Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  Daria gave a curt bow and began to depart in another direction, when Dara intervened.

  “Stupid?” she demanded. “You called me stupid?”

  “What?” the novice asked, confused. Her brother Sanfor halted, warily. “Who are . . . the Hawkmaiden?”

  “Stupid little fledging, I believe you said,” Dara said, angrily.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded the novice, anxiously.

  “Being maligned in the darkness, behind my back . . . by a member of the clergy, no less,” Dara said, boldly, as she approached the two.

  “Do you know this girl?” asked Sanfor, throwing back his mantle to reveal his sword.

  “She’s the Spellmonger’s apprentice, the one I told you about,” growled the novice, as she moved to confront Dara. “So I’m with a boy . . . are you going to tell my holy matron? A stag from me and she’ll say no more about it!” she bragged.

  “If this was a mere dalliance, perhaps,” Dara said, angrily. “But when you plot with the Censorate against my master—”

  “Hells! We’re undone!” cursed Sanfor, drawing his blade. “I’ll have to slit her throat, now, and that could reveal everything!” he said, striding purposefully through the fog.

  He took no more than two steps before his leg was blasted out from under him. The shot wasn’t well-placed, but it sent the Censor flying into the fountain. Gareth stepped up on the rim of the basin and pointed his wand at the man who struggled to find his cast-away blade.

  “The next one takes off your head!” he warned, pushing Lady Amara behind him. “Surrender!”

  “Not to the likes of you,” growled Sanfor. He rolled in the fountain until he suddenly came up with his sword, a mageblade, in his hand. He seemed well-practiced with it, enough to knock Gareth’s wand out of his hand before the wizard could activate it a second time. As Gareth recoiled in surprise, Sanfor leapt out of the fountain, intending to slice Gareth from shoulder to hip.

  His sword never touched the young man. Before it could descend, Sir Festaran’s heavier cavalry blade knocked the mageblade woefully off target. Before Sanfor could recover, Sir Festaran’s gauntleted fist smashed against the side of his face. The Censor crumpled into the fountain.

  “And where are you departing to so quickly, Sister Daria?” Dara asked, threateningly, as the novice tried to slink away during the scuffle. “Confession? Atonement? Whatever it is a nun with a guilty conscience does? You called me stupid?” Dara yelled, unexpectedly. For some reason hearing that from the lips of this venomous traitor enraged her the most, not the plot against her master.

  “Get out of my way, you stupid girl!” Sister Daria shrieked, trying to push past Dara and get away from the fight. Two years older, and a great deal taller, the novice did her best to strong-arm Dara as she suddenly realized how much trouble she was suddenly in.

  Perhaps she was used to such bullying working on the dance floor, with the nimble maidens of Barrowbell’s aristocracy . . . but Dara was from the Westwood. She’d fought for her life against a goblin who was trying to kill her, and she wasn’t letting this cloistered traitor get away without answering a few questions.

  But it wasn’t magic Dara turned to, despite the few small combat spells she’d been taught. She reacted instinctively, balling up her fist and slamming it into Sister Daria’s slender mid-section, as hard as she possibly could. The blow took the novice completely by surprise, and she dropped to her knees breathless. Her little dog tumbled out of her arms, righted itself, and immediately began scratching itself happily. Between frightened pants, Daria glared balefully at Dara.

  “I’ll call the Watch!” she barked. “This is robbery!”

  “Nay, this is treason,” Sir Festaran said, handing Gareth’s wand back to him while still maintaining his guard on the novice and her brother. “No doubt this plot included His Majesty’s life.”

  “You will all pay for this! My family—”

  “Don’t be any more of an idiot than you are, Daria,” Lady Amara said, disgusted. “Face it: you and your friends dabbled in politics and were very, very bad at it. Conspiring with the Censorate? They’ve been exiled, their order disbanded by the King’s command. If their plots included assassination, you will be charged with treason. Calling the Watch wouldn’t do you much good, unless you prefer a municipal gaol cell with the drunkards, instead of a noble one under the Market Castle.”

