Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

It was important, she’d been assured. If the nobility rejected the idea of magelords, or simply magi who would contend in society without the limits imposed by the Censorate of Magic, then the future of the magi (herself included) looked bleak. Any opportunity to speak to the matron was to be taken, according to Lady Pentandra.

  “I’ve heard a number of odd things about your master, girl,” Lady Finarva confided, as they rode a bit apart from the others. “Many odd things. Some of them I find, frankly, troubling.”

  “And which of those trouble you, my lady?” Dara asked, simply. A simple response is better than an insincere answer, Latra had emphasized.

  “Well . . . that the powers of the Magocracy will soon supplant the rightful lords of the Five Duch—of the Kingdom, once again,” the matron replied, quietly. “You seem like a clever girl. Certainly you can see the danger of such a thing, though you be new-come to your profession.”

  “No one is warier of the abuse of power than my Master,” confided Dara. Pentandra had been particularly insistent on this point. “The last thing he desires is to try to supplant the rightful lords from their place. Why, the magelords seek nothing more than to ply their spells against the gurvani shamans. Their interests tend to be toward the mysteries of the universe, not the management of estates.”

  “Yet so much power in so few hands . . .”

  “Does not the king have but two hands?” Dara countered. “If Magelord Minalan is content to serve him, why would a lesser mage take issue with his rule?”

  “Yet not all are comfortable with Rard’s assumption of the crown,” the noblewoman murmured, clearly concerned she’d be overheard.

  The code she was speaking was sophisticated – Pentandra and Astyral had spent an hour honing her responses to just this line of questioning – but Dara approached the conversation with confidence. “In many quarters,” Dara confirmed. “Yet he is the king we have. In the light of the crisis of invasion, he is adequate to bring the power of the magi to bear on the security of the kingdom.”

  “You make a compelling argument, Hawkmaiden,” she said, pursing her lips. “Most of the Gilmoran families are terrified, now that their lands are invaded. Had we only Duke Rard to depend upon, all might be lost. But King Rard brings troops from Wenshar and Remere, and sends the most powerful of magi to secure us. Though our kin to the south rail at his presumption of the crown . . . I cannot fault his actions, once wearing it,” she confessed.

  “Such matters are beyond a mere apprentice,” Dara said, as one of the servants returned an anxious Frightful to her, hooded, along with the hare she’d taken.

  “The question, to my mind,” the matron said, slowly, “is what all of these new . . . magelords running around are going to do to society. For centuries if someone in the aristocracy was cursed with Talent, they were all but exiled. Now you have rapscallions like Astyral and Mavone strutting through Barrowbell, returned from exile, acting like barons.”

  “Are they not noble born?” Dara inquired, knowing the answer. “And then ennobled through their skill at arms on the field, as any young squire might be? My lady, from my perspective they have earned the right to strut, both through lineage and through deeds.”

  “Well, Barrowbell did once thrive in the presence of magi,” Lady Finarva conceded. “The magelights they built still guard the road to Barrowbell. But the wizards of the Magocracy—”

  “Have been dead for four centuries or more,” Dara said, daring to interrupt the woman. “The Spellmonger is well-aware of the history of their abuses. He is a formally trained scholar, after all. Hence his close discussion with both King Rard and his fellow magi, to construct an Arcane Order that is both limited and empowered to use its craft for the betterment of all.”

  “So many changes!” Lady Finarva said, shaking her head distastefully. “Yet the gods ever provide us poor humans with opportunity, in times of such crisis. Gilmora may need an injection of fresh blood, after this bloody season. I was speaking of this to Lady Dormara and Baroness Isquina last night. A goodly number of our finest young men fell in the defense of Gilmora. Seven engagements between noble houses have collapsed in the last week alone, as word arrives of each new tragic death.”

  “Many have died on the field, in Gilmora’s defense, my lady,” Dara acknowledged . . . although she had no real idea what point Lady Finarva was trying to make. This code was so damned hard, sometimes! And it wasn’t merely stupid young knights who’d perished. Most of the dead were common soldiers, impressed into service or conscripted into arms by their lords, without their consent. “The families of the peasantry grieve just as devoutly as the families of the aristocracy.”

