Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “More,” Sir Festaran continued, “the Spellmonger himself will be arriving in a few days. Master Minalan sends his regards, but he needs more time to police the area around Cambrian, and ensure there are no more lurking in the hedges. There are fresh troops arriving to help screen the city, but there are limits to what they can do. He has asked that you put yourself at Pentandra’s service . . . and Lady Pentandra has asked that you report to her at Dagrany House late this afternoon, for further instructions.”

  Dara groaned. “What now?” she asked, annoyed.

  Sir Festaran smiled. “I cannot say with accuracy, but if I had to guess, it is likely some Order business. Still plenty of things to take care of.”

  “Please inform Lady Pentandra that I will be there at the appointed hour,” Dara sighed. “Of course, I have no idea where Dagrany House is, but . . .”

  “I do,” Amara smiled. “I shall ensure she arrives on time, you have my word. Tell me, Sir Festaran, is being a knight mage much different than being a regular knight?”

  “I confess I am still trying to master the art – but in truth it is so new that there are few standards by which to compare,” Sir Festaran said easily and affably. “My Talent is quite small, compared to Maid Dara’s, for instance,” he said, nodding to her. “I doubt I will master a tithe of the spells she’s already learned.

  “But I can tell you, with a fair degree of certainty, that this house is built of fifty-six thousand, two hundred and twenty-five bricks; there are seventy-two stray cats in this quarter; and you have two hundred and thirty-three eyelashes around your pretty left eye, while its equally comely mate sports a robust two hundred sixty.”

  “Really?” Lady Amara asked, reaching a slender hand to touch her eye, surprised and impressed.

  “Sir Festaran’s Talent is the ability to magically estimate . . . pretty much anything,” Dara revealed.

  “It’s not particularly useful,” the knight demurred. “Just enough magic to see the Censorate on my tail, if they were still around. Not enough to become a warmage.”

  “Yet as a knight mage, you distinguish yourself,” Dara said. “Sir Festaran defended Sevendor valiantly against our foes mere weeks ago. Sire Cei has come to value him as a cautious and thoughtful administrator. And it is well-known that Master Minalan relies on his ability on the battlefield . . . as well as his strong sword-arm.”

  She was trying to embarrass the knight, after he’d made her feel so awkward. Yet when she mentioned his service, Lady Amara took even more interest in him, to Dara’s annoyance.

  “Really? That is quite noble of you, Sir Festaran!” she sighed. “Most of the Gilmoran chivalry have never crossed swords in earnest, outside of the occasional duel or private war.”

  “The Bontal Vales can be a dangerous place,” Sir Festaran said with so much gravity, that it tempted Dara to roll her eyes. “The Riverlords pride ourselves on our steel in battle,” he preened.

  “Then I thank you for putting that steel in service to our defense,” Lady Amara said, and suddenly reached up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “On behalf of all the folk of Barrowbell!”

  “My lady is gracious,” Sir Festaran blushed. He quickly finished his wine and returned the goblet. “But as delightful as it was in making your acquaintance, duty beckons. I have other messages to bear, I’m afraid. I bid you ladies Ishi’s grace on this wonderful day,” he said, bowing once more before he left.

  “What was that all about?” Dara demanded, when they were alone.

  “What was what?” asked Lady Amara, innocently. “I was merely hosting a visiting knight as a guest in our hall, as custom demands. I shared a cup of watered wine, inquired about his deeds and house, and received his message properly, in the company of a chaperone. Until my parents return from our estate, I am the noble-in-residence, in Siviline House. Do they do things differently in the east?”

  “I . . . I suppose I just don’t know,” Dara confessed, guiltily, realizing that she didn’t. She didn’t have “gentlemen callers” at Westwood Hall. Unless she counted Gareth. He came by occasionally, but that was business. Wasn’t it? “I . . .”

  “Oh, goddess!” Lady Amara said, her eyes growing wide. “Do you have feelings for him?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Dara. She liked Amara, and she’d acted as a dear friend in the short time she’d known her, but she was growing increasingly uncomfortable. She kind of wished she would shut up.