  “No, there’s no need to call the Watch,” came a friendly voice through the mists. A magelight appeared, large and bright, over the heads of the newcomers. Its pale glow revealed Magelords Astyral and Mavone, with Lady Pentandra leading them. Behind them was Lady Arell, who looked quite out-of-place in the nocturnal scene. “I think we can handle this without involving the official Barrowbell authorities.”

  “This looks like quite the brawl. Dara, report,” Lady Pentandra said, smoothly. Dara realized that she was being recognized as the leader of this mess, and Lady Pentandra expected her to be able to answer for it.

  She was surprised to find that she could.

  “While I was conducting my mission, I – actually, Lady Amara – noted that this young lady, Sister Daria, late of one of the petty nobility—”

  “House Rendolan,” Lady Amara supplied, “purveyors of fine dyes, as well as landlords of note. They were one of the sponsors of tonight’s entertainments.”

  “—mentioned that her brother was a mage, that he was unlikely to apply to regain his title, and that he harbored very traditional views about the magi. Further inquiry revealed that he was, in fact, a Censor, and that he was in Barrowbell. That was enough to raise my suspicions.”

  “As well it should,” Mavone nodded, approvingly. “They have been pursuing our Order aggressively, despite being disbanded and exiled from the Kingdom.”

  “To test my theory,” Dara continued, “I told an acquaintance of Sister Daria’s some false information I made up about when the Spellmonger would arrive in Barrowbell. Then I followed her as she told Daria, then followed Daria until she met with her brother, here.”

  “You did not follow me!” Sister Daria said, trying to control her heaving. “Sanfor checked with magic!”

  “I wasn’t close enough for his wards to detect, you ignorant hen,” Dara snapped. “And I am a beastmaster. I followed him by bilocation. With a bat.”

  “A bat?” smiled Lady Pentandra. “You tracked her with a bat?”

  “Harder than it sounds, but thankfully Daria has heavy footsteps,” Dara said, cheekily.

  “I do not!”

  “When we got close, I again used bilocation, this time spying on their conversation . . . through the ears of that poor pup she lugs around to attract fleas from her. That’s how I know you called me stupid!” she said, triumphantly.

  “You . . . you listened to me? Through Lady Ruffruff’s ears?” she asked, astonished. “Bad dog!” she said, accusingly at her tiny pet. Lady Ruffruff didn’t seem to pay her any heed.

  “And I take it you had assembled your squadron by that point?” Astyral prompted.

  “Well, I couldn’t find any of you, and I wasn’t certain, and I knew I had to act quickly to catch them meeting. Gareth and Sir Festaran were eager to help,” Dara added. “Lady Amara insisted on coming, but she did a grand job with the ruse of being lovers, so that she and Gareth could get close to them.

  “But before that, I overheard that Sanfor is not alone,” she added, seriously. “He has confederates hidden away at some abbey.”

  “The Order of Shirlin,” Gareth pronounced, his expression grave. “Three of them, from what Dara says.”

  “More than enough to execute or capture the Spellmonger!” the soaking-wet spy for the Censorate spat, as Sir Festaran hauled him in front of the magi.

  “What abbey are they in?” demanded Mavone, as Astyral moved the magelight to illuminate Sanfor’s face.

  “Do I need to do a truthtell spell?” Lady Pentandra threatened.

  “Try it,” snorted the prisoner, held firml
y in Festaran’s grip. “We are trained to evade such things in the Censorate! I’ll never reveal where they are. I may have fallen, but they’ll plot their mission some other way. We’ll see the Spellmonger brought to justice, yet!”

  “There are over twenty abbeys in Barrowbell,” Lady Arell spoke up. “They could be hiding in any one!”

  “You’ll need Ifnia’s luck to find them!” Sanfor laughed, triumphantly. “They’re Order of Shirlin! Only I know where they are!”

  “What does that mean?” asked Lady Amara, confused.

  “The Shirlin Order is a small, elite unit of warmagi,” Mavone explained, thoughtfully. “They are the deadliest, and the most fanatical, of the Censorate’s forces. Not only is each man a veteran, and well-suited to the kinds of questionable activities the Censorate engages in, but they have been empowered to use otherwise restricted and forbidden enchantments in the pursuit of their duties.”