  That earned her a sharp look from the old, wizened face of Lady Finarva. “You mistake me, Hawkmaid. I am not deaf to the cries of common widows, or blind to the orphans that will soon invade our precinct. The gods care little for human titles of nobility.

  “But we all do our part, in the greater web of society,” she sighed, philosophically. “To the knights we owe our defense, to the peasants our bread, to the clergy we owe our respect and benevolence. Yet life requires more than mere swords, bread, and prayer. For those such as I, our duties are more subtle. You may not think such things important – I didn’t, at your age – but in truth it influences generations.

  “See that stupid bit of fluff pretending to ride on that poor palfrey?” she asked, indicating Lady Mardine, who was fussing at her servant about her falcon’s lack of success at the hunt. “I’m responsible for that, I’m afraid. I’ve a handsome great nephew with a good estate and a better expectation . . . who doesn’t have a brain in his head. He’s a good boy,” she said, with matronly pride, “just . . . slow. He would have been destined for the clergy if his elder brother hadn’t died in tournament.

  “But he needed a wife to rescue the line from obscurity, and that little bird was pretty, her father was rich, and they will have very pretty, very rich, very stupid children, Trygg willing. But I had to make that match because all the smart ladies of Gilmora were already related too closely to the boy to consider.

  “Now, that might seem to be a minor matter to you, my dear,” she continued, patiently “but thousands of peasant families depend upon the ability of the Gilmoran aristocracy to do their jobs: sell the cotton, pay the hands, order outlandish trinkets from the artisans, hold the balls and banquets, and manage their estates to the benefit of all.”

  “Are you so certain that the common folk require the nobility for that?” asked Dara, boldly. She and her father, and the whole of the Westwood, did quite well without the interference of Sevendor Castle.

  Of course, that was before the Magelord came and changed everything.

  “Let us hope so, for the sake of the nobility!” Lady Finarva snorted. “If we do not ensure that our rule lifts us all, then we have lost the blessings of the gods to do so! Thankfully, we aren’t that useless, yet,” she sighed. “The common folk, both artisans and villeins alike, need order and structure. Aspirations,” she said, grandly, gesturing toward Mardine.

  “What do you mean, my lady?” Dara asked, politely. When your elders feel the need to lecture, bear the ordeal with your attention and interest, no matter how feigned it might be, Latra’s advice came.

  “The peasant looks to make his children artisans, the artisans scheme for their children to become burghers, and the burghers plot to marry into the aristocracy. And while they all attempt to advance their offspring, they depend upon the support of the aristocracy to fund the temples that teach their children, the courts that keep their villages civil, and now the soldiers who stand guard over them in a time of crisis. The virtue of the nobility keeps our society afloat. My part of that is to ensure that our future is as robust and prosperous as our past. The virtue of the nobility is in our leadership, our wisdom, ,and our grace.”

  “You are depending on the virtue of . . . that?” Dara asked, in a bare murmur. She detested gossip, but there was just something about Lady Mardine’s superficial way
s that tempted her.

  Lady Finarva’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, Trygg’s bunions, we are not yet that desperate! Her estates are well-tended by her yeomen, of course. Mardine doesn’t have to do anything but look pretty, bear heirs, and raise them well. Oh, eventually she might develop a lick of sense – sometimes they do, after motherhood – but I trust Trygg to take me to my reward long before that might occur.

  “But it does bring us back to my earlier point,” she continued, as they started riding back toward the mews, following Lady Amara’s pretty pony. “Since Castal took control of Gilmora it has settled into a prosperous lethargy that has seen rise of many such . . . unfortunate examples,” she said, tactfully. “Our poor lads, Duin bless their fallen souls, are part of that responsibility. But generations of marrying only their fellow Gilmoran nobles has left things . . . stagnant. If this crisis can be used to welcome a few new infusions of spirited blood into Gilmoran society, that could be a boon,” she decided.

