Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “She did seem pretty . . . caustic,” Dara said, choosing her words carefully.

  “She is,” assured Amara. “One of many. Her father is trying to arrange her marriage to one of the old noble houses, so she’ll have a title, too, eventually. And I will have to call her Lady Ninda. Of course, the noble girls are just as bad,” she admitted. She turned and looked admiringly at Frightful. “Did you really take her from her nest?”

  “Yes, by the Flame,” she assured. “It was the stupidest, most dangerous thing I ever did in my life. I almost died. But I didn’t, and now I have her.”

  “She’s magnificent!” Lady Amara said, with genuine admiration. “I’m mad for falcons – one of the reasons that I imposed on Father to get you to stay with us. Thankfully he felt it would be a good thing for the House. Sometimes he’s depressingly practical about such things.”

  “Thank you,” Dara said. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to hunt her, before I return to Sevendor.”

  “Oh, that would be grand!” Lady Amara said, beaming. “I’d love to see her in flight!”

  As they walked through the sunny streets, Dara warmed to her hostess. Once you got passed the cosmetics, gown, and jewelry, she found the young noblewoman to be quite friendly and genuinely interested in who she was and where she was from.

  Nor was there the usual suspicion of a girl from the Westwood – here, in Barrowbell, Dara wasn’t really from the Westwood. She was from Sevendor, far to the east, and the apprentice of the famous Spellmonger of Sevendor.

  House Siviline was, thankfully, only a mile and a half away through the twisted and confusing streets of Barrowbell. Lady Amara led the way, with her attendants and servants following, leading Doughty. She continued telling Dara about the city, the politics, and the names of houses that Dara had never heard of, but she only half-listened. She was too busy trying to see everything.

  Dara was in awe of how crowded the place was: every house was attached to the others around it, the streets were paved with well-worn cobbles, from one side to the other, and every shop on the street seemed to compete for attention with flowers, banners, signs and displays of wares. It was as if the entire gigantic city was one big marketplace. Her head spun as she realized that some of the homes they passed were four or even five stories tall – common homes, not noble’s residences.

  Indeed, as the party turned a corner, the homes became even grander: wider, taller, and with impressive little gardens in the front.

  “Welcome to the Noble Quarter,” Amara announced, as they passed under a decorative arch that spanned the entire street. “This is where the old nobility keep their homes, when they visit Barrowbell on business. Since the invasion this is where most of us have been living. Not nearly as nice as our estate in Siviline, but it’s cozy,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “Cozy” wasn’t the word Dara would have chosen to describe the stately brick house Amara led them to. Siviline House was five stories tall, and as broad across the face of the street as the entirety of Westwood Hall, back home. The gate and entryway was a grand display ornamented by countless wrens, in marble and gilded wood. Amara led her casually past the grim-looking guardsman who presided over the gate, and into the hall inside.

  It was magnificent – far more elegant than anything in Sevendor. Wooden paneling and intricately-painted scenes decorated the walls, instead of tapestries, and the wooden floors were highly polished and laid with thick and cunningly-woven rugs. Chandeliers thick with colored glass hung from the high ceilings, and the rafters were crowded with trophies and heirlooms. The fireplace was as wide as the one in the Great Hall of Sevendor Castle, and served as the central altar for the house. A dozen gods peered at her from over the quietly burning flame. Everywhere, from the mantle to the paintings to the chandeliers, the sign of the wren was used.

  “Gaudy, isn’t it?” Amara snickered, as she drank in the room. “Our country estate is a lot more subtle, but when we’re in Barrowbell Father likes to impress his vassals and business associates.”

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” Dara confessed. Then she giggled. “Although if I unhood Frightful, she’s likely to get hungry, with all of these wrens around.”

  “The symbol of our house since we came up from Alshar,” Amara nodded. “Our family has ruled lands since Alshar ruled Gilmora. Most of the old nobility shares that. Upstart houses, like Ninda’s, tend to be Castali . . . and common,” she said, a sneer in her voice.

