Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  The Plot In The Darkness

  “Well done, Dara!” Lady Pentandra praised, when she’d reported the odd conversation with the Dowager Owl at the hawking party later that evening.

  They were in an alcove with Mavone and Astyral, at a small reception the Dyer’s Guild was throwing for the officers responsible for Barrowbell’s salvation. “She was the key to Gilmora, in my estimation,” the Remeran wizard said, thoughtfully. “We could convince a dozen burghers and couple of barons, and it still would not have the same effect as a whispered word from Lady Finarva.”

  “But . . . begging your pardon, my lady, but what is all of this about rebellions?” Dara asked, uneasily.

  Pentandra looked at her sharply. “There are many games at play, at the moment, as things change so dramatically,” she explained. “Dynastic feuds a century old are coming out of the shadows. Political alliances are becoming strained, as new forces come into play. And over all the threat of the invasion looms,” she added. “Believe me, Dara, most of this is over the head of even a scheming courtier. That is why we – the new Arcane Orders – must tread so carefully.”

  “So why did you send me as a messenger?” Dara squirmed, uncomfortably.

  “Precisely because we must tread so carefully,” Mavone said, insistently. “How would Lady Finarva responded to me appearing and demanding the folk of Gilmora accept the new power and position of the magi, like it or not?”

  Dara snorted before she could stop herself. “She’d tell you to stop being so damn foolish, and that your boots could use a polish, I’d reckon,” Dara decided. Mavone rewarded her by looking down at his boots which did, indeed, stand in need of polishing.

  “Exactly,” Mavone grunted. “It would be even worse, because I’m distantly related to the old owl. But you . . . you’re a stranger to Gilmora and her politics. You are a mage, or will be someday. You are the Spellmonger’s new apprentice, not an old war comrade. And you have wit she’d recognize. Lady Finarva has always enjoyed a low opinion of her male relatives,” Mavone said, glumly.

  “I got that impression,” Dara agreed. She felt a little better about her uncomfortable meeting, now.

  “So you made an ideal and – as the old owl pointed out – subtle messenger,” Astyral agreed. “And thus you’ve successfully concluded your first mission as a spy.”

  “Now for your second,” Pentandra pronounced. “News has arrived that Minalan and the remainder of his party will arrive here the day after tomorrow. There is to be a massive celebration and a gathering in the square to celebrate, and then enough parties to make this look like an afternoon tea,” she said, gesturing to the dancers and partygoers, the cream of Barrowbell society, who infested the great Dyer’s Hall of Barrowbell. “Our reception here has been welcome – too welcome. While I can appreciate the gratitude of the city as much as anyone, we have word that there may be a plot afoot against us. We just have little idea whom is plotting, and what they are plotting.”

  “Some detail would be helpful,” Dara pointed out, her eyes narrowing.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Astyral agreed with a grin. “At this point, all we know is that there is someone who wants to counter our rise, and is willing to murder to do it. That’s troubling. And possibly awkward. So, we are all going to be especially receptive to any stray word or gesture that might indicate some sort of plot.”

  “Think of it as a blind hunt,” Mavone encouraged, when he saw Dara’s frown. “You know not what game is in the bush, and we need to flush them out before they can escape.”

  “Heep your ears open and your eyes wide,” Lady Pentandra counselled. “Remember your lessons, and everything that we’ve told you. We need to discover where that plot originates. Report any shred of information you hear, no matter how minor.”

  “The last thing one of us needs is a dagger in the kidney,” Mavone agreed, frankly. “Now go be the Hawkmaiden and dance with some boys,” he ordered. Dara was in a daze, as she left the alcove and returned to where her hostess, Lady Amara, was standing with a small gathering of her friends and attendants.

  While she was grateful for the praise for completing her first mission, she was even more confused by her second. She barely knew how to dance, for one thing, and doing so with a bunch of Barrowbell boys she didn’t know sounded awful.

  Lady Amara was standing serenely with three of her friends, girls around her own age she knew well, and stood out in her brilliant yellow dress. While Dara felt like a stranger among them, Amara’s gracious words had put the other girls at ease, when she’d introduced her. Of course, they all knew her as the Hawkmaiden, and were thrilled for the chance to meet her, but Amara managed to cleave beyond Dara’s celebrity and welcome her as a friend.