  “If it comes with the additional power of a magelord, it could be more than a boon, my lady,” Dara pointed out. “It could be a blessing. I am only recently acquainted with Magelords Mavone and Astyral, but they are bold and vital gentlemen. And they are your countrymen,” she pointed out.

  “Yet they will begat children with this Talent,” Lady Finarva countered. “Magelords with the power to turn their foes into frogs, or something,” she said, clearly unaware of the nature of Imperial magic. If there was a way to transform someone into a frog, Dara hadn’t found it yet . . . and she desperately wanted to learn that spell.

  “They will be Gilmoran magelords, my lady,” Dara riposted. “Our profession in no way eliminates our loyalties. And if spirit is how you gauge the worth of a man, I defy you to find more spirited gentlemen within Barrowbell.”

  “Arrogant, you mean,” the matron snorted. “I’ve seen how they behave in public!”

  “Confident, rather,” Dara said, trying to control the conversation. “They are not mere Magelords, now, or even warmagi. They are High Magi,” she said, using the term Pentandra had insisted upon. “They have been entrusted with powers beyond those of the Magocracy. Such power makes a man bold.”

  “And you think the Spellmonger can keep such bold men in check?” she asked, skeptically.

  “They have taken binding oaths to him, and bear him uncommon loyalty, my lady,” Dara assured. “Should any High Mage turn to evil ways, the others will be summoned to contend with him, under the oaths we’ve taken!”

  “We?” Lady Finarva asked sharply. “You’ve taken this oath, Hawkmaid? You have . . . one of those witchstones?”

  Dara swallowed. She had not expected the conversation to turn personal. “Aye, my lady,” she agreed, trying to recover her composure. “I won it fairly, at the Spellmonger’s Trial,” she said, and then told the story of how she’d used Frightful to circumvent Master Minalan’s fiendish challenges . . . and the near-riot that resulted.

  “Well, now,” Lady Finarva said, clearing her throat. “Here I thought you were just a pretty apprentice, Lenodara the Hawkmaiden, an up-jumped falconer’s daughter sent ahead to distract us. Yet your tale demonstrates uncommon cleverness,” she said, shrewdly.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Dara said, confused about Lady Finarva’s shift in manner.

  “Oh, it was far more observation than compliment, my dear,” Lady Finarva assured, her tone darker. “I am quite used to those insipid songbirds chirping incessantly in my ear,” she said, nodding pointedly toward Lady Mardine, who was doing her best to appear pristinely ladylike atop a horse she was clearly unused to riding. She looked almost comical, and all too-similar to a vapid songbird. “But this old owl knows when a falcon has been set upon her,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

  “My lady?” Dara asked, confused.

  “Oh, I don’t credit you with such machinations, child,” Lady Finarva assured her, sympathetically. “You are far too young to be that opportunistic and cynical, yet. But you have become a piece of a much larger game than you suspect. But no mere pawn,” she said, shaking her head. “No, you have both great power and great potential; more, you have the wit to use them both.”

  “I . . . I merely seek to provide good service to my master,” Dara said, confused.

  “Of course you do, but there is more here, I think. I detect a Remeran’s touch in such a subtle play . . . your Lady Pentandra, I’d assume. No,” she cautioned, when Dara began to defend her master’s friend. “Don’t deny it, nor confirm it – but you may relay to your mistress that her whispered message has been delivered. The one you did not know you were bearing me.”

  “My lady? I—”

  “More, I will answer her: Gilmora stands ready to support the rise of the magi, and will welcome the magelords as our proper saviors,” she pronounced, decisively. “We will not follow the Alshari in rebellion.”

  “What?” Dara asked, completely confused.

  “As I said, you are but a piece, young Lenodara,” Lady Finarva soothed. “You do serve your master well. But this was not set up by a mere baker’s son, however adept he is at his spellwork. Nor is this matter to be settled by either you or he.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Dara confessed. What was the old woman saying?

  “Of course you don’t, dear. What you don’t know is that three counts in southern Alshar, representing three of the Alshari great houses, each with past relations and pretensions to the Ducal coronet of Alshar, have risen in rebellion against King Rard. They claim that he assassinated Duke Lenguin and Duchess Enora, and then took the young heirs of the throne hostage for their cooperation in his coronation.”

