayed.
“Not in the immediate future,” Lady Pentandra conceded. “But word has also come how angry King Rard is about the development. No doubt he will consult with his magical experts about what we can do about it. So bringing a minor plot, easily-foiled, to his attention at the moment might be a distraction.”
She took a long sip of her wine before she continued, staring at Dara, suddenly. “But your quick thinking and action has not gone unnoticed. I made certain of that. I sent a note to an associate of mine, close to King Rard, and he agreed. When His Majesty arrives and holds court in Barrowbell, among the honors and rewards he shall bestow will be to you. He is ennobling you,” Lady Pentandra said, simply.
“He’s . . . he’s doing what?” Dara demanded.
“He’s elevating you to the nobility, granting you and your heirs a patent,” Pentandra explained, a smile on her face. “For good and valuable service and laudable attention to duty. And slaying a dragon,” she added. “That was the convincing element of my letter, I think.”
“Dara! You’re being ennobled!” Lady Amara said, excitedly. Dara stared at them both in disbelief.
“You shall be known as Lady Lenodara of Westwood,” Pentandra said. “You will be a patented, titled noble, entitled to the King’s Justice, the King’s Mercy, and all of that. And now you will owe a noble’s duty. Ah! There’s more. It comes with a grant from the Treasury,” she added. “In addition to your pay from your service.”
“Pay?” Dara asked. “I get pay?”
“You were part of the Magical Corps, under Minalan’s summons as Marshal,” Lady Pentandra agreed. “That’s a half-Stag a day, silver, for the duration of your service. That’s as much as a sergeant,” she boasted. “But the grant from the Treasury in reward for your service is a hundred golden Roses!” Pentandra revealed.
“A hundred . . . a hundred ounces of gold?”
“That’s enough to buy an estate!” Lady Amara said, astonished. “My dowry is as much!”
“I have an estate,” Dara said, still trying to comprehend all of this. “The Westwood. My father is Master of the Wood,” she reminded herself.
“And now you outrank him,” Lady Pentandra giggled. “I expect that will be awkward for a while. But you deserve it, Dara. Lady Dara,” she corrected herself. “Hawklady, hawkmaiden no more. We’ve asked so much from you, and you’ve done far better than anyone could have asked. Nobility, properly practiced, is conferred on the worthy. You’ve proven the nobility. I convinced His Majesty that it demands to be recognized properly.”
“Lady Lenodara,” Lady Amara said, trying the title on for size. “That’s magnificent! Congratulations, Dara!” she said, embracing her.
“I’m . . . I’m a lady,” Dara said, unsure of the words in her mouth. “Lady . . . Lenodara.”
“Or Dara the Hawklady,” Pentandra suggested. “No doubt you’ll be known by both, before long. Well done, ladies,” she said, rising and giving them a curtsy. “Well done. House Siviline has been a great friend of the Arcane Orders, in a dangerous time to do so. That will not be forgotten,” she assured Amara.
“The friendship shown by the Arcane Orders to the people of Barrowbell during our hour of need shall ever be remembered,” Amara agreed.
Dara didn’t even hear it. She was still trying to comprehend what Pentandra had told her. She . . . was a noble. Lady Dara.
No, Lady Lenodara of Westwood.
No, part of her mind decided. Lenodara the Hawklady.
Chapter Seventeen
The Voyage To Sevendor
“Lenodara of Westwood, you are summoned before the Crown!” the herald’s deep voice boomed through the hall of the Market Castle, Barrowbell’s official fortress. Dara was grateful she remembered the protocols that Pentandra had drilled into her: bow, take three steps, bow, three steps, kneel until bidden to rise. She performed the ritual as adeptly as she could, her dark purple hawkwing mantle settling around her as she knelt.
King Rard – who, until a few months ago, had been merely Duke Rard, the most powerful man in Castal – looked positively kingly as he had the deep-voiced herald read out a list of her accomplishments.
He had a great mane of blonde hair, streaked with gray, that tumbled down from his crown and joined his bushy beard across his broad chest. He eyed her carefully, as the list of her deeds was announced to all. In the ornate language of court they sounded quite impressive, Dara decided. And that was absent the parts about her helping save the Spellmonger from the Censors’ plot, and possibly the King, himself.
“It is one of my happier duties to reward bravery, boldness, and excellent service to the Realm of Castalshar,” he said, in a voice almost as deep as the herald’s. “Usually that means the bravery of knights, such as Sire Cei the Dragonslayer.” She’d applauded and cheered as loudly as anyone as Rard had stood and embraced the Wilderlands knight, and gifted him with a thousand new gold Roses, the newly-minted coin of the newly-minted realm.
Sire Cei seemed within his element as the King graciously plied him with honors and riches – including official recognition of the title ‘Dragonslayer’, to be forever appended to his title. That also included the commission of a poem to be read at the following year’s Royal Yule Court, so that Sire Cei’s deed would be known throughout the Kingdom.