  But she persisted. “You know exactly what I mean!” accused the blonde girl, giggling. “While I know you are apprenticed, if he is a knight mage, is he not one of your kind? As well as a countryman? Our vassals often marry each other, to strengthen the house.”

  “It . . . it doesn’t . . . work that way, exactly,” Dara said, confused. “Just because he’s a mage . . . kind of . . . and I’m a . . . I . . .”

  “He is quite handsome,” Amara observed, staring at the door he’d just exited. “And exceedingly polite and well-spoken. His manner is not entirely sophisticated, but I find that endearing, after some of the boors in the city. Country knights can be quite charming. Tell me, do you think he’s handsome?”

  “What? He’s . . . I don’t know! He’s not ugly,” she conceded, sputtering. “He’s really nice. He’s always been nice to me, even when he was our prisoner.”

  “He was your prisoner?” Amara asked, scandalized.

  “It’s a long story,” Dara sighed. “But the Magelord defeated his father’s liege and took his lands, so he’s now Minalan’s vassal. And assistant castellan to Sire Cei,” she added. “The Dragonslayer,” she amended. Pentandra was adamant at ensuring that Sire Cei’s name was never mentioned without also adding his new nickname. That only impressed Lady Amara more.

  “That’s fascinating!” she sighed. “Oh, Dara, he really is handsome, whatever you might think. Is he kind? Would he make a good husband?”

  “How would I know?” Dara asked, setting down her goblet. “I haven’t really thought about it. Nor does it matter. He’s a nobleman. I’m not.” She was suddenly relieved at that fact – it should discourage further discussion she was not comfortable having.

  “You’re a commoner?” Lady Amara asked.

  “Yes,” Dara said, proudly. “Freemen. My father is the yeoman of Westwood Hall.”

  “Oh. Well, the yeomanry is often cited for their loyal service and justly praised, in my father’s solar,” she said, finally, after some internal discussion. “One of our vassals’ father was the chief yeoman of our estate, before he was knighted for service,” she offered, as some sort of consolation.

  “In my experience,” Dara said, carefully, remembering to control her temper, “a man’s position and title have little bearing on his worthiness.”

  “Nobility is recognized, not granted,” Amara said, as if quoting a proverb. “But it would keep you from wedding even a knight, in most places,” she said, sounding disappointed.

  “I don’t know if I’ll wed anyone,” Dara declared with a snort. “I still have an entire long apprenticeship ahead of me. And mine hasn’t exactly been . . . typical, from what I understand.”

  “Oh, Dara, I’m sorry,” Amara said, with a sincere sigh. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s fine,” Dara insisted, not wanting to hurt the girl’s feelings. “As I said, that’s not likely to be something I even think about, for a while. Magic is hard to learn – Flame! Just learning to read is hard! But apprentices aren’t allowed to marry without our master’s permission. And I doubt Master Minalan is looking to marry me off. I hope,” she added.

  “Well . . . a knight as handsome as Sir Festaran is bound to attract attention in Barrowbell,” Lady Amara warned. “Most of the estates and manors have sent their daughters here for safety. And . . . all too many of our brothers fell defending them. There is a gracious abundance of maidens in the city, at the moment,” she warned.

  “That’s none of my concern,” Dara said, airily dismissing the matter. “Sir Festaran
is a valiant friend of mine, and a countryman, nothing more,” she insisted. Lady Amara had the grace not to disagree with her friend . . . by voice. Her face expressed her doubt.

  Yet as her day wore on, Dara couldn’t help but think about the knight. Indeed, every glance from Amara that long day made her think of him – and how she felt about him.

  Which was confused.

  What made matters worse was that such matters seemed to dominate the conversation among all of the young women Lady Amara introduced her to as they made their way from event to event. They began to fall into a pattern, Dara realized. After the gracious ladies of Barrowbell thanked her for her assistance and listened to her tale, the luncheons and garden parties seemed to devolve into an incessant discussion about who was due to marry whom. As none of the houses and players were known to Dara, it all sounded like hopeless gossip to her ear. She had to quietly bear it and smile, nod, and utter little responses, almost as if by rote, at Lady Amara’s urging.

