Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “It looks amazing,” Kyre assured her. “And you look good in it. You barely look like the Little Bird with the mud of the Westwood on her face.”

  Dara couldn’t argue with that. Lady Amara had insisted on the gown as a gift, paying lavishly for one of the finest tailors in Barrowbell to come to the house and fit the gown to her. Dara didn’t see what all the fuss was about – it was pretty, but did it really need to have all those stitches? There was enough cotton thread in the embroidery alone to make three dresses. It seemed a waste.

  But it was beautiful. Made of fine cotton, and dyed what she was starting to think of as Sevendor Green, the Barrowbell-styled dress was trimmed with embroidery showing the motif of a hawk pouncing on prey. It fitted her like a glove, and the skirts were far more expansive than she’d worn before. The matching slippers were softest cotton, and had a leather sole that made them not entirely useless for actually walking.

  It was the mantle that was the real draw, however. The tailors had constructed a beautiful dark purple cloak that looked as if there were two great hawk wings on her back. The hood was highly suggestive of her Silver Hooded Raptor when it was over her head, and had a beautiful silver silken tassel at the point. She recalled being fitted for armor by Sir Roncil, back at Sevendor Castle. Now she’d been fitted for a ball gown, too.

  “It’s Lady Amara’s doing,” she insisted. “I just stood there like a draught horse and let them flit about and poke me with pins. What have you been doing?”

  “Shopping, mostly,” Kyre admitted, sheepishly. “There are things for sale here that I’ve never seen in Sevendor. With the extra coin, we’re buying a lot of stuff for back home. Cloth, spices, this and that . . .”

  “I’m just happy we’re going home, soon,” she said, yawning. “I don’t know how much more gratitude I can take!”

  Kyre glanced at her gown, which now displayed almost twenty heavy gold necklaces.

  “That depends on how strong your neck is. Do you get to keep all of those?” he asked, skeptically. It was more gold than Sevendor had seen in a decade, before the Spellmonger came. All around her neck.

  But the Barrowbell ladies just wouldn’t stop giving them to her. It was a point of social honor to bestow their favors on the Hawkmaid, and as a result there was nearly a pound of gold and jewelry around her neck, in a variety of forms. The heraldic beasts of all Barrowbell were circling her throat.

  “Yes, they get upset if you try to refuse, or give them back,” Dara admitted, tiredly. “I tried, and got scolded for it. But they are pretty,” she said, holding one up. “Maybe I can give one to our sister.”

  “Well, Father and the rest of us are supposed to be an honor guard or something,” Kyre admitted. “We’re in formation over there, with Sir Festaran,” he said, pointing across the square. “I just wanted to check up on you – I hadn’t seen you in a few days, and we were all starting to get worried. The last thing we need is for our Little Bird to get lost in this big city.”

  “I am well taken care of,” Dara said, unwilling to start an argument in a public square about how she could take care of herself. She was considering doing so anyway, when a peal of trumpets sounded from the entrance of the square. “Oops! That’s the signal that he’s arrived! You should get back in formation!” she urged.

  Kyre grinned, bowed flamboyantly, and disappeared into the crowd. Dara waved after him.

  “Who was that?” Lady Amara asked, as she slid behind Dara. “He’s handsome!”

  “That’s my brother, Kyre,” Dara said, rolling her eyes. “But he’s safely a commoner, so you may continue your husband shopping elsewhere!” she teased.

  “A girl likes to see everything in the shop before she buys,” Amara said, pouting exaggeratedly. “And Ishi’s favor knows no class. He is quite handsome!”

  “So I have heard . . . my entire life!” Dara snorted. “That would be insufferable, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s genuinely the nicest of my brothers. And the most helpful. He taught me how to shoot, hunt, and ride, after a fashion.”

  “I wish my brothers were like that,” Amara sighed. “Mostly they just ignore me. Oh! It sounds like the Spellmonger is almost here! Thank the gods, the waiting is painful!”