  That troubled Dara. She was a commoner, herself. “Not that it matters much, anymore. Most of the noble and commercial houses have intermarried so frequently in the last fifty years, there aren’t many differences left. Father refuses to marry me to a merchant family, however,” she said, resolutely. “We are scions of Alshar. We have our line to consider.”

  Not much of that made sense to Dara, and for a moment she was grateful she wasn’t a noble. But she could respect the position; there were many within the Westwood who were wary of marrying outside, and bringing in the Vale folk to spoil it. Dara felt such things were usually pretty silly . . . but then she was starting to appreciate just how complicated things could be.

  Amara’s next question startled her. “Has your father sought you a husband, yet?” she asked, curiously.

  “N-no,” Dara stuttered. “I’m . . . I’m apprenticed to the Magelord, now. I’m a . . . a professional woman, since my Talent emerged.”

  “Oh,” Amara said, sounding a little disappointed. Then she brightened. “Well, isn’t that different? That happened to a cousin of mine. She’s at Alar Academy, in Wenshar. She was going to lose her title, but now . . . I guess things are different for magi, now.”

  “I’m still pretty new,” Dara said, apologetically. Then she remembered her mission: to represent wizards in a positive light. “But yes,” she said, more confidently. “There are a lot of changes happening. My master is working hard to ensure that the new order is fair and just for all.” The words tumbled out of her mouth as if she’d practiced them. In truth, she merely repeated the sorts of things she’d heard repeated around Sevendor Castle.

  “We in Barrowbell welcome the change,” Lady Amara said, somewhat formally. “Especially if it saves us from peril. Come,” she said, tugging her hard enough to make Frightful lurch on her shoulder, “let’s go to my chambers. I’ve had my maids prepare a bath for you. Once we get you out of your . . .”

  “Armor?” Dara finished. “Uh, I don’t know where my clothes are. My regular clothes. I don’t usually go around wearing armor.”

  “Don’t worry about clothes,” Lady Amara assured, pulling her up a staircase. “The one good thing about being stuck in Barrowbell is the clothes. I have chests full, and I’m sure I can find something to fit you, and look splendid. If not,” she shrugged, “I can always have something made up special.”

  “Uh . . . thank you,” Dara managed. “I didn’t bring much from Sevendor. We were instructed to take as little as possible through the magical portal.”

  That stopped Lady Amara in her tracks on the landing. “You? You went through a magical portal?”

  “Well, we all did,” Dara shrugged. “That’s how we were able to surprise the goblin army.”

  Lady Amara looked positively enchanted. “I want to hear all about it, every last detail!” she insisted. “Things are so boring here, and then you arrive, and . . . and . . .” the girl stopped speaking and gave Dara another unexpected embrace. “Oh, thank you for staying with us! I know things are confusing right now, but I can’t wait to hear about everything you’ve done!”

  If Dara was surprised at the hug, she was even more surprised at the bath that awaited her in Lady Amara’s private chamber – a room as big as the hall at Westwood Hall. Three servant girls near their age were gathered around a large copper tub, brimming with water and soapy foam, scattered with dried and fresh flower petals. When Lady Amara suggested she get a bath, she’d figured it would be the usual wooden tub and tepid water.

  This, however,
was different. Not only was the experience of steaming hot water luxurious and novel, so was the awkward experience of instructing three ladies’ maids in how to unfasten her armor before she slid into the tub. They squealed with horror when they discovered that, among the splattered mud and battlefield filth there was blood – goblin blood – from a goblin she’d stabbed with her very own hand. That set all the girls abuzz, and she had to tell the story about the only time she’d actually had to fight for her life.

  They were particularly excited to hear the role Sir Festaran played in that, which annoyed Dara. She felt she could have killed the goblin without the knight mage’s assistance, though in retrospect she was still secretly grateful.

  Then she realized that all three maids would stay to help her bathe. One even brought her a glass of rich red wine, mulled and laced with fruit juice, while she was scrubbed. Nor did Lady Amara leave. Instead she took the time to get to know Frightful, with whom she was fascinated, and continue to chat with Dara as if they were in a tavern.