  Nor could she escape from those affairs without revealing both her apprenticeship and her status as a commoner, when the inevitable subject of her own potential matrimony arose. After the third event, she’d started to cherish both excuses in new ways. It seemed every noblewoman in Barrowbell was determined to make a match for her with some distant relative of theirs.

  It was part of a game, she realized, a vast continuous discussion of other people’s lives. Indeed, it seemed to obsess the women of Barrowbell, from the nobility to the servants. Dara was impressed at how Lady Amara seemed to bear up under the questions and proposals, deferring any serious questions to her parents but dismissing some suggestions out-of-hand.

  “Can you believe the gall of Lady Flordine?” she nearly spat, as the two girls left the luncheon with Lady Amara’s maids in tow. “That’s the fourth time she’s tried to get me to consider her pasty-faced nephew, Darman. The man is an idiot,” she pronounced. “Darman the Doughy, he’s called behind his back, or Darman the Dolt. He has fingers the size of sausages and he smells . . . odd,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I pity the poor girl who ends up with him. Flordine will have to increase the size of his estate, if she’s going to find a wife for him. Substantially!”

  “Is it always like that?” Dara asked, horrified. Each event they attended seemed to get worse.

  “Oh, it’s been particularly bad, lately,” Lady Amara affirmed, understanding her friend’s concern. “With so many noblewomen stuck here, that’s all they seem able to do. And with so many arrangements dashed by death on the battlefield, they all scramble to make the best matches for their daughters and nieces, sisters and cousins that they can. There are only so many Cotton Lords, after all. And, suddenly, quite a lot of widows. So there’s . . . competition. But it’s going to have to get a lot worse than this before I consider some prospects. Lady Flordine keeps throwing Darman at me, and I’m sick of it!”

  “That’s awful!” Dara said, shaking her head. She was thinking the entire obsession with marriage was awful, but Amara took it as sympathy, and Dara didn’t correct her.

  It wasn’t until she reported dutifully to Pentandra at Dagrany House that afternoon that she finally escaped it. Lady Amara escorted her inside the ornate stone hall, which Dara learned had been loaned to the Arcane Orders by an absent count. Pentandra was sitting near the fire when they arrived, surrounded by other wizards and a collection of servants. She rose gracefully when she saw her and gave her a brief embrace.

  “Ah, Dara! Thank you for coming! And you must be Lady Amara,” she said, addressing her new friend. “Thank you so much for hosting the Hawkmaiden for us,” she said, with a gracious bow. “Your father has also provided a great service in volunteering his warehouse for use as a barracks,” she added. “That is where your kin are quartered, Dara, just to the west of town. They fare well,” she added. “I’ve had meals sent to them from some of the finest inns in the city.”

  “It is our pleasure to honor the saviors of Barrowbell, Lady Pentandra,” Lady Amara said, giving a low and graceful bow. “If there is anything me and my house may do for you, please consider us at your service.”

  “Well spoken,” Pentandra said, nodding approvingly. “In fact, there might be. Your father assured me that you were an observant and clever girl. So tell me . . . just how did Dara fare at her first few outings in Barrowbell society? Honesty, please,” Pentandra said, fixing Lady Amara with a stare.

  Dara didn’t know if Lady Pentandra cast a spell or not – but her gaze had an effect on Amara.

  “She’s done reasonably well, for a commoner from a rustic estate,” Amara reported. “But she needs work if she’s going to hold her own without me around.”

  Dara gasped. The criticism was pointed, and felt like a slap.

  “Hey! I thought I did pretty well!” she objected. “I didn’t fart in front of the baron, if you recall!”

  “You did!” Amara insisted, defensively, her pale cheeks blushing a little. “You did well, I mean, not . . . But Barrowbell society is . . . well, it’s as rough as a battlefield in its way, I suppose. Those pointless little questions they asked you over luncheon? They were attacks. Sometimes on each other, sometimes on you. Some of those harpies derided your father, your station, and your profession, and you never even realized it.”