  They were Lady Amara’s closest personal friends, Dara had quickly realized – not the social associates and aristocratic “friends” she maintained on behalf of her noble house. They were the girls around whom Lady Amara could be herself, in private, and confide her secrets without fear. These were the girls she trusted, not those she contended with for social position. They had grown up around each other, attended temple classes and tutoring together, and socialized by choice, when opportunity presented.

  The other girls weren’t as poised or as observant as Amara, but they seemed generally well-natured. Indeed, they seemed as wary and insecure about the reception as Dara, even if they were better practiced at the social customs.

  Lady Irabel, a gawky, painfully thin brunette had friendly green eyes that scoured the hall like a faun searching a meadow for a lion. Lady Arrel was a few years older than Amara, but deferred to her personality more oft than not. The maiden was quiet, introspective, and possed a clever mind that her shy nature kept concealed. She was incredibly nice, though, asking Dara polite and interesting questions about Sevendor without judgment.

  The third member of the party was a cousin of Amara’s, Maid Zodine. At twelve, she was the youngest in the group, but she was high-spirited and enthusiastic, if not always the most tactful, in her inexperience. She favored Amara greatly in the face, though she still retained the fullness of a well-fed adolescence. She also shared Amara’s blonde hair, although it cascaded from under her cap in giant ringlets.

  “How did you fare?” Lady Amara asked, quietly, as Lady Irabel secured a goblet of punch for her. “It looked intense,” she added.

  “Well enough,” Dara murmured back. “I’ve been granted a new task. To listen,” she said, hoping Amara understood . . . and didn’t ask too many questions. Explaining the nature of her mission would be indiscreet, she knew. Thankfully Amara did understand.

  “Then you’d best mingle amongst those who might speak,” the young noblewoman suggested. “That means dancing, and I cannot get any of these wall-slugs to present themselves for the opportunity,” she said, glancing around at her friends, annoyed. The orchestra the guild hired to play was shifting through a number of unfamiliar tunes to Dara’s ear, but there were a few couples in the hall taking the opportunity.

  “It’s still early, yet!” Irabel protested, looking around nervously.

  “I’m waiting for someone to ask me,” Zodine said, eagerly surveying the crowd.

  “No one wants to dance with us,” groaned Lady Arrel, fidgeting self-consciously. Dara knew the poor girl was fretting – Amara had revealed in confidence that Arrel’s father had seen two proposals of marriage rejected. Amara assured her that the proposals failed because of business reasons, but she blamed herself.

  “That’s the first intelligent thing I think I’ve heard you say, Arrel,” came the throaty voice Dara recalled from her first day in Barrowbell. Maid Ninda, the burgher’s daughter. She approached the girls with an entourage of her own, four young maids in brightly-colored gowns, and a young novitiate in robes. “I’ve always thought you had a brain under that mop,” she snorted. “Just not the wit to introduce it to your tongue.”

  Dara felt the girls stiffen around her. Ninda’s gown displayed more of her than it
did the rich embroidery her father paid for, Dara observed – the cut of the neckline did little to conceal her bust, or the mound of golden chains on it. Nor did she think that was the intent of it.

  Her friends were dressed a little more demurely, but no less flashily. Save the nun, all wore an obscene amount of gold and jewels. But even the novice among them was decorated. Instead of the gold ornaments denied to her by her holy office, the novice carried a bored-looking little dog under her arm. The dog had a collar of gold – the abbey’s restrictions on displays of wealth apparently did not extend to pets.

  Of course, Dara felt a little hypocritical about that, right now – each of Amara’s friends had presented her with a gold necklace bearing the heraldic design of their house as a token of friendship and gratitude. Each was worth enough coin to purchase a small farmstead. Dara was acutely aware that she had nine small farmsteads hanging around her own neck, now.

  But Maid Ninda had a domain’s worth of gold heaped on her bosom, Dara decided. And a manor’s worth of rings on her fingers.

