Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  “I never meant to cause any trouble,” Dara said, her shoulders sagging. “I was just . . .”

  “You were just being Dara,” he chuckled. “What did we expect you to do? We didn’t tell you not to go and become a powerful wizard, any more than we told you not to scale an obscenely dangerous mountain to get a falcon to train. I suppose we should have been more thorough in our instruction,” he said, diplomatically.

  “That would have been surprisingly helpful,” Dara said, dully.

  “Then while I’m thinking about it, don’t slay any dragons,” he said, giving her a hug. “Does that help?”

  She was glad she had such stalwart, understanding family. Though she loved and revered her father, her Uncle Keram had been the one to whom she felt closest to. She was glad he was here with her, while the rest of the domain considered rioting over her stunt.

  “By the Flame, I will keep it under advisement,” Dara assured him, hugging him more tightly.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Dara and her uncle were led to another part of the castle, the very familiar room of the Spellmonger’s workshop, where she and the other members of the Magical Corps had worked during the siege. It looked different, now. Sloppier, somehow. There were bags and baskets and such all over the room. Many seemed to be samples from the Magic Fair, or gifts, or books. Others looked like parcels delivered after a long journey, bundled in crates or large sacks. A Tal Alon servant brought them bread, cheese, and fruit for their luncheon while they waited, and poured them each a glass of wine.

  Dara was feeling better, now. She had taken strength in her uncle’s confidence, and Minalan’s affable manner. He wasn’t angry with Dara for her victory, she realized, he was just attempting to contend with the difficult result. That did make her feel better . . . and willing to accept whatever decision her lord made.

  There was plenty of noise still rolling out of the encampments on the Commons as the wizards reacted to rumors and news about the contest. Below, in the Great Hall, the decorations left over from the wedding were replaced with more arcane ornaments, as the servants prepared for the great awards banquet the champion was supposed to attend. Who would that be, she wondered?

  Eventually the Spellmonger returned. The Magelord was not alone, however – a large man, almost as tall as Sire Cei and broader by a span across the shoulders, followed Minalan into the workshop. He stood straight up, his plaited hair neatly arrayed down his back, and he wore a shining hauberk of polished steel. In his gauntleted hands he carried a staff of dark wood, and a sword – a mageblade, Dara corrected herself – hung from his belt.

  “Lenodara of Westwood, this is Jendaran the Trusty, a warmage. The warmage who made it to the top of the hill first,” he added. “He wanted to come talk to you, before I announced my decision.”

  “So you’re the little squirt who stole my prize,” the big man boomed. Dara felt her uncle stiffen behind her, but she didn’t blink. This was a man, she decided, who used his size to intimidate people, just like Railan the Steady used to. The fact that he was armored and well-muscled, not to mention a deadly warmage, probably added to the effect, she decided, but when she had given up her fear and confronted Railan, she had decided she disliked being intimidated like that.

  “I’m the mage who won Trial,” Dara agreed. “I hear you did pretty well yourself,” she added, boldly.

  She didn’t know if Jendaran would be angry or not at her impudent retort – but she didn’t care. Either she would win the witchstone, or she wouldn’t. Either way, she would not back away from her accomplishments.

  “So you’re a beastmaster,” he said, snorting a bit over the title. “And that’s the bird that took it?”

  “Frightful,” Dara agreed, evenly. “A falcon. I captured her and trained her myself.”

  Jendaran folded his arms over his chest and stared at her. “And you think training a pet bird entitles you to a witchstone?” he asked, warningly. “I charged a company of Remeran knights single-handedly, and slew nine of them,” he boasted.

  Dara refused to be intimidated. “I scaled an eighty-foot sheer basalt cliff, lowered myself down the other side on a rope, and dangled over a seven-hundred foot drop to certain death to get that bird,” Dara said, calmly. “By myself. Without armor.” Jendaran still looked skeptical. “When I was twelve,” Dara pointed out. That, at least, made the warmage think.