  “Magical weapons that haven’t been used since the Magocracy,” Lady Pentandra emphasized. “They use powers banned even during the wildest days of the Magocracy. The Shirlin Order is not to be trifled with. And it is true, finding them will not be easy . . . they are adept at concealment and obfuscation spells, it is said.”

  “Anything you may have heard about them is understatement,” Gareth assured. “They tried to recruit me into the Censorate, back at War College. I heard all about them from the Censors. They are nasty, nasty fighters. Complete fanatics. But,” he added, “this knave doesn’t have to say a word, truthtell or no. His lips may lie, but his boots won’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Dara asked, confused.

  “I have a spell . . . here, let me just do it,” he said, crouching and casting some cantrip on the prisoner’s soaked boots. He rose a moment later. “There!” the scrawny wizard said, triumphantly.

  “What?” Lady Amara asked. “What did you do?”

  “You have to use magesight, I’m afraid,” Gareth said, apologetically. “But when you do, you’ll be able to see every step the man has taken in the last six hours indicated on the street. Merely follow his path and see which abbey he stops in. That is where the Order of Shirlin agents will be.”

  “Oh, well done, Gareth!” Mavone nodded, smiling in praise. “Astyral, would you care to join me for a little late-night exercise?” he asked, loosening his mageblade in its scabbard.

  “Two of you?” Gareth asked, skeptically. “Going up against three Order of Shirlin warmagi?”

  “Three of us,” Lady Pentandra corrected. “But in truth, I’ll likely just watch. We are High Magi, remember,” the Remeran wizard said, coolly. “As adept as the Shirlin Order might be at their vicious craft, they are no match for the power of the three of us. Particularly when we have the element of surprise on our side.”

  “I have summoned assistance,” Mavone continued. “Jendaran the Trusty and his men arrived this afternoon ahead of the Spellmonger, and he is coming to take control of the prisoners,” he said, casting his eye over the brother and sister.

  “Me? A prisoner?” Daria asked, shocked. “I was just helping my brother! You can’t arrest me! Do you know who my father is?”

  “Unless he’s King Rard, you’re in a lot of trouble,” Lady Pentandra snapped. “You conspired with the enemies of the Crown and aided those who sought to assassinate or kidnap the Spellmonger, who is a member of the royal court. Just how do you think His Majesty contends with those who conspire against his counselors?”

  “But . . . but Rard isn’t really a proper king!” Daria said, desperately. “Sanfor says so! He’s just a pretender trying to grab power! He—”

  “He will be here in a week, you treasonous viper,” Lady Pentandra said, flatly. “Then, in open court, you can explain to His Majesty how he is a pretender. I’m certain he’d love to hear all about it.”

  “But you can’t put me in gaol! I’m a nun! A member of the clergy!”

  “You are a probationary novice in the temple of the Goddess of Music and Poetry,” snorted Lady Amara. “The temple can cut you loose with a word. And I believe that word will be forthcoming. Regardless, you brainless harpy, depending on the leniency of the ecclesiastical courts wouldn’t work, in this case. If you had paid attention to your tutors you’d know that treason is a purely civil matter, according to Luin’s Law. You will be tried by a military court, not a gathering of clergy.”

  “No . . . no!” the novice said, her eyes filling with tears. “We were just trying to put things right! We were . . .”

  “You were, unfortunately, used, the both of you,” Astyral said, shaking his head. “The Censorate is ruthless. It used Sanfor’s connections in Barrowbell to gather intelligence and prepare a blow, and it used Daria’s social contacts to try to get close to the Spellmonger’s household, and learn its secrets. Through the Hawkmaiden. You were instructed to befriend her at all costs, weren’t you?” he asked, earning a nod from the novice.

  “Thankfully, I have better taste in friends,” Dara said, looking at Lady Amara gratefully. “They must have gotten Maid Ninda involved, at some point” she speculated.

  “She just knew we needed to get close to you,” Daria confessed, tearfully. “She didn’t know about anything else. She just thought I wanted the . . . the celebrity of knowing you,” she said, enviously.

  “Your wish, my dear, is granted!” Astyral said, flamboyantly. “Now your name will be tied to that of the Hawkmaiden forever. Just not the way you intended.”