  Sure enough, the crowd erupted with cheers as Master Minalan rode proudly into the square at the head of a column of warmagi. She saw Tyndal and Rondal behind him, both arrayed for war and bearing the green sash of Sevendor’s snowflake . . . and Rondal bore the verdant standard of the Spellmonger’s device at the end of his lance. Behind them rode Magelord Terleman, Sarakeem, Lady Ithalia, Baron Arathanial, Sir Taren, and the others who’d followed Minalan into the unknown, into certain danger.

  Dara found herself cheering as loudly as anyone, when he appeared – not least because Minalan’s presence meant a lessening of the attention she’d felt in Barrowbell. No one would pay attention to a mere apprentice anymore, when the Spellmonger of Sevendor was around. She could fade back into the woodwork, where she was comfortable, and watch her master get the praise and attention he so deserved.

  She’d had enough of fame and celebrity, she decided. She just wanted to get back to Sevendor, in familiar surroundings, and get back to falconry and learning magic and . . . reading.

  Well, maybe a few more days away . . .

  Master Minalan looked weary, Dara decided, as she used magesight to bring his image closer. His face was worn and his beard was longer than she was used to seeing. He was on a new horse, too – a fine courser much grander than his old rouncey, Traveler, but less loved, she noted, sadly. His famous Witchsphere was hovering over his shoulder, a bright green marble of irionite, worth a county or more.

  “Spellmonger! Spellmonger! Spellmonger!” chanted the folk of Barrowbell. Minalan waved and smiled, despite the new lines in his face, welcoming the adoration of the crowd. A shower of flower petals rained down on him, and some wizard somewhere was casting dazzling displays in the air overhead.

  The Spellmonger swaggered – or staggered, Dara wasn’t certain – to the raised dais she stood upon where the nobility and burghers and senior officials of Barrowbell awaited him. He embraced Pentandra, Mavone and Astyral. Terleman followed behind, and Tyndal and Rondal mounted the platform as well, Rondal passing the Spellmonger’s banner to a guard before taking his place with the rest, behind her master.

  Master Minalan looked over at Dara, nodded and winked, before he had a few quiet words with Sire Cei, before he stepped forward and addressed the crowd. After a moment’s fumbling, he cast a spell, and suddenly everyone in the square could hear him clearly. It was an impressive display of magic, but that was what people expected from the Spellmonger. As he did so, the cheering fell quiet.

  “People of Barrowbell!” his voice echoed over the square. “You have been protected from the dragon and the Dead God!”

  The people of Barrowbell roared their approval, their relief, their gratitude at her master. Dara cheered herself. While she would hate to live in Barrowbell, she did find it a wondrous place. For all its twisted madness, she would hate to see such a pretty place destroyed at the hands of the goblins. Barrowbell was worth defending, she decided.

  “I am Magelord Minalan of Sevendor! I am Marshal of Castal and Alshar, Lord of Sevendor, and Head of the Arcane Orders! But most of you know me just as the Spellmonger.”

  There was even more cheering, and the crowd began chanting his name again. Minalan let the crowd go for a moment, then continued.

  “While the war rages on, and great sacrifice lies before us, we can take a moment to savor a victory! The Dead God set his sights on Barrowbell, and he has been denied!”

  Even more cheering – and Dara saw Pentandra nod approvingly.

  “You gather here today to bid welcome and honor the heroes who fought, fell, and defended you! Burn a candle for the noble dead in the days to come, but join me in honoring the two heroes instrumental in our victory!”

  Dara glanced over at Terleman and Pentandra, the two wiza
rds who’d toiled so hard against both goblin and dragon. They deserved the praise for their tireless efforts.

  “The first may surprise you, but without her we would not have won! Please help me honor . . . Lenodara of Westwood!”

  Dara’s eyes grew wide at the sound of her name, and her hands quit clapping.

  Did he just . . . did he . . . did he just say my name?

  Sure enough, her eyes told her, that was her master presenting her to the crowd . . . pushing her in front of every eye in Barrowbell and telling her out by name . . .

  Dara wanted to throw up. Or die. Or disappear. Or just be far, far away from this insane adventure.

  She felt Tyndal behind her, chuckling evilly and pushing her shoulders to propel her forward a few steps. Dara stumbled, but recovered, her head on fire. Everyone was looking at her. Everyone. Thousands of people.