  “I cannot fault your bravery,” he admitted. “Nor your ingenuity. But to think that you’re entitled to—”

  “What I fairly won? According to the rules of the contest, as announced and certified by the Coinbrothers?” Dara snorted. “With all respect to your abilities, powers, and position, Master Jendaran, what would you do in my position? What would you have done? Not used the one bit of magic you had to win the contest, when you saw the chance?”

  “Well, when you put it like that,” the mage said, his face starting to break a little, “I suppose I can see your perspective. I suppose all we can do is trust in this Spellmonger to do what is fair.”

  “It has been our experience that Magelord Minalan is quite attentive to fairness, in his administration,” her uncle said, for the first time. “I trust his judgment implicitly. I encourage you to likewise.”

  “So if he decides to give me the witchstone, and not you?” Jendaran asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.

  “I will respect the judgment of my lord,” Dara pledged. “Regardless of the outcome. Will you do the same?”

  “By Duin’s . . . axe,” swore the warmage, choosing the god of war to invoke, “I will. If it is decided I was bested by you, I can at least admit it was done out of quickness and intelligence, not strength or deceit.”

  “I appreciate your understanding,” Dara said, graciously. “Honestly, I never thought it would work. When it did . . .”

  Master Minalan smiled weakly. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked. “Success very rarely comes to us without attendant problems. Even when you think you’re doing the right thing, it can cause problems. Well, if I can count on the two of you not to contest the outcome and kill each other, I will announce my decision at the banquet. I think we have a little time for you to prepare yourselves. But I’d like to keep you here, under guard at the castle, until the decision is reached. We’ve already had a few, ah, altercations over the result. The Coinbrethren refuse to pay on the day’s wagers until a winner is chosen, so a lot of people are feeling emotional over this.”

  When Jendaran and the Magelord left, Dara was surprised to see her sister Linta appear, bearing her very best dress that didn’t quite fit anymore. She looked shocked and surprised, as if Dara had been replaced by someone else bearing her name and face.

  “You . . . you won the Spellmonger’s Trial?” she asked without bothering to greet her youngest sister.

  “It was kind of an accident,” Dara said, apologetically.

  “I knew that hawk was trouble,” she accused, as she laid out the dress on a worktable. Uncle Keram smiled and excused himself, leaving the sisters alone.

  “Falcon,” corrected Dara. “Frightful is a falcon.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “All I know is I was enjoying a really interesting conversation with a handsome young spellmonger from Rikken when Father appears . . . not to assault the man, like I suspected, but to order me to run home and get your festival finery up to the castle. Like I was a common servant!” she fumed, her nostrils flaring.

  “It is hard to believe you’ve survived so long under such dire conditions,” Dara agreed, pulling her plain woolen tunic over her head.

  “Isn’t it?” Linta said, without realizing Dara was being sarcastic. She helped strip off her leggings, stained by the mud and straw and magical sawdust of the fairgrounds. “I brought you slippers, too – mine, because yours look like they belong to a doll, now,” she said, rolling her eyes as she handed them to her.

  Dara took them. They did look bigger . . . but then she hadn’t worn her slippers since . . . she couldn’t
remember the last time. Falconers wore boots, after all. She pushed her feet into them and was surprised at how comfortable they were. Perhaps her feet had grown.

  So had other parts of her – Linta had to whip out scissors, needle, and thread and hurriedly let out the top of the simple festival dress that was Dara’s best. She was very appreciative of it – considering her appalling skills with a needle, if it had been left up to her she would have likely sewn herself to the dress. Linta adeptly tacked the pieces together, then joined them with a running stitch.

  “I can’t believe you pulled this off, Little Bird,” Linta said, wistfully. “I knew you were trouble, but did you have to go and involve the entire domain? Everyone is talking about this, now. How some freckle-faced girl snuck in and stole the contest from two hundred real wizards. The boys are all expecting fights to break out. Father had the guards doubled at the bridge, and . . . well, everyone knows who you are, now,” she admitted, expediently snapping the thread in two with her teeth.