  Why does anyone need help bathing? she asked herself, as one of them began rubbing a soapy concoction into her hair, while another began washing her face with a cloth. Dara got frustrated, and almost grabbed one of the cloths away from the girl . . . but then she remembered she was supposed to be gracious, and let the servants do their work.

  It was nice, she reflected soon after, to have someone waiting with the largest, fluffiest towel she’d ever seen, made of the finest Gilmoran cotton and warmed up by the fire before enveloping her.

  But then Lady Amara and her maids started asking her to try on clothes, and the experience went from luxurious to tedious.

  Honestly, Dara didn’t understand why anyone, no matter how noble, needed that many clothes. She had several sets, herself, at least three or four sturdy woolen gowns and some linen shifts and underclothes, but Lady Amara displayed enough pretty dresses to clothe an entire village that afternoon.

  Dara eventually settled on three understated dresses that she found weren’t too itchy, two in different shades of green and one in a dramatic scarlet that Amara said made her look like Briga, herself. While being compared to a goddess was flattering, Dara felt guilty about it. She chided herself for being an unsophisticated peasant and tried to forget about it.

  Still, it was comforting that, after shedding her armor and scrubbing away the muck, putting on a clean, fresh shift and one of the green dresses, Lady Amara stood back and pronounced her “a girl, again.”

  “Some jewelry, a proper wimple, and we’ll be ready,” she finally decided.

  “Ready? For what? Is the banquet tonight?”

  “Oh, goddess, no!” Lady Amara said with mock horror. “They’ll take their sweet time to organizing that. Half of the nobility are still seeing to their estates. The Spellmonger hasn’t even arrived – that’s when the real celebrations will happen.

  “But there will be a small gathering tonight at House Vaver. Baron Maydine wants a chance to meet you before you’re too swamped with admirers to speak to him. He’s important,” Amara stressed. “Father said he’s one of the most important voices on the council. And his nephew is a warmage. Magelord,” she corrected. “Magelord Mavone. Do you know him?”

  “Not personally,” Dara admitted, reluctantly. “But I’ve heard of him.”

  “Well, Mavone thinks you should meet several people, starting with the Baron,” Amara informed her. “He’s having a small dinner at his home tonight. Lady Pentandra said you would be happy to go.”

  Dara felt powerless, but didn’t see the harm. Of course,” she smiled, as politely as she could. “Anything Lady Pentandra suggests is as good as an order from Master Minalan. I’d love to go to dinner with a baron!” she said. She resolved not to fart in front of the noble.

  But inside, she knew she’d much rather run and go find her father and brothers, and then head back to Sevendor.

  On foot, if they needed to.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lady Amara of Siviline House

  The next few days was a whirlwind of events: breakfast parties, luncheons, receptions, and even a tournament, as the city began feting the returning troops. The Spellmonger, it was said, was chasing the goblins out of Gilmora – it would be a few more days before he arrived. Before she plunged into the festivities, however, Dara learned just how difficult her task would become. Dara knew more precisely what was happening, thanks to the appearance at the door of Siviline House of Sir Festaran, just after breakfast the next morning.

  The young knight mage was in a freshly-laundered surcoat of Sevendor green, a matching sash bearing the Snowflake – the device her master had selected as his own – over one shoulder. His green mantle was thrown back over the other. He still wore his hauberk, as always, and he bore his long cavalry sword on his hip, but otherwise he was dressed for city life.

  Lady Amara’s servants admitted him, after he presented his credentials and his request to see Dara. Indeed, he had used her full name when making the request, the maid reported.

  “Is he handsome?” Lady Amara asked the girl, unexpectedly.

  “Oh, Ishi’s grace, yes, m’lady!” she assured her. “Tall, well-made, and dark haired. A noble bearing and a youthful gleam of wit in his eye,” the girl dutifully reported.

  “Oh, how exciting!” Lady Amara said, clapping her hands together. “Tell the good knight that we’ll be down in a moment, as soon as we’re dressed!”

  “Aye, m’lady!” she said, scurrying away, beaming and giggling.

  “What?” Dara demanded. “I’m already dressed!” Indeed, she’d pulled on her gown from the long, boring but delicious dinner the night before.