  “The wise listen more than they speak,” Lady Amara said, quoting one of the scriptures of one of the temples, Dara thought. “I assure you, we will not lack for partners, Maid Ninda.”

  “Oh? Is the Streetsweepers Guild joining us this evening, after work?” one of the other girls asked.

  “Really, Lenodara, I know circumstance has forced you to lodge with this dusty old house, but that does not dictate your social associations,” the brash girl said, as she strode closer to the group. “Come and introduce me to some of your handsome friends,” she suggested, nodding back towards the hall where the Gilmoran magi, Astyral and Mavone, were speaking to a cluster of nobles.

  “Why would she interrupt her betters for the likes of you, Maid Ninda?” Amara asked, coolly. “Your family doesn’t even like magi,” she added, as she took a sip of punch. Despite the intimidating nature of the burgher girl, Dara was gratified to see Amara’s friends form up quietly behind her, as disciplined as a military formation.

  “Why, how untrue!” Ninda said, feigning outrage at the suggestion. “My family has never taken issue with the other professions, in their proper places! The magi are a vital part of the commerce of the town!”

  “It’s when they start putting on airs that they become a concern,” another sly-looking girl said, from behind Ninda. “Daria – Sister Daria’s brother is a mage!” she pointed out. “A good and loyal lad, who learned his craft back when the magi knew their proper place!”

  “That’s true,” the nun nodded, with far too much enthusiasm. “He gave up his title under the Bans . . . like a proper mage!”

  “And you are pledged to holy orders,” Irabel noted with a snort. “How does your father expect to have an heir, now?” she asked, pointedly. For some reason that enraged the young nun.

  “My family’s business is none of your concern!” the nun said, so loudly that her poor little dog looked up at her anxiously. “My term in the abbey is temporary!” she insisted.

  “Trygg grant it’s long enough to teach you which boys not to snog!” snorted little Zodine.

  “Maiden Zodine!” snapped Ninda, angrily. “Scandal!”

  “Oh, come on!” complained the girl, her hands on her hips as she glared at the novice. “All Barrowbell knows why Daria is cloistered, now, and it has nothing to do with her piety! It has everything to do with—”

  “Leash your puppy, Amara!” hissed one of the girls.

  “I’m sure your brother is pleased that he can now apply to His Majesty to have his title re-instated,” Amara said, ignoring the younger girl.

  “And capitulate to the chaos that would cause?” scoffed the novice. “My brother knows his proper duty, thank you!”

  “Given the chance, you think he’d foreswear his title twice, in defense of some useless old law?” Imbrel asked. “Interesting! But I doubt it.”

  “He told me so himself over breakfast!” Sister Daria insisted, angrily. She seemed to hold some special hatred for Imbrel.

  “If you could tell truth from lie, you wouldn’t be in that cloister,” smirked Zodine. “I heard tale that the boy you were found with told himself off as a baron’s—”

  “See what kind of folk you’ve infested yourself with, Hawkmaiden?” Ninda asked, with a snort. “Scandal-mongering, gossipy little girls of old and irrelevant houses.” She looked Lady Amara’s beautiful yellow and lavender gown up and down and sneered. “Wrens nest in ruins!”

  “And crows feast on the rotting dead,” Dara shot back, an edge in her voice.

  “These are ravens, not crows!” Ninda corrected her, defiantly.

  “The dead don’t seem to care. What is your point, Maid Ninda?”

  “That you may well consider your choice of friends more carefully,” the burgher girl said. “When the Spellmonger arrives, who your friends are might be telling,” she added, a hint of threat in her voice.

  “What? Are you going to tattle to her master that she’s been slumming . . . with noblewomen?” scoffed Lady Arrel, in a rare display of boldness.

  “That will be the least of his concerns, I’m certain,” Maid Ninda dismissed. “The entire city will go mad for him. I hear there will be balls and celebrations. But it would be helpful to my seamstress if I knew when he’s to arrive . . .” she said, expectantly.

  Dara shrugged. “The Spellmonger of Sevendor keeps his own schedule. He comes and goes like a shadow,” she added. It never hurts to rely on mystery to answer an uncomfortable situation, she remembered Pentandra telling her. We’re wizards. It’s an expected part of our presentation.