Dara was less-used to the formalities of court, of course – she’d only been to Minalan’s court, and Baron Arathanial’s, if you wanted to be technical. But compared to the massive crowd shouting her name in Barrowbell’s square, the few-hundred nobles and burghers in the Great Hall of the Market Castle seemed almost cozy.
Nor did she feel quite as much a peasant in court, any more – even a Royal court. A week and more of enduring the polite society of Barrowbell had put her far more at ease in formal situations. Once you knew the rules, the code, the way the nobility acted wasn’t that mysterious, she reflected. It was just more complicated and comp
lex than village life.
“But it pleases me, as the proud father of a spirited daughter, to be able to honor the bravery of one of the realm’s youngest warriors – and a spirited daughter of a proud father,” he said, nodding toward Kamen. Her father had been surprised – no, shocked – when he realized just how much the folk of Barrowbell were familiar with Dara’s deeds, and how esteemed she was, after her appearance at endless celebrations. When the Spellmonger called her out in front of the entire city, her brother revealed later, he openly wept with pride as the crowd chanted her name.
“Before the gods, in truth when Minalan the Spellmonger was given lands, and he chose your domain of all the others in Castal, I was surprised. I anticipated that he would find a prosperous land and live on its bounty. Instead, he selected an impoverished, depopulated place to try his experiment of creating a mageland.
“I was skeptical – as were many in the Court. But I was also surprised and pleased when word reached me of his success. Then I anticipated that, in a few years, I would have a prosperous little domain to brighten my realm. Instead,” he continued, a smile on his face, “the Spellmonger and his allies raised an army and saved that realm, before his tenure was a year gone.
“Among his mighty accomplishments, I hear, is the tale of a girl – brave enough to tame a fledgling hawk. Talented enough in the arcane realms to become a powerful wizard. And clever enough to use the magic of our esteemed allies, the Alka Alon, on our behalf. Not only did she slay as many goblins as a company of knights with its power, but she was instrumental in the defeat of a dragon, responsible for so much misery and tragedy in this peaceful land.
“If Sevendor can produce such impressive girls in its first year as a mageland under the Spellmonger’s care, then what mighty warriors might it bring forth in the future? What great wizards will it sire? The experiment continues . . . for the early results, as Lenodara of Westwood demonstrates, are promising.
“Therefore arise, Lady Lenodara, Magelord of Westwood, join the peerage of nobility, and be introduced to my Court. You have our favor, and the gratitude of everyone in the Kingdom, my lady.”
When Dara rose from her position, her knees hurt – but the thunderous applause and shouts that filled the Great Hall made her quickly forget about that. The King himself handed her the thick scroll – no mere parchment, but thick vellum, heavy with the new Royal seal. The words were impressively calligraphed by some talented monk, and there was a brilliant illumination of one of the letters in a beautifully painted picture of a falcon.
She hoped she would actually be able to read it, one day.
There were plenty more awards and recognitions – the court lasted all morning, nearly four hours. But she saw many of her friends honored and rewarded, which she found gratifying.
Afterwards, when the herald finally called the court closed, there was a brief period while the servants set up the trestle tables in the hall for the luncheon reception. King Rard, accompanied by several of his household knights and ministers, received his subjects in a long line for informal greetings.
“Congratulations, Lady Lenodara!” Lady Amara squealed, offering her an elegant curtsey and a beaming smile. Dara realized she’d have to get used to such things, now that she was ennobled. Then she embraced her friend in a firm, enthusiastic hug. She had to be cautious in doing so – both of them now wore dozens of golden chains, and the danger of accidentally entangling them was real.
Indeed, Dara had left most of her new golden necklaces back at Siviline House, in the strongbox the King had delivered the day before. There were just too many for her to wear comfortably, almost fifty, now, and she’d had to choose just a few for the occasion, lest her neck break from the weight of them.
That was something else she’d have to get used to, she knew. Being wealthy. Indeed, being the wealthiest native Sevendori, as well as the only native Sevendori lord.
Magelord, she corrected herself, mentally.
Having more gold than all Sevendor had in decades was a heady feeling. The idea that she could now purchase an estate as big as the Westwood or larger was foreign to her. As was the idea that she was now, technically, of higher rank than even the Master of the Wood. All of it would take some getting used to.
“Thank you!” Dara said, as she broke the hug. She really was grateful for her new friend. Amara could have turned out to be just as scheming and shallow as Maid Ninda or Sister Daria, or Lady Mardine.
Instead, she had been a steadfast and loyal friend, honest enough to tell Dara uncomfortable truths but caring enough to do so without judgement or criticism. Of all the things she looked forward to when she got back to Sevendor, the thing she would miss most about Barrowbell was her friendship with Lady Amara. “I couldn’t have gotten here without you!”