  “You cannot wear that when you have a gentleman calling upon you!” reproved Lady Amara. “That wouldn’t be proper!”

  Before she knew it, Amara’s maids, under her direction, had stripped Dara and re-dressed her in the darker green gown, and then added the necklaces she’d acquired. There were three, now, after the Baroness herself and her daughter had each given her one of theirs.

  It took almost half an hour for Dara to appear downstairs, once her hair had been brushed out and her face quickly painted by one of the maids. The entire process was itchy and confusing, and only her promise to Pentandra that she would be a model representative kept her from expressing her frustration.

  It’s only Sir Festaran, after all! she complained to herself. I’ve seen him dozens of times! I rode with him to Barrowbell just yesterday!

  But as she and Lady Amara descended the staircase to meet him, she found that she was grateful that Amara had made the effort. The surprised look in Sir Festaran’s eye was enough to make it worthwhile.

  “My ladies!” he said, with a low and graceful bow. “Thank you for your indulgence this morning. I am Sir Festaran of Hosly,” he announced, unnecessarily. “Knight mage and vice-castellan to the Spellmonger of Sevendor, here bearing a message for Maid Lenodara of Westwood, called the Hawkmaiden, on behalf of Lady Pentandra.”

  Dara was about to snort and call out his overly-formal presentation, but Lady Amara spoke first. And far more civilly.

  “And I am Lady Amara of House Siviline, and bid you welcome to our house, brave knight,” she said, as she led Dara into the hall by her elbow. “May I offer you wine?”

  “That would be gracious of you, Lady Amara,” Sir Festaran said with a nod.

  Wine? Dara thought, disbelieving. We just had breakfast!

  But she kept her mouth shut as Amara summoned a servant, who seemed prepared with a bottle and three silver goblets. Amara made a great show of pouring each glass half-full before offering one to Sir Festaran, and then to Dara, before taking one herself.

  “I see you found a bath, Maid Dara,” Sir Festaran noted. “One of the best things about battle is the bath afterward, I’ve found. And I must admit, that dress looks lovely on you, with your hair,” he added, as he accepted his cup.

  “Isn’t her hair beautiful?” Amara agreed, pushing a shock of it
out of Dara’s face. “That brilliant red is so rare, here in Gilmora, and that streak of white is so striking! I thought the deep green suited her, especially with her pretty eyes,” she added, with a smile.

  Dara started to feel nauseated.

  “Oh, I have always admired the Hawkmaiden’s eyes,” Sir Festaran agreed, much to Dara’s surprise. There was nothing special about her eyes, and no particular reason why he should admire them. But as embarrassing as that was, he continued. “Why, they’re as sparkling as your own, my lady.” Dara could tell how pleased her new friend was at the compliment, and could see her react with such deliberation that she could not take it any longer.

  “You said you had a message?” Dara blurted out as she blushed furiously. She was suddenly very uncomfortable – both with the attention they were paying her, and with the sudden attention Sir Festaran was paying to Lady Amara. “From Pentandra?” she stressed.

  “Of course, to business,” Sir Festaran said, straightening . . . though his eyes lingered on Lady Amara’s pretty face. “I was tasked to bring you news on my way to see to the wounded. Master Icorad the Healer arrived in the night, and he reports that Sire Cei should recover quickly and fully,” he announced.

  “Oh, that is good news!” Dara said, with a sigh. She hadn’t realized how much she was worried about the castellan, but now that she knew he would recover, she felt an enormous sense of relief. She’d heard of those who hadn’t survived the battle, and some were good Sevendori folk. People she’d known all her life, like Gorker the Guard, and the quiet headman of Gurisham whose name she could never remember. Now, she never would have to.

  But hearing that Sire Cei would be all right was a genuine relief. She’d been in attendance when he’d been wed to Lady Estret, before the Magic Fair, and she hated to think of the beautiful Riverlord noblewoman to be widowed twice. Dara was starting to understand the important role the Wilderlands knight played back home in Sevendor. Any man from the castle her father grudgingly admitted was fair and honest was a boon. And after the awful chance Sire Cei took in charging the dragon single-handedly, it would be horribly unfair if he’d fallen.