  “As for the rest of you,” Lady Pentandra said, looking around at the young friends, “we have this matter in hand. We thank you for your quick thinking and action, and promise that more thanks will be forthcoming. But for tonight, we want you to return to the Dyer’s Hall, and enjoy the rest of the evening. You’ve put us on the trail,” she said, nodding to Gareth, “now let us finish the hunt.”

  The five of them walked slowly back to the reception at the Dyer’s Hall, the prospect of mere dancing and drinking no longer as appealing, after their exciting evening.

  “I cannot believe Daria is a traitor!” Lady Arell said, shaking her head. “She used to be so nice!”

  “When?” snorted Lady Amara. “She’s always had a lovely exterior, but when backs are turned her claws come out. She’s always been that way,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  “I’m just grateful that you all listened to me and cooperated,” Dara confessed. “I wasn’t sure what would happen, and I was afraid I’d lose her contact, if I didn’t move quickly.”

  “But you did, and we did, and now Master Minalan is safe,” Gareth pointed out. “That’s a successful bit of spy work, for a thirteen-year-old.”

  “Thirteen-year old girls are naturally sneaky,” assured Lady Amara, with a slight smile.

  “Is my lady in that category?” Sir Festaran asked.

  “Oh, Sir Festaran, I am a wise old maiden of fourteen,” Amara demurred. “I’ve left such girlish pursuits behind in favor of vigorous dance. Would you like a demonstration, when we return to the hall?” she asked.

  Dara shook her head in the darkness, amazed at how smoothly Amara was able to spar and flirt with Festaran. She knew it was part of the practiced social life of a Barrowbell aristocrat raised in that world, but Amara seemed particularly adept at it. Every time Dara tried to talk to Festaran, she felt like a villein with manure on her shoes.

  “That was a clever bit of magic you did back there,” Lady Arrel complimented Gareth, who had taken her arm to escort her. “Is it hard to learn?”

  “Not if you have the Talent,” Gareth said, surprised at her interest. “When two things are in close proximity, even for a moment, their association . . . lingers,” the wizard said, realizing that he had inadvertently backed into a romantic analogy. “Uh, the spell just brings that association to the wizard’s attention, for a few hours.”

  “One often wonders what it takes to get a wizard’s attention,” Lady Arrel said, looking away and blushing. So was Gareth.

  Despite hers
elf, she enjoyed her friends’ discomfort. Gareth was terribly dear, but always so awkward. And while Sir Festaran was kind and considerate to a fault, he was far more comfortable on a horse than he was at a dance.

  Dara sighed. She’d accomplished something tonight that had nothing to do with her magical Talent, or her ability to commune with animals, though they had played a role. She’d used her wits, listened carefully, and acted properly . . . and possibly saved her master’s life.

  Not a bad night’s work for the Hawkmaid, she decided.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hawklady

  The Market Square of Barrowbell was packed with onlookers and celebrants, making the day she’d arrived here a week ago seem tame by comparison. Thousands lined the streets and crowded into the wide plaza for the occasion of the Spellmonger’s arrival. And Dara knew there was another week of celebration ahead of her . . . just when she felt like one more party would make her scream.

  “How are you faring?” her brother asked. Kyre had thrived in his time in the strange town. He and the rest of her kin had been billeted in an empty warehouse, enjoying the luxury of sleeping on soft cotton bales, but the conditions were not poor, they’d assured her. Indeed, while she was stuck going to teas and hawking parties, her brothers and father, and the rest of the Westwoodmen, had been enjoying the attractions of the famed city.

  It helped that they had coin in their purses. Dara learned that all the troops who’d taken part in the battle had been paid out of Barrowbell’s town coffers, in addition to the other pay they were owed. More, Kyre had regaled her, half of the shops and stalls they went into gave them dramatic discounts, or simply gifted things to them, so grateful they were for their salvation.

  “Well enough,” Dara sighed, as she waited in line where she’d been told to stand. Sire Cei was nearby, finally beginning to look hale after his dramatic fall. Dara was almost embarrassed at how much she fawned over the castellan, when he’d finally been released from the medics’ care. “I was up late last night getting fitted for this,” she said, raising her arms to indicate her gown.