  “If you do find out, I would be grateful to know – a girl likes to prepare for such a momentous event. In any case, let us see if Magelord Astyral is as charming a gentleman as his reputation suggests,” she said, casting her eye slyly on the wizard across the room. “Come on, ladies!”

  “I want to beat her in the head with a rock,” Zodine declared, the moment she was out of earshot. “A nice pointy rock!”

  “Do you not know a spell to make her hair to fall out?” Lady Arrel asked, her eyes slits.

  “Not yet,” Dara said, swallowing. “But I’ll ask Lady Pentandra,” she said, as she watched the other girls retreat across the hall. “That might be a useful one to know.”

  “Dara,” Amara said, quietly in her ear, so that the other girls could not hear, “did you catch that?”

  Dara stopped. She replayed the conversation in her head. Beyond the mindless sniping, part of her subconscious niggled at something.

  . . .Sister Daria’s brother is a mage . . .

  . . .a good and loyal lad . . .

  . . . learned his craft back when the magi knew their proper place . . .

  . . . gave up his title under the Bans like a proper mage . . .

  . . . my brother knows his proper duty . . .

  . . . told me so himself over breakfast . . .

  Dara’s eyes grew wide with suspicion. “Who is Sister Daria’s brother?”

  Lady Amara looked at her, pleased. “I was hoping you’d pick up on that. His name is Sanfor of Aleel. He was appointed to Inarion Academy six years ago, when his Talent emerged, thus dashing hopes for his father to continue his line. It was quite a disappointment, but it was what the Bans on Magic required.”

  “What . . . what did Sanfor do, after the Academy?”

  Amara nodded, pleased that Dara was following her reasoning. “Why, he took commission in a militant order,” Lady Amara revealed.

  “Which order?” Dara asked, her heart beating wildly.

  “The Royal Order of the Censorate of Magic,” Lady Amara said, pointedly. “He took the checkered cloak right after graduation. Honorable service, and all that. He missed out on going to Farise because of that, I hear. He was assigned in northern Castal, if I recall . . . so I don’t know why he might be here in Barrowbell, now. Especially if he’s not considering apply to regain his title,” she added.

  “Flame, ashes and cinde
rs!” Dara swore. “Her brother is a bloody Censor?”

  “Here on the eve of the Spellmonger’s visit,” agreed Amara, looking troubled. “And, as we know . . . His Majesty. With whom, it is whispered, they bear a grudge.”

  Dara’s heart sank. They were after her master. Or the king. Or both.

  “Stay here,” she ordered Amara. “Keep the others with you. I’ll be right back!”

  Dara’s heart raced as she threaded her way across the great hall of the guild, peeking into alcoves across the arcade to see if Lady Pentandra was around. But she was nowhere to be seen, and even Mavone was absent, now. As she scanned the crowded room, she saw no familiar faces save Magelord Astyral, who was speaking to an important-looking delegation of burghers . . . and then two others she thought might serve.

  “Sir Festaran! Gareth!” she nearly barked, after struggling her way past the line for the wine master’s table. The two Sevendori had entered from opposite sides of the hall, and were barely within earshot of each other when she gathered their attention. “Can I impose on you for something?”

  “Sure!” Gareth said, adjusting a new brown tunic he was clearly uncomfortable with.

  “What does the Hawkmaiden require?” Festaran asked, noting her alarm.

  “It’s too complicated to explain, right now, but I need you two to go . . . go dance with those girls,” she said, her mind racing. Both boys looked at her oddly. “Really, it’s a matter of . . . it’s a political matter!” she decided. “Trust me!”

  The two young men looked at each other strangely. Then Gareth sighed. “Where are these ladies? Are they . . . poxxed?” he asked, hesitantly.

  “Regardless, we are ready to serve,” Sir Festaran said, looking around. When Dara pointed out Lady Amara and her friends, Gareth visibly relaxed.

  “They aren’t so bad,” he said, enthusiastically. “But Dara . . . why are you—?”

  “No questions!” she said, turning both of them toward her friends and pushed. “I have work to do. Just stay close to them, and be ready when I signal.”

  “Ready for what?” Gareth persisted.