  Dara had no idea any of that was going on – she was barely conscious that Duke Rard was now King Rard, though she knew it important for her trade.

  “Now,” the old woman said, taking an elegant silver flask shaped like an owl out of her belt and uncapping it with her elegant kid leather gloves with practiced ease, “I take no position on that . . . chamberpot,” she said, rolling her eyes. “House Bimin has always had a sinister streak about it, and when Rard married that—well, let us just say Grendine’s aspirations and willingness to scheme at court have been legendary since we were both girls your age.

  “But that’s politics,” she dismissed, taking a sip. “With three counts in rebellion in Alshar, sealing off Enultramar from Rard’s reach, he holds sway over three duchies only as a technicality,” she explained. “Seeing half a duchy evaporate under his greedy fingertips is a loss for the new royal house. That’s bad enough. What King Rard fears most is that this rebellion will spread.

  “Of all the regions now under his sovereignty, Gilmora is the one with the strongest ties by blood and history with Alshar. There is a strong current here amongst even the great houses of Gilmora that favors a return to Alshari sovereignty. Nothing a girl from the eastern Riverlands could hope to know of course – which makes you an ideal messenger for this whisper.”

  “I was not aware of any message, my lady,” Dara assured her. “I—”

  “Which makes your message all the more subtle,” Lady Finarva nodded, taking a second sip. “And you a credit to your mistress for delivering it. She knows how close I am to those noble houses who most favor rebellion,” she explained. “Indeed, I am related to most of them, one way or another. While I’ve never carried that banner myself, your mistress knows where a word in the old owl’s ear will land. If I disfavor a policy in Barrowbell, few of the aristocratic families will fail to listen.”

  “But . . . rebellion, my lady?” Dara asked, abandoning the code she had ceased to understand. “You could stop a rebellion? Forgive me, but you have no position in Barrowbell . . . or Gilmora, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Yet no family in Gilmora would dare risk my displeasure,” Lady Finarva chuckled, mirthlessly. “Or they would find none to take their sons and daughters to temple to be wed. You don’t believe me? It’s true.

  “A word from me and your idiot son c
an’t find even a vapid weaver’s daughter to marry. Nor your aging maiden bucktoothed daughter, no matter how big a dowry you offer. I pride myself on encouraging the best matches – both for the families and for the country. Women like myself sculpt our society. The matches we arrange affect the fates of all, produce better children, and ensure a reasonable level of cooperation between the houses and harmony in the land.

  “Rebellions make that sort of thing messy,” she said, distastefully. “Even more messy than simple death on the battlefield. Such loyalties lead to betrayals, duels, and vendettas, and those keep promising lines of noble houses from crossing.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but you speak as if you were breeding livestock,” Dara said, quietly.

  “Indeed I am,” the matron said, without taking insult, but taking a third sip from her flask. “Human livestock. I expect a . . . rural girl such as yourself can appreciate that better than some of those sheltered flowers. Just like hounds and hawks, cattle and horses. Only the lines I manage control thousands of hectares of fields, hundreds of mills and gins, hundreds of manors and estates, and fuel the livelihood of hundreds of thousands of good, common people. Their feuds can lead to wars that slay thousands. Their leadership can guide us to ruin or prosperity. But the order they provide is essential. And it is my responsibility to manage them, as much as a farmer manages a herd.”

  “That’s . . . an odd responsibility, my lady,” Dara observed.

  “Isn’t it?” she asked, amused at herself. “I have a tangled fisherman’s net of friends and allies, priestesses and magistrates who are all eager for my favor. All with the understanding that my loyalties lie not with Castal or Alshar, but with the future of Barrowbell. And all of Gilmora.

  “So bear back this whispered message to your mistress: Gilmora is thankful for the protection of both wand and crown, and has our loyalty as a reward. For now,” she added, darkly. “In a time of changes, many things can change.”

  Chapter Fourteen