  Thousands.

  “She might be slight in stature, but this young lady wielded the magic blade that mortally wounded the dragon!” Minalan proclaimed, spreading his arms widely. She desperately wanted him to go bother someone else, anyone else, but he continued to elaborate on her. “Destined to be a powerful mage in her own right, her bravery and her cunning tipped the scales in battle!”

  Someone in the crowd began chanting “Hawkmaiden! Hawkmaiden! Hawkmaiden!” and the crowd picked it up. She could have been mistaken, but she thought she heard her brother’s deep voice begin the chant from the other side of the square. She hoped he could feel the heat from her burning face.

  Minalan allowed a few moments for the crowd’s chant to be heard, before he stopped it. Rondal quietly handed him a large wrapped bundle. He quickly stripped off the cloth and held the object aloft, for all the square to see.

  “For this honor, I award to her one of the two greatest fangs from the worm!”

  The crowd roared again as Minalan brandished the giant tooth. It was more than a foot long, longer than her borrowed dagger, and uncommonly cold and heavy in her hand. She stared at it, blankly, a gory reminder of one of the most horrific days of her life.

  “Hold it up! Smile!” Minalan encouraged, his voice no longer amplified. Dara’s arms jerked up of their own accord, holding the ugly trophy up in the air. She did her best to plaster the biggest smile she could on her face, as if she’d gotten ten ounces of gold and not a dismembered body part.

  The crowd cheered yet again, and she saw Tyndal and Rondal offer each other a rare smile. Minalan patted her shoulder and then headed away from her. Dara patiently held the stupid tooth over her head while people chanted “Hawkmaiden!” over and over again until her elbows ached.

  Thankfully, Master Minalan turned everyone’s attention to Sire Cei, the man who’d risked his life to vanquish the dragon and nearly lost it. He was the one deserving of honors, praise, and glory. She finally let the fang drop, and resumed her place in the line.

  She did her best to listen to Minalan laud Sire Cei, but Tyndal leaned down and whispered in her ear.

  “Sorry about that!” he said, a trace of sincerity in his voice. “Master Min needed a hero, and you and Sire Cei were chosen.”

  Dara glanced over at the startled Wilderlord, who was apparently just as uncomfortable with the adulation and attention as she was. She caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic look.

  “Lucky us!” she said, sarcastically. For all of his bravery and nobility, the poor knight looked awkwardly, almost panicked. He got a stupid tooth, too.

  “Don’t worry, once you get through this . . . and a rumored royal visit . . . then we can finally head home. On a barge, like proper folk, not stuffed through a magical hole and into a mud puddle. We’ll be home in time for Yule,” he promised.

  Dara’s head continued to spin as Minalan finished his speech, and then she was swept away in a sea of suddenly adoring admirers. She was hugged, kissed, and bowed to so many times by so many people she didn’t know she felt faint.

  Worse, women kept kissing her cheeks after loading her neck up with yet-another gaudy necklace from their house. They just kept coming. Her jewelry became so heavy that she could feel it move independently, when she turned.

  “Oh, that was marvelous!” Lady Amara said, when she finally rescued her from the throng of well-wishers. “Lady Pentandra told me to get you up to the Market Castle for the official reception, where you’ll meet the burghers and nobles of Barrowbell all over again,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And after that there will be a feast of grand proportions. You’re to be at the High Table, near your master and the Dragonslayer. I’ve been granted the boon of waiting upon you,” she added, pleased.

  “Why would bringing me soup and meat be a boon?” Dara asked, confused.

  “Are you kidding?” her friend asked, confused. “Service to such an honorable guest will be seen by everyone at the feast . . . and everyone will be at the feast!” she insisted.

  “But why is that important?” demanded Dara, feeling a little grumpy. “Does any of that matter?”

  “Well,” Amara said, taking a breath. Then she stopped, and looked around. “Here, follow me,” she said, dragging Dara off the square and toward a small shrine. Behind it, she discovered, was a neat little privy house. “They don’t tell most folk about this place,” she revealed. “But if a lady has a need of privacy when she’s on the square, this way she needn’t use a common privy.