  “Sorry,” Dara said, trying her best to hold still.

  “Don’t be,” Linta said, shrugging again. “Let me do the other side, now. It was strange, having boys ask me if . . . if I was ‘Dara’s sister’ . . . certainly not something I’m used to . . . but . . .”

  “. . . but at least they were asking you,” Dara pointed out.

  “Right,” Linta nodded, absently, as her fingers got to work. “Of course I said I was – I have to support the Hall – but now everyone really does know who you are. The maid with the hawk.”

  “Falcon!” Dara insisted. Linta ignored her.

  “The point is, Little Bird, that you, Flame alone knows why, have become very important, all of a sudden. And that’s not what anyone was expecting.”

  “What were they expecting?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be polite to speculate upon,” Linta said, with a hint of the meanness every older sister is capable of. “But this? You almost getting us in a fight with two hundred angry wizards? In one day? That’s exceeding everyone’s expectations. There. Your dress is done,” she said, snipping the thread with the shears, this time. “Let me comb your hair and . . . oh, you need a belt,” Linta said.

  “My belt is right there,” Dara said, nodding to the plain brown leather belt she used to carry her falconry supplies around.

  “That won’t do,” Linta said, shaking her head, “there’s going to be a baron at dinner, not to mention knights, lords, and a whole bunch of wizards. We can’t have you representing the Hall looking like the pig girl,” she japed.

  Before Dara could come up with a witty response, Linta had reached behind her and unclasped the brass belt with the silver bells she wore almost religiously when she went to the Village these days. The same one Dara had repaired for her. “Here, wear this,” she said, helping Dara strap it on over the gown. “It looks nice on you . . . if a bit loose,” she added, tightening the knot as much as she could.

  Dara was speechless – this was an unprecedented act of sisterly benevolence by Linta.

  “But . . . but how will you attract attention without . . . ?”

  “Oh, the belt does all right at that,” Linta shrugged, “but having a famous sister does it a whole lot better.” Dara felt better. Had Linta not had a selfish ulterior motive, she might have suspected she’d been replaced by some magical double herself. “Good luck, tonight, Dara,” she said, as she began brushing her hair. “I have a feeling your life is about to change. A lot.”

  * * *

  The Great Hall at Sevendor Castle looked every bit as splendid as it had at Yule, if not more so. There were, after all, far more magi here now than there had been then, so there were magelights of all description everywhere. The temperate weather allowed the yard outside the hall to be used to extend the banquet space. Trestle tables had been prepared to seat hundreds of guests, and the kitchens had been working since the previous evening to supply so much food.

  Dara was inside the Great Hall, of course – more, she was at the Great Table, the huge white stone slab of a table the Magelord had built himself on the dais in front of the great white fireplace. She was at the same table as the Magelord, Lady Alya, Baron Arathaniel and his wife, the Lord of Trestendor, Lady Pentandra, and a few other magi Dara was unfamiliar with. Her kin were seated nearby, only three or four tables away, so any time she was nervous all she had to do was look up to see her father Kamen, her uncle Keram, her brothers Kyre, Kure, and Kobb, and several of her cousins there. And her sister Linta, with whom she exchanged a shy wave.

  Before the porridge course was served, the Magelord stood, silenced the musicians playing in the gallery, and spoke. He must have used magic, Dara guessed, because everyone in the castle seemed to be able to hear him speak without him raising his voice overmuch.

  “My friends, neighbors, and colleagues,” he announced, after he introduced himself. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to the first-ever Champion’s Banquet. Today we celebrate those who met the challenge of the Spellmonger’s Trial and triumphed!” There were cheers, encouraged by many in the audience. Some only applauded reluctantly, but Minalan’s enthusiasm was contagious.

  “As you may have heard, this first Spellmonger’s Trial was eventful,” he continued. “Master Jendaran bested every challenge along the way, gave a few bruises to my apprentice Tyndal, and pushed his way to the summit . . . only to find himself beaten out by a girl with a hawk. A beastmaster,” he continued, as the audience murmured, “and one familiar with the vale because she was born here.