  “Attacks? Why would they attack me? I didn’t hear any attacks!”

  “Which is why you need more work,” Lady Pentandra soothed. “I have no doubt that Lady Amara is correct in her assessment. It’s about what I expected. And while it is a challenge, it is not insurmountable.”

  “What is? Isn’t?” Dara asked, confused.

  “Teaching you how to perform as well as any young maid of Barrowbell,” Lady Pentandra answered. “And much more. You don’t need to merely hold your own in such circumstances, Dara, you must be able to understand them as well as those around you. You need to charm them, without magic, but by your manner and behavior. As I said, these people need a hero. Now I need to turn you into the kind of hero they can really love. That means learning a whole new set of skills, as complex as spellcraft . . . but, I’m afraid, more useful to the Arcane Orders, and your master, than spells at the moment.”

  “Why?” Dara asked, suspiciously. It sounded ghastly.

  “Because when he arrives, the entire town will throw a celebration. And yet more parties after that. The events you’ve attended thus far are nothing, compared to what will happen then. It’s my job to prepare you. And the others, but you are who I’m most concerned with, you and Sire Cei.”

  Pentandra turned to a pair of wizards sitting on either side of a couch, their mantles thrown back and glasses of wine in their hands. “These are my colleagues, Magelord Astyral, currently of Tudry in the Wilderlands, and Magelord Mavone, stationed in Wenshar. Both of them are native Gilmorans, and are familiar with the politics of Barrowbell. They will assist and direct which affairs you attend, and they will brief you on which noblemen are important to impress . . . and which to avoid.”

  “But . . . why?” Flame help guide her, she still did not understand what they needed all of this for.

  “As Lady Pentandra explained, Maid Dara, the Arcane Orders have need of you,” Astyral answered, rising as gracefully as Pentandra had. “We’re at a . . . delicate position, at the moment. Many of the nobility still cling to the old customs and are suspicious of us. And of the new King, though he was their duke before he ascended to the crown. Our victory at Cambrian was good for both us and the Kingdom, not to mention this grand old town.

  “But we want to capitalize on that victory with a good showing . . . and I believe our young Lady Amara will attest to how fickle and arbitrary Barrowbell society can be,” he said, chuckling. Amara nodded, smiling at the handsome magelord’s attention.

  “The Arcane Orders need the good opinion of Barrowbell, it’s nobles and people, as we press for . . . other matters before His Majesty, and the great nobles of the new Kingdom,” Mavone agreed. “After the Day of the Dragons, the
entire Kingdom is terrified. Now that we’ve slain one of the worms, there’s hope. And we need to capitalize on that hope.”

  “Your next task – your mission, rather – will be to impress them with how noble, courageous, and clever you are,” Astyral continued. “Just like Sire Cei must show them how brave, stalwart, and loyal he is. As this is a nasty pit of gossip and social dueling, appealing to all parties without seeming to favor any of them, or get involved in the local politics, is what we need, right now.”

  “But we can’t do that as well as we’d like, if the Hawkmaiden doesn’t know how to perform such a mission,” Lady Pentandra said, tactfully. “To that end, I’d like you to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening with my maid. I sent for her from Castabriel. And she is far more than a mere servant,” Pentandra cautioned.

  “She’s going to teach me to be . . . charming?” Dara asked, skeptically. Her aunt had given up on all such efforts years ago.

  “She is used to the sophisticated and torturous politics of Remeran society, and the Game of Whispers. In that tangled society, vendettas can go back generations, and every word and nuance can mean the rise of fortunes or the end of dynasties. I don’t expect her to work miracles,” she said, frowning, “but she has a knack of instruction in the social arts that should help you. So heed her closely,” she cautioned. “She will teach you what you need to know, in order to accomplish this task.

  “And then Astyral and Mavone will steer you toward the people we wish you to . . . charm,” she said, with a smile.

  “And I will volunteer to help Dara with the specifics of Barrowbell’s society,” Lady Amara added. “Father was insistent that I aid the magi, in any way I can. Teaching Dara how to contend with that nest of vipers is my pleasure.”