  “Did you need to pee?” Dara asked, confused.

  “No, silly . . . I needed privacy. To answer your question,” she sighed. “No, it’s not really important. And then yes, yes it is very important,” she decided, pacing as much as the confined little space allowed. “We’re from very different places, Dara, I understand that maybe a little more than you do. The gods may decide who our parents are and where on Callidore they place us, but what happens after that is largely up to us.

  “In my case, I am the youngest unmarried child of an old and prestigious house,” she sighed. “It’s not a bad life, to be certain. The clergy never tire of reminding us of that. I could content myself with finding an adequate husband, retiring to the country, and having as many babies as I could. Or, with equal honor, I could take holy orders and spend my life in prayer, begging alms from my relatives at holidays.”

  “I . . . I don’t see you happy in either course,” Dara confessed, hoping she was not insulting her friend.

  “No, I don’t either,” Amara agreed. “I love my land, I love this city, and country life bores me, when it comes to the friends it offers. Here, I meet all sorts of people, read all sorts of books. Even that was getting kind of boring, until the invasion. Now everything is in turmoil,” she said, wrinkling her brow.

  “I know the feeling,” Dara said, remembering how tangled things became when the Magelord had come to rule Sevendor, and turned a third of it bright white.

  “I know,” Amara assured. “That’s why I like you so much. This,” she said, gesturing not to the privy, Dara realized after a moment, but to the greater city around her, “is the world I know, and while I’m not cut out for dragonslaying or such, I am determined to protect it. While it’s changing so dramatically, why not ensure it changes for the better? That means having power, and you can’t have power in Barrowbell without indulging in stupid things like hawking parties and temple dances.”

  “But is that what you want?” Dara pointed out.

  “I have no more choice in the matter than you do being a mage,” Amara pointed out. “There are certain obligations I have,” she said, as if reciting. “They cannot be escaped.”

  “Duty,” Dara said, nodding.

  “Precisely,” smiled Amara. “In my way, I do my duty with as much devotion as a knight on the field. My duty to my family, my house, my station, my city, and all of Gilmora. And now to the greater kingdom. It’s not a matter of what I want, it’s a matter of what I can do, within the realm of my duty. That, I think, would make me happy. Now, let’s get to the feast,” she insisted. “We don’t want to be more than fashionably late, believe me.
”

  The next few days were another whirlwind of celebrations, feasts, honors, and parties, only with an especial intensity that her master’s presence produced. Lady Amara was faithfully at her side, prompting her to keep up with the staggering number of introductions she was receiving with the proper form of address, and kept her wine goblet full and her trencher heaped with food. It was a long night full of praise, but Dara didn’t remember much about it afterwards. Nor the special breakfast services the Temple of Orvatas was holding for the victorious heroes. Or the luncheon at the Burgher’s Hall that day, the afternoon tea at a nobleman’s townhouse, the banquet at the Ginner’s Guild, or the ball at a baron’s palace in the Noble’s Quarter that last until midnight.

  Indeed, it was days before an afternoon arose when she was not required to attend some event.

  She begged that they stay within Siviline House that afternoon, after returning from a tedious luncheon in which Dara firmly established her intense dislike of the Merwyni style of music the hostess favored. She just needed some respite from the formalities of society, where every word was scripted around some subtle hidden meaning.

  That’s where Lady Pentandra found her, taking her ease with Lady Amara in the rear garden of the house. Amara was reading, while Dara was enjoying sitting in the autumn sunshine, not reading.

  “There you are!” Lady Pentandra called. “The maid let me in. I do wish you had one of the gurvani stones, sometime – it would make getting in touch with you a lot easier.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to be found, Lady Pentandra,” Lady Amara said, bowing and going to summon wine automatically.

  “I can completely empathize,” the pretty wizard said with a groan, settling onto a bench. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than four hours in a row since the Magical Fair. I’ve had six meetings since just this morning, and now I have to plan a reception . . . a royal reception,” she added with a grin.

  “So King Rard is coming here?” Lady Amara asked, excitedly.