  “While some have cried foul over this, suspecting treachery of some sort designed to deny the proper prize to the first man to the top, the fact is that this was my error. I had not considered the possibility when I designed my challenge.

  “But the rules are the rules, and I must live up to them, even though I made them. I cannot fairly change them after the fact. But I also have the power to augment them. So I am awarding – just this once – a powerful witchstone to Jendaran, upon the condition that he take his oath to me and then spend half a year fighting the goblin hordes in the Penumbralands, in the service of the military order of his choice.”

  There was a lot of applause for that, and at the Spellmonger’s urging Jendaran stood and received the acclaim of his peers. The big man looked satisfied with the arrangement, Dara decided as he accepted the small, ornate wooden box containing his prize from his host.

  “But the fact is, as well as Jendaran defeated the challenges, Lenodara of Westwood was the victor, because she was wise enough to use her strengths to circumvent those challenges. Some have called this cheating. I disagree. I see it as an ingenious use of magical resources . . . something I think many of our colleagues could stand to concern themselves with,” he added, earning a ripple of laughter. Dara supposed it was some inside-joke among wizards.

  “As adept as she was, however, the fact remains that this youthful contestant is not, currently, in training to master her emerging Talent. Therefore while I do hereby award the victor at the Trial to Lenodara of Westwood,” he said, loudly . . . immediately causing a rush of folk toward the Coinbrothers, the monks who oversaw wagering at such events, to claim their winnings.

  “I also award her the least of witchstones, a small shard of irionite provided from the recently-seized storehouses of the Censorate. In addition,” he continued, “as Dara is a subject of mine, and her father is my Yeoman, I must take additional action. I can’t very well call myself a Magelord and let such superb magical Talent lie fallow. Therefore, after discussing it with her father, it has been decided that Lenodara of Westwood will henceforth be apprenticed to me to be trained in Imperial-style magic.”

  Dara’s jaw dropped. Even though she was sitting three seats down from the Magelord, she had no idea he had considered such a thing. She searched the room wildly until she found the face of her father, who nodded with resignation. But the Magelord wasn’t finished.

  “It has been noted that I already have two apprentices, and i
t has been whispered that I’m not particularly good at controlling them as it is . . . but the fact is that I must look not just to the prosperity of my domain – my domains,” he corrected himself, remembering he had just conquered five additional provinces, “but also to their security. As this is a mageland, I need good magi who can be counted upon to defend it. And while I can hire plenty of them – probably everyone here would be willing, I think – I also think that the best defenders are those we grow ourselves.

  “Dara will become my apprentice, learn magic, and she will become one of Sevendor’s defenders, in my absence – gods willing,” he added with a smile. “She captured and trained that hawk of hers herself. She assisted her Hall with the defense of the domain during the siege. And she outsmarted all of you lot,” he added with a snicker, “overcoming the best minds in magic to win the Trial.

  “She’s intelligent, she’s brave, and she’s Talented. It is my hope that as soon as we are settled she will come live with us here, at Sevendor Castle, and begin her magical training with me in earnest. So may I present to you, my friends and neighbors, the victor of the Spellmonger’s Trial . . . and my newest apprentice . . . Dara of Westwood . . . the Hawkmaiden!” he announced.

  Dara was overwhelmed by the thunderous applause that filled the castle to the rafters when the Magelord said her name. Everyone seemed to be clapping wildly, and it was quite overwhelming. Then her kin got on their feet and cheered, and some of the others did, and then the entire castle was cheering loudly enough to be heard all the way back to Westwood Hall . . . perhaps by the Flame, itself.

  Dara stood slowly and bowed to everyone, earning yet more cheers, and then accepted the small box that Master Minalan handed her. She opened it, briefly, to see the tiny glowing gemstone inside. It was milky green and plain . . . yet when she opened the box she could feel the witchstone as much as she could see it. It was like the rapport she shared with Frightful, only more intense, somehow.