“Oh, I just helped around the edges,” Amara demurred. She glanced at the long line to meet the king. “I guess I should go get in line,” she sighed. “Father instructed me to present myself to His Majesty. In truth, I’d rather meet the Spellmonger, instead.”
“I can arrange that, I think,” Dara smiled. Then something caught her eye.
Near the head of the line to meet His Majesty was the raven-haired Maid Ninda, in her raven-themed finery. The dress truly was a magnificent display of needlework, Dara had to admit, with beautiful ravens embroidered along the hem and sleeve, neck and bodice, amidst entwining tree branches. She stood serenely, her dark eyes flashing at the prospect of meeting the monarch.
“Oh, I hate that she escaped any punishment from the Censorate affair!” sighed Amara. “She deserves exile even more than that idiot Daria. But apparently asking for helpful information in order to complete a dress in a timely fashion is not considered treasonous by the lawbrothers, in and of itself.”
“A pity,” Dara agreed. Since the incident at the Dyer’s Hall, she’d heard story after story about Maid Ninda’s petty meanness and bullying. Even the Dowager Owl had heard of it, but then Lady Finarva heard everything, Dara realized. And she knew how to respond to such scandals in Barrowbell. While the details of the plot had remained safely concealed, there was a sudden increase in interest about the Maid Ninda . . . and not in a beneficial way.
“She’ll probably eak out some decent husband, simply because of her father’s money and position,” Lady Amara sighed. “She is so nakedly opportunistic, though, you’d think any sane man would prefer exile to marriage to her. Look at her – everyone in the city whispering about her, and she stands in front of His Majesty, bold as brass, seeking to improve her position through her appearance with him!”
Dara knew that while the gossip would continue, even a presumed relationship with a monarch or great noble could raise someone’s position. Such was the nature of noble society, she was learning.
She frowned. It seemed wrong, so soon after so many had been honored for their service, that Maid Ninda could use that to her social advantage. Sometimes the gods didn’t seem very fair.
But there was an adage she’d heard around Sevendor Castle, in her association with wizards: where the gods fail, apply magic.
A fiendish idea formed in Dara’s mind.
“Lady Amara,” she said, calmly, “can you discretely look around and ensure that Lady Pentandra, Magelord Terleman, or any other responsible wizard is within sight?”
Lady Amara didn’t ask questions, she merely sipped her wine and cast her eyes around the room with the kind of sophisticated casualness Dara had come to expect in her friend.
“No, everyone seems to be well-engaged.”
Dara’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Let’s go see our friend, Maid Ninda, and wish her well before she’s presented.”
Lady Amara’s eyes narrowed as well. She didn’t know what Dara was planning, but her willingness to participate spoke well of her character . . . or at least her friendship.
What Dara was about to do couldn’t be considered kind. If farting in front of a baron could not be recovered from, she wondered what rules applied to the
person of the king?
“Maid Ninda!” Lady Amara began in a pleasant, friendly tone, as they approached the girl from behind. The raven-haired burgher’s daughter whirled at the sound of her voice, her eyes flashing anxiously. Amara ignored her distress and focused on her gown. “Your dress looks exquisite! A real credit to your seamstress’ art.”
“Thank you,” Ninda said, automatically, looking suspiciously from Dara to Amara. “What service can I do you today, my ladies?” she asked, formally, giving them a perfunctory curtsey as demanded by court etiquette. And emphasizing the titles.
“We merely wanted to wish you good day,” Amara said, innocently. “Perhaps meeting His Majesty could secure you an introduction to the Royal Court,” she suggested.
“That’s what Father thought, too,” Ninda agreed, warily. “He says that since . . . since the Dyer’s Ball, I need to . . . to atone for myself,” she said, quietly. “No thanks to you two!”
“Now, Maid Ninda,” Lady Amara said, rolling her eyes condescendingly, as the next visitor in the line went to meet His Majesty, “that is so ungracious of you. We realize you had no true knowledge of the conspiracy – why, someone would have to be mad to entrust such a thing to . . . someone so gentle,” she said, mockingly.
“I knew nothing!” Ninda insisted, her face pale under her cosmetics. “I beg you leave me!” she added, as she came to the front of the line. “Allow me to meet King Rard in peace, and salvage one shred of dignity from this affair!”
“Of course,” Lady Amara agreed, giving the maiden a friendly kiss and embrace. Dara did likewise, thought it was like embracing a serpent.
But just as she turned to leave, she cast the Gutbuster spell, still hung from the battle, on Maid Ninda’s hand.
The moment her name was announced to the King and the entire hall by the deep-voiced herald, and all eyes were turned on her, her gracious delight at meeting the monarch changed to horror as she began vomiting wildly.
Among other unfortunate reactions.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Amara said, innocently covering her mouth with her hand as everyone of importance in the crowded hall stared at Ninda and gasped. The king looked perplexed, and the herald was rolling his eyes at the messy and fragrant display of bodily functions.
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